I Don't Remember Who I Bribed, But -- I'm In Print!!!

Yes so, as I alluded to in my last post, it's now official: My short story "The Collector" is appearing in the most recent issue of the speculative fiction magazine, Space and Time (Spring '18 issue #131).

This is indeed a big milestone. I've had a tough road these past 5 to 7 years ... lots of personal problems to deal with, mostly of the failed marriage variety and trying to piece together my life in the aftermath. I've mostly kept quiet about this aspect of my personal emotional makeup, especially on other social media platforms outside of Blogger, and with good reason. Yet perhaps the most regrettable fallout from all that was my lack of writing output during this time. I've tried to write, and in fact did pen several short stories from start to finish (with "The Collector" being one such result), but to be honest it's been like pulling teeth. I used to look forward to writing each night after returning from work, or on the weekends when I could truly devote most of my day to it. I was content, and gratified by the noticeable progress I was making. I had even sold a few stories to several token and online markets back when I was married. Nothing big, but I was still proud of that progress all the same. And when it all came crashing down around me, and my lost of self confidence -- and all that doubt -- would gnaw and eat away at me?

Yeah, I hate to say that I succumbed and just could not go on writing. And yet, that yearning to be creative and express myself was still there. Hence, why for a time all I wanted to do was get lost in my photography. Making pictures allowed me to get out into the world and walk around, clear my head, and see things around me instead of within me. More importantly, it allowed me to still create.

Does that make sense?

And in all that time in which my photography started to improve greatly, and I was getting more opportunities to shoot, I was still shopping around what stories I had already written. I've received numerous rejections, let me tell you. So many that I could say I've lost count. I haven't, because I actually keep a spreadsheet of all my submissions and when, where, and how they were rejected. But the point is: I still held on to that writing bug in whatever way that I could. And now something good has happened that I cannot let go to waste. After so many years, I've done it. I finally sold another piece. Why is this so important? Well besides the fact that it marks the first time my work will appear in a physical, solid printed medium that you can honest to god hold in your hands ... it reminds me that I haven't lost the ability to write something meaningful. Meaningful to anyone else? I'm not being that pretentious, no. But meaningful to myself? Yes. "The Collector" is a story I'm extremely proud of. I don't think that it represents the best of my talents, but it does illustrate to myself first and foremost that I can indeed write for what speaks to me. I can pull myself out of that doubt and self-pitying misery and write just for the fun of being creative, of expressing a poetry of the soul that hearkens back to the man I've always been. Before, back when I was married; and after, when I was divorced and had to find my own place to live. I'm still both people -- the same person. I shouldn't let external shortcomings affect that joy to be found in doing something fun and special and creative. I shouldn't forget to just write, dammit!

And that's what I intend to do. If I never sell another piece again, that's not really the point. If no one visits this blog anymore or comments on anything I put up here. That's not the point. The point is that I need to simply be me, that I need to shut up and. just. write.

And in the meantime to enjoy, however briefly, this one big moment that I will never forget. It's a small thing to most, but it's a milestone all the same. And I'm happy about it!

For those who have been asking me about where to purchase this issue of Space and Time, Issue 131 should be hitting magazine racks this week. I don't know for sure, but that's what I suspect. I've already received my contributor's copies, but I plan to visit a few Barnes & Nobles in the city over the next several days to see if I can spot any "in the wild." Having purchased the magazine from there before, I know from experience that the publication is often in the "Literary" category of B&N's magazine section. Most often it's grouped with other like-minded mags such as: Asimov's, Analog, and Fantasy & Science Fiction, but also other speculative rags like: Mystery and Romance. If you see these titles, then Space and Time will be somewhere among them. Right now, last winter's issue is still in good supply, so if you happen to see both that and the Spring issue on offer, do yourself a favor and pick 'em both up!

Alternately, you can simply go to the website's subscription page, scroll midway down, and order the current issue to be shipped to you in the mail. That's an option, too!

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.

Impostor Syndrome

Over on his blog, Whatever, popular SF author John Scalzi talks about a phenomenon he's been experiencing a lot lately among fellow writers while attending conventions and other social-professional gatherings: Impostor Syndrome. In his own words, here's how he describes the term:

"Impostor Syndrome, briefly put, is the feeling that one’s achievements and status are a fluke, and that sooner or later one will be revealed as a fraud. Anecdotally speaking, it seems, Imposter Syndrome affects a lot of writers, editors and other folks in the publishing life. I think this is in part because the writing life is a precarious one, financially and otherwise, and also in part because people in publishing seem to be a generally neurotic lot anyway. Imposter Syndrome is just another log on that particular fire."

