I've always believed that those who pursue Fame should expect to have their private lives exposed and scrutinized, and that they should just shut up and take it. It's a zero-sum proposition. It's the Spotlight Deal.
If you desire Fame, then you summon the Spotlight at your own peril, because the Spotlight has no care for proper time or place. If you want that Spotlight to shine on you while you're strolling down the red carpet, or when you're pushing a new movie or record, or while you're discussing your latest charitable cause on the morning talk show circuit, then you must accept that the Spotlight can also shine on you when you stagger out of a club that you don't remember entering in the first place, or when the previous nanny becomes the current mommy, or when you flash the world your pink parts because your skirt is the size of a cocktail napkin and you don't know how to get out of a car like a normal human being.
It wasn't always like that, but it is like that now. Gone are the days of only needing to manage daily Page Six coverage, weekly scandal sheets, and the (star-friendly) cameras of Entertainment Tonight ... all cave drawings by the standards of today's pervasive technology, demanding audience, and 24-second internet news cycles. Today, if you want the Spotlight, you get all of the Spotlight all of the time.
So, as you can gather by now, in most cases of celebrity coverage, I side with the media - from the pillars of journalism to the bowels of TMZ. There are, however, exceptions to which I think the media should adhere:
Don't break the law. Freedom of the press does not trump breaking and entering.
Don't invade funerals. That's just tacky.
Don't exploit celebrities' children, unless the celebrities exploit their own children, in which case this exception becomes a little fuzzy.
Don't do anything that endangers anyone's safety. Is getting the 17th picture of the starlet worth a high-speed chase? If you are any good at your job, one of the first 16 pictures will turn out just fine.
Don't involve yourself in the life of Tiger Woods.
(This is where I defend him.)
Roll call! Lanny Wadkins. Larry Mize. Tom Kite. Hal Sutton. Sandy Lyle. Do any of these names ring a bell? How about these: Bernhard Langer. Ian Woosnam. Hale Irwin. Still nothing? How about Ben Crenshaw? No?
The first set of names are some of the golfers who missed the cut in the 1995 Masters. The second set of names are some of the golfers who finished ahead of then-amateur Tiger Woods in the 1995 Masters. Crenshaw won the 1995 Masters.
I'm willing to bet that most of you don't recognize most of the names I mentioned because in the pre-Tiger era, televised golf was the Sunday folly of old white men. In the pre-Tiger era, televised golf was an unwatchable sport with unbearable fashions. In the pre-Tiger era, televised golf was a punch line. I know those names because I watched golf as a kid, and I watched golf as a kid because my grandfather watched golf as on old white man. Baby? She admits that before Tiger came along, she had no clue they played professional golf on days other than Sundays.
Sure, in the pre-Tiger era, you probably had heard of Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer, and maybe one or two others. But these men were answers to trivia questions, not multi-media titans or global spokesman. There were no Michael Jordan-like contracts for golfers in 1995. Any golfers in 1995 who were lucky enough to get endorsement deals beyond having PING emblazoned on a visor - even living legends like Nicklaus and Palmer - were relegated to endorsing golf-specific merchandise, lawn care products, or insurance.
The point of this is to say that Tiger Woods did not pursue Fame, because Fame did not come with golf in 1995. Did he pursue excellence? Of course, as all competitors do (or should). Did he pursue glory? Yes, but glory that was supposed to have come from a small group of people - namely, other golfers and the old white men (and their grandsons) who watched them. Even at the pinnacle of his success - which some might point to as the day before Thanksgiving 2009 - Tiger never said, "Look at me," the way most other celebrities have said, "Look at me." Tiger came out, played well, and around 6:00 PM on Sundays, he disappeared.
And it has always been this way. He's never clamored for the Spotlight and then shunned it once it glared too harshly. He's never made it rain in a strip club. He's never been the subject of an investigation. He's never been linked to weapons. He's never had a posse.
Hello, he's a golfer! To suggest that Tiger Woods pursued Fame through golf - GOLF! - is to suggest that I'm pursuing Fame through this blog.
So what happened? A perfect storm, really. Tiger was a young, good looking, mixed-race player, with talent that seemed to defy all sense of physics, who chose a sport that had been mostly ignored by major advertisers because of its blandness. His look, his sport, and his game were different at a time when spending was high and advertisers would spend highly on anything different. And once the new crowd - the younger, more diverse crowd - took an interest in the old white man's sport, Madison Avenue followed with checkbook in hand.
As for that checkbook, you ask, what about the one billion career endorsements dollars Tiger has taken from the likes of Nike and Buick and Gatorade and others?
Tiger has earned it, and without the sense of entitlement displayed by many young celebrities. Most Fame-chasers approach the Spotlight with a "show me the money" mentality. Tiger, who succeeded not under the bright lights of Hollywood, but rather the oversized umbrella of golf - GOLF! - was approached by companies who shared a different mentality: "Show HIM the money." And why did they approach him that way? Not because Tiger said "Look at me," but because we, the consumers who buy the shoes and the cars and the drinks, said, "Look at him."
Oh, and he spreads the wealth. His presence in the sport of golf has attracted so much advertising revenue, sponsorship commitments, and prize money, the last-place finisher at any Tiger-era tournament makes gobs more money for being the worst on Sunday than he did in the pre-Tiger era. It is the textbook example of how a rising tide lifts all ships. No other single person in any other entertainment outlet does for his or her business what Tiger Woods does for his. Not Derek Jeter, not Tom Cruise, not Eminem, not even Oprah. And yet all Tiger wants today is what he wanted in 1995: Greatness, not Fame.
And for those of you who believe that Tiger thinks his own celebrity status affords him the right to say nothing to the police, that his financial success puts him above the law, you either don't know the law very well or you are easily swayed by the media's near-unanimous demand that he speak. Between his Miranda and Fifth Amendment rights, Tiger owes no one - not even law enforcement - an explanation.
It's easy to understand our mistake in demanding that the media shine the Spotlight just inches away from Tiger's life, and do so twenty-four hours a day. We are a society madly obsessed with Fame, and we have become so accustomed to watching people mistake shamelessness for talent, mistake willingness for skill, or mistake exploitation for love, all for the chance of grabbing that Spotlight and making it shine a little longer than it takes the public stop pointing and laughing, we automatically presume that anyone who has achieved Fame actually pursued Fame in the first place.
Tiger Woods should be left alone to sort out his personal issues. Just because Fame was thrust into his life doesn't mean that we get to be thrust into his life, too.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Four Shorts and Seven Sins Ago
The following are the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh (and final) installments of the occasional 2009 series looking at how the traditional "Seven Deadly Sins" play in today's world.
Often times, there are items that grab my attention that are interesting to me, but they just don't contain enough substance for me to blather endlessly about. So I thought I'd try blathering in short bursts. With that, I present to you, instead of one long-winded piece, a collection of several short-winded pieces.
From Lemons to Lemonade to Shameless Marketing
In February 2009, R&B star Chris Brown assaulted his then-girlfriend, R&B star Rihanna. Eight months later, Rihanna had the courage to appear on TV with Diane Sawyer and share her pain with millions of viewers. Like it or not, many people listen when celebrities speak, so for Rihanna to bare her soul was a gesture that hopefully inspired victims of abuse to have the courage to make positive changes in their lives. I only wish she hadn't done so 18 days before her latest record dropped, offering her maximum exposure just in time to boost first-week sales and to sustain unit-movement over those critical and finite pre-Christmas shopping days. It kind of dulled the shine of her sincerity. The presence of Envy here is clear. If the first things a singer looks at are her own sales figures, the second things she looks at are the sales figures of her competition - and God forbid the competition does better. You may say that this is a key to success, and it might well be ... but not after a case of domestic abuse. If the choice in timing of the interview was hers, she isn't brave, she's manipulative. If the choice in timing wasn't hers but rather her record label's, she's still a victim, but of a different kind of abuse. Domestic violence is abhorrent. Period. But not only should domestic violence not be committed, it should not be exploited for profit, either.
Casting Pearls (of Anger) Before Swine (Flu)
It seems that since the last presidential election, the yelling - from both sides - has gotten substantially worse, and I've all but tuned it out. Oh, I follow the issues, but now almost exclusively in print; gone are my nights of watching wall-to-wall political coverage on the cable news channels. The stars (if you will) of these shows, these so-called pundits (or commentators, anchors, experts, correspondents, or chief correspondents) are really nothing more than well-dressed, well-paid gasbags who simply don't know how to turn it off or, at the least, turn it down. Truthfully, if I want that kind of deafening and incessant droning of voices over voices over voices, I'll volunteer to be a grade school lunchroom dad. And just as those lunchroom kids are somehow prone to mimic that which they see on TV, so, too, are adults. For every screamer on cable news, there seems to be an army of screamer wannabes taking their issues from talk radio to town halls, and from the World Wide Web to the corner coffee klatch. Yes, all of this speech is free, but does it have to be so vitriolic? When did ire and volume replace simple debate? Recently, the loudest voices have come from those who are vehemently opposed to government-run healthcare. To those people, I ask: If you are so passionate in your opposition to the government's involvement in healthcare, if you have been moved to the point of Wrath by this issue, to the point that you have disrupted organized public forums (up to, and including, joint sessions of Congress) by shouting down those "against" you as opposed to debating - or even arguing - the issue's points on merit ... did you, in your fit of Wrath, boisterously and passionately yank your children out of line for the Swine Flu vaccinations they were to receive at school?
If Sandra Bullock Made This Movie, Would It Be Called MISS HYPOCRISY?
When flavor-of-the-month (about six months ago) Carrie Prejean was Miss California USA, and she was asked during the Miss USA 2009 pageant about her opinion on same-sex marriage, and she responded that she thought marriage should be between a man and a woman, I didn't blink. Did I agree with her? Of course not; I never have and I never will. But despite my opposition, I still respected her opinion, and besides, at least she answered the question honestly, as opposed to trying to spin her way out of it in hopes of gaining favor with the judges. So when the drama erupted over her answer - and by "drama," I mean when Prejean was knee-capped by internet whatever Perez Hilton, who, through D-List chicanery, managed to light the public's torches and sharpen the masses' pitchforks - I was surprised. I mean, there's a guy who lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue who essentially shares the same belief, and 70% of the gay community helped vote him into office, so why the fervor over the blonde beauty queen? Wow. Could it be true? Could I defend a same-sex marriage detractor? It turns out I could, right up until the point where she just wouldn't shut up. Fast forward through too many press conferences and lawsuits to a few weeks ago, during her recent book tour and what is, perhaps, her most intriguing quote. On NBC's TODAY, Prejean said, "Our bodies are temples of the Lord. We should earn respect and admiration for our hearts, not for showing skin to look sexy." Listen sweetheart, I don't mind that you are a body-baring beauty queen, stirring Lust in those who really don't care about your position on the importance of education or the fight against world hunger; nor do I mind that you had breast augmentation, further stoking that Lust; nor do I mind that you made a sex tape, showing that you've got a saucy Lustful streak in you. What I do mind is a woman who is in her 18th minute of fame and hawking a book from one side of her mouth, all the while invoking the Word of God from the other side of her mouth, preaching about the temple that is the woman's body, when if it weren't for your desecration of that temple, your name wouldn't be Carrie Prejean, it would be Carrie Who?
This Time It's Personal
Sitting in my church is not unlike sitting in the food court at the mall. Oh sure, there's an altar instead of a Cinnabon and they serve the Body and Blood of Christ as opposed to pretzel gems and dippin' cheese, but the congregants are dressed the same as the shoppers. On any given Sunday, you see the occasional suit or dress, but usually the fashion choices range from trendy casuals to football jerseys and jeans to shorts and sandals. This, to me, is blasphemous. I was raised that when you go to church, you wear what they used to call "your Sunday best" (which I still do), with anything less being undignified. That pretty much makes me guilty of the sin of Pride, for judging people on their attire as it pales in comparison to mine, when instead I should be thankful that they attend church at all. I am working on this. However, this issue intersects with an experience I had this past Sunday, when Baby and I pulled a pair of tags off our church's Giving Tree. (For those of you unfamiliar, a Giving Tree is a Christmas tree that has hanging from it tags instead of ornaments, and written on those tags are donation requests for basic items needed by local residents who are experiencing hard times.) The first tag asked for a gift card to the local supermarket, with no specific denomination requested. I like this request, and I have faith that the requestor will use the gift not for cigarettes or margarita mix, but rather for food or diapers. Done. The second request, complete with useful size information, asked for a pair of jeans ... from Aeropostale. Boutique jeans? On a Giving Tree? "Please help me. I need jeans ... but only really nice jeans." It seems I'm not alone in my Pride.
