My Happy Time of the Year is Here!

Oh, thank the Seven that September is finally here!

I thought it might never come, what with how blastedly hot and humid it's been around these parts for the past 3 months. This has been a hotter than normal summer for the New York City area, and oh how I've suffered because of it. I hate the heat! Yeah, I'm sure I mentioned it before more than a few times on this blog. But it bears repeating.

Well now that summer is unofficially over thanks to the passing of Labor Day yesterday, that can only mean one thing: MY BIRTHDAY IS NEAR!!!

Yup, it'll be upon me in a few days, and I'll be turning 42. It's the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, oh didn't you know? That number is. So how can I possibly be nothing but thrilled about being 42? Truth be told, I have no hang ups over growing older. I'm happy, successful, and living comfortably. More importantly, I'm still in excellent health!

So basically this means I get to enjoy the day for what it is: a celebration of my life on this planet for the past 42 years. As an eternal optimist, this is the only way I can view the occasion.

Anyway, I'm sure I'll have more to say after the actual day has come and gone. Stay tuned!

In the meanwhile, this past weekend I traveled upstate to visit my sister living in Hudson, New York. I got up early in the morning and rushed to Grand Central Terminal to catch the first Amtrak train smoking and heading north. The main waiting area, pictured above, was very quiet and subdued for being just before the start of rush hour. I had about an hour to wait for my train, so in the meantime I had breakfast at a nearby indoor diner, browsed a newsstand next, and then finally had some time to snap photos with the camera gear I had brought with me.

See, I was going to visit my sister and to see her baby girl -- my first ever niece! -- who has just turned 6 months old. I had seen her shortly after she was born, of course, but now she would be wide awake, sitting up, and even playing with toys. So I knew I just had to bring my camera for the occasion. I won't post any of her pics here, but suffice to say that my niece is quite the cutie! OMG, she is so beautiful and very adorably chubby! I couldn't be any happier for my sis, and she's being such a great mom. Our mother would be so proud of her if she were alive today.

It was great seeing my family, including my auntie and her husband, again. We all had dinner at a nearby restaurant in town, and it was great to have that connection.

Eventually, though, I headed back to the city. While sitting in the dining car having a coffee by the big windows of the train, I saw so much beauty upon the waters of the Hudson river that I had to pull my camera out and snap off a few shots. Because the train was speeding like a bat out of hell, however, I had to adjust the shutter speed on my cam to a fast enough rate so as to minimize the blur:

Considering that I shot this through a dirty, smudgy window ... I think it came out pretty decent. I love sunset light! It makes every landscape photo look so surreal and gorgeous!

So, now that summer is drawing to an end in an official capacity soon -- what are you looking forward to the most about the coming Fall season?

Me, it's jacket weather. I love jacket weather! I know it may sound silly, but I've always felt most comfortable going out in the world in a jacket or hoodie with big pockets. That's the key, see: pockets! I need to have pockets on me when I go out, and jeans or trousers alone just don't cut it. I have like a billion things to carry, and I detest schlepping along a backpack or satchel to carry them in with a fiery, hot passion. So more pockets help, yes.

Am I the only one who loves jacket weather for this reason?

About Those Ancestry Results . . .

So, my results from the DNA ethnicity test I took 6 weeks ago found their way into my inbox this morning. If you recall, I detailed the decision to have this done in my previous blog entry titled, "Who Do I Think I Am." In that post, I speculated about what my own ethnicity might be. Go check it out if you want some context.

Or, I suppose I can just rehash those guesses below:

European: 52%
African: 38%
Native American: 8%

I based this on the fact that my father is from the Dominican Republic, and that Dominican people are usually blessed with a healthy dose of both African and European influences in their genetic makeup. I say "blessed" because, in my frank opinion, mixing is the best! Yeah, I said it. I want the whole world to just stop with the ignorance and MINGLE already, yo!

Also guiding my guesswork is the relatively new knowledge that my maternal grandmother comes from a mixed African American/Caucasian background herself. And although she would end up marrying an Anglo-Scots-Irish man from North Carolina and having my mother and aunt with him, I figured that my grandma's African-American roots combined with my father's Afro-Caribbean roots would reveal to me somewhere between 1/3rd and 1/2 of my total ethnic makeup as hailing from West Africa.

