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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

My Night Before Christmas

My Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas for this crafter of blogs,
And what needed a break were my mind's gears and cogs.

I'd spent the year banging at these keys with delight;
Sometimes laughs I'd elicit; sometimes ire I'd incite.

But I wanted to take some time off for a rest.
I wanted to start the New Year at my best.

Remote in my hand, 'fore my TV I plopped,
With my martini chilled and popcorn freshly popped.

I wanted a movie - I didn't want news.
A break from debate was what I could use.

When what to my wondering ears did I hear?
Not my home theater's speakers, but something quite weird.

It sounded like hooves tearing up my front grass.
In a fluster, I almost tipped over my glass.

Then suddenly helping himself to my couch
Was dear old St. Nick. What the heck's that about?

"Hey, Santy Claus," I said with a smirk,
"I don't mean to pry - why aren't you at work?"

"Hello, little boy," he said to this man.
"I'm here to bestow just one gift, if I can."

"I made you a present; it took but a wink:
The chance to make everyone think like you think."

"Every piece that you write, every column you post,
Will meet with agreement from East to West Coast."

I wasn't sure how my response should begin.
I said, "Are you kidding?" I sniffed at my gin.

"Your drink's not been spiked," Santa went on to say.
"And you haven't had too much...not yet, anyway."

I said, "I thought miracles were what's-His-name's game;
The one whose day of celebration's the same."

Santa said, "Sure. He's got miracle clout.
But every so often I like to stretch out."

"So I'm here to tell you dissent won't exist;
Not one single misspelled retort will be missed."

"Put pencil to paper, boy; soon you will see
That with all of your words the whole world will agree."

The offer was tempting as it laid there unfurled.
I think I'm right - why not the world?

But I just looked at Santa, and all I could ask:
"What good is opinion not taken to task?"

We must all offer comment, we must all criticize.
We must cross uncrossed T's and dot dotless I's.

We should stand and defend that in which we believe;
To do anything less would be simply naive.

"I thank you, but no," I said to Old Claus.
"And destroy that gift now, with great haste and no pause."

"Not one single man should have such verbal might;
And all should be ready for an opining fight."

"Are you sure that you're sure?" Santa asked with a grin.
"You know that this offer will not come again."

But I just said, "Hey, while it's tempting, for sure,
Life without debate would become quite a bore."

Then Santa flew off in his red hat and coat.
So I fired up the PC and ditched the remote.

"I take issue with something..." I started to write.
Merry Key-Banging to all, and to all a good night.