Kick the Can

When I was a little boy, I would daydream constantly. All I ever wanted to do was escape from the desolate poverty of the South Bronx and live in a place of wonder and magic. Stories drew me in, and I read voraciously as a result.

It was only appropriate, then, that I should fall in love with fiction in all its forms. First came books, then video games, and then comic books; and finally ... the umbrella genre of Speculative Fiction. So, in effect: anything and everything that had to do with the fantastical, be it science or in fact fantasy.

This is a photo I took of myself the other day. While cleaning my place, I came across a t-shirt I had forgotten I owned since 2004 when the Punisher film starring Thomas Jane first came out. I wore it a few times back in those days, then promptly shelved it because I thought I was too old for such silly things.

And now I've found the t-shirt again, and I'm even older! The difference this time, I guess, is that I just don't give AF about how old I am, or how silly I might look. I'm going to do only those things that bring me joy from now on.

That's the mood I'm in these days. I am reminded that all the things I love to do are not to be ashamed of, but to be embraced. What's the point of living in this world if you're not trying to appease number one, numero uno -- i.e., yourself!

About a year ago I dusted off my old Nintendo system and popped in one of my favorite video games from 1989: Ninja Gaiden:

This game I played from sunrise to sun down and beyond, until I had mastered it like very few people have ever been able to accomplish. It's one of my silly proud achievements in life, and I took the opportunity to record it for posterity. It took me around 2 weeks of "training" to recapture the mastery I once had over this title, but eventually I pulled it off. What makes this recording so special to me is that it finally presents irrefutable proof to all who've ever doubted me that I can defeat the game without my character, Ryu Hayabusa, ever dying! In fact, he barely even gets touched by the demon hordes and enemy ninjas sent to stop him in his quest:

This is considered one of the toughest old-school games around, but I tried to make it look like child's play. I hope I succeeded!

See what I mean? It's important to let loose and have fun. To recapture one's youth from time to time, if only to remind yourself of what you once held as the universe's paramount truth:

That we are here to have FUN!

And, hey -- to look good while doing it, no?

I Watch Them Grow . . .

In my previous post, I observed how wonderful children are in their ability to learn new things; and, more importantly, their ability to divine from context the meaning of strange or new concepts to their young, agile minds. Children really do exemplify the hopes of our race.

I'm reminded of this each time I watch children at play. No matter how sad I'm feeling, or lonely, or just downright dejected at the events of my life, sitting off to the side in a large social gathering where children are present, observing them interact and play with one another, I find myself so happy and feeling alive in spite of things. It's truly remarkable!

Try it sometime.

Children are the most beautiful achievements we humans are capable of creating. Nothing else equals the seemingly simple act of procreation, the process by which we pass on our genes and ensure the future survival of our species. And although it now appears as if I will never get to experience the joy of having my own children--something that has recently provided me with a great source of unending agony and misery--I can't deny that I love children. I'm one of those people that find babies beautiful no matter their superficial features, and am always on the lookout for their well-being and happiness. I loathe anyone who can harm a child, or bring to them sadness.

I especially hate it when I see parents mistreating their kids in public. It gets me so angry! At those times I feel that these are people who do not deserve to have children. Cursing kids out and ridiculing them in public? What kind of man or woman are you that you would treat your own issue in such a way? Fucking despicable!

For me, it seems profoundly unfair that such people are allowed to have children, and yet someone like me cannot. At least, I don't think I will in this lifetime. Perhaps someday I might meet that special someone willing to go through this journey with me, and hopefully I am not too old for the process by that time. I'm turning 40 later this year, after all, so I still have around 10 - 20 more years for it to happen. Don't think I will want to by the time I'm 50, though---but who knows!

Still, in the meantime, I'll continue to be the doting "uncle" of several of my friends' own children. A position I cherish and honor, and love being in, but which gives me endless opportunities to regret the turns in my own life that have prevented me from experiencing parenthood the way they have.

As I watch children at play, I think of all their potential. I see in them all the ways they are living a better childhood than the one I had. All my friends are doing standout jobs of raising their children in the most loving and nurturing manner possible. This makes me so happy to see! And I vow to always protect these children in my own special way, too. I love them as if they are my own, and will never allow harm to come to them. And if my plight is to watch the children of my friends grow up to adulthood while never having any of my own ... it is my privilege nonetheless. They have taught me so many wonderful lessons about humanity, and continue to do so. In their eyes I see the endless possibilities of their futures unfold. I see that they will achieve far more than I ever could, and this I feel is as it should be.

You know, I'm reminded of that one song by the great Louis Armstrong. You know it, too. It's called "What a Wonderful World." Listen to it by clicking here, if you'd like.

Whenever I hear this song, one particular passage manages to elicit tears each and every time. I swear, it's like clockwork! I don't know why, but it always hits me right in the feels. This part right here:

"I hear babies crying,
I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more,
Than I'll never know . . ."

Oh my god -- waterworks!

Am I just a great, dumb fool for getting so emotional over this? I don't know. But although they're tears, they are happy ones. For me, nothing makes me happier than witnessing little ones gradually becoming not so tiny, smarty pants people! Watching children, you can sometimes--almost!--literally see their minds learning and becoming better. The rate at which they assimilate new concepts and observations about the world around them is astonishing. Truly a wonder to behold.

And this is why I say we ought to cherish our children. I know that's a corny line somewhere, but it happens to be no less true. They remind me of the greatness in us all. They make me want to believe in humanity and all that we have yet to achieve.

Children bring hope for the future.

The Learning Mind Stays The Fittest!

Children are wonderful! Their minds are so flexible, effortlessly learning and expanding in order to make as much sense of the confusing world around them as possible. Of course, as a species our survival dictated that our young learn as much and as quickly as possible to adapt to a dangerous world and live to pass on such skill to their own offspring. But on a social level, it is no less miraculous how kids represent the best and purest expression of what makes us so uniquely human!

I was thinking this today because I recall a specific trend in my writing workshops of a long time ago. See, I have this tendency when I write to not force feed the reader too much information. Perhaps I rely on this trick too much, but I've always found it more interesting to have my readers derive meaning from the context of a situation rather than to have to spell everything out. But this tendency has gotten me in trouble more often than not. Whether due to laziness or to this persistent need among workshoppers to find something--anything!--wrong with a particular story, I find that a lot of people like to be *told* rather than to *infer* the meaning a particular scene, passage, or even word.

Case in point: I wrote this story once that used quite a few Chinese phrases in it. I speak Chinese, and my fellow students in my workshop knew that I spoke Chinese. And in one particular scene in this fictional short piece I wrote in college, my Chinese character used the term "yang guizi" while berating a bunch of white guys bullying her. Wouldn't you know it, quite a few people in my class had an issue with my use of the term.