Often times, there are items that grab my attention that are interesting to me, but they just don't contain enough substance for me to blather endlessly about. So I thought I'd try blathering in short bursts. With that, I present to you, instead of one long-winded piece, a collection of several short-winded pieces.
From Lemons to Lemonade to Shameless Marketing
In February 2009, R&B star Chris Brown assaulted his then-girlfriend, R&B star Rihanna. Eight months later, Rihanna had the courage to appear on TV with Diane Sawyer and share her pain with millions of viewers. Like it or not, many people listen when celebrities speak, so for Rihanna to bare her soul was a gesture that hopefully inspired victims of abuse to have the courage to make positive changes in their lives. I only wish she hadn't done so 18 days before her latest record dropped, offering her maximum exposure just in time to boost first-week sales and to sustain unit-movement over those critical and finite pre-Christmas shopping days. It kind of dulled the shine of her sincerity. The presence of Envy here is clear. If the first things a singer looks at are her own sales figures, the second things she looks at are the sales figures of her competition - and God forbid the competition does better. You may say that this is a key to success, and it might well be ... but not after a case of domestic abuse. If the choice in timing of the interview was hers, she isn't brave, she's manipulative. If the choice in timing wasn't hers but rather her record label's, she's still a victim, but of a different kind of abuse. Domestic violence is abhorrent. Period. But not only should domestic violence not be committed, it should not be exploited for profit, either.
Casting Pearls (of Anger) Before Swine (Flu)
It seems that since the last presidential election, the yelling - from both sides - has gotten substantially worse, and I've all but tuned it out. Oh, I follow the issues, but now almost exclusively in print; gone are my nights of watching wall-to-wall political coverage on the cable news channels. The stars (if you will) of these shows, these so-called pundits (or commentators, anchors, experts, correspondents, or chief correspondents) are really nothing more than well-dressed, well-paid gasbags who simply don't know how to turn it off or, at the least, turn it down. Truthfully, if I want that kind of deafening and incessant droning of voices over voices over voices, I'll volunteer to be a grade school lunchroom dad. And just as those lunchroom kids are somehow prone to mimic that which they see on TV, so, too, are adults. For every screamer on cable news, there seems to be an army of screamer wannabes taking their issues from talk radio to town halls, and from the World Wide Web to the corner coffee klatch. Yes, all of this speech is free, but does it have to be so vitriolic? When did ire and volume replace simple debate? Recently, the loudest voices have come from those who are vehemently opposed to government-run healthcare. To those people, I ask: If you are so passionate in your opposition to the government's involvement in healthcare, if you have been moved to the point of Wrath by this issue, to the point that you have disrupted organized public forums (up to, and including, joint sessions of Congress) by shouting down those "against" you as opposed to debating - or even arguing - the issue's points on merit ... did you, in your fit of Wrath, boisterously and passionately yank your children out of line for the Swine Flu vaccinations they were to receive at school?
If Sandra Bullock Made This Movie, Would It Be Called MISS HYPOCRISY?
When flavor-of-the-month (about six months ago) Carrie Prejean was Miss California USA, and she was asked during the Miss USA 2009 pageant about her opinion on same-sex marriage, and she responded that she thought marriage should be between a man and a woman, I didn't blink. Did I agree with her? Of course not; I never have and I never will. But despite my opposition, I still respected her opinion, and besides, at least she answered the question honestly, as opposed to trying to spin her way out of it in hopes of gaining favor with the judges. So when the drama erupted over her answer - and by "drama," I mean when Prejean was knee-capped by internet whatever Perez Hilton, who, through D-List chicanery, managed to light the public's torches and sharpen the masses' pitchforks - I was surprised. I mean, there's a guy who lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue who essentially shares the same belief, and 70% of the gay community helped vote him into office, so why the fervor over the blonde beauty queen? Wow. Could it be true? Could I defend a same-sex marriage detractor? It turns out I could, right up until the point where she just wouldn't shut up. Fast forward through too many press conferences and lawsuits to a few weeks ago, during her recent book tour and what is, perhaps, her most intriguing quote. On NBC's TODAY, Prejean said, "Our bodies are temples of the Lord. We should earn respect and admiration for our hearts, not for showing skin to look sexy." Listen sweetheart, I don't mind that you are a body-baring beauty queen, stirring Lust in those who really don't care about your position on the importance of education or the fight against world hunger; nor do I mind that you had breast augmentation, further stoking that Lust; nor do I mind that you made a sex tape, showing that you've got a saucy Lustful streak in you. What I do mind is a woman who is in her 18th minute of fame and hawking a book from one side of her mouth, all the while invoking the Word of God from the other side of her mouth, preaching about the temple that is the woman's body, when if it weren't for your desecration of that temple, your name wouldn't be Carrie Prejean, it would be Carrie Who?
This Time It's Personal
Sitting in my church is not unlike sitting in the food court at the mall. Oh sure, there's an altar instead of a Cinnabon and they serve the Body and Blood of Christ as opposed to pretzel gems and dippin' cheese, but the congregants are dressed the same as the shoppers. On any given Sunday, you see the occasional suit or dress, but usually the fashion choices range from trendy casuals to football jerseys and jeans to shorts and sandals. This, to me, is blasphemous. I was raised that when you go to church, you wear what they used to call "your Sunday best" (which I still do), with anything less being undignified. That pretty much makes me guilty of the sin of Pride, for judging people on their attire as it pales in comparison to mine, when instead I should be thankful that they attend church at all. I am working on this. However, this issue intersects with an experience I had this past Sunday, when Baby and I pulled a pair of tags off our church's Giving Tree. (For those of you unfamiliar, a Giving Tree is a Christmas tree that has hanging from it tags instead of ornaments, and written on those tags are donation requests for basic items needed by local residents who are experiencing hard times.) The first tag asked for a gift card to the local supermarket, with no specific denomination requested. I like this request, and I have faith that the requestor will use the gift not for cigarettes or margarita mix, but rather for food or diapers. Done. The second request, complete with useful size information, asked for a pair of jeans ... from Aeropostale. Boutique jeans? On a Giving Tree? "Please help me. I need jeans ... but only really nice jeans." It seems I'm not alone in my Pride.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It's About More Than the Benjamins
The following is the third of an occasional 2009 series looking at how the traditional "Seven Deadly Sins" play in today's world.
For those of you who know me, and by "who know me," I mean "who read my stuff," and by "who read my stuff," I mean "who used to read my stuff when I actually wrote stuff on a regular basis," I hope you will be happy to know that I am OFF the public dole! Yes, I have once again joined the land of the gainfully employed (oddly enough, at the same place that cut me loose last year - go figure). There was much rejoicing done by Baby and The Girls when I delivered the good news, and the weeks and months that have followed have brought more happiness, both monetarily and self-worthily. But it hasn't been all "sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows," as Lesley Gore once sang. Sadly, during this time, I've also gotten a taste of sorrow ... in the form of death.
I've been very fortunate in my life that my experience with death has been limited.
My first real exposure to death was when I lost my grandfather. Pop-Pop was a man who influenced me greatly, and who still influences me today, some 11 years since his passing. Many people say their grandfathers were the best grandfathers in all the land, but mine actually was.
My second exposure to death was when I lost my brother-in-law six years ago. When I married his wife's sister, he and I quickly became brothers-in-arms-in-law, and eventually we became very close friends. His passing came too soon, something I also think about daily.
As for my third experience just a few months ago, it was something quite different. You see, while it was sad to watch my grandfather die at the hands of old age, and while it was sad to watch my brother-in-law die at the hands of disease, neither were as sad as bearing witness to the death of Honor ... at the hands Greed.
(It's been a while. Forgive the length.)
When did we start doing what's best for ourselves instead of doing the honorable thing?
An old friend with whom I had lost touch after my unemployment (who shall remain nameless because I would like her to remain my old friend with whom I am back in touch since my re-employment) recently confided in me that she had cheated on her husband. The affair hadn't been going on long when her husband made the discovery, and after a period of slow progress in rebuilding their relationship and (sadly) a crippling relapse, the storm of uncertainty that surrounded their marriage, while still churning, is beginning to calm, and my friend and her husband seem to be ... finally ... moving in the right direction. Not only have they recommitted themselves to each other, they have returned to the spiritual faith they both abandoned in their youth. Plus, they are engaged in professional marriage counseling as a couple, and they are both addressing their individual psychological issues. It turns out that she is being treated for Depression - a key factor in her missteps - and he is being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - something they didn't realize (nor did I) applied to anything outside of the military - caused by the affair.
My friend's revelation was a stunner. She and her husband have known each other for nearly 20 years. They met as coworkers, became close friends, and then nurtured their relationship through romance and into marriage - a marriage, by the way, that many others admired and respected; a marriage everyone thought was indestructible. It wasn't, and to learn that their marriage could fall victim to this fate is still no greater a shock to this adult than learning the truth about Santa Claus must be to any child. Everything I thought I knew disappeared, and in the months-long wake of the sad news, I still yearn to be intoxicated by the fantasy of a perfect couple, instead of enduring the maddening sobriety that we are all human. When you watch your heroes fall, you become painfully self-aware of your own mortality.
Before I continue, a pair of items. First, I don't condone what my friend did to her husband. While I'm glad their problems seem to be rooted in something psychologically deeper (as opposed to something shallow and thoughtless), that doesn't change the fact that she betrayed her husband - twice. She knows where I stand on this, which is right at the edge of opinion and teetering towards judgment. Second, my friend is lucky that her husband is the man that he is to look past the affairs and see that his wife is suffering from an affliction and needs help, not unlike the way someone with the flu or a broken leg needs help. I've reminded her more than once of this fact, and she has humbly agreed with counted blessings. With that, my housekeeping here is complete.
What does all of this have to do with Greed?
It seems that whenever we bear witness to infidelity, either through the hypnotic moving-picture box in our living rooms or on the pages of the latest scandal sheets in our grocer's checkout lanes, we tend to do one of two things: we either judge the guilty with great condemnation (see: politicians and/or clergymen of all stripes and levels), or we get lost in the salaciousness of it all (see: celebrities ... actual, reality, or otherwise). We might even take pity on some of the parties involved, especially if children become collateral damage.
But there is something we never consider with marital impropriety, something we never discuss when we roll like pigs in the muddy details. It's something that hit me when infidelity touched people I actually know. I came to the sad realization that despite her level of responsibility, despite her husband's level of responsibility for missing the signs of her problems or perhaps contributing to those problems, there were several other people who not only failed this poor woman (and, to a great extent, her husband), but did so intentionally and for their own personal gain.
The first person here is the miscreant she had the affair with. He was fully aware of her marital status when their relationship began, but that didn't stop him from being Greedy - sexually so, but Greedy nonetheless - and taking advantage of this woman in her time of need. I know, I know - lizards like this have been crawling the planet since the dawn of man and lizards; I get that. But what I think we've forgotten, perhaps as a result of being desensitized by the media's frenzied fascination with the pandemic that is infidelity, is that this guy, like the millions before him and the millions to come, made a decision, conscious or not, that went something like this: "This woman is married to someone else but she wants to sleep with me. That defies the core tenet of marriage, so she must be having problems at home. I can either seize this opportunity for a cheap and meaningless thrill, and in doing so set forth into motion a series of events that will ruin the life of her husband and children ... you know, my fellow humans ... or I can tell her that what she is doing to her husband is wrong, and that she should either stay with him completely or leave him completely; nothing in between. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions."
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.
If your grandmother is about to be hit by an oncoming bus, don't expect this guy to help her. Surely he will say, "Hey, she chose to stand there." Unless, of course, Grandma is a cougar, and then he might consider what his reward would be for saving her life.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.
The second guilty person here is my friend's girlfriend. This so-called friend, who goes back so far as to have been in attendance at the wedding of the fractured couple, was fully aware of the affair, yet she did nothing to inquire about the state of the marriage, she did nothing to advise on the potential harm my friend would cause her family by cheating, she kept the secret from the husband (whom she knew), and she was fully prepared to act as an alibi for my friend, so that my friend could have a full sleepover with The Miscreant, as opposed to some lunchtime quicky. Why do this to/for a friend? Well, perhaps the girlfriend's Greed was in the form of looking at a future where the husband was out of the picture so more "girl-time" could be spent together. Or maybe her Greed was Greed by attrition - her marriage was in the toilet at the time, so rather than try to improve her own situation, why not drag company down to her level.
