In world where Bond comes before James, and Hitler, Ghandi, Pacino and Trump pack more punch than Adolf, Mahatma, Al and Donald; a man without a surname might be considered…less than. Even if, with his pretty pectorals, effervescent eyes, sculpted sorority hair and all round perfectness, he’s an atrocious symbol of American machismo and the bane of every Barbie-hating feminist’s existence. Even then.
Subject to the caricature of his creation and confined by the whim of girlish role play fantasy – a mere minion; Ken Carson has spent the better part of 55 years being called Ken…just Ken. No family, no history, no story. A mere accessory to the life plotted for Barbie by her small despotic wielders, serving only as emphasis for popular culture’s putrid protagonist. It’s emasculating, embarrassing even.
Except, the paragon that is Barbie is about to lose its one-up because men deserve more, dammit. Mattel, in an effort to teach girls that boys aren’t all plastic and stuff, has revamped Ken; introducing a range of Kens with new hair, skin and style. There’s ‘cornrow Ken’, ‘slim Ken’, ‘mixed-race Ken’ (with a man-bun), ‘Asian Ken’, ‘watch-wearing Ken’, ‘graphic designer Ken’ and uh…‘broad Ken’. A collective of politically correct. An eclectic array of manness.
Or some more sons of bitches for Barbie to ignore.