Now, for those who don't know what the term means, I'll spell it out right here unlike in that story. Yang guizi is a strongly derogatory term used by Mandarin speakers to insult or express displeasure at foreigners, and predominantly "white" foreigners at that. The term means "foreign devil." It really translates to "foreign ghost" -- but in Chinese culture, ghosts are far less passive and more insidious (i.e., demonic) than Western ghosts. Then of course there is the case of equating the white skin of Caucasians to that of ghosts as well, and the phrase becomes even more apt. So if you are reading this and you are what most of the world considers "white," ... now you know what it means if you ever hear this phrase while in a setting with lots of Chinese people. I jest, of course. It's considered quite rude, and most Chinese people would not care to use it lest they portray themselves as uncouth. But among less scrupulous individuals . . . . ?

Anyway, in this story my Chinese protagonist uses the term in a completely unconscious act of reflex against her attackers. And, no, I didn't have my narrative voice break through in that moment to explain for non-Chinese readers what it meant. I figured my character's anger, the exclamation mark at the end, and the ensuing circumstances of her current predicament in being bullied for being Chinese, would provide the adequate context needed to understand the spirit of her epithet if not the literal translation.

But what so many at my workshop said to me in their admonishment was: Hey, nimrod, why don't you explain what this girl is saying so that the rest of us can understand?! I'm paraphrasing, of course, but I think you get the gist. And to which I replied, more or less:

Oh really? You mean to tell me you couldn't figure it out for yourselves? Or are you just using purposeful ignorance in the place of true criticism? Because I really couldn't tell.

See no . . . monkey???

But this brings me back to my opening remarks. It has me pondering this recent realization: That somewhere during the transition from childhood to adult, some of us lose this ability to simply accept one's ignorance on certain matters, and therefore forget to exercise the ability to infer meaning from the context surrounding a confusing or inexplicable occurrence.

In other words: kids know they don't know everything, and so they actively seek enlightenment in other ways. Mostly by asking a billion questions a day, sure. But at least they demonstrate a questing, ever-learning mind. Adults, on the other hand, seem to operate on the assumption that they should know EVERYTHING by now ... and therefore do not have the patience to seek out for themselves the meaning of something new or foreign to their sphere of specialty knowledge.

I recently read a bedtime story to some cute and precocious grade schoolers I know. And although the book had some words or phrases that may have been a little too complex for their age range, they didn't interrupt me every few seconds wanting specifically to know the meaning of these things. I could see that they had accepted what they didn't know, and used the context of how the confusing words were being used with which to inform themselves instead. Nifty trick, hey!

More of us adults need to keep our minds learning like kids do so effortlessly. When you do, you accept that not everything is going to make sense. You accept that sometimes you may have to do a little more work in order to understand an experience outside of your comfort zone. Or, if dealing with a culture foreign to your own, to not flash your privilege and assume it is the *other's* responsibility to educate you.

So, the lesson here is: keep learning, kiddos! (A phrase my Mandarin professor used to say to us all the time in class. No, seriously.)

Previously Me

From around the ages of 5 to 7, my mother had this annoying habit of refusing us kids the chance to get out of bed in the morning on weekends when we were dying to get up and watch cartoons. The rule was that we had to wake her up and ask her permission first before we could turn on the tv. And if she said "no," then we'd have to return to our beds and simply lie awake there until she deigned to get up herself and grant us our freedom. Problem was, my mother was a very heavy sleeper and a notorious late riser. She sometimes didn't wake up until just after noon!

This was extremely frustrating to me, obviously, but it also allowed me time to sit in bed for hours and ruminate on life's big mysteries. No, seriously, I spent a lot of time in my head in those early years when my mom was still alive and oversleeping on weekends. At that time, I only just recently became acquainted with the concept of God, and that his scary long-haired, mustachioed son had been murdered and nailed to wood planks for something that was supposed to be good for all of us. 

Dudes! WTF, seriously? Jesus!

Seemed crazy to a kid like me in those days ... but then, I already knew by that point that the adult world made no damn sense! So I just filed this away among more crazy shit adults believed in that didn't seem to reconcile with my uninformed view of the world around me.

So, hence, while I would wile away the Saturday morning hours in bed, I would attempt to make sense of said world in my own precocious way. Many of my ruminations have long since been forgotten. Or, in some cases, my conclusions were too embarrassing for me to want to admit to nowadays. Such as the morning I thought to myself: Is baby shampoo made from real live babies?

But sometimes my mental wanderings lead to more ... philosophical territory. Such as the morning I tried to understand what happened to people when they died. Informed, no doubt, by the passing of my youngest brother a year prior; and also fueled by the recent indoctrination, on mother's decree, of us kids into the Catholic church (something we were not born into, since her own upbringing was Presbyterian) -- I can see now why it was supposedly so important to little 5-year old me to ponder this concept. Where did we go after we die, anyway?

In my little mind, I imagined a ghost like figure rising up from the deceased body it had just inhabited, and heading toward the sky where I believed God was supposed to live. I think I had seen this allusion once in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, and so the visual vocabulary was already imprinted on me. Up and up the ghost of the dearly departed would rise, and then an old man sitting on a cloud would lift up a finger to stop its ascent, before pointing back down the opposite end of the cloud to the Earth spinning below. And down that spirit would plunge ... down, down, down, returning to the ground where a baby was just being born. And into that baby the spirit would dissolve, and the newborn's eyes would open to the world for the first time.

Now, everyone I tell this story to these days think that I'm full of shit! That a little 5-year old boy, without any knowledge of other world religions, could have possibly thought up the theory of reincarnation all by himself.

And yet, I say to this: where in all that did I just say I invented the concept? Given the fact that more than one culture on this planet firmly possess the belief system that our souls are engaged in a constantly moving wheel of birth, life, death, and rebirth: did it ever occur to anyone that a child with a significantly curious and open mind might just tap into something that, to him, is just an obvious forgone conclusion? That, perhaps, he was just awakening to a realization that should have been as natural to every other human being as the sun rising each morning?

For me, I thought I figured it all out. And it wasn't until some years later when I was a 'tween of about 11 or 12, that I discovered other, more ancient, peoples had already beaten me to the punch! And that this so-called theory of mine was in fact called "reincarnation."

Something quite like this.

Scary, no? It makes me think that maybe, just maybe, there may be some truth to all this.

And if so, then what about our past lives? Do we have them? And if so further: is it possible to remember them?

I honestly don't claim to know the answer for sure (heh, heh), but I suspect it might be true.

But I'm also crazily intrigued by the possible lives my particular "soul" has lived. I can't quite put the finger on why exactly, but I get this sense that my soul has been wandering this planet for a very, very long time. It's a feeling I've had since early in my childhood. I've always had this "world weary" heaviness in my heart, like as if I've been through the ringer and back again -- and this was clearly before even all the major bad shit that was yet to happen to the younger me in this current lifetime occurred.