Or maybe it was a Greedy combination of both. Regardless, she did not have my friend's best interest at heart.
Sure, you might think that if someone is your best friend, they will do anything they can to support you. You would be wrong. A friend, a true friend, has the guts - check that - the responsibility to step in and say, "Something is not right here. I'm your friend. How can I help you fix this?" If you don't believe me, go to the person you think is your best friend and tell them how cool it would be if you put a gun to your own head so you could blow your brains out. If the response is, "Anything for you, amigo," they aren't your friend, they are an accomplice at best, an accessory at worst. I am happy to say that my friend recognized what a cancer her so-called friend was on her marriage and has since written off The Accomplice.
Finally, the third guilty person here is actually more than one person. It's the other friends my friend THOUGHT she had - those people she considered to be in her "support network" who, upon learning of the affair, never bothered to say, "What can I do to help?" or "How are you two managing?" They simply stopped calling. They simply stopped e-mailing. They simply stopped texting. They simply stopped responding to calls and e-mails and texts, or if they responded, they did so with the written or verbal equivalent of the Heisman Trophy, stiff-arming my friend with retorts that would barely appease the homeless squeegee guy at the busy city intersection. They simply allowed their body language, in coincidental social settings, to scream, "My God, get me as far away from here as possible." The Greed here is the most perplexing - and perhaps the worst - of all.
Unlike the Greed of The Miscreant and The Accomplice, which was predatory and opportunistic, the Greed of The Deserters was not just of the "gimme" variety, it was of the "gimme back" variety. Their actions and inactions have screamed, "Yes, I have broken bread with you. Yes, I have welcomed you into my home. Yes, I have held the hands of your children and you have held the hands of mine. Yes, you have been there for me through good times and bad, but ... not this bad. I mean, really, when I became not just your friend but a part of your life, a part of your extended family, I thought we'd go shopping and gab on the phone and have cocktails and cookouts and other fun stuff. I really wasn't counting on your life spiraling out of control. What if it's contagious? I don't want whatever it is you got, which includes our friendship, so gimme back."
Shakespeare would have called this too tragic.
Perhaps the Greed of The Miscreant and The Accomplice and The Deserters is nothing more than a sign of our times. It seems that the Greed of today goes beyond the usual desire for stacks of cash. The Greed of today represents a shocking combination of conceit and covetousness that doesn't just desire THINGS, it desires everyone around them to exist in their little universe on their unquestionable terms, with complete disregard for anyone who cannot help further whatever agenda they have. While I won't blame social networking sites for this mindset, they certainly contribute to the mentality.
"If you don't interest ME, or if you don't want to look at MY pictures and listen to MY playlists and read MY Tweets and watch MY videos, or if you don't want to GIMME your body or GIMME your time or GIMME your upsides only ... well, then GIMME the keyboard so I can delete you."
I'd rather have the cash than people like that in my life. At least the cash has value.
For those of you who know me, and by "who know me," I mean "who read my stuff," and by "who read my stuff," I mean "who used to read my stuff when I actually wrote stuff on a regular basis," I hope you will be happy to know that I am OFF the public dole! Yes, I have once again joined the land of the gainfully employed (oddly enough, at the same place that cut me loose last year - go figure). There was much rejoicing done by Baby and The Girls when I delivered the good news, and the weeks and months that have followed have brought more happiness, both monetarily and self-worthily. But it hasn't been all "sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows," as Lesley Gore once sang. Sadly, during this time, I've also gotten a taste of sorrow ... in the form of death.
I've been very fortunate in my life that my experience with death has been limited.
My first real exposure to death was when I lost my grandfather. Pop-Pop was a man who influenced me greatly, and who still influences me today, some 11 years since his passing. Many people say their grandfathers were the best grandfathers in all the land, but mine actually was.
My second exposure to death was when I lost my brother-in-law six years ago. When I married his wife's sister, he and I quickly became brothers-in-arms-in-law, and eventually we became very close friends. His passing came too soon, something I also think about daily.
As for my third experience just a few months ago, it was something quite different. You see, while it was sad to watch my grandfather die at the hands of old age, and while it was sad to watch my brother-in-law die at the hands of disease, neither were as sad as bearing witness to the death of Honor ... at the hands Greed.
(It's been a while. Forgive the length.)
When did we start doing what's best for ourselves instead of doing the honorable thing?
An old friend with whom I had lost touch after my unemployment (who shall remain nameless because I would like her to remain my old friend with whom I am back in touch since my re-employment) recently confided in me that she had cheated on her husband. The affair hadn't been going on long when her husband made the discovery, and after a period of slow progress in rebuilding their relationship and (sadly) a crippling relapse, the storm of uncertainty that surrounded their marriage, while still churning, is beginning to calm, and my friend and her husband seem to be ... finally ... moving in the right direction. Not only have they recommitted themselves to each other, they have returned to the spiritual faith they both abandoned in their youth. Plus, they are engaged in professional marriage counseling as a couple, and they are both addressing their individual psychological issues. It turns out that she is being treated for Depression - a key factor in her missteps - and he is being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - something they didn't realize (nor did I) applied to anything outside of the military - caused by the affair.
My friend's revelation was a stunner. She and her husband have known each other for nearly 20 years. They met as coworkers, became close friends, and then nurtured their relationship through romance and into marriage - a marriage, by the way, that many others admired and respected; a marriage everyone thought was indestructible. It wasn't, and to learn that their marriage could fall victim to this fate is still no greater a shock to this adult than learning the truth about Santa Claus must be to any child. Everything I thought I knew disappeared, and in the months-long wake of the sad news, I still yearn to be intoxicated by the fantasy of a perfect couple, instead of enduring the maddening sobriety that we are all human. When you watch your heroes fall, you become painfully self-aware of your own mortality.
Before I continue, a pair of items. First, I don't condone what my friend did to her husband. While I'm glad their problems seem to be rooted in something psychologically deeper (as opposed to something shallow and thoughtless), that doesn't change the fact that she betrayed her husband - twice. She knows where I stand on this, which is right at the edge of opinion and teetering towards judgment. Second, my friend is lucky that her husband is the man that he is to look past the affairs and see that his wife is suffering from an affliction and needs help, not unlike the way someone with the flu or a broken leg needs help. I've reminded her more than once of this fact, and she has humbly agreed with counted blessings. With that, my housekeeping here is complete.
What does all of this have to do with Greed?
It seems that whenever we bear witness to infidelity, either through the hypnotic moving-picture box in our living rooms or on the pages of the latest scandal sheets in our grocer's checkout lanes, we tend to do one of two things: we either judge the guilty with great condemnation (see: politicians and/or clergymen of all stripes and levels), or we get lost in the salaciousness of it all (see: celebrities ... actual, reality, or otherwise). We might even take pity on some of the parties involved, especially if children become collateral damage.
But there is something we never consider with marital impropriety, something we never discuss when we roll like pigs in the muddy details. It's something that hit me when infidelity touched people I actually know. I came to the sad realization that despite her level of responsibility, despite her husband's level of responsibility for missing the signs of her problems or perhaps contributing to those problems, there were several other people who not only failed this poor woman (and, to a great extent, her husband), but did so intentionally and for their own personal gain.
The first person here is the miscreant she had the affair with. He was fully aware of her marital status when their relationship began, but that didn't stop him from being Greedy - sexually so, but Greedy nonetheless - and taking advantage of this woman in her time of need. I know, I know - lizards like this have been crawling the planet since the dawn of man and lizards; I get that. But what I think we've forgotten, perhaps as a result of being desensitized by the media's frenzied fascination with the pandemic that is infidelity, is that this guy, like the millions before him and the millions to come, made a decision, conscious or not, that went something like this: "This woman is married to someone else but she wants to sleep with me. That defies the core tenet of marriage, so she must be having problems at home. I can either seize this opportunity for a cheap and meaningless thrill, and in doing so set forth into motion a series of events that will ruin the life of her husband and children ... you know, my fellow humans ... or I can tell her that what she is doing to her husband is wrong, and that she should either stay with him completely or leave him completely; nothing in between. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions."
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.
If your grandmother is about to be hit by an oncoming bus, don't expect this guy to help her. Surely he will say, "Hey, she chose to stand there." Unless, of course, Grandma is a cougar, and then he might consider what his reward would be for saving her life.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.
The second guilty person here is my friend's girlfriend. This so-called friend, who goes back so far as to have been in attendance at the wedding of the fractured couple, was fully aware of the affair, yet she did nothing to inquire about the state of the marriage, she did nothing to advise on the potential harm my friend would cause her family by cheating, she kept the secret from the husband (whom she knew), and she was fully prepared to act as an alibi for my friend, so that my friend could have a full sleepover with The Miscreant, as opposed to some lunchtime quicky. Why do this to/for a friend? Well, perhaps the girlfriend's Greed was in the form of looking at a future where the husband was out of the picture so more "girl-time" could be spent together. Or maybe her Greed was Greed by attrition - her marriage was in the toilet at the time, so rather than try to improve her own situation, why not drag company down to her level.
Or maybe it was a Greedy combination of both. Regardless, she did not have my friend's best interest at heart.
Sure, you might think that if someone is your best friend, they will do anything they can to support you. You would be wrong. A friend, a true friend, has the guts - check that - the responsibility to step in and say, "Something is not right here. I'm your friend. How can I help you fix this?" If you don't believe me, go to the person you think is your best friend and tell them how cool it would be if you put a gun to your own head so you could blow your brains out. If the response is, "Anything for you, amigo," they aren't your friend, they are an accomplice at best, an accessory at worst. I am happy to say that my friend recognized what a cancer her so-called friend was on her marriage and has since written off The Accomplice.
Finally, the third guilty person here is actually more than one person. It's the other friends my friend THOUGHT she had - those people she considered to be in her "support network" who, upon learning of the affair, never bothered to say, "What can I do to help?" or "How are you two managing?" They simply stopped calling. They simply stopped e-mailing. They simply stopped texting. They simply stopped responding to calls and e-mails and texts, or if they responded, they did so with the written or verbal equivalent of the Heisman Trophy, stiff-arming my friend with retorts that would barely appease the homeless squeegee guy at the busy city intersection. They simply allowed their body language, in coincidental social settings, to scream, "My God, get me as far away from here as possible." The Greed here is the most perplexing - and perhaps the worst - of all.
Unlike the Greed of The Miscreant and The Accomplice, which was predatory and opportunistic, the Greed of The Deserters was not just of the "gimme" variety, it was of the "gimme back" variety. Their actions and inactions have screamed, "Yes, I have broken bread with you. Yes, I have welcomed you into my home. Yes, I have held the hands of your children and you have held the hands of mine. Yes, you have been there for me through good times and bad, but ... not this bad. I mean, really, when I became not just your friend but a part of your life, a part of your extended family, I thought we'd go shopping and gab on the phone and have cocktails and cookouts and other fun stuff. I really wasn't counting on your life spiraling out of control. What if it's contagious? I don't want whatever it is you got, which includes our friendship, so gimme back."
Shakespeare would have called this too tragic.
Perhaps the Greed of The Miscreant and The Accomplice and The Deserters is nothing more than a sign of our times. It seems that the Greed of today goes beyond the usual desire for stacks of cash. The Greed of today represents a shocking combination of conceit and covetousness that doesn't just desire THINGS, it desires everyone around them to exist in their little universe on their unquestionable terms, with complete disregard for anyone who cannot help further whatever agenda they have. While I won't blame social networking sites for this mindset, they certainly contribute to the mentality.
"If you don't interest ME, or if you don't want to look at MY pictures and listen to MY playlists and read MY Tweets and watch MY videos, or if you don't want to GIMME your body or GIMME your time or GIMME your upsides only ... well, then GIMME the keyboard so I can delete you."
I'd rather have the cash than people like that in my life. At least the cash has value.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Americans Idle
The following is the second of an occasional 2009 series looking at how the traditional "Seven Deadly Sins" play in today's world.
Hello there. It's been a while since I've come 'round. I'm sorry about that. It hasn't been for lack of want; I've been pining to opine. It's just that I've been busy taking care of some very important things in my personal life, including my ongoing search for gainful employment.
Wednesday, May 16, 2009, marked the 222nd day since my...what's that euphemism employers like to use when they don't want to sully their souls?...ah yes, my DISPLACEMENT. Being euphemized for over seven months is not exactly cause for celebration. However, 222 days is as good a time as any for reflection, and I have learned much during my time in this predicament.
