Bullies to the left of me, outcasts to the right.

Have you ever been bullied?

Have you ever been a bully?

Have you ever felt so ostracized that you wanted to devolve into an amoeba and squirm back into the earth's primordial bisque?

Have you ever humiliated someone so badly that you felt as if someone else were actually inhabiting your body, manipulating the controls like an evil, goatee-wearing anti-you?

This morning, my ten-year-old daughter and I embarked on the first leg of Middle School Rush, 2011, where we visit a few schools and then make a choice. Upon entering the cafeteria at one of these sixth, seventh and eighth grade facilities, we were assaulted by the biggest non-freeway sign upon which I've ever focused my retinas.

The banner read, "I will report any bullying to an adult at school and at home. Our school does not tolerate bullying of any kind." The letters were hand drawn, but had they been digitally rendered, we're talking 4512 point, Helvetica Nueue Extra Bold Extended.

I stared at that sign. I focused on it while I should have been listening to the presentation. I thought about all the times I've been the victim of intimidation or have dealt it out myself.

There was that eighth grader who, every time his saw my chubby, seventh grade body walking down the junior high hallway toward him, conjured up a different creative way to terrorize me. Whether it was hawking a mouthful of his DNA into my face, slugging me in the stomach or sticking his foot out as I rounded a corner, in my dreams and conscious thought, his image personified dread.

I can't remember singling out my own victims back in those days, but I certainly never came to the defense of the exploited, nor did I avoid pointing out an individual's physical or intellectual anomalies to them... face to face, for all the minions in my mob to appreciate.

I, and so many others, wore both faces of bullying. According to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, half of all school age children have or will be victims of bullying, and ten percent will suffer repeatedly. Most bullies have also been subject to physical abuse or bullying themselves.

Even if we don't recall being overtly bullied, who doesn't remember moments feeling ostracized, whether it was lining up to choose teams at recess and being picked last, or being the only kid not invited to a slumber party.

So many degrees.

Nothing beats a good Hollywood outcast story, where the social pariah defies the odds, defeats his oppressors and pumps his fist in slow motion to end the movie. I'm not sure real life follows suit so closely.

Both Karate Kids—Jaden Smith and the forty-two-year-old-who-played-a-fourteen-year-old-Ralph Macchio—portrayed outcasts who emerged successfully, but had to learn to kill flies with chopsticks first. The same held true for David Carradine in Kung Fu. He had to kick ass to get respect. I always thought he was the epitome of cool...right up until that last part.

Some movie outcasts emerge victorious with no talent or skill, just grit, determination or luck. Examples of this category are The Bad News Bears, Rocky and any role awarded to Keanu Reeves.

Others gained acceptance, but only due to a freakish attribute, such as Rudolph, Rain Man and John Holmes.

And finally, scores of cinematic misfits have typified the dark side of rejection, where insecurity morphed into angst, which exploded into psychosis. Cases in point: Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver, Sissy Spacek in Carrie and Charlie Sheen in Winning.

As I sat in that middle school cafeteria, I finally commanded my brain to hail a mental taxi and return to the present moment;  I needed to cease with the ruminating about bullying. After all, I never spoke with my parents about it, and look how I turned out.

I think it's time to have a talk with my kid.

Freeze! Morality Police! Now Spread ’Em!

These guys are killing me.

I remember thinking, during the darkest hours of the W. Bush administration, "There's no way things can get any worse. There's not a chance that we'll ever again experience such a perfect storm of hubris, ignorance and stupidity.

And while we are no longer subject to a president who purportedly received his marching orders from JC, we definitely haven't emerged from the wilderness of Bonehead National Park.

I enjoy writing my Saturday posts because they usually pertain to lighter subjects, like anniversaries of historical events, birthdays or general public interest stories. But this morning as I perused my local paper, I was summarily bludgeoned across the face with a double whammy from the idiot sausage.

In back-to-back headlines, former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee lambasted Natlie Portman for glamorizing the idea of out-of-wedlock children. Not to be outdone, the burnt-ember faced Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, John Boehner, has threatened to defend a federal ban on gay marriage in court, after Attorney General Eric Holder declared the ban unconstitutional.

Above is a nice photo of the Huckabee family, taken while Mr. Mike was still governor. Such a handsome assembly could only have been conceived under the auspices of wedded bliss. Oh, by the way, Huckabee boys, Bed, Bath and Beyond called and they want their bunk bed sheets back.