So what have I done in my previous lives. Who was I, and did I lead mostly good lives instead of bad over the millennia? I do get the feeling that, before this life, my soul hadn't been in circulation for centuries. Like as if the last time I was human was back when the center of the world was still in the Middle East. Who knows, maybe I did something so bad back then that I had to spend the next 400 to 500 years as various forms of insect before I could eventually work my way back up to human form. Exciting, eh?!

Was I a feared marauder of villages?

Who knows? It's possible! And maybe that will be a blog post ... for another time, eh?

And what about you? Do you have an old soul? Or do you feel like a Spring chicken in this game of (eternal) Life?

Let me know in the comments!

The Have Some Have-Nots: Or, The Rise Of The Privileged Poor

So, yeah, I think I just came to the realization that I did all 4 years of my undergrad college life completely and utterly WRONG!!!

After reading this New York Times opinion piece on "the privileged poor" who benefit from going to elite high schools before entering college. Having read that piece, and seeing the research and statistics which fueled the author's opinions, I'm faced with the startling realization with what was wrong with my transition to the elite liberal arts college I attended. I'm upset at myself, mostly, as these conclusions shed light on a few troubling moments during my 4 years spent going to school in Northern Vermont. Moments with which I wish I had conducted myself better, and for which I'm also ashamed of my behavior. But in my defense, this article also shows that perhaps I was not entirely to blame.

Seriously, you should go read it. Here's an excerpt:

"My research shows that, on average, half of the lower-income black undergraduates at elite colleges today come from private high schools like Andover and Dalton. As early as middle school (and sometimes sooner), students participate in programs like Prep for Prep and A Better Chance. These programs remove lower-income students from typically distressed public schools and place them in predominantly white, resource-rich, affluent private schools. Elite colleges effectively hedge their bets: They recruit those already familiar with the social and cultural norms that pervade their own campuses.

"As a sociologist, I study this new diversity at elite colleges. I call lower-income undergraduates who graduated from private high schools the privileged poor. Although they receive excellent educations, my research shows that their ability to navigate the informal social rules that govern elite college life is what really gives them advantages relative to their lower-income peers who did not attend elite high schools, those whom I call the doubly disadvantaged.Although also academically gifted and driven, they enter college with less exposure to the unsaid expectations of elite academic settings."

'Cause I'm Close To The Edge ....

Looking back on my life recently, I startlingly came to the following realization:

I don't like doing what's expected of me, or taking the easy way out.

As I focused on this concept and really thought it through, it became increasingly clear just how much of my life has been dictated on this principle. It's actually scary, and it forces me to examine a lot about motivation, ambition, and drive -- or at least why I don't seem to have much of any of these things anymore. It's a sobering realization to come to, I must admit, and may even be my undoing.

Basically, it starts with my father. Yes, that old chestnut. Look, I really don't want to kick a dead horse. I've covered this subject many times on this blog already, so I won't be rehashing any of that. Most of you already know the most salient point, to wit: my father was a lazy bum who couldn't stay true to one woman, nor be there for the three boys he had with her.

Typical deadbeat dad scenario, no?

What does this have to do with me? Well, knowing this about my dad, from a very early age I made it my goal in life to never be like him. Where he was lazy and uneducated, I strove to be the best in my class and to always be a hard worker. I was quite good at my studies as a kid, even math. It was easy, actually. Whenever I felt myself slack off in school, I remembered my dear ol' dad -- and, boom! Suddenly there was my motivation to be different. And the thing is, growing up as a mixed Caucasian/Latino kid in the South Bronx, whose mother was on welfare ... see, no one ever expected much of me. In school I was the quiet, unassuming kid. I interacted with NO ONE! I simply did what was expected of me and went home to where I could just be myself and no one would bother me. I was the UNSEEN in class, and so this had the consequence of everyone around me underestimating me and writing me off.

A History of Violence

When I was around 4 years old, my mom stopped a friend on the street and began to chat her up for minutes on end. This friend had a much younger son with her, around 2 years old I believe. My brother and I walked off ahead, farther down the block, and this little boy followed us. Bored, and with no one paying attention to us, my brother and I decided to turn the corner and relieve ourselves against a nearby wall.

It's a boy thing.

And we were 3 and 4 years old apiece, remember. Laughing, the little boy tried to imitate us, but he had a hard time getting his pants down. I helped him, pulling them down to his ankles for him. And then I noticed that his shoelaces were untied. I honestly don't know what came over me next, but I suddenly got it in my head that it would be a funny prank to tie them together. Afterward, I grabbed my brother's hand and urged him to race back to our mom--knowing full well that this little boy would take off after us! He did, with his trousers still down and his shoelaces tied together. Laughing, he made it only a few feet before falling over onto his stomach. Next ensued so much crying and screaming. I remember thinking I would be in trouble for that; and sure, I did receive a beating from mom later on as a result. But in that moment .... the image of that annoying little boy falling flat on his face, scraping his knees and bawling? In that moment, for the oddest of reasons, the 4 year old me found it the funniest, most satisfying sight ever. And I *knew* that I had done that.

Yesterday, as I walked home from the subway after work, I came across two toddlers straggling behind an older woman who might have been their grandmother. A boy and girl, around 3 years old each. I assumed they were either siblings or cousins. The children were slurping happily on lollipops they held in chubby, balled-up hands, while holding each other's free hands as they walked up the block. It was the cutest sight! The very picture of innocence. And I thought to myself: wow, children really are beautiful. In their faces, and in the way they so sweetly held on to each other as they walked, you could not doubt the purity of their hearts and spirits. I knew that it was this very innocence that we adults cherish so much in children. Why we feel this instinctive pang to protect and shelter them, for surely children at that age are without guile, without malice.

Or are they?

Where does this concept come from, that all children are born innocent? Is this true? Or is it a construct we adults invent because we tend to read into our young what we ourselves wish were true? But just because we want it so, does not make it so.

When does innocence end? I'm not so sure innocence ever ends. We're all innocent in some way or another. Sure, we probably become more jaded over time as life's hard realities belt us to and fro on the battered winds of lost dreams . . . but not one of us is ever truly, wholly evil. Just as no one is ever completely good. We're human beings, and humans are a bewildering, grayish mix of both forces.

And, I hate to break it to you, but: children are human beings, too. They're not little godlings flitting about on glowing white wings. They are born with the potential to be the humans we all are. Flawed beings with our many, many bad moments. On that day when I was 4, I had a very bad moment. A moment when my little inner masochist came out and showed his face. As an adult now, I'm horrified by my actions in that one moment of weakness and wretched bemusement. It's haunted me all these years, actually, as I strive to be a moral person in this world. But yet I have to live with the fact that in my past there is a moment in which I was a horrible person to a happy, adorable little baby who didn't know any better than to follow me around like a puppy looking for a friend. It breaks my heart now thinking about it. Why on earth would I have done such a thing? Am I just the lowest of scum for not only inflicting such pain on an innocent child once, but from gaining so much satisfaction from the act as well? I could see someone like Hitler maybe having a story like this from his childhood, but surely not me? I'm a GOOD person!