I've learned on whom I can count in tough times. I've also learned that I'm not surprised by how short that list is.
I've learned that my threshold for rejection is mighty, thanks to the tolerance I developed from the rejection I faced in high school; finally, something from my teen years has come in handy. (If only I could say the same for trigonometry.)
I've learned that COBRA is more than just a bad '80s Sylvester Stallone movie. I've also learned that I happen to like bad '80s Sylvester Stallone movies, so if anyone is up for a Cobra / Rocky IV / Over the Top triple feature, let me know; I'll pop the corn.
The list goes on about the things I've learned, but if there is one thing that I HAVEN'T learned, it's how to prove to others that just because I don't have another job yet doesn't mean I'm not working hard at getting one. When you work hard at something, you usually have something else to show for it, like a good report card for hard work at school or a nice lawn for hard work in your yard. But this is not the case for a job search. If you work hard at looking for a job, but don't actually get a job, there is nothing you can present that shows your hard work.
I typically don't fret over what others might think of me. Still, I have a base desire to at least paint an accurate portrait of myself. I don't have a job yet because (so far) I've been unsuccessful - not lazy. I'd much rather be labeled the former than the latter. Failure is not a sin, but Sloth is.
And while the Deadly Sin of Sloth might conjure images of parental-basement-dwelling slackers with no desire to do anything but play video games, blog about playing video games, or Twitter about blogging about playing video games, there's another breed of lazy person out there - the politician.
Not the running politician, mind you. THAT guy works hard. From Dog Catcher to President, the running politician can't shake enough hands or work enough phones to convince the people that he is the best man for the job. But when he gets that job, something happens: he tends to commit Sloth.
Consider federal earmarks, those wasteful spending addenda that ride the coattails of important Congressional bills. These are also known as pork, which surely is offensive to Babe, Hamm, Miss Piggy, Porky and Petunia, Arnold, Wilbur, Piglet, and most other dignified swine. All earmarks are telltale signs of Sloth, including the $500,000 for a "virtual space community for students" added by Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison (R), and the $200,000 for a "Tattoo Removal Violence Prevention Outreach Program" added by California Rep. Howard Berman (D). The list is almost endless (and an impressively exhaustive reference of all pork, including those above, can be found here.
Or, consider the Sloth exhibited in the local school district referendum that paired, on one ballot item, the expansion of a teacher training center with the addition of two new artificial turf fields for local high schools...in addition to the one already installed.
Or, consider Andrew Harris, the Sloth-committing Maryland state senator (R) who threatened to withhold $424 million in funding from the University of Maryland if it proceeded with plans to screen a pornographic film - Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge - in the student union. The screening itself was to have been funded completely by fees assessed to the students...not by any state or school funds.
So how do these three examples - and the countless others they represent - constitute Sloth? Well, the mark of a good politician is that he can convince you that his idea is worthy of implementation. To do so takes effort.
Earmarks do not take effort. Earmarks are lazy. Earmarks say, "There's no way I can sell this idea on its own merit, but I want it, so I will attach it to the other guy's thing, because that thing is SO good, people will approve my thing just so his thing is approved too." Where's the effort in that?
Odd referendum pairings are lazy. The example says, "The community won't want another tax increase to finance more artificial fields when so many other things are needed for all of the students in the district (not just the athletes), but who would want to deny teachers the help they deserve? Let's tie the teachers to the fields so the fields are approved too." Where's the effort in that?
But the adult film example is the laziest of the three. Whereas the earmark and the referendum exhibit the use of Sloth as a means to gain something, the adult film example sites Sloth as a means of suppressing something. It's the political equivalent of "I don't like this game, so I'm taking my ball and going home." Where's the effort in that? (And heaven forbid this senator ever catch wind of some of the works of that Shakespeare guy.)
All of these paths are easy, and I'm not suggesting that the path of least resistance should always be avoided. It shouldn't. If a politician can find a shortcut that saves time/resources/money, that's great. Go for it. Just don't pitch me a bottle of efficient but sell me a bottle of deceptive instead.
If a virtual space community or tattoo removal or new athletic fields or stopping pornography are the passions of politicians, those politicians need to do drop their pens, roll up their sleeves, and do the work to convince me - convince all of us - that those passions are best for the community/state/country. To manipulate purse strings in an effort to forward an otherwise-failed agenda item is just plain lazy.
Hello there. It's been a while since I've come 'round. I'm sorry about that. It hasn't been for lack of want; I've been pining to opine. It's just that I've been busy taking care of some very important things in my personal life, including my ongoing search for gainful employment.
Wednesday, May 16, 2009, marked the 222nd day since my...what's that euphemism employers like to use when they don't want to sully their souls?...ah yes, my DISPLACEMENT. Being euphemized for over seven months is not exactly cause for celebration. However, 222 days is as good a time as any for reflection, and I have learned much during my time in this predicament.
I've learned on whom I can count in tough times. I've also learned that I'm not surprised by how short that list is.
I've learned that my threshold for rejection is mighty, thanks to the tolerance I developed from the rejection I faced in high school; finally, something from my teen years has come in handy. (If only I could say the same for trigonometry.)
I've learned that COBRA is more than just a bad '80s Sylvester Stallone movie. I've also learned that I happen to like bad '80s Sylvester Stallone movies, so if anyone is up for a Cobra / Rocky IV / Over the Top triple feature, let me know; I'll pop the corn.
The list goes on about the things I've learned, but if there is one thing that I HAVEN'T learned, it's how to prove to others that just because I don't have another job yet doesn't mean I'm not working hard at getting one. When you work hard at something, you usually have something else to show for it, like a good report card for hard work at school or a nice lawn for hard work in your yard. But this is not the case for a job search. If you work hard at looking for a job, but don't actually get a job, there is nothing you can present that shows your hard work.
I typically don't fret over what others might think of me. Still, I have a base desire to at least paint an accurate portrait of myself. I don't have a job yet because (so far) I've been unsuccessful - not lazy. I'd much rather be labeled the former than the latter. Failure is not a sin, but Sloth is.
And while the Deadly Sin of Sloth might conjure images of parental-basement-dwelling slackers with no desire to do anything but play video games, blog about playing video games, or Twitter about blogging about playing video games, there's another breed of lazy person out there - the politician.
Not the running politician, mind you. THAT guy works hard. From Dog Catcher to President, the running politician can't shake enough hands or work enough phones to convince the people that he is the best man for the job. But when he gets that job, something happens: he tends to commit Sloth.
Consider federal earmarks, those wasteful spending addenda that ride the coattails of important Congressional bills. These are also known as pork, which surely is offensive to Babe, Hamm, Miss Piggy, Porky and Petunia, Arnold, Wilbur, Piglet, and most other dignified swine. All earmarks are telltale signs of Sloth, including the $500,000 for a "virtual space community for students" added by Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison (R), and the $200,000 for a "Tattoo Removal Violence Prevention Outreach Program" added by California Rep. Howard Berman (D). The list is almost endless (and an impressively exhaustive reference of all pork, including those above, can be found here.
Or, consider the Sloth exhibited in the local school district referendum that paired, on one ballot item, the expansion of a teacher training center with the addition of two new artificial turf fields for local high schools...in addition to the one already installed.
Or, consider Andrew Harris, the Sloth-committing Maryland state senator (R) who threatened to withhold $424 million in funding from the University of Maryland if it proceeded with plans to screen a pornographic film - Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge - in the student union. The screening itself was to have been funded completely by fees assessed to the students...not by any state or school funds.
So how do these three examples - and the countless others they represent - constitute Sloth? Well, the mark of a good politician is that he can convince you that his idea is worthy of implementation. To do so takes effort.
Earmarks do not take effort. Earmarks are lazy. Earmarks say, "There's no way I can sell this idea on its own merit, but I want it, so I will attach it to the other guy's thing, because that thing is SO good, people will approve my thing just so his thing is approved too." Where's the effort in that?
Odd referendum pairings are lazy. The example says, "The community won't want another tax increase to finance more artificial fields when so many other things are needed for all of the students in the district (not just the athletes), but who would want to deny teachers the help they deserve? Let's tie the teachers to the fields so the fields are approved too." Where's the effort in that?
But the adult film example is the laziest of the three. Whereas the earmark and the referendum exhibit the use of Sloth as a means to gain something, the adult film example sites Sloth as a means of suppressing something. It's the political equivalent of "I don't like this game, so I'm taking my ball and going home." Where's the effort in that? (And heaven forbid this senator ever catch wind of some of the works of that Shakespeare guy.)
All of these paths are easy, and I'm not suggesting that the path of least resistance should always be avoided. It shouldn't. If a politician can find a shortcut that saves time/resources/money, that's great. Go for it. Just don't pitch me a bottle of efficient but sell me a bottle of deceptive instead.
If a virtual space community or tattoo removal or new athletic fields or stopping pornography are the passions of politicians, those politicians need to do drop their pens, roll up their sleeves, and do the work to convince me - convince all of us - that those passions are best for the community/state/country. To manipulate purse strings in an effort to forward an otherwise-failed agenda item is just plain lazy.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Regardless of Whether That's a Gun In Your Pocket or You're Happy to See Me...Is the Safety On?
I have learned many things from Sir Francis Bacon. Okay, I have learned ONE thing from Sir Francis Bacon: his quote, "Knowledge is power." And this quote was never better embodied than on one of my all-time fave TV shows: MacGyver.
The show, while kitschy now, was wonderfully original when it debuted in 1985, and it became such a part of our pop culture fabric, we pulled a Google before Google even existed and verbified the proper noun. "The home improvement store was closed, so I had to MacGyver the heater until morning."
Oh sure, I doubt I'll ever have a practical need to know that a chocolate bar can stop an acid leak, or that cactus juice can power a transistor radio, or that the mullet seemed like such a good idea at the time. (NOTE: For those you still rockin' the mullet, know that when you sleep, the business in the front points and laughs at the party in the back.) No, what MacGyver gave me, more than clever household chemistry lessons or an appreciation for Swiss Army knives, was not just the notion that knowledge is power, but, at a higher level, that smarter is better.
When you think about it, it's a lesson that is subtly taught to us throughout our lives. Smarter kids go to better schools. Smarter candidates get better jobs. Smarter workers earn better pay. Smarter athletes play better games. Smarter game show contestants win better prizes. Smarter writers get better...well, better alcohol, I suppose.
For those of you unfamiliar with the show, by the way, MacGyver was about an adventurer (of sorts) who found himself in tough situations and used intellect, not violence, to save the day. But while the title character was staunchly opposed to the use of guns, surely even Mac would agree...yes, I can call him Mac...that smarter gun owners make better gun owners. This is another lesson that should be taught to our children, and not so subtly.
In fact, the National Rifle Association agrees. At their website, the NRA has a page that offers an overview of their printed literature, entitled "Parents' Guide to Gun Safety." The page highlights numerous areas of gun safety for parents and children, but the line that really popped when I read the material was the following:
"Talking openly and honestly about gun safety with your child is usually more effective than just ordering him or her to 'Stay out of the gun closet,' and leaving it at that. Such statements may just stimulate a child's natural curiosity to investigate further."
Hmmm.
May I rewrite that?
"Talking openly and honestly with your child about safe sex is usually more effective than just ordering him or her to 'not have sex,' and leaving it at that. Such statements may just stimulate a child's natural curiosity to investigate further."
Suddenly, I'm reminded of Sarah Palin. (Oh please. Who else would give you MacGyver AND Sarah Palin in the same piece?)
I'm reminded of Sarah Palin not for who she is specifically, but for her celebrity and for the two groups she simultaneously represents: gun enthusiasts and abstinence-only supporters.
(While I recognize the irony that the daughter of Alaska's conservative governor wound up as a teen-pregnancy statistic, it is no cause for the parade of shame that some want to throw. The world is full of kids who directly disobey their parents. Bristol Palin brought life into this world. Let us simply hope that she takes proper care of it.)
I find it troubling that any portion of our society would send its children into the world with guns and hormones, and provide a safety manual for the former but issue only a "Don't do it!" edict for the latter. What people fail to realize is how similar guns and sex are, all double entendres, puns, and innuendos aside.
Both carry great responsibility, both can come with dire consequences if handled recklessly, and both can bring much enjoyment. They even serve basic functional purposes - guns are used to hunt for food and sex is used to procreate. So why is it that the Sarah Palins of the world don't educate both issues with the same thoroughness? Better yet, why don't they even take similar stands on both issues? (Can you imagine the uproar if there was a campaign pushing to teach children to ignore gun safety and simply avoid guns completely?)