As a struggling writer myself (struggling in that I'm constantly trying to improve my craft and "get better"), I'm certainly no stranger to crippling self-doubt. But I'm not sure I would classify myself under suffering from this particular syndrome. Then again, I have not yet reached the level of professional accomplishment within the field of SF publishing as the folk Scalzi is referring to in his piece. Yet I get the feeling that even when I do reach such a level, I probably will feel as if I worked my ass off to get there, and probably won't have much time to wonder if perhaps I am an impostor.

I mean, like I said before, I have my own level of self critique/doubt that is always in the back of my mind as I write. But I have a peculiar realization when it comes to that nagging voice telling me that I will never amount to anything, ever.

It's there, truthfully, only because I'm strong enough to have that voice there.

In other words, that self doubt does not trouble me. It is not my disability, because I cannot be harmed or hampered in such manner. That voice is more like that of an aggressive high school coach, or perhaps boot camp drill sergeant is more accurate. It berates me, it yells at me, it tells me that I'm no fucking good and that no one will ever love me, maggot! But it does so because deep down that voice just wants me to succeed. See? It wants me to develop a thick skin and to shrug off such negativity and continue pushing myself forward. To be the best me I can be because that's all I can be!

And because I'm actually very well grounded and come from an upbringing of constant positive reinforcement -- from, first, my mother; and then later, my grandmother and aunt -- that the opposite of such positivity really has very little effect on my ego. I hear the voice loud and clear, yes; but I never allow it to truly reach me.

I do, however, know a few people who are the opposite of myself. Who try their best to convince everyone else that they suffer no such voices in their heads. That they've always known they were meant for great things, and that it never once even crossed their minds to ever doubt themselves.

And, great. That's awesome! More power to you, sister. But, honestly? I suspect that most of them are quite delusional. At least one guy I know personally is most definitely full of his own shit. He likes to talk a big game about how good he is at his craft, but yet never really puts in the real work it takes to actually be good at it. How can that be?

Well, as they say: the BS is strong in this one!

This person never likes to hear me talk down about my own work. He gives me a look as if I'm committing artistic suicide. He claims that he never doubts himself. But, really? Never? How is that even possible? For me, self doubt is how an artist perfects himself. Or, at least, motivates himself to keep going and improve. A person who does not possess even a modicum of this self-critique . . . well, how can he ever get better at his craft?

No, what I suspect is that such a person is in fact quite insecure in their abilities. Ironically, he lives in constant, neurotic fear of failure. Moreover, he may even suffer from great personal depression. The type of person who truly *needs* to believe that he is the best thing that has ever happened to his field of practice, or else he has no reason for being. In his mind, that voice is quite crippling indeed! And so, to hide this perceived weakness, he protects himself behind aggrandized claims to greatness and braggadocio. By promoting a persona that is above such things as doubt and uncertainty.

And that to me, my friends, is the true Impostor Syndrome. It is not when one questions one's right to be in a position to receive recognition and accolades for one's artistic achievements. Perhaps, instead, the real impostor is the artist who feels he should be handed such platitudes based simply on the God-given genius he was born with, and to which he never really needed to work at.

Such people are the true enigmas; the doppelgängers, if you will, of artistic merit.

Awkwaaaard!

So, I went to the movies the day after New Year's. Here's what happened at the concession stand:

Cutie Cashier: "Here's your change. Enjoy the movie!"
Me: "Thanks, you too."
CC: *laughs at me*
Me: *laughs at me, too*
Me: "I mean ... heh ... You have a good day, too. I mean, er ... Happy New Year?"

*smacks forehead*

Don't you hate it when that happens? Funny thing is, I wasn't even flummoxed or anything. I didn't stammer because the cashier happened to be extremely hot. To be honest, with the mood I've been in as of late, I barely even acknowledged her hotness. I just get so accustomed to blanket responding with "Thanks, you too" to every non-personal human interaction I have out in public. It's a bad habit I need to break.

On the plus side, cashier girl did say I was cute. That kinda, sorta made my day. And this time, I did *not* say "Thanks, you too" by way of response. Although--damn it! I totally should have, right?

Well, let no one confuse me for being suave.