Okay, that was a cheap shot. I'm obviously jealous that I never had the opportunity to pose for a family portrait with the Arkansas executive mansion in the background and a hearty Sunday buffet just around the corner.

Who is this man to judge Natalie Portman's decisions? He claims that she "glamorizes" out-of-wedlock child bearing, but I have yet to see any TV spots featuring Ms. Portman, where she proclaims, "Hi, girls. I'm Natalie Portman. I  now you're only sixteen, but kudos for hooking up with that hot senior guy. You're going to love being a single mom, and really, you aren't a single mom. Your mom will need to help out a lot, too! Out-of-wedlock births: for a night, for a lifetime."

For some reason, these conservative talking heads, like Huckabee and Boehner, believe that if it weren't for their steadfast defense of "traditional values," our entire culture would evolve into a huge, Caligula-style orgy.

I wish.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my male work friends married his longtime partner. It wasn't some bacchanalian festival of perversion, it was a wedding, with a reception and everything. Of course, they won't have the rights of heterosexual married couples, especially if Mr. Speaker has any say in the matter, and it's interesting how Boehner chooses to inject himself into all of this.

Maybe he subscribes to the opinions of Ken Hutcherson, pastor of the Antioch Bible Church, a massive full service operation here in the Seattle area, who has been at the forefront of gay discrimination legislation. During an interview a few years ago on one of Seattle's conservative talk radio stations,  I listened as Reverend Hutcherson shared his belief that if our society were to allow same sex marriage, it would instantly throw open a Pandora's box of deviant couplings, such as polygamy or bestiality. By the looks of the above photograph, such practices are already legal in Arkansas.

Okay, sorry. Not cool.

Can't these people attempt to focus  on the issues which actually threaten America, like jobs, infrastructure, a new energy policy and a long term plan for the two wars we're waging? The Republicans claimed to have received an electoral mandate with their sweeping victory during the fall of 2010, so it's time to put up or shut up.

For a group of people who ostensibly despise government excess and intrusion, they seem concerned exclusively with projecting their personal social values onto others, while ignoring everything else.

Like my mom used to say, "Go out and do something productive."

Who can smoke more crack than two-and-a-half men?

Raise your mouse if you've had your fill of Charlie Sheen.

Yep. That's what I thought. Nothing voices the discontent of the masses like mice held aloft.

Most of us have seen at least a portion of his "Apocalypse Now" tour, and I've been as guilty as everyone else about slowing down and contributing to the traffic jam in order to get a good look at this human rollover accident.

He's so very delusional, claiming ownership of "tiger blood and an Adonis body." Chaz carries himself with the swagger of a world class party animal, physically and mentally superior to all. He claims an ability to ingest enough drugs to put Walgreen's out of business during one of their "all-you-can-pop" Sunday buffets.

I've been trying to decipher Sheen's motivation for conducting interviews ad nauseum to virtually anyone who'll give him air time. Maybe he's stating his case to carry the flag for Team USA in the next Drug Olympics in Bogata. He could compete in the crack smoking event, representing the seven-gram rock category, followed by the bong tokathon, where Willie Nelson competes as a seven-and-a-half hit favorite. A determined Nelson claimed he'd "be satisfied with nothing less than the Colombian Gold."

This past week, Charlie's no-regrets, party warrior manifestos collided with another scandal in the world of collegiate athletics. Brandon Davies, a starting forward for the third-ranked Brigham Young University basketball team, was dismissed for the remainder of the season for violating the Mormon school's honor code.

In a heartfelt apology to his teammates, Davies admitted to having had "premarital relations" with his girlfriend (I'm wondering how he was caught), and expressed extreme remorse for letting his teammates and school down.

Here is the BYU honor code as obtain from the university's website:

Be honest.
Live a chaste and virtuous life.
Obey the law and all campus policies.
Use clean language.
Respect others.
Abstain from alcoholic beverages, tobacco, tea, coffee, and substance abuse.
Participate regularly in church services.
Observe the Dress and Grooming Standards.
Encourage others in their commitment to comply with the Honor Code.

Okay, when I was in college, I broke at least eight of those rules on a typical Wednesday night.

I understand that Mr. Davies and every other student who enters BYU are made fully aware of the code prior to signing up.

But this is a little nutty.

What sort of outlets are left for these young folks to blow off a little steam? Play a heated game of Risk? Role play with naked Ken and Barbie dolls? Split an entire half rack of Sprite Zero with your roomie?