But it isn't just guns vs. sex. It's cars vs. sex, because we send our kids to Driver's Ed class instead of telling them not to drive. It's sports vs. sex, because we equip our kids with helmets and pads instead of telling them not to play. It's technology vs. sex, because we teach our kids about faux Nigerian princes instead of telling them not to surf the Internet.
And what's most puzzling about these and other aspects of life is that we teach all of this preventive posturing to protect our kids from things we can ultimately physically separate them from. In a worst-case scenario, we can lock up the guns, we can take the keys, we can trash the cleats, and we can block the Internet. But the one thing we can't take away from our kids are their bodies. Why would anyone not want to teach their children about protecting the one thing that is inseparable from them, the one thing that will be with them forever?
Smarter is better. Parents need to make their kids better by making them smarter...before the kids do something stupid.
The show, while kitschy now, was wonderfully original when it debuted in 1985, and it became such a part of our pop culture fabric, we pulled a Google before Google even existed and verbified the proper noun. "The home improvement store was closed, so I had to MacGyver the heater until morning."
Oh sure, I doubt I'll ever have a practical need to know that a chocolate bar can stop an acid leak, or that cactus juice can power a transistor radio, or that the mullet seemed like such a good idea at the time. (NOTE: For those you still rockin' the mullet, know that when you sleep, the business in the front points and laughs at the party in the back.) No, what MacGyver gave me, more than clever household chemistry lessons or an appreciation for Swiss Army knives, was not just the notion that knowledge is power, but, at a higher level, that smarter is better.
When you think about it, it's a lesson that is subtly taught to us throughout our lives. Smarter kids go to better schools. Smarter candidates get better jobs. Smarter workers earn better pay. Smarter athletes play better games. Smarter game show contestants win better prizes. Smarter writers get better...well, better alcohol, I suppose.
For those of you unfamiliar with the show, by the way, MacGyver was about an adventurer (of sorts) who found himself in tough situations and used intellect, not violence, to save the day. But while the title character was staunchly opposed to the use of guns, surely even Mac would agree...yes, I can call him Mac...that smarter gun owners make better gun owners. This is another lesson that should be taught to our children, and not so subtly.
In fact, the National Rifle Association agrees. At their website, the NRA has a page that offers an overview of their printed literature, entitled "Parents' Guide to Gun Safety." The page highlights numerous areas of gun safety for parents and children, but the line that really popped when I read the material was the following:
"Talking openly and honestly about gun safety with your child is usually more effective than just ordering him or her to 'Stay out of the gun closet,' and leaving it at that. Such statements may just stimulate a child's natural curiosity to investigate further."
Hmmm.
May I rewrite that?
"Talking openly and honestly with your child about safe sex is usually more effective than just ordering him or her to 'not have sex,' and leaving it at that. Such statements may just stimulate a child's natural curiosity to investigate further."
Suddenly, I'm reminded of Sarah Palin. (Oh please. Who else would give you MacGyver AND Sarah Palin in the same piece?)
I'm reminded of Sarah Palin not for who she is specifically, but for her celebrity and for the two groups she simultaneously represents: gun enthusiasts and abstinence-only supporters.
(While I recognize the irony that the daughter of Alaska's conservative governor wound up as a teen-pregnancy statistic, it is no cause for the parade of shame that some want to throw. The world is full of kids who directly disobey their parents. Bristol Palin brought life into this world. Let us simply hope that she takes proper care of it.)
I find it troubling that any portion of our society would send its children into the world with guns and hormones, and provide a safety manual for the former but issue only a "Don't do it!" edict for the latter. What people fail to realize is how similar guns and sex are, all double entendres, puns, and innuendos aside.
Both carry great responsibility, both can come with dire consequences if handled recklessly, and both can bring much enjoyment. They even serve basic functional purposes - guns are used to hunt for food and sex is used to procreate. So why is it that the Sarah Palins of the world don't educate both issues with the same thoroughness? Better yet, why don't they even take similar stands on both issues? (Can you imagine the uproar if there was a campaign pushing to teach children to ignore gun safety and simply avoid guns completely?)
But it isn't just guns vs. sex. It's cars vs. sex, because we send our kids to Driver's Ed class instead of telling them not to drive. It's sports vs. sex, because we equip our kids with helmets and pads instead of telling them not to play. It's technology vs. sex, because we teach our kids about faux Nigerian princes instead of telling them not to surf the Internet.
And what's most puzzling about these and other aspects of life is that we teach all of this preventive posturing to protect our kids from things we can ultimately physically separate them from. In a worst-case scenario, we can lock up the guns, we can take the keys, we can trash the cleats, and we can block the Internet. But the one thing we can't take away from our kids are their bodies. Why would anyone not want to teach their children about protecting the one thing that is inseparable from them, the one thing that will be with them forever?
Smarter is better. Parents need to make their kids better by making them smarter...before the kids do something stupid.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Injected A-Rod. (Chances Are, So Did You.)
One of the things we hold sacred in our household is the family dinner, when Baby, The Girl, The Girl II, and I sit down at the same table at the same time and share a meal - a meal fully prepared by Baby, mind you; not some food-like substance served in a paper bag and shot through a small window...straight into our hearts.
And while our schedules might preclude us from dining as one every night, we do it as often as possible. Not only does it allow us to partake in the culinary joy that Baby brings whenever she cooks, family dinner is when we get to look at each other, laugh together, and hear about everyone's day. Oh, and we check all cell phones at the door. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Manners has not updated the setting chart to replace the demitasse spoon with the I-Phone.
The family dinner is also when Baby and I discuss current events with The Girls. My particular areas of expertise are politics (domestic), music, technology, and Hollywood (non-TMZ). For the record, Baby leads talks about politics (foreign), community news, health, and Hollywood (TMZ); we share the pop-culture responsibilities (Baby's wheelhouse is movie quotes and mine is commercial jingles). We also share the sports duties, as Baby has some game when it comes to games.
So when the Sports Illustrated story broke about how New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez had used performance-enhancing drugs while playing for the Texas Rangers, and when A-Rod first admitted to that use, we knew the issue would be broached over chicken. But given the fact that we both lead sports discussions, we were forced to invoke a series of tiebreakers to determine who would chair the discussion with the children. Ultimately, my ability to put modern baseball into historic context crushed Baby's skill at despising anyone in baseball who isn't Derek Jeter.
The subject hasn't come up yet - American Idol, 7th grade social studies, and the stimulus package have been the pressing subjects of late - but when it does, this is what I plan to tell my daughters:
Girls, you may have read in the papers or watched on the news the story of Alex Rodriguez, also known as A-Rod...or, as Mommy calls him, Not Derek Jeter...and his admission that he took performance-enhancing drugs while being paid more money to play baseball for one year than some players will see in their entire careers. There are numerous issues here, from the risks A-Rod may have taken with his own health to what the law says about the drugs he used. But the core issue is the fact that A-Rod cheated.
How did A-Rod cheat? Well, the drugs he took make athletes stronger, and they were banned by Major League Baseball in 1991. In fact, they helped Not-Derek-Jeter perform so much better, he won the league MVP award in 2003. So, while most other players were trying their best with what their God gave them, A-Rod was doing his best with what his dealer gave him.
Please pass the cranberry sauce.
Is A-Rod at fault? Of course he is. He took the drugs. The drug people are at fault, too. And so is the Player's Union for fighting against mandatory drug testing, which gave players like him the sense of security that they wouldn't be caught; and so is Major League Baseball for not fighting hard enough to implement mandatory drug testing. But someone else is at fault as well.
I am.
So is Mommy.
So are our friends, their significant others, their cubicle neighbors at work, their doctors and mechanics and hairdressers, and the millions of other baseball fans around the country and around the world. Don't look nervous, Girls. Mommy and Daddy aren't going to jail, nor will we be interviewed by Katie Couric. It isn't as if we stood in line and waited our turn to actually inject him. But we may have driven him to it.
Get your elbows off the table.
After baseball's work stoppage in 1994, we were down on the sport. Millionaires and billionaires went to war over money and left us, its devoted fans, on the field of battle as nothing more than collateral damage. We didn't even get a World Series that year.
But in 1998, the "Home Run Chase" (I'll make air-quotes here) between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa brought us back. Roger Maris' record of 61 home runs in a single season had lasted 37 years until these two giants started crushing home runs and making it clear by the all-star break that the question was not if the record would fall, but to whom and by how much. Not only did McGwire finally set the record at 70, Sosa topped Maris as well, finishing with 66.
More corn?
At that point, we were hooked. Before 1998, home runs were fun. After 1998, home runs were mandatory - and they had to be majestic moon-shots that we would never forget until the next moon-shot was more majestic still. And it didn't matter if the game was on the line; in fact, a crushing blast deep into the night at Fenway, to make the score 10-0, was grander to us than the 2-1 game-winner that barely cleared the fence at Corporate Sponsor Park. God bless baseball, we cried. God bless baseball, and home runs, and America, and SportsCenter, and TiVo.
Were there hints that cheating was going on then? Of course there were hints, but we ignored them. We were in blissful love with the long-ball, that singular epic sports feat with a size worthy to take its place in our lives alongside our big houses and our big SUVs, and we didn't care how we got the long-ball, as long as we got it. Feed us the sausage, we demanded. We don't care how the sausage is made.
Use your napkin, not your pants.
And this obsession with home runs was not reserved just for the field of play. Actual home run balls, balls that once were cherished childhood souvenirs to pass down to future generations, became the cause of fisticuffs, lawsuits, and multi-million dollar auctions.
Then along came Barry.
Barry Bonds, he of the San Francisco Giants, would go on to capture the two most storied records in all of sport: in 2001, he hit 73 home runs, beating McGwire's short-lived mark; and in 2007, he surpassed Hank Aaron's decades-old record of 755 career home runs, ultimately coming to rest at 762. What's funny is that in the years between Bonds' 73 and 762, more and more attention was paid to performance-enhancing drugs, and the cloud of suspicion that grew around Bonds - he had never hit anywhere near 73 homers before 2001 or since - made him the poster child for alleged performance enhancement.
Still, we didn't care. We loved the home run so much, Bonds became our Home Run Mistress. We wouldn't admit to our family or friends our feelings for him, but oh, the things he did to us in the privacy of our homes.
Oops. Sorry. Poor analogy. Someday Mommy will explain what "mistress" means.
So although we cried foul in public, in private we marveled at what one man with one stick could do to one ball.
And this is why we are partially to blame for A-Rod's current situation. Not only did we fall in love with the long-ball, we fell in love with the long-ball hitters, and unless a player's name was something like Jeter or Ichiro or Ripken - true but rare baseball men respected for their overall skill and heart for the game - he was either a Home Run Hero or a Guy Named Moe. If he was the former, he reaped glory, riches, and great tables at all the best restaurants; if he was the latter, he went about his average game and retired to go into a career as a middle-manager with some investment company. A-Rod, for all of his natural skill, for all of his raw potential, was too aloof to be a Jeter and too wealthy to be a Moe. That left him little choice.
We left him little choice. If you think resisting the peer pressure of the Queen Bee at school is tough, and while it's no excuse, think about the pressure brought forth by the adulation of millions. A-Rod may have taken the needle, but the fans all but pushed the plunger.
Now, which one of you has dish duty?
And while our schedules might preclude us from dining as one every night, we do it as often as possible. Not only does it allow us to partake in the culinary joy that Baby brings whenever she cooks, family dinner is when we get to look at each other, laugh together, and hear about everyone's day. Oh, and we check all cell phones at the door. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Manners has not updated the setting chart to replace the demitasse spoon with the I-Phone.
The family dinner is also when Baby and I discuss current events with The Girls. My particular areas of expertise are politics (domestic), music, technology, and Hollywood (non-TMZ). For the record, Baby leads talks about politics (foreign), community news, health, and Hollywood (TMZ); we share the pop-culture responsibilities (Baby's wheelhouse is movie quotes and mine is commercial jingles). We also share the sports duties, as Baby has some game when it comes to games.
So when the Sports Illustrated story broke about how New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez had used performance-enhancing drugs while playing for the Texas Rangers, and when A-Rod first admitted to that use, we knew the issue would be broached over chicken. But given the fact that we both lead sports discussions, we were forced to invoke a series of tiebreakers to determine who would chair the discussion with the children. Ultimately, my ability to put modern baseball into historic context crushed Baby's skill at despising anyone in baseball who isn't Derek Jeter.