Anyway . . .

HAPPY 2016, people!!! I hope you have a good one!

As usual, my New Year's Eve sucked big time. I spent it at home all by my lonesome. It's always a sad time for me since it is the 30th anniversary of the single most tragic event to happen in my life, and that means the holiday will never be the same for me as it is for everyone else.

But, you know, some day this decade I would like to spend it with someone special. That's all.

In related news ... yes, my love life sucks. I've been dealt a severe blow in that department this holiday season (why do all such bad things happen then?), and it's forcing me to reevaluate my priorities. Or, more specifically, to reevaluate ME!

What have I come up with so far? Well, not much really. But I'm starting to get the feeling that I might need a change in scenery.

I'm not there yet, but I'm currently contemplating whether I should look into picking up and moving to another part of the country. I recently visited my brother in Houston, and I have to say it's left me with a lot to think about. I never thought the day would ever come that I would seriously consider Texas as a place to live, but H-Town left a good impression on me. I mean, sure, I seriously cannot deal with hot weather and humidity -- but isn't that what AC was invented for? Like I said, I'm not quite packing up the moving truck and putting in notice at work just yet. But who knows . . .

Met a long time online blogger friend while in H-Town.

Or, I could just move to Vermont like I always wanted to. That would be nice. A state more in keeping with my seasonal climate needs. I'm very comfortable in that state, being that I lived there for 4 years during college. But unlike Houston, I have absolutely no family there in VT. Or friends, for that matter.

So, I'm not sure yet where I should go. But I do know that I might have to leave New York someday soon. More and more my ties here are weakening.

But enough of that (for now).

I'll leave you all on this one happy note. My photography seems to be getting better and better with the more practice I commit to the hobby. Just recently this particular photo has been garnering a lot of praise and attention in online circles:

I shot this back in mid-October whilst practicing my nighttime photography skills (again) in the Brooklyn Heights section of the city (again). This is the Manhattan Bridge, and I took it while standing in the freezing cold (for October) and what seemed to be gale force winds. I had to struggle to keep the tripod stable long enough for the super long exposure I needed to achieve this shot.

But hey, pretty nifty, eh? I mean, if I do say so myself! What I really love about this photo--besides the awesome color palette and that super shiny, creamy looking water surface--is that you can spy the very tip of the Empire State Building peeking out of the skyline there in the background. It was lit up purple on this night, but I have no idea why. The ESD lights up with different colors depending on which noble cause or person the city is commemorating on any given night. Or perhaps the lighting person in charge likes the artist, Prince, a lot?

Who knows. But, yeah ... so apparently a lot of people love this particular photo. And that makes me feel all tingly proud inside! I'm thinking of having it blown out to hang on my wall at home. What do you think?

Achievement Unlocked: Story Sold!!!

I'm happy to report that I've sold one of my short stories, "The Collector," to the speculative fiction magazine: Space and Time. Huzzah! Let the rejoicing begin!

I used to read this magazine a lot when I first graduated college. It's been around since just before I was born, but I didn't discover it until I was browsing through the mag racks at a local Barnes & Noble in downtown Manhattan during one of my lunch breaks. I picked it up for the catchy cover, of course. And because it was in the section with all the other big-name Speculative Fiction magazines of the time: Analog; Omni; Asimov's; The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction; etc. Those were good years to be young and possessing so much free time! *sigh*

Anyway, this is very exciting news for me to say the least! Due to personal struggles in recent years--the details of which some of you already know--I've been way behind in my writerly output. Wouldn't you know, but it's very hard to find inspiration when your life's going all topsy-turvy. It's been 5 years since my last sale, believe it or not. Something I would be ashamed of only if, in fact, I had been writing in all that time. Which I was not. Not regularly, anyway.

Still, it's a good feeling to know that things are *finally* starting to return to normal for me on the creative front. And I'm very happy that it was this particular story, "The Collector," to help me clear away the cobwebs as I get back to the grind of fiction writing again. This story is very dear to my heart, and features the first time I've ever written in the 2nd-Person narrative (think those old choose-your-own-adventure books for reference; "you open the door to the hidden room...").

"The Collector" is a tale of what happens when an ancient enemy of Mankind falls in love with a mortal woman, and has to chose between duty and happiness. I wrote it a few years ago, revised it a couple of times, sent it out to various places last year, got it rejected by all those places, sat on it for a few more months, polished it off some more, and then finally found a publication willing to buy it off me.