But, nope. We all have this capability in us. Perhaps I'm being more honest about it here on this blog than most people will ever be, even to themselves. The truth of the matter is: not only do we all carry the seeds within us to do both harm and good, but we were born to this dichotomy.

Seeing those two adorable children holding hands as they ate their lollipops and tried to catch up to grandma, I had to doubt this, though. Could either one of those little cherubim ever do such a horrible act as what I did not more that one year in age away from them? Perhaps not. So then, what made me do it? Who even taught me to do something so radical as to pull a malicious prank on a child more helpless and innocent than myself? Is it something taught, or something innate? Nature or nurture? The world may never know. I certainly never will.

But I wonder: is it really important to find out? Or is it better to take the generalized approach and simply accept our bad natures as being just that -- natural! As I get older, I'm beginning to realize that it's not so much about bemoaning the bad things you've done in the past, but about learning from those moments and doing better not to repeat them.

The more you accept the bad within you, but strive to rise above it and do good, the more of a complete person you will be.

I truly believe this. Don't you?

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting!

So, I basically have 3 television shows that have completely and utterly shaped who I am as a man today. I alluded to this fact once in a poignant post I wrote in 2008 early on in this blog's existence called: "My Three Dads." I reposted it 2 years ago on Father's Day here. Perhaps some of you might recall that.

As that article pointed out, my three all-time favorite tv shows from childhood are, in no particular order: Star Trek: The Next Generation; Kung Fu: The Legend Continues; and Highlander: The Series. With the latter receiving top billing in both my estimation and impact on who I am as both an adult and as a writer.

However, while two of these shows have been readily available on DVD and Blu-ray formats for some time, for years now I have been maligning the fact that the remaining series has never seen the light of day in North American home video release -- not even VHS tapes! I mean, ever since I first got a DVD player in 1998 I've been scouring the 'net and retail stores alike for this series to release, and to no avail. Back in 2001 I even joined online petitions and Amazon's own mail notification service in the hopes of having my dream fulfilled, and still -- bupkis!

That is, until now:

Behold, the day has finally come. The day that my beloved television show, Kung Fu: The Legend Continues has at last arrived in a professional, officially sanctioned video release. Sure, it's only a DVD release in an age where everything is inevitably switching over to the Higher Definition format afforded by Blu-ray disc, but it's better than nothing. And since HD tvs were not in existence when this show first aired way back in 1993, I can't say that I mind too much watching these episodes in Standard Definition. That's the only format I've ever seen them in!

Kung Fu: The Legend Continues was one of the flagship shows to air on the new and untested independent station, The Prime Time Entertainment Network in early 1993. It told the tale of one Kwai Chang Caine, an elderly Shaolin Buddhist monk and gong-fu master who, after 15 years of wondering the world, is reunited with his Westernized son-turned-police detective, Peter. The show was a spinoff of the original Kung Fu, which aired from 1972-75, and whose's protagonist was also named Kwai Chang Caine. Since that show took place in the American Wild West of the late 19th century, it was explained early on in the new show that this other Kwai Chang Caine was in fact the grandson of that now legendary figure. Both characters were portrayed by the late, great David Carradine.





Press play up there to watch the show's very memorable opening sequence.

The series was a wonderful attempt to blend your typical cop procedural with martial arts know-how and even some tinges of Eastern philosophy here and there, albeit sometimes in a heavy-handed, kitschy sort of way. Okay, not sometimes. Try ALL of the time! I was 16 at the time this show aired, though, and too young to know any better. But the young, unsophisticated teenage me ATE IT ALL UP! I loved it so much. For me, although it looks quite dated now, nothing like this had ever been done on television before. The themes were very adult back then, and the father-son dynamic at work really spoke to me, a kid from the Bronx who never had a father figure to look up to, let alone bond with.

In just a few short episodes, I was hooked and a die-hard fanatic of this series. It not only sparked my interest in learning gong-fu as not just a martial art, but a way of life -- it also put me firmly on the path of my lifelong love affair with all things Chinese. This interest in that far East culture always existed within me, to be sure; but Kung Fu fanned the flames into a full-blown passion! And Kwai Chang Caine was my role model.

For years the parent company which owned the rights to this show, Warner Brothers, sat on it and would not budge. No matter how many fans clamored for some sort of home video release, we were never appeased. Not even a hint that we might someday get what we wanted. Until suddenly, just a little under a month ago, word came out that the company would be releasing the entire 1st season on DVD via their manufactured on demand (MOD) endeavor exclusively from their online site. I found out about it just a few days after the series became available on the Warner Archive Collection website for just under $50. I received the set in the mail earlier this week, and I swear tears of joy nearly streamed down my face as I began watching the 90-minute pilot episode again after more than 2 decades. All the memories were back in a flash!

What a way to start off the month of June! I know it's silly, but despite my cynicism over nostalgic home video releases, I actually find myself these days with a spring in my step, humming the opening theme, and waiting to get home so that I can sit down to dinner and watch another episode of this classic action show from my youth.

That's the magic of television, folks. That right there! And if you would like to own your own copy of the show, click on that link just above. I believe this was a first-run service straight from Warner's website, with plans to allow Amazon and other online retailers a chance to sell their own stock sometime later in the month. This particular fanatic just HAD to get his hands on it as early as possible, though, so . . . NYAH!

Dream On

I was recently reunited with a favorite tv show from my past. Dream On was one of HBO's very first attempts at an original series back in 1990, created by the same duo that would later go on to bring NBC fame with the show Friends. It received its genesis when renowned director and writer, John Landis, asked Universal Studios if he could make use of the footage from all the old black & white tv shows the studio produced from the 1950s and 60s. Dream On would make clever use of clips from these shows at integral moments during a particular episode, usually to enhance or illustrate the thought processes, emotions, and internal dialogue of the show's protagonist to comedic effect. It was a remarkably successful formula.

Dream On follows the dating and often raunchy sexual exploits of Martin Tupper, a mid-30ish book editor and recently divorced father working and residing in New York City. Because this series appeared on HBO, a subscriber-based network here in the U.S. not bound by the same censorship and laws of more accessible tv, the show contained quite a decent amount of nudity, colorful language, and sexual situations. Tame by the standards of HBO and Starz shows today, no doubt, but quite ground-breaking back in 1990. I was only 13 at the time the series aired late at night, but I was at that age when sneaking into the living room while my guardian slept to watch something naughty I wasn't supposed to be seeing was quite appealing, to say the least. And it wasn't just because of the naked boobies that were on display most of the time (I was a newly minted teen male, after all), but the show was actually quite hilarious, too!

Oh, The Things I Have (And Have Not) Done!