The subject hasn't come up yet - American Idol, 7th grade social studies, and the stimulus package have been the pressing subjects of late - but when it does, this is what I plan to tell my daughters:
Girls, you may have read in the papers or watched on the news the story of Alex Rodriguez, also known as A-Rod...or, as Mommy calls him, Not Derek Jeter...and his admission that he took performance-enhancing drugs while being paid more money to play baseball for one year than some players will see in their entire careers. There are numerous issues here, from the risks A-Rod may have taken with his own health to what the law says about the drugs he used. But the core issue is the fact that A-Rod cheated.
How did A-Rod cheat? Well, the drugs he took make athletes stronger, and they were banned by Major League Baseball in 1991. In fact, they helped Not-Derek-Jeter perform so much better, he won the league MVP award in 2003. So, while most other players were trying their best with what their God gave them, A-Rod was doing his best with what his dealer gave him.
Please pass the cranberry sauce.
Is A-Rod at fault? Of course he is. He took the drugs. The drug people are at fault, too. And so is the Player's Union for fighting against mandatory drug testing, which gave players like him the sense of security that they wouldn't be caught; and so is Major League Baseball for not fighting hard enough to implement mandatory drug testing. But someone else is at fault as well.
I am.
So is Mommy.
So are our friends, their significant others, their cubicle neighbors at work, their doctors and mechanics and hairdressers, and the millions of other baseball fans around the country and around the world. Don't look nervous, Girls. Mommy and Daddy aren't going to jail, nor will we be interviewed by Katie Couric. It isn't as if we stood in line and waited our turn to actually inject him. But we may have driven him to it.
Get your elbows off the table.
After baseball's work stoppage in 1994, we were down on the sport. Millionaires and billionaires went to war over money and left us, its devoted fans, on the field of battle as nothing more than collateral damage. We didn't even get a World Series that year.
But in 1998, the "Home Run Chase" (I'll make air-quotes here) between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa brought us back. Roger Maris' record of 61 home runs in a single season had lasted 37 years until these two giants started crushing home runs and making it clear by the all-star break that the question was not if the record would fall, but to whom and by how much. Not only did McGwire finally set the record at 70, Sosa topped Maris as well, finishing with 66.
More corn?
At that point, we were hooked. Before 1998, home runs were fun. After 1998, home runs were mandatory - and they had to be majestic moon-shots that we would never forget until the next moon-shot was more majestic still. And it didn't matter if the game was on the line; in fact, a crushing blast deep into the night at Fenway, to make the score 10-0, was grander to us than the 2-1 game-winner that barely cleared the fence at Corporate Sponsor Park. God bless baseball, we cried. God bless baseball, and home runs, and America, and SportsCenter, and TiVo.
Were there hints that cheating was going on then? Of course there were hints, but we ignored them. We were in blissful love with the long-ball, that singular epic sports feat with a size worthy to take its place in our lives alongside our big houses and our big SUVs, and we didn't care how we got the long-ball, as long as we got it. Feed us the sausage, we demanded. We don't care how the sausage is made.
Use your napkin, not your pants.
And this obsession with home runs was not reserved just for the field of play. Actual home run balls, balls that once were cherished childhood souvenirs to pass down to future generations, became the cause of fisticuffs, lawsuits, and multi-million dollar auctions.
Then along came Barry.
Barry Bonds, he of the San Francisco Giants, would go on to capture the two most storied records in all of sport: in 2001, he hit 73 home runs, beating McGwire's short-lived mark; and in 2007, he surpassed Hank Aaron's decades-old record of 755 career home runs, ultimately coming to rest at 762. What's funny is that in the years between Bonds' 73 and 762, more and more attention was paid to performance-enhancing drugs, and the cloud of suspicion that grew around Bonds - he had never hit anywhere near 73 homers before 2001 or since - made him the poster child for alleged performance enhancement.
Still, we didn't care. We loved the home run so much, Bonds became our Home Run Mistress. We wouldn't admit to our family or friends our feelings for him, but oh, the things he did to us in the privacy of our homes.
Oops. Sorry. Poor analogy. Someday Mommy will explain what "mistress" means.
So although we cried foul in public, in private we marveled at what one man with one stick could do to one ball.
And this is why we are partially to blame for A-Rod's current situation. Not only did we fall in love with the long-ball, we fell in love with the long-ball hitters, and unless a player's name was something like Jeter or Ichiro or Ripken - true but rare baseball men respected for their overall skill and heart for the game - he was either a Home Run Hero or a Guy Named Moe. If he was the former, he reaped glory, riches, and great tables at all the best restaurants; if he was the latter, he went about his average game and retired to go into a career as a middle-manager with some investment company. A-Rod, for all of his natural skill, for all of his raw potential, was too aloof to be a Jeter and too wealthy to be a Moe. That left him little choice.
We left him little choice. If you think resisting the peer pressure of the Queen Bee at school is tough, and while it's no excuse, think about the pressure brought forth by the adulation of millions. A-Rod may have taken the needle, but the fans all but pushed the plunger.
Now, which one of you has dish duty?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
How Do You ALT-CTRL-DEL Hormones?
If I plagiarize myself, will I go blind?
Sorry. I'm recalling my high school days right now, and I'm clearly mashing-up my Creative Writing class with my Morality class.
But why? Why am I recalling my teen years? Why am I worrying about copying myself? And why am I making a dated reference to the consequences of a certain sex act?
Why? Because I recently read a news item about teens and sex, and it reminded me of a similar item I read last year - one I ultimately wrote about. In light of the latest news, I think the topic is worth writing about again, and since my original piece came and went unnoticed, I might cherry-pick some text, or an idea or two, from it. I thought it only fair to let you know I've been down this path before.
I was a teenager in the 1980s, and when the quadrillion raging hormones in my body wanted to see images of naked women, my choices were limited to having friends who could liberate certain literature from their fathers' sock drawers; catching Porky's-esque R-rated movies in theaters; sneaking late-night peeks at Skinemax...er, Cinemax; or finding a mom-and-pop movie rental store with a stocked back room and an ambivalent staff.
Little did I know then that, had I been born a scant 25 years later, I would have had no need to wait for manufacturers of fleshy delights to bring their wares to market. I simply could have had a classmate send me a picture of her nude self straight to my cell phone.
Really.
On January 13, 2009, Bob Stiles of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review reported on six students from Greensburg Salem High School - three boys and three girls, all minors - who face criminal charges as a result of participating in what is known as "sexting." According to Stiles' report, "sexting" is "...the teen trend of sending nude or semi-nude photos from cell phone to cell phone...."
Sexting. A naughty twist on texting. How clever. You know, I used to worry that when I become elderly, I will be cared for by a generation of slackers. Now I'm afraid I'll be cared for by a generation of horny marketers.
The matter is serious. The girls, who took nude pictures of themselves and sent them to the boys, face a charge of manufacturing, disseminating or possessing child pornography. The boys are charged with possessing child pornography. I have several issues here.
The first issue is legal. As I have made clear in past writings - again with the self-plagiarism - I am not a lawyer, and everything I know about the law, I learned from Hollywood. Assuming everything I can gather from the story is true, either as stated or implied, the girls took their own pictures and willingly sent them to the boys, who received them. Should any of these six kids be criminally charged? I'm not so sure. I certainly don't condone the behavior, but if there was no coercion and no adult involvement, this seems to be a case of monumentally poor judgment, not a case of crime.
Complicating matters, according to another story, if these children are found guilty, while they might not serve any jail time, they could be required to register as sex offenders for a period of 10 years. Again, I don't condone the behavior, but I can't reasonably see a 14-year-old girl or a 16-year-old boy registering as a sex offender until they are out of college. Can you imagine answering to that in a job interview? Stupidity is the crime here, and that punishment seems too harsh.
The second issue concerns the parents of these children. I can speak with greater authority here, as I both presently parent and previously have been parented...and still am, sometimes. (Hi Mom!) Also, I can assure you that I ignore Hollywood when it comes to parenting, other than to add bullet points to my ever-growing "Yeah, Don't Do THAT As a Parent" List, AKA "The Lohan List." Whether the kids don't know any better about such behavior, or if they suffer from low self-esteem and are looking to be accepted socially for what they are willing to do sexually, or even if they are physically and sexually confident beyond their years, the parents of these kids need to do a better job communicating with their children, whether "better job" means "improve communications" or - sadly - "begin communications."
And those communications need to extend beyond right/wrong, or good/bad, or do/don't. In fact, the matter is similar to the abstinence-only vs. sex-education debate because it deals not only with should/shouldn't, but with understanding actions and their potential consequences in the event of a "But if you do..." scenario. Sure, sending a saucy photo is not the same as engaging in physical sexual activity, and no one ever got pregnant or contracted a disease by looking at pictures. But those pictures have the potential for doing even greater harm in both the immediate and distant futures.
Thus, my third issue: the consequences of cyberspace. Yes, these particular photos (as far as we know) were contained to the boys' cell phones. But one reckless or vengeful file transfer puts them on the Internet, which makes them accessible to anyone. What today's parents need to stress to their children, and with the same gravity as pregnancy and disease, is that just as easily as teens voluntarily share with friends or lovers every pore of their skin via the Internet, they unintentionally share the same with the billions of strangers who know how to use a computer - and by "strangers," I don't mean just creepy bad guys or social enemies or incoming underclassmen. Those strangers could be college administrators, military recruiters, prospective employers, and even potential love interests.
Look, we've all been there. We've all done foolish things that we look back on now and laugh about (or cringe over) and bury in the Youthful Indiscretions file. But a key difference between teens of the past vs. teens of today, and the difference with perhaps the greatest significance, is the permanency of cyberspace. Sure, many foolish actions carry no long-term consequences, but cyber-shamelessness can. Pictures on the Internet aren't Polaroids that can be burned after viewing, or tattoos that can be removed or covered, or booze-fueled overindulgences that can be mitigated by sleep and aspirin. They will be there for as long as there is an Internet, so the youthful indiscretion of today can wreak havoc with the opportunity of tomorrow...or 20 years from tomorrow.
Parents need to make sure their kids understand their own cyber-presence. In fact, parents should probably understand their own cyber-presence, too. And it's okay.
No one will go blind Googling themselves.
Sorry. I'm recalling my high school days right now, and I'm clearly mashing-up my Creative Writing class with my Morality class.
But why? Why am I recalling my teen years? Why am I worrying about copying myself? And why am I making a dated reference to the consequences of a certain sex act?
Why? Because I recently read a news item about teens and sex, and it reminded me of a similar item I read last year - one I ultimately wrote about. In light of the latest news, I think the topic is worth writing about again, and since my original piece came and went unnoticed, I might cherry-pick some text, or an idea or two, from it. I thought it only fair to let you know I've been down this path before.
I was a teenager in the 1980s, and when the quadrillion raging hormones in my body wanted to see images of naked women, my choices were limited to having friends who could liberate certain literature from their fathers' sock drawers; catching Porky's-esque R-rated movies in theaters; sneaking late-night peeks at Skinemax...er, Cinemax; or finding a mom-and-pop movie rental store with a stocked back room and an ambivalent staff.
Little did I know then that, had I been born a scant 25 years later, I would have had no need to wait for manufacturers of fleshy delights to bring their wares to market. I simply could have had a classmate send me a picture of her nude self straight to my cell phone.
Really.
On January 13, 2009, Bob Stiles of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review reported on six students from Greensburg Salem High School - three boys and three girls, all minors - who face criminal charges as a result of participating in what is known as "sexting." According to Stiles' report, "sexting" is "...the teen trend of sending nude or semi-nude photos from cell phone to cell phone...."
Sexting. A naughty twist on texting. How clever. You know, I used to worry that when I become elderly, I will be cared for by a generation of slackers. Now I'm afraid I'll be cared for by a generation of horny marketers.
The matter is serious. The girls, who took nude pictures of themselves and sent them to the boys, face a charge of manufacturing, disseminating or possessing child pornography. The boys are charged with possessing child pornography. I have several issues here.
The first issue is legal. As I have made clear in past writings - again with the self-plagiarism - I am not a lawyer, and everything I know about the law, I learned from Hollywood. Assuming everything I can gather from the story is true, either as stated or implied, the girls took their own pictures and willingly sent them to the boys, who received them. Should any of these six kids be criminally charged? I'm not so sure. I certainly don't condone the behavior, but if there was no coercion and no adult involvement, this seems to be a case of monumentally poor judgment, not a case of crime.