My lovely maternal grandma, Frances.

And while I assumed that more than half of my makeup would be European, I thought it would be barely above half. I know my father's side wasn't completely African-descendant, and that because of Spain's influence in the Caribbean, that I would naturally get a lot of Spanish or Iberian markers in my test results. But I figured that the African side of my ancestry would still be rather sizable.

Turns out I guessed rather poorly on both accounts!

Who Do I Think I Am?

So, recently I went through with it and ordered my DNA testing kit through Ancestry.com. It arrived speedily in the mail, and I then spat into a tube, mixed in some blue preserving liquid, capped it off and shook the tube like the Dickens -- and then dropped it off in the mail.

Now, apparently, I wait around 6 weeks to receive my results. What am I expecting to get out of all this? Well, it's mostly to satisfy my curiosity.

So, Houston ... It Looks Like I Will Be In You Soon!

No, not in the biblical way. Har, har.

I know it seems rather last minute, but in fact I've been planning to visit my younger brother for some time now. He's lived in Houston since 2003, and in all that time no one from our family has ever stopped by to visit. That changes this Christmas season!

True, it will only be myself visiting him for the holidays, but that counts for something! I haven't seen my little bro since his Vegas wedding back in 2012. The wedding was supposed to take place in Houston, but the venue got changed to Sin City rather abruptly and so the fam never did get the chance to visit his fair city.

My bro and I at his wedding.

So here's my dilemma:

Houston peeps, what the hell is there to DO in your neck of the woods? Keep in mind that I'm from New York City, so it could be that I'm rather spoiled of course. But try as I might, I just can't figure out anything to wile away my time with while I'm there. I'm going to be in the Katy/Houston area for 6 days--from mid-week on through the weekend and beyond. I won't say when exactly, but you can probably guess considering the time of year and all.

So, can you help a fella out? Any suggestions?

I have to say, I'm really liking the weather in Houston this time of year. Nothing but 60s and 70s to be seen. Occasionally a few 80s, even. Whoa! So, I guess this really is the only time of year when the city is not sitting in a thick pea soup of humid hotness, eh? NICE!!!

So, there you have it. I'll be hopping on a jet plane shortly. It looks like the flight is only 4 hours. I've been on longer day drives to upstate New York. All right!!! You know, I think this will be the shortest flight I've taken in over a decade. Even the Vegas one was longer!

And, naturally, if any of you would care to meet up during my brief stay in your city -- you know how to get in touch with me.

Or, you know, just drop a comment in the box below. That works.

Dear Dad (A Letter To My Father)

Dear Dad,

I know you speak very little English, and can perhaps barely read it. I wouldn't normally knock someone for that, but let's be honest: you've been in this country for over 38 years -- the fact that you cannot communicate with your sons is your fault, not ours. Perhaps someone will translate this letter for you someday.

I'm writing to let you know where you went wrong. Apparently it might be some mystery to you, and perhaps you have some misconceptions surrounding the current state of our relationship. Or rather, the lack thereof. So let me set some things straight. If it's okay with you, I'll like to start from the beginning.

What Am I?

Yesterday over on Huffington Online's "Latino Voices" section, blogger Icess Fernandez Rojas wrote about her identity as an Afro-Latina -- feeling at times this need to justify herself depending on which group she happens to be hanging out with, be they black or Latina. As someone who is both, she felt excluded from either group depending on the situation:

"Why, in this modern age, do I have to prove myself? Why do I have to prove my Blackness or my Latina heritage while denying the other exists?"

As someone who also has a dual-heritage background, I can sympathize with her plight. My mother was white, and my father Dominican. However, unlike Ms. Rojas, I can only claim one side of the divide: my mom's side. My father was never in the picture, except for the rare holiday or out of the blue appearance by which I would infrequently see my Dominican grandmother and perhaps a handful of aunts and uncles, along with a tiny portion of assorted cousins. My skin color is fairer than most Latinos thanks to my mom, but I have my father's island features--my hair color, nose, cheekbones, mouth, and eye shape are all Latin-Caribbean!

Funny, he doesn't look ambiguous.