Over on Facebook, my good friend Rodney shared a pic that has been making the rounds. The pic is a list of 22 life experiences one may or may not have had, followed by an arbitrarily decided upon price point for each item on the list. To participate, you have to decided which of these activities you've done in your lifetime, then tally up the prices for each until you get your total. You then share that number with everyone on your timeline.

I won't be doing that part of the game here. But what I thought would be fun was to recreate the list, followed by a brief explanation for the one's I've done. The ones which I have not done will be highlighted in red.

Before I do this, however, a small disclaimer: the majority of these were done when I was much younger. I know, not an excuse, but hey . . . shit happens when you're young and stupid.

Now then, on to the festivities!



1.  HAD SEX:
Well, yes, obviously. I was in a relationship for 18 years, and married for 7. So needless to say sex was being had. Not an interesting statistic at all. However, to make it more interesting, I will say how old I was the first time it happened: I was 21. Does that surprise anyone? Well, it shouldn't.


2.  SMOKED:
Unfortunately, yes. Fortunately, it was only twice. I was a teenager, maybe 16 yrs old. My best friend and I were curious and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Technically it is illegal for vendors in New York City to sell cigarettes to anyone under 18 ... but living where we lived, that was not a problem. The first time I tried one, I definitely did not smoke it properly. I didn't even inhale! The second time, I did inhale ... but was not impressed. I thought it was a stupid addiction, in fact, and never went back.


3.  GOT DRUNK:
Well, duh! If you're 37 years old and have never been drunk -- you're either a devout Muslim, and I applaud you. Or you are quite sheltered. That being said, I've only been truly, stinking drunk 3 times in my life. And on each of those occasions I was able to drag my sorry ass home and sleep it off. Well, one of those times I was already home, so yay! But, yeah, I don't drink very often. And when I do, I almost never drink enough to lose control. That's just not me.


4.  WENT SKINNY DIPPING
Nope. While I don't really see the appeal, to be honest I've never had the opportunity, either. One never knows . . .


5.  KISSED SOMEONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX:
This is stupid to include on the list. This and No. 1 makes me think that this was devised for much younger people on Facebook. I don't have anything interesting to add to this even. Except this fact: I was 17 when I had my first kiss.


6.  KISSED SOMEONE OF THE SAME SEX:
Hell to the no! The only way I could ever conceivably do this is if I was either a) Drunk; b) Dared to, while drunk; or 3) Offered a large sum of money. While drunk!


7.  CHEATED ON A TEST:
Yeah. Not my proudest moment. Who are we kidding? That should be moments -- plural! I've cheated plenty of times on tests. Particularly in high school. What can I say? I never held very high opinions of standardized testing. If I could get away with it, even if I was fairly certain I knew the correct answer anyway, I would cheat just to make sure. There was a time when I would use any and all advantages at my disposal to get ahead.


8.  FELL ASLEEP IN CLASS:
Yes. Again, in high school. All the time. It's a wonder I ever graduated, and with honors to boot!


9.  BEEN EXPELLED:
Oh yes. Because of one such incident indicated in No. 10 below. I was constantly being bullied and picked on throughout most of my schooling. This particular incident occurred in junior high school. Some kid thought he could shove me and throw in a punch. But I ducked and laid him out flat. Literally. While wearing a baseball mitt on the other hand, too! While he provoked it, and others attested to this fact, we both ended up being expelled for a day. Luckily for me, it didn't go on my record.


10.  BEEN IN A FIST FIGHT:
Yes. Every single fist fight I've been in occurred while in school. It started in elementary when I was 9, and continued on up until high school. And I've never lost a fight. While I'm not proud that I allowed some assholes to get me to the point of actually being in a fist fight, I am proud to say that I never backed down once engaged.


11.  STOLE SOMETHING:
Sadly, yes to this. I used to steal candy and soda from the convenient store across the street from my junior high school. I had no real reason to do so, but this was really a crime of opportunity. So many kids from my school would rush into the place after class that the proprietor had no way of keeping an eye on all of us. And I was a particularly clever and nimble little boy. I could swipe something so fast you'd never see my hands move. And all the while I would be looking somewhere else and pretending to be barely clued in to existence. That was the trick, and it always worked! Until the one day when it didn't . . .


12.  DONE DRUGS:
No way. As Whitney said: Crack is whack!


13.  DYED YOUR HAIR:
No, I'm not a girl.


14.  CRIED YOURSELF TO SLEEP:
Of course! When you've had as many close family members die as I've had, this goes without saying. I've had other bad things happen to me in my life, too, so unfortunately I'm quite familiar with this practice. Who isn't?


15.  BEEN IN LOVE:
Yes. And broken out of it, too. It sucks. Again, I'm wondering who would answer "no" to this unless they're under 18.


16.  GOT CAUGHT DOING SOMETHING YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN DOING:
I could easily use my answer to No. 11 above for this, but that's too easy. One incident when this happened was when I was caught by my boss reading a book in a hideaway corner somewhere on the job site, when I should have been shelving the books. It's probably not such a hot idea for an avid reader to get a job working in the campus library!


17.  WENT STREAKING:
No. Not even while severely, falling down drunk would I ever do this. So stupid.


18.  GOT ARRESTED:
Surprisingly, no. Although I've done more than enough stupid shit on the streets and in the subways of New York to have been arrested, even if over no serious crimes. Misdemeanors, really. But I'm happy to say my fingerprints are NOT in the system!


19.  MADE OUT WITH SOMEONE:
God, how stupid are some of these? OF COURSE I HAVE! Like I said before . . . first time when I was 17.


20.  PEED IN THE POOL:
Yes, I'm going to have to plead my young age to this disgusting act. I've been swimming in pools since I was 6 years old, so I've peed in my fair share of 'em! What? That's what they invented chlorine for, right? No? Oh well ...


21.  PLAYED SPIN THE BOTTLE:
Yes. Nothing risque came out of it, though. And another surprising fact: I was in my mid-20s the first time I played this. Hey, some parts of my life were very sheltered, believe it or not. Consider that, as I pointed out in No. 1, I lost my virginity at age 21. Now it all starts to make sense, no?


22.  DONE SOMETHING YOU REGRET:
Who hasn't? Seriously! But if I had to pick one incident I really regret: When I was 5, my mother took us shopping down in the city. On the way back home we took the subway, where kids my age could just slip under the turnstyle for free. But, this one day I really wanted to see what it would feel like to spin the turny thing you have to go through when you're a paying adult. So I happened to spy this old woman with a ton of bags in her arms heading for the turnstyle. She set her bags down, dropped the coin into the slot, and then bent over to pick her bags back up before walking through. Right at that moment I ran through the turnstyle. It was so much fun! But then I turned to see the old woman bang right into it. She seemed really upset, and I ran away like the little chickenshit 5 yr old that I was. Even to this day I never forget that I've done something so terrible, and I beat myself up over it.


So there you have it, folks! No, I don't live a particularly daring or exciting life, but I dare say some of my experiences might be surprising to some of you.

