It's A Half-Baked Life!

It would take a certain level of commitment, but if I could, I would have one daughter and one son. At an early age I would begin to train each specifically toward Olympic greatness. Special diets, training camps, extensive travel and competition, you name it, all in pursuit of their place in that opening ceremony.

Once achieved, I would then market the sperm of my son and the eggs of my daughter for outlandish fees to parents craving hyper-controlled and superior stock from which to start a family.
So desperate would they be to artificially enhance their outcome that they would never see past my purposely-vague promotional materials with the five shiny interconnecting rings on the front.

“An Olympic athlete”, they would say with stars in their eyes. I’ll pay top dollar!

Only once the deal had been sealed and their baby was on the way would they think to double back and scratch the surface more. “But you never mentioned their events?” They would say. Oh, Curling and Archery, I would proudly announce.

That’s right, by training my children’s gene’s toward unpublicized sports with little or no commercial value I would ultimately be teaching the parents a lesson in tampering with evolution when their concern should have been naturally raising a productive child full of self-esteem who will contribute to society.

That, and of course I’d be making a little on the side too.

How To Win Friends And Influence People By The Dozen

Glazed Donut Paves Way To Success

While most people fret madly about rush hour traffic or unforseen delays that cause tardiness to important meetings or functions, the truth is a complete pardon is always available to any of us with a simple stop at a local bakery on the way — a box of glazed donuts for the room and a dramatic explanation of the unforseen long lines you endured on their behalf is all it takes. After all, you selflessly endured a hardship so each of them could enjoy a thoughtful morning treat, and in exchange you’re off the hook.

Don’t believe the hype? Try it the next time you fear arriving hopelessly late anywhere a group is waiting impatiently for your arrival. Watch as their judgement of you and your jerk status melts away with every delicious bite of your little round peace offerings. That’s right, go from rude to “he’s a jolly good fellow” in an instant for only a few bucks and a small piece of dramatic acting.

Donuts: the ultimate get out of jail free card.

Amateur Astounds Pediatric World With Innovative Parenting

Skeptics in Medical Community Mount

As any first-time father can attest, the world abounds with people two and three children deep who take great satisfaction in pointing out how absolutely clueless you, as a man, will be when your very first bundle of joy arrives. While wives and significant others are left free to pore through manuals and how-to books without judgment, a man flipping the very same pages is pitied as though he were an overmatched gorilla being taught to read in captivity.

As an expectant father myself, I would probably be offended by this were it not for the fact that it also happens to be true. First-time parents are clueless, and the absolute poster child for this is the man himself. The difference where I’m concerned is that I’ve perfected a level a naiveté that borders on art form. It’s well intentioned, and yet, stunning in its own way.

For example, most men would sense that a strategy of stone-faced detachment during an ultrasound to reveal the sex of their baby is a poor choice, not a posture of neutrality that shows no gender preference. Not me.

Most men would realize that pointing out that the birth is still “months away and not worth premature worry” as their wife scours a step-by-step guide to managing and preparing for the rigors of the labor process is a questionable call. Not me.

Most men would recognize that arguing in the theoretical that breast-feeding is probably okay in a moving vehicle as long as it’s safely in the backseat and away from the windshield is a controversial stance. I went for it.

Move over Dr. Spock, there’s a new sheriff in town.

My Quesadilla Can Beat Up Your Quesadilla

The Battle of East Versus West Rages On

It’s not the most highly publicized battle of east coast  versus west coast, that distinction would go to the rap wars turned violent of the late 90’s and early 2000’s, but quietly holding down the number two spot is none other than the Clash of the Quesadilla.

Its battle lines are drawn on the notion that truly authentic Mexican food simply cannot be found east of the Rocky Mountains, and it’s usually being explained by someone who’s also not Mexican, but who carries a California driver’s license.

The theories vary, but typically center on the idea that the freshness of west coast tomatoes picked from local fields are the secret ingredient, or that somehow, Mexican chefs who immigrate across the border and into the kitchens of Los Angeles retain the flavor and recipes of home, while their identical twins who point for the likes of Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, are somehow drained of the same knowledge presumably buried in their cultural DNA.

Were it confined to Mexican food alone, perhaps quesadilla regionalism could be written off merely as insecure west coast bravado, but it’s a pattern that plays out around the globe. Any New Yorker worth his salt will tell you his pizza is the best because the properties of New York water somehow make the hidden difference. Behind any barbecue sauce from Memphis, Tennessee will stand a claim that all others are merely pretenders to the throne, and so on.

The question is what drives such geographic bias? Sure, some restaurants really do lay down better food than others. They start with better recipes, pay more for top-shelf ingredients, and go the extra mile to surround patrons with the right ambience, but that scenario plays out in cities on both coasts, not just one or the other. What’s more, efficiency of transportation has truly leveled the playing field to the point that chicken and beef from the same farm can make its way to plates on both coasts simultaneously, so what remains is simply that quirk in human nature that thrives on one-upmanship.

Whether it’s our old neighborhood, familiar haunts we once knew, or restaurants from the part of the country that captures our notion of home, they’re always better than whatever you’ve got going on here.

Some things will never change. Que sera, quesadilla.

Ownership Rights To Known Universe Fuels Hysteria

Receptionist At Muffler Shop Already Claims Three Stars

If you listen closely to the airwaves in most major radio markets you’ll hear it begin anytime a holiday grows near on the calendar. It’s the International Star Registry promising the gift of a lifetime as you – for a small fee – can name a star after that special someone in your life by simply calling their toll-free number.