It's a strange pickle to be in, for sure: looking Hispanic, but having no Latin identity whatsoever. Living in New York, most Latinos assume I'm one of them. They'll walk up to me and immediately fire off full-blown sentences in Spanish as if I can understand them. And sometimes I can. But most times, I cannot. Not completely, anyway. Inevitably this leads to a lot of confusion and, on rare occasion, some attempt at cultural shaming. This used to put me on the defensive, whereby I would tell the offending party to go have a talk with my dad and ask him why he couldn't get his shit together and include his son in on the cultural cues making up around one-half of his heritage. What little Spanish I do know, I learned in high school alongside most of my African American classmates. And although I did excel in these classes, it was due more to having a natural facility with languages, and not because of my last name. Sure, I'm certain everybody else assumed I was "slumming it" in Spanish class for the sake of increasing my GPA, but to this day I still cannot roll my r's for the life of me!

As for other cultural signalers--food, music, literature, pop art--I'm woefully ignorant. I couldn't tell you the difference between the merengue and salsa, although I vaguely know that they are both the names of dances from two different islands. What? You're wondering why I didn't do more to learn about my father's culture? Well, why should I? He never had any time for me, so why should I have honored him by doing the job he should have been doing all my life?

Yes, therein lies the heart of the problem. Any curiosity I might have had concerning the island nation from which my father and his family came from in the 1970s has been overruled by the anger from being abandoned at a very early age by him. My mother raised me alone, and her mother continued the job when her daughter was no longer with us. My father had ample opportunity to play a more active role in my life at that time--the man lived in the same city, after all! But he had no time for me, and so I had no time for him or his culture.

It's petty, yes, but for a long time this was how I felt. And now? Well, now that I'm getting older I find myself softening my views. I still lack a Latino identity, and know very little about Dominican culture specifically; but my natural inclination is to be curious about other cultures, and to value their values. In college I adopted Chinese as my culture. I learned the language and the history, loved the art and watched the movies. I read numerous books in Chinese, and even studied the classics in their original written forms! When I show an interest in a culture, I hold back no stops. So why should this be any different?

Yes, I really should try to do more to find out about the one culture I actually have genetic roots in. I will never have Dominican pride, because ultimately my nationality is American, and my culture that of my mother's Scots-Irish lineage. But I can do something to cultivate a social connection to the ways and lifestyles of my father's people as well. Even if I don't particularly like the man.

As far as the interesting issues Ms. Rojas raises in her article, I'm afraid I do not have the same luxury she does of choosing to be both. Being Latino is as alien to me as being Chinese. It's still the culture of the other in my mind. A friend asked me once: "Which do you consider yourself? Hispanic or White?" And to which I replied easily: "White." What else could I say? To say I'm Latino is a gross exaggeration. It's not a question of being repelled by my own background, but one of familiarity. I know all about the American culture to which most white people in this country can ascribe. It is my comfort zone. It is the love I have for my mother.

But about being Latino? What the hell do I know about that? What right do I have to lay such claim beyond the verity of my features and bearing the last name of my Caribbean ancestors? Because, to right now say that I'm Dominican would to be to only pay it lip service. And I'm sorry, but I refuse to be so disingenuous.

So, I ask of the world the same question as Ms. Rojas, except in the inverse: Why must I acknowledge both sides at all? Why not just connect to that one side that has always been there for me, and be who I feel myself to be? Being both, I should have the right to choose which one I identify with the most. And in that case, I'm not white nor Latino--soy Americano.

I am American! And America means being both or neither, or the sum of all the parts. It means whatever I decide it to mean for myself, on my terms.

Or shouldn't it?

The Fading Years ...

I went shopping at Costco yesterday to stock up on some very essential household items. While I was in the huge walk-in freezer section, I came across an elderly lady staring intently at the skim milk pallet in the corner. She was a little bitty thing, wearing dark wraparound shades and peering very closely at the milk as if studying the cartons for signs of disease or whatever. So I walked over and asked her if she wanted to know the expiration date, but she replied that she was looking for a container with no dents on it. LOL!

Anyway, she seemed to be having trouble lifting the gallon jug of low-fat, so I grabbed it for her and asked her if she had a cart. After I placed it in the bin for her, she called me a "dear" and explained that she had a bad shoulder. I told her it was my pleasure, wished her a good day, and carried on with my shopping.