And that being said: how many of these have YOU done? Or rather: which ones, by number only, have you NOT done? Let me know in the comments section below!

Catching Up

Just haven't had much to write about as late. Not anything personal, at least.

Yes, that's my excuse for not updating this blog more often. Aside from being crazy busy at work, I find myself apathetic whenever I sit at the keyboard and about to pour my heart out here on this blog. It's like: meh! Why bother getting worked up in a frenzy about anything anymore? That's really how I feel sometimes.

To be honest, nothing interesting has really happened to me these past few months. The nasty whirlwind that was the first half of 2013 has for the most part settled down to a day-to-day normalcy of work, working out, and trying to get back into writing my short stories. And while I am making progress on the latter, I'm afraid the enthusiasm to blog anymore has severely waned.

That all being said -- I guess I will catch you up on recent events. Or, just my thoughts on them. Which is not much either way, let me warn you now.

Saving Teddy

Was over at the old apartment this past weekend (don't ask), and was horrified to discover I had completely left behind an old, dear friend of mine when I moved into the new place.

People, meet Teddy. Teddy, people:

Don't be fooled by that winsome smile; those brown
beanie eyes hold the wisdom of ages.

Teddy and I go way back, you see? Each of us boys were given our own special companion upon completing the arduous journey of being born into this cruel, cold, and, let's not forget, hungry world. Since I was the precious first born baby boy, I guess I justified having a bear as my friend. My brothers each received a ducky and a star-shaped thingy when it was their time. We never did figure out what that star-shaped thingy was. He was weird.

No one puts Teddy in the corner. Except for me.

But, yes, there I am at about 8 months old or so. Mom and I lived out of Grandma's house at the time, and my playpen was set up right smack dab in the middle of the living room. You can see Teddy in the back there with his bib up. Funny thing is, I never went to bed with Teddy. I was the kid who didn't like to have things near him while he slumbered. On the rare chance Teddy crept into bed with me, he invariably wound up in the corner of my room by morning, upside down and with a look of bewildered hurt on his little furry face. With the rising of the sun, however, my temperament mellowed and Teddy and I were the best of friends for the rest of that day.

Around the time I officially entered Big Boy Mode, Teddy and I had a falling out. Don't know what the disagreement was about after all this time. Perhaps I caught him moonlighting with my baby brother, Eddie. The cad! Whatever the cause, I didn't see Teddy again for many long years. Sure, once in a rare day he would turn up whenever my family went through a major spring cleaning fit or similar furniture moving event, and he and I would get to reminiscing about old times. And behind the awkward eye contact and forced smiles we would think about what went wrong with us, and how we might say what we really wanted to say to each other, and all would be well and back to normal again. But then the Nintendo would call to make sure I wasn't getting myself into trouble, and we would make our sad, albeit hasty, goodbyes.

Last I heard, Teddy had been spotted in a bad part of town, seemingly run down on his luck. This was many years ago, in fact. To be honest, I thought Teddy had left this world by now. That is until three Christmases ago, when my sister discovered his whereabouts and brought him in from out of the streets. And unbeknownst to myself.  She gave him a scrub and a place to sleep, and in no time the little guy was back to his old self. Sis presented him to me that Christmas, and we've been together again ever since.

Until I lost him again. Tsk, tsk. Lucky for me, Teddy is the forgiving type. He understood I was going through a very tough time, and tried to give me some space while I sorted things out. He's so thoughtful like that!

The only pipe he smokes now is with a jacket and slippers.

Alas, we are reunited one more time. Teddy's at my new place now, and I must say he really likes it here. There he is checking out a book from my collection before he settles in for the night. Just like old times all over again.

Good to have you back, old chum! You are and forever will be, truly, a boy's best friend.

A Fry-ful Trip Into The Past

As I settle in to my new apartment, the one thing that still bugs me is coming home from work and having that new paint smell hit me in the face as I step through the front door. I officially moved in 2 weeks ago, but the smell still persists. It was cute in the beginning when the whole experience was new and exciting ... but something needed to be done. So I decided to break in my new kitchen by cooking as often as possible, in the hope that the various food aromas would replace that new paint smell and start making this place feel more like home to me. I grilled marinated chicken breasts one night, made bacon and eggs another morning, prepared a braised beef stew another time, and so on. Slowly I was starting to get this place smelling like normal, but wasn't quite there yet.

And then nostalgia hit. I might have mentioned it here on the blog once or twice, but I have virtually no connection to my Latin roots. My mother was Caucasian, and my father hailed from Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. Our father was never around growing up, although he lived in the same city and we would visit his family on occasion. So we were never indoctrinated into the traditional Dominican culture that thrives in northern Manhattan, the western South Bronx, and a large neighborhood in Queens. Our cultural cues came from our mother and, later, her mother and her sister. Which meant we grew up with fried chicken and apple pie, corn on the cob and potato salad (among many other staple Americana dishes). However, my mother did try to assimilate herself into the local Latin American culture here in New York. She spoke fluent Spanish as a second language, and her friends were all Latina. So occasionally she would prepare more traditional Latin-Caribbean dishes which her friends and mother-in-law taught her to make. Us kids hated it. We preferred our hamburgers and sloppy joes, thank you very much.

However, one particular Latin staple we did enjoy was fried green plantains. In Spanish-speaking Caribbean cultures, the dish is known as "tostones." In most Central and South American countries, they are called "patacones." But in my household we simply called them "platanos," regardless of how the plantains were being prepared. However, I do recall my sweet Dominican grandmother calling them "fritas verdes" on occasion. Tostones are typically twice-fried and served as a side dish. Although many people eat them as snacks or, even, as a full meal. I'm guilty of the latter, actually.

The thing is, it's been years since I've had tostones. Well over two decades, in fact! And I've never made them myself. All I had to go on were memories of standing in the kitchen as my mother cooked, which means I had to have been all of 7 or 8 years old at the time. Wow! Still, I'd seen it done often enough, and tostones are actually ridiculously simple to make. And luckily for me, I still live in a part of the city that's home to a pretty sizable Hispanic population. So plantains are more plentiful in the markets here than bananas. They are sold 10 for 1 dollar, in fact. Sometimes cheaper.

Suddenly thinking about my childhood, and about the different ways of making plantains--be they green or yellow (aka, "maduros")--I developed a huge craving for them. It was the weirdest thing, but my body immediately wanted some tostones in the worst way imaginable! So, I decided to give it a try. I thought it would be neat to travel back to my childhood and prepare a dish reminding me of home and my mother, and even my father's family. And as a bonus, perhaps banish some more of that new paint smell to boot!

I went to the supermarket this week and purchased myself all the necessary ingredients for making yummy tostones: plantains, corn oil (I usually only keep olive oil in the house), and a trusty tostonera--that ubiquitous hinged instrument of tostones making consisting of two wooden slabs for which to smash sliced pieces of plantain between. My mother just used a heavy pan with foil on the bottom to flatten each piece atop a cutting board, but I decided to get a little fancy with my bad self!