Complicating matters, according to another story, if these children are found guilty, while they might not serve any jail time, they could be required to register as sex offenders for a period of 10 years. Again, I don't condone the behavior, but I can't reasonably see a 14-year-old girl or a 16-year-old boy registering as a sex offender until they are out of college. Can you imagine answering to that in a job interview? Stupidity is the crime here, and that punishment seems too harsh.
The second issue concerns the parents of these children. I can speak with greater authority here, as I both presently parent and previously have been parented...and still am, sometimes. (Hi Mom!) Also, I can assure you that I ignore Hollywood when it comes to parenting, other than to add bullet points to my ever-growing "Yeah, Don't Do THAT As a Parent" List, AKA "The Lohan List." Whether the kids don't know any better about such behavior, or if they suffer from low self-esteem and are looking to be accepted socially for what they are willing to do sexually, or even if they are physically and sexually confident beyond their years, the parents of these kids need to do a better job communicating with their children, whether "better job" means "improve communications" or - sadly - "begin communications."
And those communications need to extend beyond right/wrong, or good/bad, or do/don't. In fact, the matter is similar to the abstinence-only vs. sex-education debate because it deals not only with should/shouldn't, but with understanding actions and their potential consequences in the event of a "But if you do..." scenario. Sure, sending a saucy photo is not the same as engaging in physical sexual activity, and no one ever got pregnant or contracted a disease by looking at pictures. But those pictures have the potential for doing even greater harm in both the immediate and distant futures.
Thus, my third issue: the consequences of cyberspace. Yes, these particular photos (as far as we know) were contained to the boys' cell phones. But one reckless or vengeful file transfer puts them on the Internet, which makes them accessible to anyone. What today's parents need to stress to their children, and with the same gravity as pregnancy and disease, is that just as easily as teens voluntarily share with friends or lovers every pore of their skin via the Internet, they unintentionally share the same with the billions of strangers who know how to use a computer - and by "strangers," I don't mean just creepy bad guys or social enemies or incoming underclassmen. Those strangers could be college administrators, military recruiters, prospective employers, and even potential love interests.
Look, we've all been there. We've all done foolish things that we look back on now and laugh about (or cringe over) and bury in the Youthful Indiscretions file. But a key difference between teens of the past vs. teens of today, and the difference with perhaps the greatest significance, is the permanency of cyberspace. Sure, many foolish actions carry no long-term consequences, but cyber-shamelessness can. Pictures on the Internet aren't Polaroids that can be burned after viewing, or tattoos that can be removed or covered, or booze-fueled overindulgences that can be mitigated by sleep and aspirin. They will be there for as long as there is an Internet, so the youthful indiscretion of today can wreak havoc with the opportunity of tomorrow...or 20 years from tomorrow.
Parents need to make sure their kids understand their own cyber-presence. In fact, parents should probably understand their own cyber-presence, too. And it's okay.
No one will go blind Googling themselves.
Friday, January 16, 2009
What's Next? Fantasy Leagues?
The following is the first of an occasional 2009 series looking at how the traditional "Seven Deadly Sins" play in today's world.
If there is one sin (from the official Seven Deadly Sins) of which I am recently guilty, it's Gluttony. I mean really. We're already two weeks removed from the end of the six-week holiday period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, and I'm still considering submitting "bloated" as a new color suggestion to the Crayola people; I see it as a rather unhealthy hue of pink and green. Unlike the other six sins (SLOTH, PRIDE, ENVY, WRATH, LUST, and GREED), which take only thought - or little-to-no action - to commit, Gluttony requires excessive participation.
I found my favorite definition of Gluttony in Wikipedia: the "...over-consumption of food, drink, or intoxicants to the point of waste." Think about that. It's a sin that actually requires you to act to such an extreme degree, the word "waste" is part of the definition. This led me to ask, "What does '...to the point of waste' actually mean?"
Maybe this is some kind of subconscious rationalization on my part, but I don't see where overindulgence at a holiday dinner table is wasteful. Besides, my eating habits in the hours leading up to my Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were different from normal days. Usually, I eat an early breakfast and lunch, followed by a good dinner; but on those two holidays, I ate a light breakfast later in the morning and skipped lunch entirely in anticipation of dinner. So really, I wasn't wasteful with my eating at all; I simply back-loaded my overall daily intake.
Okay. Maybe the rationalization isn't so subconscious after all.
Still, I'm not sure if I was truly gluttonous. I didn't actually measure the volume of food I ate, but even with two large servings, I didn't break any records, like...
...6.91 pounds of roast turkey meat eaten in 8 minutes.
...2.71 pounds of green beans eaten in 6 minutes.
...13.23 pounds (yes, 13.23 pounds) of jellied cranberry sauce eaten in 8 minutes.
It's true. The volume of traditional holiday food and the time it took to eat it, both listed above, are actual documented records.
It turns out that this type of Gluttony is called "Competitive Eating," and it has its roots in New York. Nearly every Fourth of July weekend for the last 90 years, the world has been treated to the intestinal exploits of men and women who gorge themselves on Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs in Coney Island. I always thought this annual ritual was something steeped in decades of tradition, harkening back to a simpler time when electricity was for fancy people and men wore funny hats. I thought that modern-day participants were simply carrying on tradition for tradition's sake, regardless of how ridiculous the tradition seemed, or how meaningless the outcome was; kind of like the annual Groundhog Day festivities, but with six more weeks of antacid.
Silly me.
This event, and countless others like it, are brought to you...ad nauseum...by the International Federation Of Competitive Eating and Major League Eating. They are the fine folks encouraging, promoting, and recording all things Competitive Eating, including 100+ competitive eating records (like those above), competitor rankings, an online store, and even a competitive eating video game.
What do we make of this? What do we make of the oversight of, encouragement of, celebration of, and capitalization on the ability of one person to take a mere five minutes to consume 1.75 pounds of...butter? You read that right. Someone ate seven quarter-pound sticks of butter in less time than it takes most people to run a mile. I can see the bumper sticker on his parents' car now: MY CHILD CAN EAT MORE BUTTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT
Is this Gluttony to the extreme? It sounds like it, but far be it from me to accuse anyone of committing a sin. I'm no more free from sin than the next person...and the next person happens to be the person with whom I've committed a few of those sins. (Thank you, Baby.) Each person in this world has their own maker to reconcile with - or no maker at all - so I leave that reflection to each individual, duo, or group, surely to be done once the buffet table closes. (Actual record for buffet food: 5 1/2 pounds in 12 minutes)
Is this waste to the extreme? It sounds like it, but far be it from me to suggest that any food consumed and NOT regurgitated is wasted. However, if you must speak of waste, try not to do so from your Hummer while driving to buy the hundreds of chicken wings you need for the Super Bowl party you plan to host to show off those 105 glorious flat screen inches you treated yourself to for Christmas. (Actual record for chicken wings: 7 1/2 pounds in 12 minutes)
Is this uncontrolled-need-for-competition to the extreme? It sounds like it...at least, it sounded like it until I lost my concentration when the guy who cut me off to steal my spot in the parking lot also sneered at me inside the minimarket when he picked the quicker checkout line to buy the last of the chili cheese fries. Competition in our society seems to have become less about sport and more about superiority. (Actual record for chili cheese fries: 8 pounds, 2 ounces in 10 minutes)
Or...
Is this America to the extreme? Oh yes. Only in this country could we suffer from record hunger and record obesity - at the same time! - and turn the ingestion of mass quantities of food into a spectator sport, complete with screaming crowds, news coverage, t-shirts, and video games.
Look, I don't think that just because someone has eaten more than I have, I am absolved from anything; I am not (so the scale tells me). However, I do sleep better knowing that while I might have overdone it during the holidays, it's not like I ate four 32-ounce bowls of mayonnaise in 8 minutes.
That is an actual record, too.
If there is one sin (from the official Seven Deadly Sins) of which I am recently guilty, it's Gluttony. I mean really. We're already two weeks removed from the end of the six-week holiday period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, and I'm still considering submitting "bloated" as a new color suggestion to the Crayola people; I see it as a rather unhealthy hue of pink and green. Unlike the other six sins (SLOTH, PRIDE, ENVY, WRATH, LUST, and GREED), which take only thought - or little-to-no action - to commit, Gluttony requires excessive participation.
I found my favorite definition of Gluttony in Wikipedia: the "...over-consumption of food, drink, or intoxicants to the point of waste." Think about that. It's a sin that actually requires you to act to such an extreme degree, the word "waste" is part of the definition. This led me to ask, "What does '...to the point of waste' actually mean?"
Maybe this is some kind of subconscious rationalization on my part, but I don't see where overindulgence at a holiday dinner table is wasteful. Besides, my eating habits in the hours leading up to my Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were different from normal days. Usually, I eat an early breakfast and lunch, followed by a good dinner; but on those two holidays, I ate a light breakfast later in the morning and skipped lunch entirely in anticipation of dinner. So really, I wasn't wasteful with my eating at all; I simply back-loaded my overall daily intake.
Okay. Maybe the rationalization isn't so subconscious after all.
Still, I'm not sure if I was truly gluttonous. I didn't actually measure the volume of food I ate, but even with two large servings, I didn't break any records, like...
...6.91 pounds of roast turkey meat eaten in 8 minutes.
...2.71 pounds of green beans eaten in 6 minutes.
...13.23 pounds (yes, 13.23 pounds) of jellied cranberry sauce eaten in 8 minutes.
It's true. The volume of traditional holiday food and the time it took to eat it, both listed above, are actual documented records.
It turns out that this type of Gluttony is called "Competitive Eating," and it has its roots in New York. Nearly every Fourth of July weekend for the last 90 years, the world has been treated to the intestinal exploits of men and women who gorge themselves on Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs in Coney Island. I always thought this annual ritual was something steeped in decades of tradition, harkening back to a simpler time when electricity was for fancy people and men wore funny hats. I thought that modern-day participants were simply carrying on tradition for tradition's sake, regardless of how ridiculous the tradition seemed, or how meaningless the outcome was; kind of like the annual Groundhog Day festivities, but with six more weeks of antacid.
Silly me.
This event, and countless others like it, are brought to you...ad nauseum...by the International Federation Of Competitive Eating and Major League Eating. They are the fine folks encouraging, promoting, and recording all things Competitive Eating, including 100+ competitive eating records (like those above), competitor rankings, an online store, and even a competitive eating video game.
What do we make of this? What do we make of the oversight of, encouragement of, celebration of, and capitalization on the ability of one person to take a mere five minutes to consume 1.75 pounds of...butter? You read that right. Someone ate seven quarter-pound sticks of butter in less time than it takes most people to run a mile. I can see the bumper sticker on his parents' car now: MY CHILD CAN EAT MORE BUTTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT
Is this Gluttony to the extreme? It sounds like it, but far be it from me to accuse anyone of committing a sin. I'm no more free from sin than the next person...and the next person happens to be the person with whom I've committed a few of those sins. (Thank you, Baby.) Each person in this world has their own maker to reconcile with - or no maker at all - so I leave that reflection to each individual, duo, or group, surely to be done once the buffet table closes. (Actual record for buffet food: 5 1/2 pounds in 12 minutes)
Is this waste to the extreme? It sounds like it, but far be it from me to suggest that any food consumed and NOT regurgitated is wasted. However, if you must speak of waste, try not to do so from your Hummer while driving to buy the hundreds of chicken wings you need for the Super Bowl party you plan to host to show off those 105 glorious flat screen inches you treated yourself to for Christmas. (Actual record for chicken wings: 7 1/2 pounds in 12 minutes)
Is this uncontrolled-need-for-competition to the extreme? It sounds like it...at least, it sounded like it until I lost my concentration when the guy who cut me off to steal my spot in the parking lot also sneered at me inside the minimarket when he picked the quicker checkout line to buy the last of the chili cheese fries. Competition in our society seems to have become less about sport and more about superiority. (Actual record for chili cheese fries: 8 pounds, 2 ounces in 10 minutes)
Or...
Is this America to the extreme? Oh yes. Only in this country could we suffer from record hunger and record obesity - at the same time! - and turn the ingestion of mass quantities of food into a spectator sport, complete with screaming crowds, news coverage, t-shirts, and video games.
Look, I don't think that just because someone has eaten more than I have, I am absolved from anything; I am not (so the scale tells me). However, I do sleep better knowing that while I might have overdone it during the holidays, it's not like I ate four 32-ounce bowls of mayonnaise in 8 minutes.