These encounters always remind me of my sweet grandmother, whom I love above all other people in this world. She raised me after my mother died when I was 9, and although she was very lax in the discipline department, she taught me all I know about compassion, caring, and understanding. I am the empathetic fellow some of you know today because of this woman.

Happy Father's Day, Mom.

So, today is Father's Day. Happy fun times to all the great dads out there, whoever you are.

As you all probably know by now, I did not grow up with a dad in the picture. Sure, the man was alive and living in the same city, but he wanted nothing to do with raising his sons. So my mom raised us alone until she passed away when I was 9 years old. We moved in with my mom's sister and their mom after that--so, in other words, with my maternal aunt and grandmother who shared an apartment.

Mom, Grandma, lil brother and me (right).

Grandma and auntie raised us for the next 12 years or so until I graduated college and moved out on my own. All three women shaped me into the man I am today. They were my rock, my guidance, and my heart. They protected me when the world was fearful, sang to me when my heart was sad, and taught me life's stern lessons whenever I thought I had it all figured out. They also taught me that one does not need a father to make it through life, and that women are to be respected and praised for all the hard work and sacrifice they bring.

Pumpkin picking with Auntie, baby sis, lil bro, and me (right).

So I never cared that my father was not around -- but it would have been nice if he were. He never taught me how to be a man: how to carry myself, how to fight and stand up for myself like a man should. Never taught me how to drive, or dance, or tie a tie, or shave, or even how to fix a damn flat tire! I learned all these things on my own or from the women in my life. Needless to say, I have a low opinion of men. Yet, I strive all my life to make myself the kind of man I would have been proud to call my father when I was younger.

How fucked up is that? I was, in essence, my own father. But honestly, that role was filled by three others. And if they happened to be women, who cares? They were the best damn father a boy could ask for!

Happy Father's Day mommy, auntie, and gran'ma. I'm more of a man today through your love and support than I could have ever been learning from my real dad's example.

College grad with baby sis (left), Grandma, and Auntie.

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.

Disappearing Act

The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Hi folks. Happy new year. Let's hope 2013 is a lot better to me than 2012 has been. Jesus Christ!

No, I haven't run away, although I haven't been on the blogs for some time. That means not only have I not been updating this site on a regular basis, but that I missed out on all of your own blogs for almost a month now. Sorry 'bout that. I've been pretty down and out of things for a little while due to a crippling personal circumstance that has arisen. It's not about my health, nor has anyone died in my family. Thankfully everything's fine on both accounts. But I don't really want to go into details right now. Maybe later. Suffice to say that I've been very sad and hurt in all this time, and haven't had much enthusiasm to start up the PC and blog about stuff.

It happens.

Sometimes, Life Throws You A Rotten Lemon

. . .  And just you try making lemonade with rotten lemons!

Was watching a tv show last night where this boy gets reunited with his mom after 18 years, having not seen her since he was just a toddler. And I thought what a sweet moment that was, and how it gives one hope. And then it hit me: I'm never going to see my mom. Like, ever. And that hit me pretty hard indeed. See, there won't be any tearful reunions. No "sorry I missed out on most of your life, son." I will never have that. Ever. My life won't resemble a Lifetime movie, or a Hallmark card. My mom is gone from me forever.

Forever.

Now, sure, I've known this all along. But something about that moment, watching it happen on the tv screen, just brought it all home at once in a way that twenty-seven years of mourning have not. I mean, it struck me with such clarity and force that -- HOLY SHIT! I will *never* be with my mom again. I think somehow, some way, deep down inside . . . I think I actually had this feeling like I would see her someday. Like this nightmare would one day end and all would be well again. I would have my mom back, and this lifelong empty hole of loneliness inside me would somehow fill up and make me whole.

But, nuh-uh. Not happening, buddy. This is life. What, you thought it would have a happy ending? Fuck that shit!