As they say, perseverance pays off!

Space and Time Magazine marks my first foray into semi-pro payment markets, which typically pay 1 - 5¢/word on short stories. Before now, all my sales have been to so-called "token" markets, which usually don't rate per word, but instead only pay a nominal amount of between $5 - $35 per story. Which ain't bad when you're starting out, and I guess you have to start somewhere. But it had always been my goal to keep advancing my game up the pay scale as I practice my craft, and so I have done just that with this sale. I love progress!

Also, my previous sales have all been to electronic-only markets. Which means: online sites only. This recent sale will mark the first time a story of mine will appear in an honest-to-goodness print publication. And that, my friends, is very nice!

And there you have it. The good news I wanted to share. I've known about this for several months now, but only today did I read through my contract, sign it, and send it off to the publisher. So I guess that makes it official! I had to write a little author's bio as well, which was certainly surreal for me. So much has changed since the last time I had to write one back in 2010. Wow!

As of right now, there has been no specific issue number or date relayed to me for when exactly my story will appear in Space and Time. This has yet to be determined by the publisher. But once that changes, you'll definitely be the first to know about it here on The Bimillennial Man.

And, one last thing: Thank you to all my regulars here, silent or otherwise -- some of whom are part of my crit group -- who have always supported me and suffered through some early drafts of previous stories I've shared. It truly means a lot to me. You all do!

Onward and upward, y'all!

The "S" in Summertime is for "Sweating"

At least, this used to always be the case for me.

Confession #1: I hate to sweat! It's really uncomfortable, especially for a neat freak like myself.

Confession #2: I've never revealed this, but my discomfort from sweating is actually one of the major factors for why I claim to hate summer so much. It really is my least favorite season.

So, you see, many years ago when I was a wee lad, I got a summer job working in the produce section of a high-end supermarket in the upper east side of Manhattan. To walk there from the subway, however, took 20 minutes -- part of which was uphill. That summer was also one of the hottest on record. And at that time I still lived at home with my grandmother, which meant no AC whatsoever to come home to after a hard day at work.

I think you get the picture.

'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.

I Don't Know, It's Just The Way I Am!

You know what I get the most tired of people asking me? "Why are you so quiet all the time?" Seriously, I wish some of you would stop asking me this nonsense. Barring that, I wish you would just understand. If my silence makes you uncomfortable, look to your own reasons for why this is so. Don't blame me for your discomfort.

I came across this pin on Pinterest earlier today, and it's basically the motto of my life. I wish more people would follow this advice:

How true is this? Everyone has a different story, a different reason for why they are the way they are. The reasons for why I'm usually more content to listen in a group rather than be the center of one is many fold. I had a harsh and disciplined childhood. I had some really shitty things happen to me at a young age. I was always the youngest kid in class. I had a physical disability very early on (extremely poor eyesight) which made me the butt of schoolyard ridicule and made me retreat within myself even more. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

But the truth is: I was born an introvert. And society acts as if this is a bad thing. It's not! More people are introverts than are extraverts. Did you know that? Other countries do. America is one of the few that caters to the extravert, and it's damn annoying! In our society, the person with the biggest mouth is usually the one that everyone listens to. No matter the fact that such people are often brash, immature, judgemental, intolerant, and best of all -- usually wrong!

And just to clear things up: I am NOT shy! There is a world of difference between being shy and being an introvert. The two are not the same. I can speak before a large crowd when I need to, and I can look you directly in the eye when conversing individually. I can answer you perfectly well when asked a question, and I don't stutter or mumble my words. I'm not afraid of you ... I just sometimes wish you would cut out the small talk and only engage me when you have something interesting to say and worth my time hearing. Seriously, that's it in a nutshell.

Interesting enough, I was just reading this article on The Huffington Post the other day which covered pretty much exactly how I feel on the subject of introverts--i.e., people just like me. It lists the 10 ways that introverts interact differently with the world. To read the whole article and truly understand what makes me tick, click on this link for the full text. One passage in particular I want to highlight here:

"Shyness is about fear of social judgment," Cain said. "Introversion is more about how do you respond to stimulation, including social stimulation. So extraverts really crave large amounts of stimulation, whereas introverts feel at their most alive and their most switched on and their most capable when they are in quieter, more low-key environments."