I'm not privy to the culture in Provo, Utah, but these kids have got to have some underground resources at their disposal, or bad things are bound to happen. Living in America, this land of extremes, can't we find a middle ground between complete abstinence and blowing our brains out a la Chuck Sheen?

Yes, we can. It's called Canada.

It's great to be a white guy.

I have no idea why, but every year I watch the Academy Awards.

And every year, I turn off the TV, mildly entertained, yet wondering how I again could have spent three hours watching Hollywood's aristocracy fawning over each other. They marvel at one another's important contributions to American culture; their orations are often worthy of Emmies for best Oscar performance.

This year, my disdain for the show's planners dialed up to an eleven, but not until the closing moments. Fifth graders from Staten Island's PS-22 chorus brought down the house with a fantastic rendition of "Over the Rainbow." That part was really cool.

But just as the song reached its finale, the kids scooted to the front of the stage and squatted down as a curtain rose behind them, revealing all the evening's Oscar champions. The contrast was profound, as the predominantly brown-skinned, T-shirt clad eleven-year-olds knelt reverently while the overwhelmingly Caucasian award winners, bedecked in millions of dollars worth of evening wear and jewelry, towered above the tots.

I'm sure the event's organizers juxtaposed these disparate groups to show that yes, dreams can come true. But at that moment, one glaring fact dominated my thoughts: those kids from Staten Island, especially the non-white variety, are faced with a far higher rainbow to vault than the cronies and fat cats behind them did.

Maybe I'm a little sensitive to our disadvantaged youth since learning about what our Republican-controlled House of Representatives has been up to of late. On February 18, led by Representative Chris Smith, R-New Jersey (that's him, above), the House passed a measure to end Federal Funding for Planned Parenthood.

That's three-hundred and thirty million dollars a year.

You may have heard conflicting information from your favorite right wing pundit, but make no mistake. Planned Parenthood has been prohibited from using federal monies for abortion for over thirty years. Nope, these funds are used for ninety percent of what PP does: preventive, primary care, which helps prevent unintended pregnancies through contraception, reduce the spread of sexually transmitted infections through testing and treatment, and screen for cervical and other cancers. How despicable, indeed.

Over 1.2 million youths and adults participate in Planned Parenthood educational programs every year.

One in five American women has chosen Planned Parenthood for health care at least once in her life, which piqued my curiosity. I wondered how many women serve in the United States House of Representatives, and the answer is:

Out of a total 433 members, sixty-seven, or fifteen percent, are women.

Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Clearly, a savings of  $335 million from the coffers of Planned Parenthood won't amount to a ding in the budget bucket. Then why? Why do these men care so much?

That's the point. They don't.

Taking Your Kids to Vegas: Fear and Loathing Meet the Griswold Family.

I negotiated the right turn onto the strip, meshing with the cabs, limos, buses and pedestrians like a poorly functioning zipper. The first thing she saw was a massive billboard which pulsed with more wattage than one of Palin's red dresses.

My daughter gazed up at the illuminated row of six male torsos, cropped at their necks and waists. Their tanned firmness made me feel solid about our planned visit to Cheesecake factory.

"Dad, what's Chippendale's?" my ten-year-old asked.

"Um, it's a place where people watch muscular guys strip almost naked and pay them money."

"Can guys go? Like, would you ever go there?"

"You know, I would, but the young guys who work there don't like us old alums coming around and distracting their customers."

No response. "Do you think any of them are gay?"

"Absolutely. All of them are."

This morning, my family and I returned from a five-day trip to Vegas. Please, try not to judge.

Try not to judge how, each time we cruised the strip, my wife or I had to answer a different question:

"Dad, why is that pregnant lady in handcuffs? And why are the police making her walk a straight line?"

I always replied confidently and calmly. "Actually, if you look a little closer, her boyfriend is wearing the cuffs. Hey, who wants to ride the roller coaster at New York, New York?"

"Dad, why do you need to call a number to meet girls? Can't you just meet them in person around here?"

Again, I had to be cool. "Yes, Las Vegas has more lazy people than any other city besides Houston. Look it up. Now who's excited to see Blue Man Group?"

Bad parenting? On the surface, perhaps. But after evaluating our mid-Winter break vacation options, Las Vegas seemed a no-brainer—a short flight, a condo with a pool, nice weather, strippers and gambling.