Needless to say, I don't believe in heaven and angels and harps 'n' clouds and all that bullshit. I do believe that none of us on this Earth have even the foggiest real notion of what happens to us after we die. So, with that in mind, perhaps there is still a chance I will be reunited with my loved ones someday. Because, who's to say that I won't be, right? I sincerely doubt it, though. Something tells me that what you see is what you get with this life we have to live. So, I guess the message is: make the best of it when you can, while you can. This Earth is meant for living life to the fullest and getting the most out of such a corporeal, tactile existence.

Because we might not know what happens next, but it damn sure won't be like this.

A Driving First

So this past weekend I drove my grandma, sister, sis's boyfriend, and their dog 130 miles north up to my aunt's house in rural upstate New York for a family get together, and in the process experienced a driving milestone that I've managed to go 18 years avoiding. Yes, I got pulled over by a state trooper for speeding!

GASP!

I saw the dude, too, right at the last moment. Parked against oncoming traffic in a tree-shaded ditch just past the shoulder. I had already avoided five similar speed traps prior to this one, and was only 20 minutes away from my aunt's home when it happened. Grrrrr! Ain't that often the case? Well, what the hell would I know? Like I said, this was the first time such a thing has ever happened to me. So I zoomed right past the guy and immediately knew I was in trouble. And so I did what any honest, law-abiding driver would do: I immediately shifted into the right lane, slowed down, and tried to hide among the other cars travelling the road with me.

But I guess these guys have seen this trick before. Because, nope, didn't fool him one bit! Next thing I knew, blue and red lights were flashing in my rearview. Shit! So I pulled over and this very young state trooper dude comes up to my window. My sister's dog is barking nonstop from the back seat, mind you, but this didn't seem to faze the guy at all.

After asking for my licence, he asked: "Why are you in such a hurry?"
Me: "I have no idea."
Him: "Do you know what the speed limit is?"
Me: "Fifty-five?"
Him: "And do you know how fast you were going?"
Me: "Uhhhh . . . seventy?"
Him: "Seventy-seven!"

Ouch! Busted! Yes, sometimes I have a bit of a lead foot, folks. Especially on super long, sparsely traveled scenic highways when I'm bored out of my skull. And especially when I'm almost--just ALMOST--at my destination. But the trooper was a nice sort, and seemed to warm up when I told him of our destination. I guess he was a local and knew the town where my aunt lived. He must have figured I wasn't some out of town gunrunner or something, just blowing through on my way to Canada. My granny certainly wasn't packing, anyway. So he ran a check on my license, found that, as usual, my record was completely clean, and then let me go with just a promise that I wouldn't do that again.

I told him that I wouldn't, and I meant it. I really did. But of course . . .

Anyway, so that was my brief and first real run in with "the law" this weekend. How was yours?

Oh, and before I go, here are some pics of the rental car and my aunt and uncle's property where we had a cookout and even a bonfire going to ward off the mid-October chill. The last three pics are panoramas acquired using the new automatic function on my iPhone 5. Pretty nifty for "cheating" your way through wide-angle shots. As always, clicke for larger views.

The Ford Escape in front of my aunt's house.
Not bad for a Zipcar.

My aunt's driveway, with their newly purchased trailer in the back.

Bonfire a-brewing out back. My sister's dog, Shiva, in the foreground.

Food and beer aplenty out on the patio. One of the guests
brought their own pooch, Ralph, to the party.

As you can see, they're not quite at peak foliage season up in the higher elevations of New York state yet--but they're very close! Of course, down here in the city we won't be seeing those colors until the end of the month or right around Election Day.

Hello, Hello!

Just a quick note to let you know that, yes, I'm very much alive--and that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Heh, heh.

Sorry, couldn't resist paraphrasing Mark Twain there.

We flew out to Las Vegas over the weekend to attend my little brother's wedding. It was originally planned for Houston, which I was actually looking forward to visiting for the first time. But then it got changed at the last minute to that little gem of debauchery in the middle of the Nevada desert. Vegas is a great town, despite the way people seem to always put it down. But at the same time, it's a little alarming how easily folks discard their morals and personal regard while in Sin City. It's true that pretty much anything goes there, and that whatever it is must truly stay there. Because, honestly, no one would ever believe you back home if you told them the things you did or saw there.

I've been away from the blog world for quite some time. Can't really say why. I think the whole blogging idea is wearing itself thin. At least for me. Plus, I have a lot on my plate these days. Nothing worth talking about here, though.