That’s right, a bulbous, gaseous mass of hydrogen, helium, and random space matter located somewhere in the universe is all yours for the claiming, sort of. What you get is a star chart plotting your dot in the universe along with a special certificate commemorating your claim. Even better, your claim is put on file in a book published by the company and registered with the U.S copyright office. There is, however, one small problem. No official agency actually recognizes your named star. In fact, the International Astronomical Union – the only true recognized authority to designate the naming of stars – carefully points out that actual naming rights to stars simply do not exist.

Luckily for your special someone, the International Star Registry of Illinois, Ltd. does not technically claim to have just sold you your very own star — think of it more as an unofficial adoption, or if you like, a creative step up from simply sending a card and a box of chocolates.

At last check, the company is growing by leaps and bounds, and what’s more, many of their consumers still labor under the misguided notion that they have somehow staked out legal ownership of a star somewhere in the cosmos. Yes, it pays to read the fine print, but it also sheds some light on the earth-centric view we continue to cling to here on the planet. On the bright side, we no longer harbor the notion that the universe revolves around us, and yet, it still takes a bit of gumption and ego to lay sole claim to a star that countless alien eyeballs may view for themselves each night on opposite ends of our own galaxy.

If you thought property disputes were heated here on earth, wait until you try finding a neutral jurisdiction several thousand light years away.

Personal Training Meets Capitalism

Workplace Self-Promotion Takes On Pounds and Inches

A number of years back as an undergraduate at the University of Maryland I spent several semesters working part-time for a small local health club chain. Its claim to fame was that for thirty bucks each month you would have access to free personal training and could come and go as often as you pleased. A pretty good deal, but what you also came to find out was that once you signed on the dotted line and had been given your orientation, the motivation for the staff to truly personally train you withered over time.

As the saying goes, you get what you pay for, and more than a few members with the means did go on to hire outside trainers to follow them around at close range in exchange for monthly checks. What emerged was an unintended display of capitalism’s influence on behavior.

Now working side-by-side with the free trainers provided by the health club, the paid trainers found themselves constantly forced to justify their existence against the no-cost alternative.

To do this the paid trainers would employ the use of extraordinarily complex approaches to every simple dumbbell and machine to ensure that their clients would find it impossible to replicate the exercises without them.

If a machine was designed for the user to simply sit and push forward on a set of handles as the manufacturer and the body’s muscles intended, they would insist that the client sit backwards in some way or hang upside down dramatically while they counted off the reps and guarded against the inevitable fall.

Their motives were fairly transparent. If they could convince their clients that their exotic interpretation of the machines was what set them apart from the masses, they stood a greater chance of continuing the business relationship.

It all sounds a bit self-serving until you stop to consider that this exact same dance plays out in workplace environments from coast to coast every day. Whether you’re the IT guy who wants everyone in the office to think that all hard drives would instantly crash without your expertise, or you’re the secretary who wants the firm to think that all communication and order would cease to exist without your talents, we all fancy the notion that the world would suffer irreparably by our absence. Of course, if compensation is on the line in some way, that only serves to ratchet up the need for self-promotion even further.

Call it shameless if you must, but at its root the need to differentiate and present perceived value in our goods and services is one of the base fluids of capitalism, so remember that the next time somebody suggests that you hang upside down from a pull-up bar for a round of bicep curls.

The Culture of Me

The Life And Times of The Famously Unfamous

For all of mankind’s advancements in technology and civilization over the course of the last several hundred years perhaps nothing has re-invented our world quite like the Internet.

It allows sleepy villages along the Amazon to connect with global pipelines of information routing on Servers two continents away.

It allows third-world farmers to gain access to advanced crop rotation principles.

It allows human right’s activists to spread bone-chilling images and video footage of abuse once hidden behind curtains of secrecy.

And yes, it also allows millions of bored humans to post YouTube videos of themselves lip-synching to their favorite song in the bathroom, or to needlessly share moment-to-moment personal minutia on social networking sites like Twitter.

The question is what effect, if any, do these constant and unfiltered forms of personal expression have on our cultural fabric over the long haul. Whereas editors, producers and peer review boards once carefully vetted most new ideas before they would be deemed worthy of a public forum, now, anyone of us is free to share our first impulse around the globe with the simple click of a mouse.

Time will ultimately tell how these digital forms of instant gratification will fully embed and play themselves out in our society, but at the very minimum what has emerged is a more self-centric and newfound Culture of Me. A place where anyone and everyone can create and star on their own stage, whether their content is ready for prime time or not.

Perhaps the late-night talk show host Conan O’Brien summed it up best when he recounted the story of being approached by a fan who excitedly exclaimed, “I’m going to be on your show one day!” When he asked what noteworthy talent of theirs might lead to his stage, the reply was that they didn’t particularly have anything in mind, but they were going to end up on his show nevertheless.

It might sound far-fetched, but remember, the Culture of Me does provide some precedence that allows for this level of self-indulgence. Though it’s typically used in dismissive terms when referring to the likes of Paris Hilton and others, it is clearly now possible to be famous simply for being famous. The ensuing

message is clear — get noticed often enough for something, no matter what that something is, and celebrity may soon follow. Be it posting a video of yourself eating a jar of hot peppers and then vomiting into a glass, or building a personal shrine to yourself on MySpace.