We don't see much of our fifteen-year-old anymore, so five days in Sin City with her became the equivalent of five months of her brief appearances around our house. She wasn't a happy camper about an extended trip with immediate family only, exiling herself to her iPod and texting universe. After my wife and I put down our feet and insisted that she engage more with the family, it didn't take her long for some true self-actualization out by the pool:

"I never realized how much I miss my ankle hairs when I shave my legs." I didn't feel the need to respond. How does a father follow up such depth?

I must admit that I had my own self-actualizing poolside moment, upon doffing my shirt and glancing down at my white upper body. My chest looked like Steve Martin's head was face down on top of it. When the hell did I start looking like this? Oh, sure, for quite a while, I've had a smattering of gray chest hair, but this was a freaking white out.

At that moment, I resolved to visit the drugstore for three boxes of "Just for Yeti" prior to visiting another sunny winter destination.

Our trip was by no means devoid of more wholesome educational value. We drove out to Red Rock Canyon, which is like visiting the surface of Mars, and Hoover Dam, which is one of the most incredible and beautiful structures I've ever seen. And because we declined a GPS device in our already fully loaded Hyundai Excel, we spent a lot of time in the car "talking."

"Dad, I know you think you know where we are, but that's not the same 7-Eleven."

"Dad, do another U-turn. Those are fun."

"Dad, let Mom drive. We still love you, but please let Mom drive."

We shared a lot of laughs, many at my expense, but we really did have fun. I know, Las Vegas is seedy, it's greedy, it's sketchy and it's skeezy, and I've got one more observation:

It's the best trip we've ever taken.

Royal lineage: A story of two heirs.

It wasn't a typical double date.

Each couple converged in the multiplex lobby following the synchronized finishes of their preferred movies. One pair decided to screen "The King's Speech" prior to the Oscar deadline, while the other duo opted for the slightly lighter "Never Say Never," the story of Justin Bieber and his unlikely rocket launch to stardom.

I should probably elaborate at this point. My wife and I attended the mature-themed film, and my daughters did Bieber, umm...so to speak.

After we met up, we each were quite satisfied with our respective choices, and were eager to talk about what we'd seen. Even though the subject matter and historical time frame differed significantly, the two movies dealt with a couple of guys who were strewn into extraordinary situations and compelled to make good under extreme pressure.

Granted, Justin Bieber isn't a bona fide monarch...or is he? If we traced his non-familial teenage heartthrob lineage, we could probably begin with the original American idol: Frank Sinatra. Arguably from there, the crown might be traced to Fabian and Paul Anka, and on to Frankie Avalon, Davey Jones, David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy and Rick Springfield. Okay, let's do a quick tally. Caucasian bubblegum boy stars, 10, every other ethnicity, Zero.

During the mid-eighties, the industry giants must have decided that a boy band was at least four times as good as a single star, so the pre-fab ensembles took over, like New Kids Under the Block and N' Sync. Crooked boy band architects like Lou Pearlman came up with the formula for success: Half of the group would have talent, and the rest would rock intricate facial hair carvings.

But then, it was back to the future, as guys like Jesse McCartney, Zac Effron and any other solo acts who looked good in Mickey Mouse ears seized the reins back for the cause of the lone wolf.

Enter Mr. Bieber.

I'm not going to retrace the lineage of the British monarchy, but prior to King George VI, played by Colin Firth in "The King's Speech," the head royal wasn't expected to publicly address his subjects. The introduction of the newfangled "wireless" technology rewrote that rule as he ascended to power; his people were no longer satisfied with someone who simply looked good in a uniform while cutting a ribbon, they wanted to hear what he had to say.
Oh, yeah, and the new king possessed a debilitating stammering problem.

Have you ever spoken publicly, like at a wedding or a work meeting? It's difficult, especially when you're attempting to convince or inspire people. You feel nervous, sometimes nauseous. But what if you're expected to do as such, even though you can barely string four words together, and an entire nation's confidence in your abilities as king rests on a single address?

Adult diapers? Aisle 18b.

Years ago, my manager suggested that, since I got so anxious speaking in public settings, that I join the local Toastmasters club. It was a great experience and trained me to hold my own without quivering like aspic-covered ham while speaking to a large group.

I won't elaborate too extensively on the time back in 1989 when I entered district "table topics" competition. I had won the club and area contests, so I was feeling a bit cocky with my abilities. The winner got a really cool trophy, which I suppose would've looked nice next to my framed letterman's jacket.

