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.

My Secret to Offensive, Yet Tasteful, Blog Posts.

Today, I'm doing a little bit of pre-Spring cleaning.

For the past blogteen months, I've posted every two or three days. You may be surprised to hear, however, that the words don't seep directly from my primal brain stem to the digital world; I actually keep a journal.

I carry it around pretty much any time I'm wearing clothes. In the event that a topic bobs its noggin to the surface, I can jot it down before it's lost to the ether of my consciousness, before something shiny derails my runaway train of thought.

Sometimes, the topic is obvious. When Sarah Palin claims to be a foreign policy expert because two black people live in Wasilla, I'll latch onto something like that. But frequently, I need to peruse my backlog of scribblings in order to come up with a decent post.

When combing through my archives, I'll often discover those "What the hell were you thinking?" ideas, infractions which found life on the printed page, but the referee showed up later to throw the flag. So, before I permanently stomp these stories into the cold, damp ground, here are the titles of posts I never have, and never will, write:

"People at Work Who I'd Like to See Naked."

"My Favorite Surprise Movie Endings."

"An Open Apology to Everyone I've Accidentally Sweat On."

"My New Look for the New Year: Ponytails and Skinny Jeans."

"I'm a Doctor, Not a Barber: Why My Vasectomy Bill Included the Cost of a Disposable Razor."

"Shhhh! Guess What My Company Has Planned for Next Fall?"

"My Favorite Daughter."

"Hey, Kids! Exercise is Stupid."

Naturally, I have others, but the crux of this piece is to show, mostly to my wife, that I do possess a filter.

It's porous and wafer thin, but it catches the big chunks.

Obviously, obese is the new skinny.

Self-pity is an unattractive trait. Would you agree?

I suppose that, occasionally, I enjoy the attention garnered from someone feeling sorry for me. For instance:

When I’ve got a nasty fever and body aches, I appreciate the gift of non-Safeway, brand name raspberry sorbet.

When my child freakishly vomits into my mouth a bit, I'm grateful to be the beneficiary of sympathetic dry heaves from another understanding parent.

But I don’t expect your sympathy, your kind words or your understanding, when I require stitches for attempting to open a beer without a bottle opener or tear a hamstring because I was racing my daughter to the faster go cart.

And most certainly, I am petitioning no one to convey pity toward the following revelation, which I learned on Thursday:

I am, technically at least...obese.

Like most middle-aged men, I visualize myself far younger than I look. Upon hearing the sound of my voice, I feel no different than that mall-cruising, mesh-half-shirt-wearing, lean prince with backne (that's pimples you don't see when you're checking your shirtless self out), who inhabited my body thirty years ago.

Naturally, these days, the lumbar aches a little in the morning, a couple of new facial developments tend to get nicked by my Gillette Sensor, and the whole concept of the thirty-two-inch waist appears to have been reconfigured by the denim industry. That metric system must've finally caught on.

But, other than that and some bladder skirmishes, I feel absolutely fine-ish.

Last week, a couple of the medications on which I rely—excuse me, which I’ve chosen to maximize my health—were denied refills pending a physical exam. Always taking the half-full approach, I interpreted this pharmaceutical blackmail as an opportunity to touch base with my physician, much like an oil change and lube, where you can't really count on the oil, but you're certain about the lube.

Since I’m closer to fifty than forty, and I’m not naive, I had fully girded my loins for the traditional “straight to third base” physical, the kind where, after a thorough exploration from rain forest to desert savanna, the final chapter involves a spelunking excursion into the stalagmite caves.

The doctor's feedback of my topographical area went something like, "Okay, this, this, that, this and those are moles. They'll always be benign, so don't worry."

I wanted to say, "Yeah, but what about this one over here that's growing eyes and the beginnings of hooves?" I kept quiet.

And then, the elephant in the room made his presence known. It was time.

Earlier, as I entered the exam room, I had noticed two Costco-sized tubes of personal lubricant on the counter. One appeared to have never been used, and the other had squeeze marks all over it, like a four-old-had been handling it. I may have reprimanded my kid about wasting toothpaste this way, buy I decided I didn't give a rat's ass whether or not the doctor started from the bottom of the tube or not. I wouldn't be watching, anyway.

As I mentioned, I was as hygienically prepared as going to a dentist appointment, except this time, only flossing was obligatory, and a certain part of me was clean enough to play Yahtzee on.

Once Dr. Spelunker led with the cold, gooey advance party, Cavequest 2011 was underway. I tried to play it cool, thinking that women endure this type of exam far more frequently than my whining self, so I attempted to toughen up with thoughts of baseball. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I was imagining being the new kid at prison.

Finally, the doctor was finished, and we agreed to still be friends and see each other in another year. After putting out so easily, it's really all I could have hoped for.

"And by they way," he added, peeling off his latex gloves, "your body mass index indicates that you are .5 over the "obese" cut-off mark. If you lose five pounds you'll be down to "overweight," so let's shoot for that. Take care, now."

Nothing quite like being told I'm just barely obese, and that with a little work, I'll be overweight.

As I slowly re-applied my clothes and my dignity, I resolved, I don't care what anyone says. By this summer, I'll make it even further and just be fat.