Since I'm only one person expecting leftovers to spare,
I figured 4 plantains were enough for the task.

 

 

With a knife, make a shallow slit lengthwise down the
plantain, then gently peel apart with your thumb.

 

Cut width-wise into 1- to 2-inch thick pieces.

Fry until darker yellow in pre-heated corn or vegetable oil
over medium heat. Turn over pieces for even frying.

 

Place on paper towels and pat dry the oil away.

 

Flatten each piece with a hard, flat surface. Or use a trusty
tostonera (pictured).

 

Slide flattened pieces back into the oil and fry on each side until
golden brown and crispy.

 

Place twice-fried pieces on new paper towels for drying, then
sprinkle lightly with salt. Serve immediately while still hot.

The end result was a little over-fried I admit, but still tasted exactly as I remembered them. Oh, the memories! Next time I'll fry them for a little less time. I couldn't think of what main dish to have alongside the tostones, though, so I ended up eating them alone. Was quite filling, in fact. And oh-so-delicious! I had around 11 pieces left over when all was said and done, so I wrapped them up in foil and placed them in the refrigerator for another day. They're best served piping hot and straight out of the pan, but I'll reheat them in the oven at 350 degrees F and they should be fine. I hope. *gulp*

Oh, and the house smells a little less painty and more like corn oil and plantains now, which is quite the improvement I say.

Anyway, have you had tostones, or patacones, or whatever you call them in your neck of the woods? You might want to give this recipe a try if you're curious otherwise. And as usual, share your thoughts in the comments below.

So . . . Celebrity Wife Swap, Anyone?

Let me preface this by admitting that I never watch these types of shows!

I know, big surprise. However, what you might be surprised to learn is that I actually used to watch "Jon & Kate Plus 8" on TLC one upon a long time ago. Back when the family seemed genuine and sweet, and not yet jaded by all the cameras. To be honest, I watched it for the adorable kids and grew attached to them and their crazy toddler antics.

Fast forward several years later and now the kids are all so much older. But still adorable. And so, despite my attempts not to, I couldn't help but watch the season premiere of "Celebrity Wife Swap" this week. Although I hate Kate Gosselin with the heated fury of 10,000 blazing suns, I do like Kendra Wilkinson a lot. Whereas Kate is a bitchy, psycho camera whore, Kendra always struck me as more down to earth and "real," despite being a former Playmate and pseudo "girlfriend" of Hugh Hefner at one point. Still, she and her husband Hank only have one child, while a determinedly single Kate has 8 to contend with mostly all on her own.

While the whole concept of these "wife swap" shows always skeezed me out, I had to admit I was mildly intrigued to see how this one would turn out. If you have the time and want to watch it for yourself, you can see the entire episode below for yourself (my comments to follow):




I have to say, things didn't turn out half as bad as I'd feared. And even though Kate is still such a cold, soul-sucking bitch, she actually does a pretty awesome job with those kids. I mean, they didn't even need Kendra there. They practically ran that whole house by themselves! On the flip side, I think Kendra's spontaneity and  open-ness relates so well with children, and Kate could learn a thing or two about just letting loose and not being so strict all the time.

Over at Kendra's house, I do think Kate was right on the money about all the free time Kendra has. I believe mothers should learn to spend some "me" time on themselves, but this is ridiculous! A nanny for only 1 child? Both Kendra and Hank seem like they have loads of free time (when the NFL is not in season, of course), so it seems bizarre to me that they should have a nanny taking care of little Hank as much as she does. Big Hank really does do a lot, too, and allows his wife to slide too much on her responsibilities, I think. But I also respect their relationship and how they run things, and don't think Kate had any business telling Hank what to do in his own marriage. I guess I can relate to Hank because I'm very much like him in a relationship. Which is to say, I'm very laid back and not afraid to cook and do chores around the house when needed. And I would also want my SO to be able to go out and have fun with her girlfriends, inasmuch as I would like to be able to do the same with my own friends every now and then. Of course, once again this is doable when you only have one kid. Not so easy when you have 8 of them running around. Sheesh!

Although I don't have children, Kate was right in that they need structure and schedules in their lives. At least, that's a truism I've observed firsthand with all my friends who have children. She was also right that a family needs to do more activities together, and for the love of god definitely eat at least one meal a day together.

But Kendra was awesome in changing things up a bit and having that taco "picnic" in the basement media room. Although it turned into such a horrifying mess, I can speak from my own childhood experience that we kids love nights like those. It shouldn't be every night, but whenever an impromptu dinner change-up did occur, it was something us kids always remembered. Even now I remember those fun moments, like the one time we were given tuna fish sandwiches and potato chips for dinner and watched Jaws on VHS rental for the first time. I will never forget that!

So all in all I can say this was an exceptional episode. Having read up on it, though, it seems that this is not the norm for "Celebrity Wife Swap." Seems it's usually more trashy and/or staged than this. So in no way will I become a regular viewer now. I came to see how the adorable Gosselin children were doing after all these years, and came away learning a lot about raising a family. For who the hell knows when that might come in handy for me, current situation being what it is and all.

But maybe someday I might need to know how to strike that right balance between order and spontaneity when it comes to raising a family. Or, barring that, how to find that right balance just in my personal life.

What do you readers think?

Side Note Observation:  Kendra is a very, very fine looking woman! Ain't she? Kate looks like an old, dried out drag queen by comparison. Kendra even looks great in the morning with very little to no makeup on. Of course, she's also 10 years younger than Kate and doesn't have a veritable brood of children following her around all day, every day.

"Sometimes I Dream . . ."

". . . That he is me. You've got to see that's how I dream to be!"

So, this past Sunday was Michael Jordan's 50th birthday. Whoa! What a legendary milestone for such a legendary athlete. You know, I consider myself eternally fortunate to have grown up in the "Jordan era" of American basketball. Although my hometown was always trying to play up Patrick Ewing and his revolving band of losers on the NY Knicks, for me my allegiance always resided farther out west. Yes, my heart belonged to Chicago and the Bulls during the better part of the 90s. How could it not?

So, nothing fancy this blog entry. No wordy, lengthy diatribe. His Airness is His Airness. Nothing more needs to be said by I. He is: A Champion. A Legend. An Inspiration.

However, I will leave you with two videos to commemorate this august anniversary of the Magnificent One. They're both commercials, but both are equally awesome and appropriately demonstrative of why, for a while there back in the 90s, everyone wanted to walk around with a "23" on their backs. Hell, I still do to this day!


Gatorade's 1991 "Be Like Mike" Commercial.