Yes, exactly! I really take this to heart. When I am surrounded by large amounts of stimulation--crowds of people all trying to talk over one another are the worst!--I can figuratively feel the lifeforce slowly draining from me. I start to feel sluggish and numb, and all I want to do is get the hell home and crawl into a good book or Netflix documentary! Or work on one of my fiction stories. These activities rejuvenate me, make me feel whole again. I didn't really know how to express this all until reading that article. I mean, wow!

So this is who I am. I'm old enough now to no longer care what anyone else thinks about my peculiar traits. I don't need to fight it anymore. I am what I am, and this is just the way I am!

And, yes, the title of this post is an Eminem reference to one of my favorite of his rap tracks off the original Marshall Mathers LP. Take a listen why don't you? Warning for offensive language, but of course.

Status Update

Have no fear, all is fine here. I didn't even realize it's been nearly 2 months since I last blogged. Wow. Somehow I'm proud of that achievement. It means I've been busy living life! :)

And yet, despite the absence, my blog's daily tracker has exploded with new visitors in that time. Seriously! I used to get around 150 to 250 visitors per day a few months ago (twice that back when I was posting Game of Thrones reviews), but ever since the summer this site has been receiving anywhere between 900 and 1,500 unique visits per day! I guess when you've been posting since 2008, eventually you have something for everyone on your site. The majority of the visits are through Google searches, though, and around 75% of those are for various pics I post here. Especially pics about famous people or models. Go figure.

Dancing On A Saturday Night

So, for the first time ever I went clubbing this weekend.

Yes, you read that right. I've never been clubbing before. Correction, I did go last year with my awesome friend, Jennifer Hillier, who was in town on writerly business and brought her bestie along so we could all have a fun time out on the town together. But see, that night ended up being Queer Night--or some other similarly titled event--at the club I had chosen. So we only stayed for about 20 mins, and never danced once, before getting the hell out of there with the quickness! It was a very weird vibe there that was not in the least conducive to dancing. *shudder*

But this weekend I decided to give the same club another shot. I mean, it's normally supposed to be a cool, retro, 80's themed venue called, appropriately, the "Culture Club," located in the heart of midtown Manhattan. And if you know me, that sounds right down my alley, right? I had my misgivings. It's notoriously hard to find out any information on what's going on in this place on any given Friday or Saturday night. So I had to go and pray to both the old gods and the new that I was not walking into another awkward gay-love trap.

It's not officially the 80s if it does not have Pac-Man.

Happy to say everything went off without a hitch! Culture Club is where both genuine 80s kids and wannabes alike can go for dancing and drinking while tunes from that era blast through the speakers into the wee hours of the morning. It used to be located in a much larger venue a bit farther downtown, but the new location was adequate enough, I thought.

Drinks are stupendously expensive here, even by NYC prices.

However, another first this night was me dancing. Yes, except for my school prom and my wedding reception, I've never danced in public before. Heck, I don't dance in private, either! And I've certainly never gone to a club to dance. I suck at it. But I must say I had a damn fun time trying, at least. Seriously, it was exactly what I needed. Although it got super crowded by around 11pm, no one was being an asshole on the dance floor, and at some point the entire club joined in unison to belt out the choruses for some of the most beloved and iconic songs of that era. Shouting along to "Livin' on a Prayer!" at the top of my lungs (yes, a few drinks had been imbibed at this point) will forever be one of my most cherished memories of the night. Tubular!

Tiny main dance stage is tiny. But we made it work.

I had more fun than should have been possible, and I daresay it's made me curious to try this whole club/dancing thingy again. Preferably at another location, but maybe I'll return back here again sometime soon since I had such a good time.

And if any of you blogger friends of mine are ever in town and want to hit up Culture Club, let me know. I'm totally game! Like, totally.

Because I'm Happppppppy!!!

*Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof*

I'm overcome with a sudden feeling of, oh, I don't know what it is: happiness, euphoria, optimism ... zest for life? Whatever you want to call it, I have it. And the weird thing is, there's no specific reason for it. In fact, I've had a pretty shitty last couple of days where one bad thing after another keeps happening to me. Small things, to be sure, but small things add up to one big, steaming pile of shit-for-feelings if you're not careful. And I'm almost at my threshold!

And yet ...