Anyway, this was meant to be quick and I meant it. So, it's good to be back home and I'm looking forward to this hated season coming to a close and my favorite (Fall) starting up again.

On one last note, I would like to say I've been greatly enjoying the Summer Olympics coverage these past couple of weeks. As always, USA represented itself extremely well on this world stage. You know, for how much other countries rib us for being so fat, we sure do win an awful lot of medals at major international sporting events, no? And against much bigger countries with far rigorous training programs to pump out machine-like athletes. Hmmmm . . . gee, I wonder to whom I could possibly be referring. Do you know?

My Top 10 Forgotten NES Games

The Nintendo Entertainment System--or NES as it's commonly referred--is one of the most legendary home gaming consoles ever to be launched. Not the most successful selling console of all time (that would be Sony's PlayStation 2), but definitely one of the de-facto, most talked about systems to come up in conversation whenever important milestones in gaming history are discussed. Although Atari and the Commodore 64 came out before it, and the Playstation 1 after, no one can deny that the NES is where the huge multi-billion dollar gaming industry of today really secured its footing in the hearts of countless eager young kids (and not just a few adults) back in the mid 80s.

The French Method Seems More Like My Method

 . . . At least, according to this book on child raising over there. I was reading this article on Yahoo today, Are French Women the New Tiger Mothers?:

"Parents used to look to doctors for advice on raising kids. Now they look to other countries. The latest contender for the world's best mom is from France. Author Pamela Druckerman's new book, Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting, asserts that the Jerry Lewis-loving culture is better at raising children than Americans."

Needless to say this book must be filled with generalizations, but I admit I find the premise intriguing. According to the article, the "French" way seems to be perfectly in line with my idea of how I would raise my own children, were I to have any (and I'm not planning on it anytime soon).

I've always believed in the philosophy of my mother and grandmother, which is pretty much the old-fashioned adage that children should be "seen and not heard." In other words, children should know their place and never, ever talk back to adults. But, to be honest, I would simply settle for teaching them good manners. Wishful thinking, I know, since I don't yet have children and have no idea what it's really like to wrangle them in. Yet I've watched my sis-in-law with hers, and I'm impressed by how well my nieces and nephews are not just in public, but at home when we come to visit as well. And she's definitely not into this new-agey "let's be friends" style of parenting I see in the parks and on the sidewalks of posh neighborhoods here in NYC.

"But there are some things we can teach the world, too. 'American parents are known for putting their children first,' says Newman. 'As a result, children overall feel and know they're special.'"

Uh, yeah. I don't much care for this line of thought. I think kids are coddled too much these days. And if you make them feel *too* special, chances are they'll just grow up to be entitled dick wads expecting the world to fall to their knees at the slightest command. No thanks. We already have enough dick wads in this country to begin with. Let's not feed that, m'kay?

Anyway, yes, my views are easy to hold for someone without children. I've already established that. But what do the rest of you think? I'm eager to know.

I'm also kind of intrigued to read this book now. I don't for once buy into the conceit that the French are better parents than Americans. Or that you can even judge such a thing to begin with. But I would like to read more about what these differences are. I do believe in teaching children a more realistic view of the world, which is that life is pain and suffering and full of assholes.

Hey, it's how I was brought up. And I turned out okay. Uh . . . right?

Yeah, it might best if no one answers that! :)

Are You Ready For Some FOOTBALL?!!!

Today is the big day, oh yes!

So here we are. I can't say I knew this would happen. I distinctly recall at the beginning of the season saying that my team didn't have a chance in hell of making it past the regular season, let alone the Big Dance. Yet here they are, and I couldn't be more stoked!

I've been avoiding social media all day so as not to run into all the too-boisterous fans of either team. Actually, I wanted to avoid the naysayers the most. I have a few of them on my friends list, all locals. Or rather, I should say, recent transplants to NYC from other locales throughout the U.S. For some reason these people--almost to the last woman--feels the need to loudly talk trash about the home team and root for that OTHER squad instead.

The hell is up with that?

I'm not saying you're required to root for my team or shut up . . . but have a little respect at least. These people always come across as extremely butt-hurt that *their* hometown team didn't make it to February. And because they know they now live among the "hated enemy" of New York sports fans, they feel the need to denigrate our collective festive spirit into vile negativity.