Oh, but there would be no trophy for a shallow pond that day.

A speaker of table topics must face the audience and receive a small piece of paper containing a subject from the Toastmaster. The contestant must then speak extemporaneously on the subject for one minute, with five seconds allowed for mental preparation. My topic that day was "What kind of vegetable would you be?"

My first thought, which I know is sick, was of famous people who have been vegetables, but I could think of none. I locked up completely and babbled incoherently for an entire minute, and actually did list a lot of vegetables. I'm sure that impressed my first grade teacher when we did that farm unit, but the audience looked like I was inserting needles into their shins

After an inappropriate cucumber comment, the longest minute of my life was over.

So, to Justin Bieber, you beat the odds, you didn't mess up when it was time to lay it all on the line, and, even though I'm a little bitter about that, I admire such traits in your rich, little, non-threatening, sixteen-year-old self.

To King George VI, even though you are dead, you beat the odds, you didn't mess up when it was time to go for broke, and the man who played you will probably get a trophy, which I didn't at that Toastmasters thing.

Yes, I'm a little bitter about that, too.

Long Live Chuck Taylor.

I've got a weird obsession, especially for a guy.

Some would consider it highly non-masculine and chalk it down to my twenty years of exposure to the fashion industry. Others may theorize that, since we all have some yin and yang inside us, I have a little more yang than most men.

And those who remain, or the vast majority, wouldn't care.

Last week, as I sat wedged into the back corner seat of King County Metro Route 54, I engaged in my customary bus-riding exercise: I checked out each and every person, male and female, who boarded.

A heavyset man stuffed his body between one of those bus stripper poles, which are coated with the next monkey pox super bird flu, and a skinny, goth girl. As he settled in uncomfortably between animal and mineral, his feet called to me like a beautiful siren.

He wore Converse One-Stars.

You see, from my earliest memory, I've had a thing about shoes, namely "sneakers," as they're referred to on the east coast and parts of Illinois. Over here, we call them "tennis shoes," which is like referring to all soda as "Coke."

Anyway, as young as age five, anytime I scored a new pair of kicks, I couldn't keep my eyes off them. I actually watched them while I ran, which was a problem. I'm sure that whenever that salesperson asked me if I wanted to wear them out of the store, the look he or she received was the puzzled expression of a kid who'd been asked if he wanted the spikes which had just been pulled out of his feet to be re-impailed.

Here they are..they're called PF Flyers. Back in the Sixties, their ads claimed to make any kid run faster and jump higher, which was difficult to do if you're watching them while running. Nonetheless, I still made my mom time me wearing the Flyers and compare my jumps between my sweet new rides and the old JC Penney Specials or Sears Canvas Nightmares. Shoe snob at five? Guilty.

If I weren't outside admiring my form, I'd be in the house, the new shoes always in view. In fact, the styling above is quite similar to how I'd lay them on the floor next to me while watching Speed Racer. It was the best way to achieve maximum satisfaction from my awesome, new acquisition.

I got really excited about cool shoes because, as a kid, I burned through them faster than Sarah Palin exhausted male names that start with "T" and are types of wood. And because of that, my parents couldn't afford the PF Flyers or Suede Converse One-Stars every time. Some pairs had two stripes rather than three; sorry, but no thirty-dollar Adidas Superstars this time, buddy.

I really hope I understood.

Since seventh grade was a marquee year, first year of junior high and all, Mom and Dad again sprung for the Cadillacs. Nike hadn't been around long in 1975, so not many people were yet familiar with the swoosh. I sat down in math class that first day, wearing a sparkling new pair of Nike Cortezes:

Lord, I loved those shoes, at least until the girl behind me called me "Nike" (rhymes with "Mike"). Apparently, she thought I had personalized my shoes with my first name on the back heel. Weird and unintentional, I know, but my fragile thirteen-year-old psyche struggled with wearing them again, at least until I could find a red marker to blot out the moniker.

My sneaker obsession died down slightly after junior high, since other interests trumped foot fashion, but I never ditched my childhood favorites.

What I'm trying to convey is that, even though I keep up with what the kids are wearing, my taste in shoes hit its head on the asphalt and stopped developing around 1975. My preferences are stunted and limited to canvas and leather. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to play some record albums and plug in  my calculator.

Long live Chuck Taylor.