And yet, I don't know why exactly, but I'm just so happy. If I could sum it up, I seem to be overjoyed just to simply be alive. That no matter what else is happening, I am alive. And being alive is GREAT! This got me to stop and think: why am I generally so optimistic? It's a mystery to me. While others have had far shittier lives than I, and continue to have them, I've had my fair share of hard knocks throughout. Some pretty horrific ones, actually. And yet I can honestly say I've never suffered from depression. Real depression, I mean. As in clinical. No, that's just not me.

But why not? I have actual real world friends and family whom I know for a fact suffer from clinical depression. And, yes, they've had shitty lives (for the most part) to perhaps justify such depression. Although, to be honest, real depression is not caused by the simple fact of bad things happening to someone, but with that someone not having the tools to cope with those shitty happenings. And by all accounts, I suppose I *should* be in that boat. And yet, I am not.

But, again, why not? Why do I love life so much? Why, despite being knocked down so often, do I pick myself up, dust off the dirt, and keep on keeping on? I think it comes from the fact that I believe in good things around the corner. That I have ... optimism that things will always be better. It's something I strive for, and I think so long as you have that drive -- that push to reach for something bright and good, whatever it may be -- despite any and all things bad happening to you at any given moment, that this is what makes for happiness. A satisfaction with oneself that things will be all right. That's called harmony, or being at peace with oneself. If one is at peace, despite being surrounded by negative forces, then one can truly be in balance with existence.

Or am I full of it?

Who knows! In the meantime, I will do as the song below says and clap along. Because I *do* feel like happiness is the truth!


 

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?

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!

Dipping The Pen . . .

So, I'm leaving the subway this morning and stopping off for my typical breakfast pickup at the cafe across the street from my office, when I run into a co-worker who's been making googly eyes at me for some time. She mouthed the word "hello" as our eyes met, and then proceeded into the establishment with me following behind. Shit, I think. I need to get in and out of this place and make sure I don't get cornered into a conversation! Which I manage to do, pick up my order, and hightail it out and to my desk on the 6th floor in record time.

Later, as I go to refill my 1-liter water bottle at the office break room, I run into her again. Ugh! I always run into her there. And it's always awkward. She gives me this smile, and looks at me expectantly as if waiting for me to say something. And I never do. I'm actually rather brusque with our interactions, to be honest. Moreso than I need to be, perhaps. In other words: more standoffish than is normal even for me. Which, if you know me, is pretty damn harsh.

Here's the deal with this person: I don't know her from Jane. She works in the same office as me, sure, but we're from completely different departments and, therefore, have zero business-related interaction with one another. I also get the impression that she's not the one to usually make googly eyes at anybody, and keeps to only a small circle of her own colleagues. Just as I do. So it's actually pretty interesting that she seems to have zeroed in on me. I do absolutely NOTHING to warrant this attention, mind you. I don't flirt, I don't ogle, and I barely say more than a few words in greeting (enough to be polite).

Oh, I guess you should know one other piece of this equation that should be fairly obvious by now if you've been paying attention: I'm not interested in her. Not just because of recent personal circumstance (which is a pretty big reason all of its own, no doubt), but also because ...

I'm just not attracted to her. At all!

Top 10 Things About Me You Don't Need To Know

Just decided to have some fun and do another revealing expose into the type of guy I am. I've done this type of listed revelations thing before on the blog, of course. Most notably here, here and here. But, this one will be a little different. In this one, I will list only those odd quirks of mine that are not necessarily positive or attractive qualities to have. Or which might, at the very least, constitute as surprising even to those folks who know me well.

Sounds like loads of fun, eh?

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.

Alive and Well, I Am I Am.

Hey everybody! It's me, David Batista. I'm alive! And, more importantly, moved in to my new apartment.

So, you see, it turns out I survived the move. There were half a dozen ways it could have all gone to hell, but miraculously the entire thing from start to (somewhat) finish went as smooth as butter! I'm actually a little astounded myself by how well the process went. My friends attribute it to my super anal planning and organizational skills . . . but I of course assign the credit to where it really belongs, to my friends themselves. They really came through for me and helped me out big time with the logistics of moving so much of my stuff. Six hands are definitely better than two in times like these, and I couldn't have done any of it without them. Thanks, guys!

I will keep this short as I'm still in the process of setting up and/or buying new utensils/furniture/odd knick-knacks for the place. But as you can see I did get my cable connection and setup my home network already. In other words ... There Will Be Internet. Hey, you know--priorities! I haven't completely moved in yet, however. I still need to move some other items from the old place, including all my clothes. Then I can finally spend a night in the new apartment. However, I do have my furniture delivered and positioned where I want it to be. And I even brought linens and stuff! How very domestic of me, eh?