Well, I'm not having it today! So I've banned Facebook for the duration of the night. Maybe I'll check in tomorrow morning when the dust clears.

In the meantime, I'm about to get my 4-mile run in for the day before settling down to the game with some fresh fruit and a protein shake. Yeah, I'm sorry to say . . . but that's how I roll! :) I'm in what I call "training mode" for the past 3 months or so, whereby I have a strict workout and dietary regimen to get all lean, mean, and fit. I do this every other three months, with my off months being a more relaxed eating and exercise schedule, but still health conscious all the same. As such, I won't be pigging out on barbecue and chips during tonight's extravaganza as is traditional, but I will still enjoy myself.

And who knows, maybe the wife will sneak in a pizza when I'm not looking. And then, you know . . . who could blame me for joining in, right? I mean, you can't let a perfectly good pizza go to waste, can you? There might be buffalo wings involved, too, I hear. What's a guy s'posed to do, I ask ya?

By the way, sorry for being M.I.A. this weekend on most of your blogs (you know who you are). Unfortunately, I had to attend the funeral of a very close family member and these past two days has been a restless nightmare for me. I slept for 12 hours straight last night, I was so tired! Woke up late this morning (or early afternoon) feeling a whole lot better, but still I have this lingering sadness hanging over me. My wife, too. I've been to far too many of these in my short life, and unfortunately I know I will have to go to a lot more before my time eventually comes.

Sorry for the turn toward the morbid. I've been thinking about life and death and all that fun stuff these past 48 hours or so. I'll be fine, but I just need some time. Needless to say I haven't been online much since about Thursday, so please bear with me.

Tonight's game will be more for distraction and relaxation. Whatever the outcome, I intend not to take it too seriously. In fact, I find that I wouldn't be too upset if the other team wins. Not because I want my team to win any less . . . but because they are a tough opponent and have the better record. And because we kinda embarrassed them that last time 4 years ago, so there's that whole revenge undercurrent going on. As a writer, I do so much love a good revenge story!

So, good luck to the fans of both sides tonight. Either way, it plans to be a great show of athleticism and sportsmanship (one hopes). May the best team win.

Have a good one!

That Time Of Year Again

Hi folks.

I've been gone a loooong time from the blogs, I know. Sorry about that. I usually get scarce this time of year, as I'm rarely online when I'm on staycation. How's that for irony, huh?

So this means I haven' blogged or read blogs in all this time. And I therefore apologize for my lack of comments, people. Nothing personal, okay?

Anyway, I hope you all are having a good wrap-up to the year. 2011 was not a nice year to me, and to be honest I can't wait for it to be done with already. But I hope the rest of you have had a better year. And even if yours sucked as much as mine did, let us join forces and wish really hard that we ALL have a fantastic 2012!!!

As some of you already know, the end of the year is never a good time for me. New Year's Eve is when my mother was taken from us, as I've already chronicled here and here before. So it's not a happy, merry ol' time for me or my family. We tend to be very low-key on this night, watching the ball drop on Times Square from the comfort of our living rooms, but not much else. I can only remember one time since my mother's passing that I've gone to a NYE party, and that was mostly to take my mind off depressing thoughts than anything else.

Still, don't let me spoil the fun and merry hijinks of this night. I wish you all the best . . . auld lang syne, and all that jazz. May you have a prosperous and joyous 2012.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Motherly Favoritism?

Hmmm, I've been wondering . . .

Why does it seem mothers proffer way more attention on their sons instead of their daughters? It's an observation I've been making among many of my real life and Facebook friends (not that FB isn't real life, but you know what I mean -- ha!). And yes, if you're a mother with both sons and daughters, I already know what you're going to say:

But, Batista, I love ALL my children EQUALLY! Blah, blah, blah.

Can it, okay? Because, let me tell you: that's sooooo not what I'm seeing! What I see on FB and the blog-o-spheres is a tendency of many mothers to baby the living hell out of their sons, meanwhile giving their daughters what they term a sense of "self dependence." Haha -- but we all know what that really means, right? It means: toughen up, little lady! Because your whole life will be nothing but you fighting for your rights and dignity, and sticking up to the cruel injustices the world inflicts on women.