Why I hate Valentine's Day.

Please forgive me for the potentially offensive subject matter of this post. It’s a topic which tends to polarize people, and if you disagree, that’s fine. It’s a bit of a hot button issue, yet doesn’t pertain to religion, The New York Yankees or anyone from Wasilla, Alaska.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I hate it. Not intensely dislike, but actually physically hate it. I loathe it more than the thought of French kissing Donald Trump or eating Swedish Fish off of Kim Kardashian's eyebrow. I despise this phony, guilt-tripping, panic-inducing day in February more than just about anything other than one of my daughters marrying a clown.

Why? And how did this seemingly harmless, processed cheese of holidays transform itself into a big syrup of ipecac sundae?

Allow me to retrace the events which precipitated my fall from grace. Roughly twenty-five years, sixty-seven days and three hours ago, I was in the midst of a college relationship. It had all begun so splendidly; she was bubbly and cute, dressed nicely, had a pleasing figure...and she seemed to be really interested in me, which goes quite a way when you’re an immature, twenty-two-year-old guy.

At the beginning, I found her little quirks endearing—carrying around a large enough purse to hold her hairspray and blow dryer and insisting that we always hold hands in public. She laughed at my jokes with a tone of confusion, but, hey, any laugh is a good laugh.

Oh, sure, she frequently criticized my clothing choices, informed me that beer drinking causes acne and suggested I shed a few pounds, since “everyone is looking.” She also required that I borrow someone’s car for our weekly dates on the town, or that I be on call 24/7 if she needed reassurance about a midterm or a new sweater. Nonetheless, I overlooked her idiosyncrasies. I was smitten. We inhabited that magical collegiate Greek system and emitted the essence of the All-American campus couple.

After about a year had pased, I had become at least eighty percent over her. I frequently conjured up reasons to not see her, but we still spent a lot of time together.

On one such occasion, we met at the student union building to study and eat red licorice, which I knew would involve sporadic study moments mixed with my reassurances of her fears and anxieties: “Yes, you’re still beautiful, even though you’re twenty now.”

She floated the idea of participating in a “pinning” ceremony, an event signifying our engagement to be engaged. This gala traditionally involves the combined memberships the sorority and fraternity, and culminates with the guy (me) affixing a fraternity-crest-embossed pin to the recipient (her).

“How about if we schedule it for Valentine’s Day? That’s our favorite holiday, remember?” She stared resolutely at me, my eyes homing in on her lipstick-flecked front tooth, which she’d obviously missed during that morning’s forty-five minute primping session.

No, I hadn’t remembered it being our favorite holiday. In fact, no environment is ideal for breaking up, but if I truly wanted to douse this fire before it spread to the neighbors’ houses, I had to make a stand…right now. So, rather than opting for the difficult, yet honest, route by saying something like, “I’d rather eat my own arm,” I took a slightly less controversial angle and replied, “Okay.”

And in less time than it takes for your brain’s pain center to register a stubbed toe, the wheels of the pinnin’ where a rollin’. Flowers, champagne, kegs and cake were ordered. Each day which passed and hurled this event closer to reality was a day I vowed to end this fiasco...tomorrow.

From the pinnee’s perspective, each of the earth’s rotations further focused the culmination of her fairy tale illusion. Our celebration had long ago ceased revolving around us; it centered smack dab on her. What color dress should she buy to stand out, yet not look cheap? Which guys in my house should she ask to line up to hand her single red roses, culminating in my pinning the medallion of no return to her... dress strap, or something.

Oh, how the spineless suffer needlessly.

Valentine's Day, or VD, finally arrived, and a gelatinous fog of resignation surrounded me as my fraternity brothers and I traipsed the five blocks to her sorority. As I entered the foyer in the lead position, my shoes shiny and my suit—kind of old—I looked into the living room.

Sorority living rooms are a lot like funeral homes, because not a lot of people hang out in them. All of the fun happens in the fraternities, so the scene I came upon resembled a large group of girls who looked like they were attending a funeral before the prom.

And there, front and center, was the pseudo bride. I don't recall the ceremony very well, mostly because it went so fast. Songs were sung, flowers were exchanged, but really, the whole thing was a strange cultish wedding where you'd expect Tom Cruise to give a speech at the end.

We had beer and cake at the frat house afterwards, since sororities don't officially acknowledge the existence of alcohol, sex or eating disorders. Just as the evening appeared to be winding down, my betrothed approached me and informed me that she had a surprise.

She insisted that we perform a spotlight dance, again, for all to see. One of her pledge sisters then pulled out an alto saxophone and serenaded the crowd with "I only have eyes for you." As I again felt the eyes of many upon me, I wondered if they could notice that I was clinically dying.

Then, oh merciful Jehovah, it was over.

We stayed together about six more months, until even my cowardly self could stand it no longer.

I learned a lot about myself, relationships and honesty during my time with the only girl I ever pinned. I learned that it's okay to proclaim your love to the world and it's okay to do nice things for people you care about. I learned that by living a lie, it only gets worse with time.

I also learned that I hate Valentine's Day.