That is an actual record, too.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sadly, Naming Rights Cost Millions. Sadder Still, Naming Wrongs Are Free
My older daughter - The Girl - has a huge crush on Fall Out Boy bassist Pete Wentz, a fact that was not lost on me when, during Fall Out Boy's TV performances on New Year's Eve, the music stopped being music and became instead a series of sustained, three-minute squeals that, at certain points, only neighborhood dogs could hear. Much to The Girl's great despair, Wentz and his wife, Ashlee Simpson ("singer" and sister of Jessica Simpson, another "singer"), recently welcomed into the world their first child, a son. Much love blessed the Simpson/Wentz family with the arrival of Bronx Mowgli Wentz.
Hmmm.
Why would anyone name a child Bronx Mowgli?
Perhaps the parents lost a bet. Probably not, although it would be a better explanation than if they had WON a bet.
Perhaps the parents wanted a child with the initials BMW and, in the grand tradition that almost had R&B super-group The Commodores calling themselves The Commodes, Pete and Ashlee blindly opened the dictionary, pointed reckless fingers, and landed a fate almost as bad. Probably not, since I can't imagine that any parents who would name their child Bronx Mowgli would actually own a dictionary.
Perhaps the parents conceived the boy in New York's northernmost borough while Disney's The Jungle Book played on a TV in the background. Probably not, because while the Bronx is as fine a place as any to conceive a child, I can't see replacing Marvin Gaye's mood-setting "Let's Get It On" with animation voiced by Louis Prima and Sebastian Cabot.
I'm not picking on the child, of course; it isn't his fault. This is a criticism of the parents, and not only these parents, but the many celebrity parents like (a) actress Gwyneth Paltrow, (b) actress Rachel Griffiths, (c) singer Toni Braxton, (d) magician Penn Jillette, and (e) director Robert Rodriguez. These celebs named their kids (a) Apple, (b) Banjo, (c) Denim; (d) Moxie CrimeFighter; and (e) Rogue, Racer, Rebel, and Rocket.
Really.
("Really" is my commentary, not the name of another Rodriguez child. With the rich and famous, adverbs don't seem to be as popular as nouns.)
As is the case with any name, there is always the possibility that it is a family name, and I respect that. But when celebs aren't paying homage to Aunt Moxie or Grandpa Rocket, I suspect they are trying to gin up publicity for themselves. The headline PETE AND ASHLEE NAME THEIR CHILD BRONX MOWGLI! will get more people interested in Pete an Ashlee than the headline PETE AND ASHLEE NAME THEIR CHILD DAVE! will.
But celebrities aren't the only people giving their children unique names. Everyday untalented people like us (as opposed to the famous untalented people of Hollywood) are doing the same; the difference is that WE seem to have a thing for naming children after famous people - people like President-elect Barack Obama, Philadelphia Phillies Chase Utley and Cole Hamels, and both Senator John McCain AND Governor Sarah Palin (in one baby!), to name a few recent examples.
Why do parents do this? Is it a lack of confidence? Are parents concerned that their babies will not make names for themselves, so they force notorious names upon the kids, sentencing them to an eternity - or at least 12 solid years - of playground torment? Or is it no different than the celebrities' self-promotion, but in this case less People Magazine and more church bulletin or social grapevine?
I'm not about to suggest that future parents populate the country with only Marys and Johns. But I will suggest that unique names are nothing more than gimmicks if there aren't unique kids attached to them, and parents can inspire and support uniqueness in their kids in many ways. Or, parents can consider how ordinary names can also mean something special. For proof of that, I give you the story of the kid who was named after an archangel: me.
My name is Michael. This is one of the most common names on the books (#2 for boys this decade, according to the Social Security Administration, but as the story goes, I was named after St. Michael the Archangel because I was born on his feast day. This might not matter to some of you, but understand that I am also the product of a 12-year Catholic school education. When you spend the entire formative era of your life surrounded by priests and nuns, being named after the angel charged by God to do battle with Satan gives your cafeteria stride a little swagger. And it didn't take me long to convince the other kids that while I can't hit a curve ball or play the low post, I just might be able to smite the wicked. This helped me in many social circles.
Fortunately, mine is a positive tale; having been named after a major religious figure gave me confidence as a youngster. But I was also lucky in that my name was ordinary, and never subject to ridicule. Neither will be the case for one poor, famously monikered kid out there...a kid named Adolf Hitler Campbell.
Sometimes it just writes itself.
In a story that was picked up from Pennsylvania (local) to Malta (not so local), the Associated Press reported on the plight of just-turned-three-years-old Adolf Hitler Campbell, son of Heath and Deborah Campbell of Hunterdon County, NJ. It wasn't the boy's name that made headlines (otherwise, the world might recently have been introduced to Adolf Hitler Wentz). It was the fact that local grocery store ShopRite refused to immortalize the lad's name in icing on his birthday cake, for whatever reason organizations give for thinking that Nazis and confections don't mix. Who saved the day? WalMart, who gladly obliged the birthday request. (Thank goodness Heath and Deb weren't shopping for a Cheryl Crow CD for the boy's birthday.)
But what would possess someone to name his son after Hitler? From the AP piece: "Heath Campbell said he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because 'no one else in the world would have that name.'"
Clearly, it never occurred to Heath that there are several reasons why no one else has that name. For starters, it doesn't quite roll off the tongue the way, say, "George Clooney Campbell" does. Second, everyone else seems distracted with the debate over whether to spell a boy's name Xavier, Xzavier, or Zavier (according to the SSA, #87, #703, and #898 respectively, for boys this decade). Third, the name tends to summon a quick reminder of an unfortunate death or two...or 6,000,000.
As for the name choices of the entire Campbell brood, it was reported in a longer local story, "'They're just names, you know,' [Heath] said. 'Yeah, they (Nazis) were bad people back then. But my kids are little. They're not going to grow up like that.'" His other kids? One-year-old JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and her little sister, newborn Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell.
Really.
Look, I don't think anyone thinks that a child named Apple will automatically become a titan of the fresh produce or home computer industries. Nor do I think that a child named after Chase Utley is destined to become a three-time all-star second baseman. So it stands to reason that I don't think anyone thinks that a child named after history's most vile mass murderer will grow up to become a vile mass murderer. But if he does, there is hope for us. That hope comes from Kel-el Copolla Cage, son of actor Nicolas Cage and child named after the last son of Krypton. That's right. Nicolas Cage named his son after Superman.
Sleep well, citizens. Just as rock beats scissors, so too does Superman beat Hitler.
Thank you, Nicolas Cage. You are a true American...celebrity.
Hmmm.
Why would anyone name a child Bronx Mowgli?
Perhaps the parents lost a bet. Probably not, although it would be a better explanation than if they had WON a bet.
Perhaps the parents wanted a child with the initials BMW and, in the grand tradition that almost had R&B super-group The Commodores calling themselves The Commodes, Pete and Ashlee blindly opened the dictionary, pointed reckless fingers, and landed a fate almost as bad. Probably not, since I can't imagine that any parents who would name their child Bronx Mowgli would actually own a dictionary.
Perhaps the parents conceived the boy in New York's northernmost borough while Disney's The Jungle Book played on a TV in the background. Probably not, because while the Bronx is as fine a place as any to conceive a child, I can't see replacing Marvin Gaye's mood-setting "Let's Get It On" with animation voiced by Louis Prima and Sebastian Cabot.
I'm not picking on the child, of course; it isn't his fault. This is a criticism of the parents, and not only these parents, but the many celebrity parents like (a) actress Gwyneth Paltrow, (b) actress Rachel Griffiths, (c) singer Toni Braxton, (d) magician Penn Jillette, and (e) director Robert Rodriguez. These celebs named their kids (a) Apple, (b) Banjo, (c) Denim; (d) Moxie CrimeFighter; and (e) Rogue, Racer, Rebel, and Rocket.
Really.
("Really" is my commentary, not the name of another Rodriguez child. With the rich and famous, adverbs don't seem to be as popular as nouns.)
As is the case with any name, there is always the possibility that it is a family name, and I respect that. But when celebs aren't paying homage to Aunt Moxie or Grandpa Rocket, I suspect they are trying to gin up publicity for themselves. The headline PETE AND ASHLEE NAME THEIR CHILD BRONX MOWGLI! will get more people interested in Pete an Ashlee than the headline PETE AND ASHLEE NAME THEIR CHILD DAVE! will.
But celebrities aren't the only people giving their children unique names. Everyday untalented people like us (as opposed to the famous untalented people of Hollywood) are doing the same; the difference is that WE seem to have a thing for naming children after famous people - people like President-elect Barack Obama, Philadelphia Phillies Chase Utley and Cole Hamels, and both Senator John McCain AND Governor Sarah Palin (in one baby!), to name a few recent examples.
Why do parents do this? Is it a lack of confidence? Are parents concerned that their babies will not make names for themselves, so they force notorious names upon the kids, sentencing them to an eternity - or at least 12 solid years - of playground torment? Or is it no different than the celebrities' self-promotion, but in this case less People Magazine and more church bulletin or social grapevine?
I'm not about to suggest that future parents populate the country with only Marys and Johns. But I will suggest that unique names are nothing more than gimmicks if there aren't unique kids attached to them, and parents can inspire and support uniqueness in their kids in many ways. Or, parents can consider how ordinary names can also mean something special. For proof of that, I give you the story of the kid who was named after an archangel: me.
My name is Michael. This is one of the most common names on the books (#2 for boys this decade, according to the Social Security Administration, but as the story goes, I was named after St. Michael the Archangel because I was born on his feast day. This might not matter to some of you, but understand that I am also the product of a 12-year Catholic school education. When you spend the entire formative era of your life surrounded by priests and nuns, being named after the angel charged by God to do battle with Satan gives your cafeteria stride a little swagger. And it didn't take me long to convince the other kids that while I can't hit a curve ball or play the low post, I just might be able to smite the wicked. This helped me in many social circles.
Fortunately, mine is a positive tale; having been named after a major religious figure gave me confidence as a youngster. But I was also lucky in that my name was ordinary, and never subject to ridicule. Neither will be the case for one poor, famously monikered kid out there...a kid named Adolf Hitler Campbell.
Sometimes it just writes itself.
In a story that was picked up from Pennsylvania (local) to Malta (not so local), the Associated Press reported on the plight of just-turned-three-years-old Adolf Hitler Campbell, son of Heath and Deborah Campbell of Hunterdon County, NJ. It wasn't the boy's name that made headlines (otherwise, the world might recently have been introduced to Adolf Hitler Wentz). It was the fact that local grocery store ShopRite refused to immortalize the lad's name in icing on his birthday cake, for whatever reason organizations give for thinking that Nazis and confections don't mix. Who saved the day? WalMart, who gladly obliged the birthday request. (Thank goodness Heath and Deb weren't shopping for a Cheryl Crow CD for the boy's birthday.)
But what would possess someone to name his son after Hitler? From the AP piece: "Heath Campbell said he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because 'no one else in the world would have that name.'"
Clearly, it never occurred to Heath that there are several reasons why no one else has that name. For starters, it doesn't quite roll off the tongue the way, say, "George Clooney Campbell" does. Second, everyone else seems distracted with the debate over whether to spell a boy's name Xavier, Xzavier, or Zavier (according to the SSA, #87, #703, and #898 respectively, for boys this decade). Third, the name tends to summon a quick reminder of an unfortunate death or two...or 6,000,000.
As for the name choices of the entire Campbell brood, it was reported in a longer local story, "'They're just names, you know,' [Heath] said. 'Yeah, they (Nazis) were bad people back then. But my kids are little. They're not going to grow up like that.'" His other kids? One-year-old JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and her little sister, newborn Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell.
Really.
Look, I don't think anyone thinks that a child named Apple will automatically become a titan of the fresh produce or home computer industries. Nor do I think that a child named after Chase Utley is destined to become a three-time all-star second baseman. So it stands to reason that I don't think anyone thinks that a child named after history's most vile mass murderer will grow up to become a vile mass murderer. But if he does, there is hope for us. That hope comes from Kel-el Copolla Cage, son of actor Nicolas Cage and child named after the last son of Krypton. That's right. Nicolas Cage named his son after Superman.
Sleep well, citizens. Just as rock beats scissors, so too does Superman beat Hitler.
Thank you, Nicolas Cage. You are a true American...celebrity.
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