While there is much truth to all that, of course (girls really need to be taught strong, independent values), I think mothers should take a step back and examine what they're really doing to their kids.

On Facebook, for instance, I've noticed that mothers of both boys and girls constantly praise their sons and record every little motherly greatness they've performed for their male offspring on any given day. And what about their daughters? These they relegate to the occasional reference on birthdays or major milestone moments.

That's it.

But for the 364 other days of the year, it's: "go team Mama's Boy!" all THE DAMN TIME! It's almost as if mothers are making up for a self-perceived inferiority complex they themselves developed growing up in a generation where we were all taught that men RULE THE WORLD!

Which is strange, actually, since nowadays we're very much living in the time of the Super Mom who can never do no wrong. Super Mom is so much smarter, harder working, and a better parent all around than her nameless, helpless spousal partner who gets occasionally referenced as simply "the hubby" whenever Super Mom is feeling magnanimous.

So I find it weird, in this day and age when we're supposed to be more sensitive about empowering the women in our lives, that mothers are STILL practicing the time-worn tradition of holding their sons up on a higher pedestal than daughters. As if to say that boys are lacking in certain areas and actually NEED the boost up? Oh, forget the girl! She's strong and brilliant--JUST LIKE ME--and will therefore be fine. I'm not worried about her.

Admit it, mothers: this is how you rationalize your treatment of your daughters. Right?

But fine? FINE YOU SAY? Hundreds of psychiatrists and millions of dollars spent on therapy say otherwise, methinks. After all, is there anything more fraught with pitfalls than the modern day mother-daughter relationship? By contrast, father-son rifts look like a day at the spa!

Look, I understand the opposite-gender favoritism thing that parents have going on. Mothers favor their sons, fathers favor their daughters. Freud wrote many, many articles on the subject, I think. And I get it. Really, I do. Still, if you're a single mom, or a mom who has a very strong presence in her kids lives (meaning, you actually give a damn), then please stop raising boys who grow up into pampered, egocentric, entitled pricks. Those self-centered ignoramuses who think women exist solely to prop them up and mooch off of.

This is all I'm getting at here. It's becoming an epidemic around these parts nowadays. I can't tell you the number of assholes I know who just so happen to be mama's boys, too. I mean, honestly -- you think there's not some correlation there?

So please, unless you're an ancient Egyptian . . . ease up on that there son worship, ladies. In this day and age where the good, conscientious, self-sufficient man is a dying breed, and where mother-daughter relationships have never been at their most fractured, how about you stop pretending your daughters are thick-skinned and actually reflect her accomplishments on Facebook or the blog for a change?

I'm so tired of hearing how great Billy is, and how he will be your baby FOR-EVAH and EVAH!!! Stop shouting to the world how handsome, tall, and strong your Mark is -- and, oh . . . as an aside, Sally won a scholarship to Yale, too. She takes after me, you know?

I think you know by now which one of those accomplishments I find more pertinent to the real world and, therefore, worthier of praise. Give me brains over good looks any day, I say!

As mentioned earlier: it might not be as apparent to you, but it is to us. Your sons are getting WAY too much of the shout outs and atta-boys from you on the Internet. So let's stop this blatant favoritism before the world is filled with nothing but soft, mewling, pansied man-boys getting absolutely NOTHING done, and hurting the women around them with their gender-elitist attitudes.

Oh wait -- TOO LATE!

And this is coming from a former boy who got pampered and exulted from the female parental figures in his life, you know? Yes, even in my screwed up, shit for luck life I couldn't escape this preferential treatment. Sure, I benefited greatly from it on an emotional level, but holiday get-togethers with my female siblings and our guardians is the stuff social therapy textbooks are made from!

Just a friendly word (or thousand) of advice this holiday season. I'm all about giving, don't you know . . .

There And Back Again, A Thanksgiving Tale

Woke up early yesterday morning for the long drive. Where we live in New York City is fairly close to the major highways heading north, so driving to visit my aunt and uncle upstate is easy. It's just a matter of navigating the very twisty, narrow roads as you get closer to the mountains and out into the "boonies," where the trees far outnumber the people.