This is probably MJ's most famous commercial. Even 80 year old grandmas hum along to this tune and want to "be like Mike." It's so inspirational for what is essentially a sports water ad. I especially get teary-eyed at all the adorable little kiddies in this spot trying to imitate the Legend. To know that you've inspired so much of the younger generation to strive to be the best, to go for that seemingly impossible goal against seemingly impossible odds? How do you respond to something like that? Well, when you're Michael Jordan, you do it with class, grace, and not an insignificant amount of humor.


Nike's 2006 "Let Your Game Speak" XXI sneaker commercial.



I always gets goosebumps watching this. Don't you? The spot showcases everyday players from around the globe, young and older, recreating in slow motion some of MJ's most iconic moments on the basketball court. Simply amazing! Like its title, this commercial speaks for itself. No words are necessary. Just music and awesome moves. And if you want to see the original Jordan moves that the commercial was based around, simply click on this link for the video.

Happy Birthday, MJ. As David Stern put it in one of his many MVP trophy presentations to you: "You are, simply, the standard by which basketball excellence is measured."

Damn straight!

Because, Sometimes

I'm a grown man, I know. But sometimes I can't help but revert to the way things used to be once upon a long time ago.

Because, sometimes . . .

I still like to stomp through puddles after a rainstorm.
I miss my mommy when the world is scary and life uncertain.
I'll pretend to have super powers, like flight or invincibility.
I must have milk with my cookies. Right. NOW!!!

And sometimes:

I still like a good bedtime story.
I get shy around pretty girls.
I don't care if I'm dirty.
I'll chat with my li'l bro for hours about video games.
I believe in happy endings.

Because, sometimes . . . I'm still 4 years old, and Summertime never ends.

Kids Remember More Than You Realize

Kids are aware of a great many things going on around them than most adults realize. Especially the unpleasant things. I'm often amazed by how quickly parents forget what it's like to be a child, in fact. Sometimes we need to take time out and remember that children are not miniature adults. Some of what you enjoy as a grownup does not necessarily correlate neatly with the needs and wants of a child. Sometimes we forget just what the world looked, smelled and tasted like to us as children. Other times, things simply get lost in the translation of our muddled memories. Memories which, if only properly recalled now that we're supposedly more "mature," might help us understand the antics of that screaming toddler in the corner. For instance: do you even remember what orange juice used to taste like when you were a child? I don't know about you, but I do! When I was a young lad, I can remember orange juice tasting extremely bitter and acidic. I wasn't very fond of it, but now I absolutely LOVE the beverage. It's so sweet and tart and, when properly chilled, can be quite the thirst quencher. But try telling that to a preschool aged David. He was having NONE of it!

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days . . .

Well folks, it's that time of year again. When the sun sets that much earlier than it did back in June, and the temps are not quite as baking hot and unforgiving as mid-July. Yes, I'm talking about the close of my most hated season of them all--Summer! Haha, it's finally here!

Now, officially Summer doesn't end until September 22 this year--incidentally, my wife's birthday. But here in the States the unofficial end to summer is Labor Day, which is coming up this Monday, Sept. 3rd. And how do I plan to celebrate the close of the season? Well, with a small cookout of burgers and dogs at home. We don't have a back yard or anything, but we do have a George Foreman grill and a lot of imagination. And, hey, that does count for something, you know?

Actually, my animosity toward the season hasn't always been the case. It only really started once I graduated college. Before then, summers were great! Summertime was the bestest time, because it was the time of no school. Hooray! Remember that feeling? I don't care how good of a student you were, the minute that final bell of the school year rang, you WERE excited! Don't try to deny it. Summer was a time of idyllic days playing with your friends, and eating lots and lots of ice cream. Your family went on exciting trips, and you might have even visited a big amusement park or two along the way.

To be honest, I miss that. I miss it a lot. I was just walking through the little park across the street from the house I grew up in the other day, reminiscing of how I used to play baseball there with my brother and our friends during middle school summers. Even in the South Bronx, as dangerous a town as it was to grow up in, we still had a place to run around and be kids. For the most part the adults ignored us and the other kids in the neighborhood were either locked up or too busy getting in trouble elsewhere. So that park was OUR little spot. We owned it, insomuch as a bunch of 12- and 13-year old know-nothings could own anything, let alone a piece of public property. But what did we care about such things? We would meet there by the big ole Elm tree which served as home plate and backstop. My brother and I owned the bats and gloves, another friend the balls. Someone would inevitably bring a brown paper bag or an old baseball cap to serve as third base, while a natural flagstone served as first (a half-buried rusted pipe delineated our second). The pitcher's "mound" was a worn patch of earth where nothing natural grew, and we had to imagine the baselines in our heads. Yet to us kids this might as well have been our private Yankee Stadium! We would play from dawn to dusk--and I mean that literally! Sometimes, even, we would play when the sun was almost down and we could barely see the ball leave the pitcher's hand. We never let such small things as "facts" and "physics" worry us, though. We certainly never stopped for rain or thunder or 100+ degree heatwaves, neither.

Summers were like this, except: less butterflies, more tetanus shots.

I swear, many an epic battle was waged on that makeshift baseball field those summers! We would arrive home dirty and exhausted, ravenous like West Virginian coal miners after a long day of back-breaking labor. It made us robust, hearty--strong in that way of young men just growing into the semblance of their adult bodies. We were champions!

In-between baseball matches we would also go swimming at the nearby public pool, watch movies at the newly opened cineplex a few blocks further away, and play lots and lots of video games. Those were the best days to be so young and carefree!

Yes, walking through that park the other day reminded me of all this. I remembered what it was like to once love the season I so despise now. Nowadays, summers mean unbearable heat and long, unforgiving days at the office. It means daily runs that are that much more taxing on my body than they are in the winter, or meals that are made more quickly and with less effort than I would otherwise be willing to expend in a cooler kitchen. Summers are devoid of any exciting holidays, too. The months are long and monotonous, broken up only by the brief excitement of a quick vacation if we can afford it. Otherwise, it's three months of nothingness. Ninety-odd days of life-sapping commutes in foul, sweat-smelling subway cars back and forth to offices filled with people who are likewise missing those carefree summer days of childhood.

Is it no wonder I hate Summer so much? Good riddance, I say! I welcome Labor Day and the restart of the school season with open arms. My younger self would not recognize this new me, of course; this older me. But this older me loves the coming of Autumn and its cool, crisp days ahead. Days of apple picking and baked fruit pies. Of rustling multi-hued leaves and Halloween. Ahhhhh! I can smell the roasting pumpkin seeds already! Can you?

Here's to you, Summer time. May you be on your way and not show yourself 'round these parts for another nine months. I certainly won't miss you.

Sound off below in the comments section if you, too, are happy to be putting away your white pants and shorts for more somber hued clothing this weekend. Or if summer is actually your thing, let us know why you are so sad to see it going bye-bye. I would imagine those of you living in less urban and people-choked locations of the world than here in New York City would mourn the changing of the season more than most. Heck, if I lived in Vermont like I would love to again some day, I'd probably be singing a different tune myself.