To give you a taste of just how much work has gone into the setup of the new apartment, here is a before-and-after look at the main living space:

My first time seeing the place after its complete renovation.

Picked out the furniture and arranged it all myself.
The difference is like night and day, no?

My friend, an electrician by trade, installed the ceiling fan. While I hooked up the window blinds on all three windows in the room. What do you think? Not bad, huh? The fan is a wonder, making the place so airy and well-lit. I love it! I honestly can't believe how big this studio is, and how perfectly it fits my needs. I lucked out big time, I think. Don't you?

Where I Write

It's no secret that writers are strange people. And even stranger still are some of the odd habits they keep while engaging in their craft. I for one cannot write with a pencil. I absolutely abhor pencils, have ever since I was in the first grade. I have a peculiar aversion to the feel of graphite rubbing on paper, you see. It sets my teeth on edge! But when it comes to writing, I seem to have lost the ability to write with pen and paper as well. Everything I've written since the age of about 16 has been on some sort of electronic medium--a word processor in high school, or some variation of the personal computer ever since. Writing stuff longhand is simply far too slow for my needs. I need a keyboard of some sort.

Jane Austen's desk. (Photo credit:
Eamonn McCabe.)

Then we come to where a writer writes. I'm amazed sometimes by all the spoils and riches some aspiring writers need to get themselves going. Some need to be out in nature with a yellow pad in order to get some inspiration, while others can go for long sessions at the local coffee shop. Some writers have big, elaborate home offices with pretty tapestries hanging on the wall and large bay windows overlooking some picturesque landscape, where everything is situated just right to conduct proper writerly affairs. And still others need only a small corner of the bedroom to ply their trade. Worst, however, is the writer that seems to crave more the knowledge that other people can see him writing big important writerly things in public rather than the actual task of creating something worthwhile. This is the pretentious writer type, whom I loathe with a passion.

Then there's where I fit in. And here I take a page from Stephen King, who must write with absolutely no distractions. His preferred writing spot when he was an up and comer was either the attic space when he was younger, or in the basement seated next to the heater when he was older. This is so me. I'm not very particular in the decor of where I write, but it must share some basic characteristics. For one, I need to face the wall. Preferably a bare wall with little to no hanging art. Second, no windows. I get easily distracted and the last thing I need is to be able to see the whole wide world outside when trying to focus on my own created worlds. And lastly, my space needs a door. Because, see, whenever I sit down to write creatively, I mentally shut the world out around me. And a door is that one physical link to the actual world that can correlate with the symbolic action of shutting all the nonsense out. Keeping it behind the barrier, as it were.

My desk, no fuss no muss. Okay, a whole lot of muss!

My space is cozy, bland, and best of all--easily cut off from the rest of the house around me. Once that door closes, everyone knows to leave me the hell alone until I emerge, hours later, bleary-eyed and drained of color. This is how I roll. Over the years I've been unable to write well any other way. On a laptop on the Amtrak to Philly? Nope! Won't work, too many bumps and station stops. In a cubicle at the local library? Nope, still too many noises and people walking by. I've never tried a coffee shop before, simply because I don't drink coffee and can't tell you the last time I've ever walked into one. But I'm pretty sure that wouldn't work for me, either. I mean, I can write low-energy stuff in such situations: work related docs, e-mail . . . this blog. But to write creatively I crave silence and solitude.

To me it all makes sense. I don't know about you. So tell me, what is your process? Better yet, where do you write?

She Drives Me Crazy!

"... Like No One Else! She Drives Me Crazy, And I Can't He-elp My Se-elf!"

So, it seems that article I wrote earlier last week discussing the dangers of judging people based solely on their looks went over rather well with followers of The Bimillennial Man. And not just among the usual commenters, I might add. Someone contacted me in response to that post and posed the following paraphrased question:

"So, just for kicks, what do you find attractive in a woman?"

Oops! Forgive me. I suppose in all that writing I forgot to cover this particular base. Although reading between the lines it becomes rather apparent what I don't find attractive in a woman, right? Still, I've given the question some thought. And though I don't actually live by a do or die list of qualities she must pass in order to earn my undying devotion, there are certain physical and intellectual traits in a woman that turn me on immensely. To make things easier, I'll separate them into those two categories: