Belated Thoughts on a Bloody Wild Show

Bloody bloody tight jeans.

Thanks to the magic of employee discounts, Dad and I snagged two seats to Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on Broadway earlier this month. I had high hopes for BBAJ, having heard comparisons to groundbreaking rock musicals like RENT (seen it), Spring Awakening (seen it) and American Idiot (hope to see it). Bloody Bloody met, but did not exceed, those expectations.

Star Benjamin Walker as Andrew Jackson is fantastic. The angst-ridden Old Hickory struts and sways aacross the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre in an electric bravado for 95 uninterrupted minutes (no intermission, folks). Walker is a master frontman, having played the part since the show's workshop days in 2007. Portraying a 19th century-era president as a rock star is no easy task, but he commands our attention and wholeheartedly earns it. On the downside, it's difficult to pay attention when Walker isn't onstage.

The music is strong overall: catchy, clever, pulse-pounding. "I'm Not That Guy"/"I'm So That Guy" and "Rock Star" are high points. The largely loud and whiny emo-rock score-- not my favorite musical preference-- is redeemed by witty lyrics and Walker's vocal talents. I've found that the more I listen to this soundtrack, the more I like it.

Presidential curtain call

Unfortunately, the plot lacks cohesion and fluidity. For reasons unknown, the early events of Jackson's life are told by a scooter-bound, sexually uninhibited elderly woman. She encounters a grim fate only to be resurrected later on in the show, although we didn't really miss her in the first place. It's an odd style of narration that gets old (no pun intended).

The balance is also off between the energy and uproar that define the first two-thirds or so of BBAJ and the somber territory it attempts to cross over into. It's difficult for an audience to take themes like death and betrayal seriously after having laughed at them just minutes prior. Dad and I heard several spectators cracking up during a certain scene that wasn't meant to be funny. This satire, much like a screechy emo kid, doesn't entirely know itself.

The show is, however, a lot of fun, with as much thanks to the lighting and set design as to Ben Walker and co. Beer bottles litter the sides of the stage; a stuffed horse hangs from the ceiling; a colorful chorus of lights and props populate the theater.

In spite of the high energy and cheeky pop culture references, this show never found a steady audience like its predecessors did. For me, it all boils down to resonance. I left RENT and Spring Awakening feeling attached to and moved by similarly brooding leading male characters like Roger Davis and Melchior Gabor, but Andrew Jackson? Not so much. By no means is this the fault of Walker-- it's the show's inconsistent script and lack of character development.

It's only around for a few more days (closing date is January 2!), but Bloody is definitely worth a view. A cult hit in its more intimate off-Broadway theater, the cast and crew should be proud to have taken this production as far as it could go. Take a bow, Mr. Jackson.




Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson: on the web and Twitter
Also, check out 1 On The Town for my fellow showgoer's take on our 7th President.

Greetings from a Last Minute Holiday Shopper

When I was a kid, the road to Christmas was long and winding. Weeks of buildup and anticipation felt more like years. All that waiting and waiting and waiting for the grand day of new games, toys and stuffed creatures. (Enter 90's classics such as Doodle Bear, Mr. Bucket, and Fetch Armstrong.)

Nowadays, December goes by in the blink of an eye. All of sudden it's almost Christmas Eve and I'm only just getting around to that shopping list. It's not even a long list, either. Just ask all three of its members.

Come to think of it, I will never be one of those people who gets their shopping done weeks or months in advance. On November 1st, I'm still carving pumpkins and drinking apple cider, thank you very much. Christmas shopping is for Christmas Eve Eve. And if that moniker sounds a bit excessive-- hey, isn't that what Christmas is all about? (I've eaten an excessive number of two-bite cupcakes at the office all month long.)

As for writing one of those long, uber-introspective nostalgic holiday entries-- meh. Did that last year.

What I'm most excited about this year is spending Christmas Eve with my significant other. After three years of dating and three Christmases apart, it's our first one together and it's all I really need. Forget about the iPad and yes, even the pony.

(OK, maybe I still want the pony.)

But seriously, what the hell happened in 2010? This Christmas snuck up on me. I ain't ready. Anyone else feel the same?

Oh well, there's no looking back now. On with decking the halls, jingling bells and rockin' around the tree.

All I want for Christmas is...

...You. Just kidding! A MacBook.

 

Eh, a bit pricey.

Something more realistic? A Kindle.

Or maybe I'll go with the Nook. Or a Kobo. Gah. Who can decide?

OK, I can settle for the Parks & Recreation Season 2 DVD.

Actually, I may or may not have already bought that as an early Christmas gift to myself.

I guess I'll stick with a good old fashioned pony.

Works for me.

Dodger No More

I'd been contemplating a switcheroo and here it is: Dodging the Real World is now Live from the Real World.

Basically, I see this blog as more of an uninterrupted broadcast of my life experiences rather than an outlet for avoiding adulthood, so I believe the new name is a better fit (and a change that will hopefully lend itself to more frequent entries in the future). I'm also hoping to give the page a visual makeover soon.

In short: same crazy blogger, same zany content, slightly different name. Get ready.

 Over and out.

The Soundtrack to Your [High School] Life

Remember these relics?

Recently, a feature on NPR Music asked its readers and listeners what albums got them through their teens.

Not surprisingly, the article prompted over 500 reader responses, including albums from the Beatles, Pink Floyd and Simon & Garfunkel. I was itching to weigh in with my own answers, yet I initially found it difficult to come up with specific albums.

Intead, what came to my mind almost immediately were individual songs themselves. Being at the tail end of the "Mix CD Generation" of the early 2000s, my high school friends and I often exchanged CDs at our lockers with one another. We did this on birthdays, holidays, or on random designated days just for kicks. Our mixes were a messy mash-up of different artists, styles and genres. A punk cover of the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way" followed by Jay Z's "99 Problems?" Totally normal. Pretty soon, a majority of my music collection was homemade (not including the Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys albums from my teenybopper youth).

The more diverse our creations turned out, the better. Best of all, mixes made great personal gifts, since each song was hand-chosen by its creator before being ripped to the CD-R. Such was the beginning of the decline of record stores. And as we all bought iPods and began to digitally download music straight to the source, the Mix CD Generation quickly became a thing of the past.

That being said, not all of the albums of my adolescence fell into the mix category. Many of the essential tunes from my teenage years came from the following five albums.

1. Rockin' the Suburbs (Ben Folds) - The first Ben Folds album I ever owned started a near-obsession with this piano god. It's a classic, from the popular "Annie Waits" and "Zak & Sara" to the deliciously alliterative "Losing Lisa" and "Carrying Cathy." These songs were hands down the most played on my iPod, whether I was commuting to high school on the short-lived Q "diamond" express, or trekking home again from a long day, stuck on the slow crawl of the Q local.
2. Heavier Things (John Mayer) - My memories of this album mainly involve summertime train trips out to Long Island and creating a music video in my head to the track entitled "Split Screen Sadness" (don't laugh). It was, predictably enough, envisioned split-screen style, with two almost-lovers travelling in opposite directions on two different trains. Told you not to laugh! I may have a budding career in film & video here.
3. Greatest Hits (The Pretenders) - The only Pretenders song I was familiar with before a friend burned me a copy of this CD was my karaoke favorite "I'll Stand By You." It was then that I embraced the perennial coolness of Chrissie Hynde--a rare female rock band leader of her time-- and 80s music caught me by the throat and never let me go. Call it a guilty pleasure, call me crazy, call me born in the wrong decade, but I just can't resist.
4. Gimme Fiction (Spoon) - It's hard to believe there existed a time when I wasn't listening to Spoon. At first I dismissed them as sleepy and dark, but then I fell in love with by "I Summon You" long before "Scrubs" gave the song mainstream exposure. Gimme Fiction was entrancing, and future albums proved that Spoon is a group that continues to do the impossible: they get better with age.
5. Rent Soundtrack (Original 1996 Cast) - Rent was the first musical that actually resonated with me (sorry, Little Women) and about a million other children of the new millenium. While I didn't see the show until 2005, I'd been singing along to the soundtrack years before that. Looking past those who'd seen the show at least a dozen times and knew every line by heart, Rent was edgy and gripping in its sexual openness, an openness I couldn't yet display for myself.

That's just a snippet of the full soundtrack to my teenage life. What was yours?

Absence and Return / What's in a Name?

Fill in the blank.

I'm back from flying under the radar for a while. We'll call it my summer vacation.

Actually, it was a wonderful summer overall. Did good amount of writing on my August trip out west to Berkeley, Oakland and San Francisco, three incredible places that have left permanent imprints on me. Hopefully the random bits I jotted down here and there will turn into a longer essay one of these days.

Anyway, I unintentionally ended up taking a blogger break to focus on career-related affairs. I've also been thinking about my blog URL and title. To change or not to change? The issue is that I fear that my readers' comments and some of my own posts won't be retained. Several months ago I altered my URL and noticed that all of my comments had vanished (each post re-set to 0), so in a panic I switched right back to the original URL (the comments reappeared). Has anybody out there had a similar experience on Blogger? If I were to change my URL, would my comments return to my posts soon after the switch (say, within a few hours)? Any advice or reassurance from the blog-iverse would be greatly appreciated.

My desire for a change is the need for a name that more accurately reflects the purpose of this blog. DTRW has thus far been a chunky mix of personal essays and anecdotes, cultural commentary, and my odd brand of humor. In other words, it's an everything bagel with three kinds of cream cheese slathered on it. There's no true focus. Not that I mind that lack of focus-- or the original title itself-- I'm just wondering if there's a name out there that's a better fit.

That being said, what do you think-- does a blog by any other name smell just as sweet? Or, do you judge a blog by its cover?

The Ten Commandments of the Subway

Blocketh not a car door
(unless it's 8PM on a Friday night)

Brothers and sisters of the city, you are all well aware that the New York subway system is full of sinners. Every day we encounter persons who break one or more of the precious rules making up the unspoken underground social contract. And yet, if only we all did our best to honor and obey the following set of commandments, the subway would be a better place for you and for me.

They read as follows:

I. Thou shalt not standeth in front of a turnstile fumbling for thy Metrocard or blocketh a train car door while others are waiting to enter.

II. Thou shalt enter the car quickly during rush hour; thou shalt not hinder your entrance into the car when others are behind you also seeking to enter.

III. Thou shalt not carry mountain bikes, furniture, palm trees or other outrageously large items into the car.

IV. Thou shalt not take up more than one seat on the train; thy rear end must stay contained to that seat and that seat only.

V. Thou shalt not touch your train car neighbor unless you are acquainted with him or her.
i: Thou shalt not exhibit sudden bouts of narcolepsy and rest upon your neighbor's shoulder.
ii: Thou shalt not elbow your neighbor without recognition of the occurrence.
iii: Thou shalt not spread thy legs to the point of gently straddling your neighbor.

VI. Thou shalt not sneeze, cough or expel any other bodily fluids onto thy neighbor.

VII. Thou shalt not remove any articles of clothing while in transit; thou must enter and exit car fully clothed (including footwear).

VIII. Thou shalt not raise thy voice to unmanageable decibel levels, unless thou must do so to ward off oncoming predators such as mutant pigeons.

IX. Thou shalt not carry a particularly pungent sub/hoagie/hero/whatever the hell you happen call a sandwich onto a crowded subway car and proceed to unwrap and eat it, spilling crumbs all over the floor.

X. Thou shalt not preach absurdities about God, the Apocalypse, minorities, and related topics amongst thy neighbors... for Christ's sake.

Thus spoke the gods of the underground.

For hilarious and tragic examples of the most outrageous subway sinners, visit Subway Douchery, Seat Hogs and Train Pigs at your own risk.


Which subway commandments are you a faithful follower of? Are there any that should be added to the list?

It's a Mad, Mad World

Don Draper is starting over.

The pilot episode of AMC's Mad Men put me to sleep. I was puzzled at just how hyped up audiences were over a period drama about advertising. Too slow-moving, I thought. Too dated. Who is this Draper guy and why should I care?

That very question-- "Who is Don Draper?"-- is the show's focal point and a major part of what pulled me into the world of Mad Men. Season 4 premiered earlier this week, and I'm itching to see what's in store for Don and co.

Throughout the past few months, I caught up on Seasons 1-3 thanks to the magic of DVD. By the end of Season 1, my mother, father and I were all pulled in. Mad Men is one of the only shows currently on television that the three of us actually want to sit down and watch together (in addition to Parks and Recreation, Glee and Idol.)

After that pilot episode, I was too quick to write off Mad Men as a mess of smoking, drinking and philandering. But the endless parade of cigarettes, whiskey and women add gritty realism to the artfully crafted storylines and compelling characters. Most notably, the actors portraying the various mad men and women breathe life, depth, and believability into them. The casting is perfect: Jon Hamm's charm and sensitivity help make Don a likeable womanizer. Christina Hendricks as Joan is just as multifaceted: a headstrong office queen bee with a subtle layer of wisdom and warmth. They all feel real, and it's not just the beehive hairdos and steel gray suits that do it. The dialogue shows rather than tells what's going on between these characters exceptionally well (the Mad Men writers particularly excel at conveying the greatest possible meaning using the fewest number of words), and the acting is of the highest caliber.

My father nearly idolizes Don Draper for his talent, cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor and devotion to his children (let's exclude the infidelities and that little habit of operating a motor vehicle after one too many martinis). While my mom and I frequently find ourselves yelling at Don through the TV screen, we don't hate him. Don is no ordindary protagonist, but an anti-hero whose life reflects both the highs and lows of the American Dream. He's made his way up from squalor to wealth and success while coping with the ghosts of an unbelieveably dark past, not limited to: orphanhood, poverty, abuse, wartime, and a near-death experience. That very experience turns out to be Don's most life-changing moment, enabling him to cast his old identity aside for good (or so we think). Viewers see just how much Don Draper is a character he's created for himself, which is why may never get a sufficient answer to the "who" question-- he's writing his own story, making it up along the way.

I didn't think I'd connect to Mr. Draper, and to the show as a whole, as much as I do. My ambitions to earn money, build a career and travel up the social class ladder make up my own version of the American Dream. And advertising, a field I'd never even remotely considered in the past, is now more relevant than ever as a possible career option. Creative writers and thinkers seem destined for copywriting. Is it too much to want to be the next Peggy Olson (Mad Men's sole female copywriter, whose skill is discovered on a whim)? Raw talent goes a long way in the computerless offices of Sterling Cooper, and I'd like to hope it still does in today's techological whirlwind of a landscape.

One of the best quotes of the entire series comes from Episode 13 of Season 1 entitled "The Wheel," in which the team must pitch Kodak's new slide projector model. At the client meeting, Don knocks the pitch out of the park, but must reach deep into the pit of his emotional sufferring in order to do so:

"Nostalgia - it's delicate, but potent. Teddy told me that in Greek, 'nostalgia' literally means 'the pain from an old wound.' It's a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn't a spaceship, it's a time machine. It goes backwards, and forwards... it takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It's not called 'The Wheel,' it's called 'The Carousel.' It lets us travel the way a child travels - around and around, and back home again, to a place where we know are loved."

If that isn't brilliant, I don't know what else is. Here's to a new season of Madison Avenue madness.

Woman Vs. Shoe

The silent-but-deadly culprit.

I hate high heels.
That's right ladies, I said it.

Ask anyone who knows me. Two pairs of heels sit in my closet. I don't even wear the second pair (a hand-me-down from a college buddy). Instead, sneakers (Converse, New Balance) and flip flops (Reeboks, Reefs) litter the floor of my room. Carrie Bradshaw would be appalled.

My rejection of an icon of femininity has now been brutally exposed. But what sparked it, and why?

For starters, I was born with relatively flat feet. The word "relatively" is employed here because something resembling an arch can be found on the inside of each foot, albeit barely there. Heels-- shoes built to emphasize the curve of a woman's foot-- are exponentially more difficult to fit into for flat-footed females like myself. Why put myself through the torture?

Second, I've got rather large feet. Size: 10W. The shock and horror! Hold back your gasps. My feet grew at a rapid rate for as long as I can remember, and they've certainly added an element of clumsiness to my life (which actually worked for me on the ultimate frisbee field of yesteryear). It's uncommon to see a shoe store stocked with loads of women's shoes over a size 9. Having always had less to choose from, I found these stores frustrating and unimpressive in the first place. Sizes 10 and up are the outcasts of estrogen-heavy Shoetopia.

Third: I'm fairly tall (5'6), so I don't feel the need to add a few inches to my height when I'm going out. Heels, pumps, platforms, none of them are necessary. (Perhaps if I were more severely vertically challenged-- a friend of mine stands at 4'11-- I'd feel a tiny bit differently.)

But perhaps most importantly, I'm a product of my environment. My mom was never too heel-crazy herself. I wasn't raised to worship shoes, and this is a financial relief I must thank her for. Such an obsession would be just another extra expense of daily living. I can barely keep up with all of the New Jersey Transit tickets, concerts and drink purchases that have come to define my post-college lifestyle.

However, I do understand that there's a time and place for everything. Obviously I'm not going to show up to a job interview wearing neon green, ripped Chuck Taylor All Stars. This is why I own the perfect pair of all-purpose heels. They can be worn to work, to a wedding, to the bars, wherever. Solid black, standard closed toe with a short heel. The LBD (little black dress) of shoes, if you may. I also comprehend the feelings of empowerment that come with a pair of heels. I dig my LBS (well, they're not exactly "little"). This energy, however, is not exclusive to the wearing of heels alone. It's not just what you or I wear, it's how we wear it (which means even sneakers can be sexy... when utilized appropriately).

To all the Gucci lovers out there who may misunderstand my lack of shoe passion: simply put, I am a person who, for the most part, values comfort over style (or rather, what's currently in style). This is a widely acceptable life philosophy for most guys (or at least most of my male acquaintances), yet it comes across as ridiculous when women express similar sentiments. God forbid somebody might call us frumpy. It all boils down to the pressure to look good, and by "good" I really mean girly. Being feminine/sexy/attractive equals status equals power.

I'm not advocating protests outside DSW or the public burning of Manolo Blahniks. But to my female readers: how about the next time you find yourself on a shopping spree, try out a slightly less sky-high pair that you wouldn't normally buy? Go ahead, blur the edges and toe the line of those gender norms. Your feet will thank you for it.

Rites of Passage

Careful what you say, New Yorkers.

I'm excited (maybe a bit too excited... oh who am I kidding, I deserve it!) to report that a conversation I submitted to Overheard in New York was officially deemed humorous by Team Overheard and published on the site. Go to the main page, scroll down to the posts dated 7/11/2010, and you'll find my little nugget of an exchange between a mother and her daughter on the subway.

 

Now Quit Whining and Drink Your Cappucino

Little girl: I'm gonna be 4!

Mom: In December.

Little girl: In December!

Mom: And you're gonna be this short forever. You're not gonna grow.

Little girl: Whaaa-aaaat?

--Q Train

Overheard by: Brigid

 

FYI regarding OINY submissions: the reader sends in the quote, and Team Overheard writes the snarky title. In this case, I think they did a fine job. I'd like to thank God, my parents, and the crazy people on the Q train for making this Gothamist's dream come true.

 

On the note of accomplishments, today marks one year since I officially sold my soul joined the working world. I could say something obvious like "Time flies!" or "Where does the time go?" but I won't. Looking back on a major life event almost always puts us in awe of how fresh the event still feels in our heads. On July 13, 2009, dressed for success and fifteen minutes early, I was shaking like a chihuahua in that elevator on my way up to Orientation Day 1. And a year from now, I'll be open-mouthed and wondering how RWY2 (Real World Year 2) will already have come and gone. So it goes.

 

Anyway, one year of waking up at 6 AM, hour-plus subway commutes within my own borough, and working for the man five days a week deserves a personal pat on the back. One down-- a few more to go.

Newspaper Nugget (Metro NY, 6/14/10)

It's not the Times, but it'll do.

Words of wisdom from, of all places, the horoscopes section of this morning's edition of Metro NY:


Taurus (April 20 - May 20)
"There's a good chance that you're on the verge of producting something that has impressive potential. Keep doing what you're doing, because it could earn you a higher position in life."

Not that I normally follow my horoscope (or believe that astrology holds the precious keys to the secrets of universe), but reading these words on my crowded Q train at 8 AM gave me a faint flicker of hope that maybe things really will work out exactly the way I want them to. Generation Y, this message was handmade for you and me. Entry-level desk job living is not the heart of life; it's a temporary period. The ladder must always remain in sight; climbing higher is the inevitable goal.

Usually, I spend most of my commute nitpicking the strange spelling and grammar bits scattered across my favorite free daily newspaper (today's World Cup 2010 article: "France have reached the final twice" and "South Africa have the second lowest ranking"). But today I have to thank Metro for a quiet reminder of future success in a time of frustration hidden within its pages-- even if it was written by a psychic with the exotic given name of "Bernice Bede Osol." Here's looking at you, Bernice.

Happy Blogaversary To Me

No cards or flowers necessary.

Exactly one year ago, I started this blog on a complete and total whim, not knowing whether or not it would end up as yet another one of my failed writing experiments. I was fresh out of college, unemployed and utterly lost.

Today, I'm employed, slightly less fresh out of college and just as directionless, but I'm happy to say that in the past 12 months I've produced 34 posts of original written content on Dodging the Real World.

It's been a useful outlet-- a good friend that's been there when I felt particularly compelled to write about a particular topic that was itching me at the time. In spite of all kinds of daily real world distractions, I cranked out an entry whenever possible. I even received responses, more than I ever expected. Comments are a nice surplus in the blogger world-- the only surefire indication that somebody out there is actually reading what you write. I've appreciated each and every bit of reader feedback.

My blogging goals for the the upcoming year are to 1) write more often, and 2) feel less pressured into writing such massive, painstakingly thought-out entries. If anything is holding me back, it's that. Sometimes I feel that a Tumblr page might be better suited to the blogging tendencies of a 23-year-old: it's quicker, easier, and more prone to bite-sized entries than Blogger is. To switch over or not to switch? The thought has crossed my mind quite a bit these days.

But (there's always a but) I'm not giving up on this thing just yet. I'm already invested in it, and look forward too much to what will spill out of my head and onto the screen in the weeks/months/years to come. And so, I hope you'll join me in wishing a happy 1st birthday to this little blog of mine. No gifts, please. Just good vibes.

Here's to Year #2!

Keep Calm and Carry On

Just over a week ago, a makeshift bomb was found in a car in Times Square. I was just blocks away from the area with a group of friends when Twitter and text messages alerted us to the news. The keywords: "suspicious vehicle," "street closures," "police activity." Fighting the initial urge to panic, I reassured myself that we were out of harm's way and told my friends we didn't need to relocate. The night went on.

The armor I put up for my friends and family, the mantra I reiterate to myself, goes something like this: it takes a lot more than a car bomb to scare me. The only justification for that statement is that I've lived through a lot worse. Not on a daily basis, thankfully, but on one particularly bad day. Tatooed on my brain, its memory pops up more often than I'd like to admit.

As a New Yorker, I'm supposed to keep going. I'm supposed to tell myself everything is going to be just fine. I'm supposed to buy one of those trendy red mugs that read "Keep calm and carry on" at Barnes & Noble (a slogan originally created by the British government in 1939 for propaganda posters that were never sold). What a perfectly marketed item in this current atmosphere of silent dread.

What I mean by that is not a time of outright panic and hysteria, but rather a lingering, back-of-the-brain paranoia. This kind of dread builds itself up underneath a facade of normalcy. A fear that's simultaneously subtle and ever-present.

Even if I could pack up and leave (pending financial independence of course), would I do it? This has always been home: my home, our home. Every other place I end up living in will always be compared to New York, the measure of all cities. I like to believe I'd embrace my big move with open arms, but uprooting is easier said than done.

So then, how to live in New York against such a backdrop? Keep calm and carry on? Appropriate instructions for ushering kids out of school during a firedrill, no doubt. Not always effective.

A more accurate slogan to epitomize the state-of-things: "If you see something, say something."
These words have appeared on MTA ads for years as part of a subway safety campaign. They're a quiet call to arms, directing us to be avid crime reporters in case we're needed. "If" is the keyword used here as opposed to "when," implying that we most likely won't be needed. We live for that possibility that everything really will be okay.

As New Yorkers, as innocent civilians, as everyday working stiffs, all we really want is the right to remain exactly who we are: the steady, uninterrupted heartbeart of the city. We don't just carry on-- we beat on.

22 on 22

Tomorrow, April 23rd, is my 23rd birthday. Which means that today, April 22nd, is my last day being 22. (Such perfect number synchronization!)

The past twelve months of my life have whizzed by. True, some days at the office moved more slowly than the last bits of maple syrup dripping down the sides of the Aunt Jemima container. But for the most part, I can hardly believe it's nearly been a full year since I blew out the candle on a complimentary pastry at Fellini's with a dozen of my college friends in Ardmore, PA.

As I approach 23, I'm wishing for a year that's happy, healthy, and gives me a bit more life direction than 22 did. Also, it'd be nice to prove Blink-182 wrong ("Nobody likes you when you're 23" - What's My Age Again?). I actually like the sound of 23 more than 22, if that makes any sense. Then again, I'm probably biased.

Drawing inspiration from a post in list form that my other half wrote for New Year's Eve (check her out at http://lunatic-lover-poet.blogspot.com/), I compiled 22 significant things I've done since my 22nd birthday. While I'm not exactly a career woman rolling in the dough just yet, this blogger has gotten through a decent Year One in the real world and come out still standing, and that's good enough for me. Here we go.

1) I finished my thesis on language
2) I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time
3) I graduated college with 2 degrees
4) I started a blog
5) I went to VT, AC and DC
6) I received a student leadership award
7) I applied to jobs
8) I learned to cook more than just macaroni & cheese
9) I read 10 books for leisure
10) I got hired
11) I survived 32 days without seeing my girlfriend
12) I ate a meal in pitch-black darkness
13) I took a private writing class
14) I saw 3 Broadway shows and 2 concerts
15) I hosted a party
16) I started paying off my loans ($49,000 to go...)
17) I danced in the snow in a bikini
18) I filed a tax return
19) I traveled between NY and Philly more times than I can count
20) I made friends with co-workers
21) I joined a book club
22) I celebrated 2, then 2 1/2 years with the one I love

Quelle année. Here's to what's to come.

Idol Worship: Why I Still Watch

I was 15 years old when I watched Kelly Clarkson belt out "A Moment Like This" on the finale of the inaugural season of American Idol back in 2002.
Eight years and eight seasons later, I'm still glued to the TV screen Tuesday and Wednesday nights, usually with my mother plopped next to me, on any given week from January through May. And sometimes Dad too.

Why though, do I still watch this ridiculous show?

Shouldn't I know better? (Yes.) Don't I have anything else to do? (Yes.) Am I embarrassed? (No, not at all.)

Here's the thing: my right to hold an intellectual opinion of any kind shouldn't be flushed down the toilet just because I can name the winners and runners-up of every season of Idol. And the third place finishers. And possibly the fourth and fifth place finishers.

Getting back to the point: the unfoolish American Idol fan remains ever-conscious of the program's flaws. That is, in order to maintain our credibility, we must always demonstrate a heightened awareness of the shams, gimmicks and annoyances that plague the competition year after year. The examples are innumerable: Ryan Seacrest's unwavering douchedom; the heinously tone deaf, costume-clad contestants from first round auditions; Paula Abdul (a moment of silence, please).

The last two years in particular have brought with them a whirlwind of change to Fox's biggest hit. Viewers have had to accept an Idol mantra of out with the old judges (speaking of Paula), in with the new judges (enter Kara DioGuardi in Season 8 and Ellen DeGeneres in Season 9), with the most massive change lingering ominously on the horizon: Simon Cowell, the man we love ultimately more than we love to hate, will not be returning to the table in 2011. And to top it all off, critics everywhere seem to agree that this year's crop of Top 12 hopefuls is the show's weakest group to date.

And yet, through it all, we cling to the basic ideals that make Idol still taste so sugary sweet to us, long after the fruits of our beloved musical competition have soured.

First, there's the classic rags-to-riches element of the show. Fantasia Barrino was a functionally illiterate single mom-turned-Idol champion. Who could top that? Carrie Underwood, perhaps. Just one season later, the former farmgirl had to sell her horse to save up enough money for a plane ticket to her audition. Months later, she was crowned Queen of the Idols at the Nokia Theater. You just can't make this stuff up.

Second, the vicariousness factor. Each year, I can't help but attach myself to one or two contestants and root my ass off for them. This doesn't necessarily involve making signs in bright neon lettering or homemade shirts with misshapen iron-on faces. However, it may require phoning in more than just one vote for them during that brief two-hour period. (When your monthly AT&T bill consists of more calls to American Idol than to friends and family, that's when you know you've got a problem, buddy. Not the case for this blogger. Yet.) A favorite contestant's success feels a bit like our success; if not for our votes, where would they be?

Third and most importantly, the music keeps us coming back. Throughout the course of an entire season, we witness young talent bubble up and explode into full bloom. There's a rush in hearing a newcomer breathe new life into a favorite song, of seeing and hearing artistry in action (see Jason Castro's version of "Hallelujah" circa Season 8). While the ghosts of Idol seasons past (1-6) only had to worry about singing a song and making it sound nice, ever since A) participants were allowed to play instruments in the competition and B) the success of innovative Season 7 champ David Cook, creativity is certainly a requirement. And it's a damn good one too, having raised the bar on a show that was beginning to look and sound a little stale.

This year I took an instant liking to contestant Crystal Bowersox, who's provided an estrogen-heavy dose of homegrown bluesy rock to Season 9 (translation: exactly what the show needed). Not surprisingly, she also became an early favorite of the judges. I'm 100% confident Crystal will make it to the final 2, but I'm equally confident that she's probably going to finish second to whoever's standing beside her at the Nokia in May. Heartbreaking upsets are no stranger to American Idol, especially on finale night.

My darkhorse candidate to take the crown is quirky, theatrical Siobhan Magnus. Her voice is one part sweetness, two parts spice, like a dose of "honey-dipped fury" (to quote an NPR music review I read recently). If she wins (by some bizarre, incredibly lucky twist of fate), it’ll be a huge victory for the Lambert-esque misfits who only ever so far in the competition. Forget the Glee kids-- back home, Siobhan works as a glassblower's apprentice. If that isn't weird, I don't know what else is.

And so, as Season 9-- the final year in the Era of Cowell-- prepares to enter the homestretch, here's to the success of these two talented ladies. Coupled with the aforementioned, they're part of what makes American Idol still worth watching.

Then again... I was always a sucker for cute girls with pretty voices. Darn.

A Happy Birthday, to Two of the Best

On this day, March 25, my father and grandmother share a birthday. Dad is 53; Grandma is 91.

(I can't allow the above sentence stand alone without adding that not only is Grandma 91-- she lives and functions totally on her own, as she has been for the past 25 years. Her secret? I'm convinced it has something to do with daily crossword puzzles and Smart Balance cheese slices, and can only hope that I'll be blessed with a life that's just as long and healthy.)

As a child, I just couldn't fathom the concept of having to share a birthday with a parent or sibling. To my understanding, a birthday was essentially a free pass for all eyes to be on you and you alone-- a day that should be milked for all its worth in terms of presents, toys, sweets, hugs, kisses, etc. In comparison to such an intensely special All-About-Me Day, who could ever settle for All-About-Us?

Of course, I didn't quite take hold of the fact that my father had no say in the matter regarding what day he should be born on. For him, sharing his birthday with my grandmother was simply the way things were, a day that wasn't any less special. And for her, of course, my father was the ultimate birthday gift. I, for one, cannot imagine the physical act of giving birth on one's birthday, but not everyone can exchange candles and cake for a hospital room like my grandmother did.

It's hard to articulate in words what two of the most important people in my life mean to me without getting too sappy. My thoughts almost instantly turn to childhood. You can tell a grandmother loves you when she's willing to knit clothes for your stuffed animals, including a full winter outfit for Hoppy the rabbit: sweater, hat, scarf, and legwarmers (only the scarf remains). And somehow, my father made group trips to the library with my brothers just as fun as getting a push from him on the tire swing at Neck Road Park. Who knows where this blogger would be if that love of literature hadn't been cultivated so early with Spot the Dog books?

It's impossible to tell, but one thing's for sure: without them, there'd be no me.

Happy birthday, Dad & Grandma.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

La fella what? The tongue twister of a title above is actually Irish for "Saint Patrick's Day." I won't even attempt to pronounce it; the little bit of Gaelic I picked up on in Dr. Murphy's Irish Lit class at Villanova seemed to have gone out the window. Sorry, Murph.

The last time I formally wrote about St. Paddy's was two years ago for The Villanovan (accessible at http://www.villanovan.com/2.7324/black-an-official-day-to-be-irish-1.1021001), when I was just a month away from turning 21. By that point in the year a substantial portion of my fellow juniors had already experienced that sacred rite of passage. While they giddily ran off to the Main Line bars, I had to contain my festivities to West Campus-- which turned out to be a blast anyway, thanks to a last-minute karaoke party in my apartment. But, oh, how frustrating it was to be a college student so close to the promised land of legality, yet so far.

And so, last year, at the ripe age of 21-almost-22, I finally spent St. Patrick's Day at a bar. Or rather, several bars. That long Tuesday night began at Brownies, an Ardmore establishment usually frequented by the Villanova crowd on Wendesday and Friday nights-- which explains why my friends and I turned out to be the only college students who showed up. The look of horror on our faces upon entercountering cougars in too-tight jeans and beer-bellied men wearing shirts that read "Kiss Me" was too much to handle. We concluded that Brownies' marketing strategy for their St. Paddy's party had been a total failure to the college crowd (but a whopping success to anyone over 40), leaving after a mere hour. On the flip side, we walked out with free mugs and Jack Daniels hats, and free stuff, no matter how kitschy it may be, always makes everything better.

We ended up back at our usual evening hangout, Erin Pub. It was wildly, almost unbelievably crowded, so packed that you had to wriggle like an earthworm through the hordes of bodies to get within visual distance of the bartenders-- but the euphoric atmosphere completely made up for it. Dropkick Murphys music blared on the speakers; friends posed for photo opps; glasses were clinked left and right. The mood was so festive that it was as if the entire senior class (or at least its most fun/interesting members) had just experienced a Friday, snow day, and Christmas all at once. St. Paddy's exemplified just what Erin's was: good people, good prices, good nights.

Part of what I'll miss about Villanova is how enjoyable St. Patrick's Day was each and every year I was there. Granted, it was all about copious alcohol consumption, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be right now as I sit at my cubicle typing this. Throughout my years in the NYC public school system, us Irish kids were few and far between, more commonly found attending Catholic schools (my middle and high schools were both primarily populated with Asian and Jewish students). While I ultimately embraced my minority status as something special, it was refreshing to spend my college years at a place where St. Paddy's was celebrated to the fullest.

Tonight in New York City (can't complain that I happen to live in one of the nation's most historically Irish hubs), I'll be raising my glass to those Main Line shenanigans of the past. And hopefully, maybe a trip to the Emerald Isle in the not-too-distant future.

Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.

The Trouble With Blogging

Blogwise, I've been in a bit of a funk lately. (Yes, I just started a sentence with the word "blogwise." As of now, it exists.) Entries have been few and far between these days, and I don't like it one bit.

In an effort to combat this unfortunate streak, what else could be more relevant than to compile a few reasons why we put off blogging? Here we go. The trouble with blogging is:

1) It's time-consuming. Blogging is an investment. Writing entries on a consistent basis takes time, lots of it. If you can't sit down and put the hour(s) in, it ain't gonna happen.

2) You need inspiration. From my experiences, I've found that staring at the computer screen trying to squeeze words out of my brain doesn't produce good work. Good work comes from good ideas. Without the idea, there is nothing.

3) There's that constant pressure to be original. What I have dubbed the "Battle Against Cliche" has been especially stifling to the creative development of my blog. Who wants to write about the same old things? (To quote the Barenaked Ladies, "It's all been done...") I sure don't. At the same time, obsessing over wanting to be different too easily swallows up this blogger in the blaze.

This would be a nothing but a list of complaints unless I offered some kind of solution. I'll try my best.

So, how to fight blogging dry spells? I propose:

1) Making the time by re-prioritizing. This is a skill I have been particularly unsuccessful at lately. For this, I blame 1) the Man, and 2) TV. At the end of a long 9-to-5er (or 8:30-to-4:30er in my case), all I want to do is plop down on the couch, turn on the boob tube and not get up til bedtime. Oops. Honestly, if blogging really is more important to me than Jersey Shore marathons (which it is), Snooki & company will have to wait.

2) Being ready when inspiration strikes. That means anytime, anywhere-- no need to be tethered to a laptop 24/7 when you've got a pen and paper (or its digital equivalent). The Notes application on my iPod Touch has been a valuable tool for storing spontaneous bursts of thoughts and words, especially when I'm on the subway. The tiny screen keyboard is a bit error-prone, but it makes typing quick and easy. I need to utilize this device to the fullest.

3) Not trying too hard to impress. This doesn't translate to "put little effort into it." What I mean is that the more you write from within, from what you know, as honestly as possible, the more the originality will shine through. Entries practically write themselves when passion about the topic comes first, rather than measuring success against a "cliche counter." This is so much easier said than done, and probably what I need to work on the most.

If you're thinking that this entry was too self-aware, I'll have to disagree. How can growth as a writer and as a person come about if not from self-awareness? The trick is to know thyself, to be constantly re-evaluating, to always allow room for improvement. In knowing myself, I hope to build a better blog. Page by page, line by line-- word by word.

Snow Day 2010

On a typical Wednesday morning at 9:00, I'd already be busily typing away at my desk at work, after my traditionally quick Cheerios breakfast and hour-and-ten-minute commute to Williamsburg.

But today-- after a wonderful ten hours of sleep on a Tuesday night-- I woke up to a world covered in white outside my window. Getting up slowly out of bed, I pulled on a sweatshirt, fried some eggs, and switched on the radio to listen to the forecast.

Here I am: my first snow day at home in NYC since high school, which I'm going to put at six years ago. I don't remember any blizzards hitting us during senior year (2005), I'm sure there was a snow day in January or February of sophomore year (2003), and I think we had one junior year (2004), but I could be wrong. Stuy alums, correct me if I am.

Simply put, snow days were a true rarity growing up in the 90s and early 00s in New York City. If high school was relatively devoid of snow days, then junior high and elementary school saw even less of them. I can remember trudging through a wet wintry mix all bundled up with my younger brothers in tow on our way to P.S. 206, one twin on either side of my dad, their mittens gripping his hands. For NYC public schools to close, we needed a snowstorm of monstrous proportions, and we got just that with the whirlwind "Blizzard of '96" when I was in fourth grade. Other than that, it's hard to recall too many others.

If NYC is the "city that never sleeps," I find that to be especially true when it snows. Even in the worst of weather conditions, our city must remain an insomniac. We can't be crippled or thrown drastically off-track-- see what happened in Washington, DC when the snow hit them this past week for a good example-- because in a city with this many people, we just can't afford to shut down. MTA buses and trains are still up and running, albeit less frequently, at slower speeds, and with crabbier operators. That's a lot better than the disastrous DC Metro situation in which only underground subway lines remained open. If elevated rail lines were to be suspended in New York, millions of commuters couldn't get home to the outer boroughs. As flawed as it can be, the MTA just keeps on chugging, through rain, sleet or snow.

At the same time, I'm sure Manhattan is a slushy, snowy mess at the moment, and I feel bad for anybody who had to made the long trek to the urban jungle this morning. Times like these make me happy to live in Brooklyn, a borough that's a bit less chaotic and a bit more aesthetic. For now, I'm going to enjoy the view from my window while I can (pictured above). In New York, snow is about as ephemeral as beauty gets-- all the more reason for it to be cherished.

The Art of Homophobia

I'm going to backtrack here about something I meant to write about in a more timely manner, but as usual, real life got in the way.

Last month, the University of Notre Dame's student newspaper, The Observer, featured a 3-panel comic strip entitled "The Mobile Party" that ran as follows:



Panel 1: A tall, saw-like object with human hands and feet holds a bottle (presumably alcohol). He says:
"What's the easiest way to turn a fruit into a vegetable?"
Panel 2: A second figure, a human male, also holds two bottles. He replies:
"No idea."
Panel 3: The Saw Man again. He says:
"A baseball bat."

I'm not going to lie-- my jaw literally dropped when I first read this on the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) website. Thanks to GLAAD, the comic strip controversy made national headlines, and The Observer was inundated with angry letters from readers including current and former gay ND students. "The Mobile Party" was permanently discontinued. A Managing Editor resigned.

And then, the newspaper issued an apology that shifted from an apologetic tone to a discussion of Senator Harry Reid's now-famous racial remarks about President Obama. In other words, broader issues of diversity insensitivity were brought up to push the target away from themselves and instead on American society as a whole. Ah, college kids are sly.

The cartoonists claim that they were actually trying to critique homophobia in the first place through the absurd logic of the "Saw Man" character, who is literally depicted as a "tool" in the strip. This is rather difficult to believe (it comes off as all-too-convenient), especially given the fact that GLAAD reported the original punchline was "AIDS" rather than "baseball bat." Thus, the cartoonists felt that "baseball bat" was a less insensitive term than the fiery buzzword that is "AIDS," which is completely ridiculous since "baseball bat" makes light of-- and, indirectly, encourages-- physical violence against gays.

The cartoonists' desperate justification for their actions and their all-around stupidity reminds me of a situation that occurred when I was a columnist for my college newspaper. In my junior year, I wrote an article about the National Day of Silence, an annual event organized by the Gay Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN) to address the persistent bullying of LGBT students in U.S. schools. The article simultaneously denounced the Day of Truth, created by the Alliance Defense Fund (ADF) as a response to the DOS urging "open dialogue" about human sexuality and the "Truth" behind homosexuality (yes, with a capital T). Except their definition of the "Truth" meant that people can de-gay-ify themselves through Jesus. Yeah, I know.

Anyway, I received an email from an editor of my school's rival newspaper, in which he accused me of being anti-free speech for my criticism of the ADF and the Day of Truth. He also asked me, and I'm quoting this word for word, "Who is being intolerant here: the Alliance Defense Fund, or Brigid Black?"

I almost laughed.

I suppose you could say yes, I was being intolerant-- intolerant of intolerance. Groups like the ADF sugarcoat their anti-gay platforms with the facade of "openness" and "truthfulness," and that's exactly what I sought to expose in my column. The "Mobile Party" cartoonists also sugarcoated the message behind their artwork, which was in reality a painfully upsetting piece. Who knows if they were truly sorry for what they did, or just sorry that they were caught.

As a former cartoonist and art department editor of a school newspaper, I'm well aware of the responsibilities that come with these positions. Cartoonists are journalists too-- as much as writers are-- and have a duty to the public that must be taken seriously. Yes, comic strips are meant to make us laugh, but not all cartoons are funny. The ND incident shows how some of the worst cartoons try to be humorous, but fail horribly in the process. And interestingly enough, some of the best cartoons are those of a serious nature. If the cartoonists were truly trying to demonstrate a pro-gay attitude, as they claim, then a more effective cartoon could have shed light on campus homophobia in a more subtle, sobering way.

I've always believed that good artistic journalism shouldn't be measured by how far the envelope is pushed, but by the intent and effect of the material. The cartoonist-artist-journalist has a choice: change the status quo and inspire readers to do the same, or perpetuate the same old sad stories. I would hope that The Villanovan staff takes a lesson from The Observer, and never needs to hear that phone call from GLAAD. Not even a successful basketball team can take away the shame of an unaccepting campus culture.

Immersed in the Twitterverse

A few months ago, I signed up for Twitter, utterly convinced that the project would be abandoned in a matter of days. Even my username-- the ever-intimidating BB_Gunz-- was a joke (its origin being my bling-sporting, rap-happy alter ego from Halloween 2008.)

How wrong I was. 7 months and 630 tweets later, I'm turning into somewhat of a Twitter fiend, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

On the one hand, it's gotten me off of AIM, where I wasted away countless hours in high and school and college glued to my computer (who knows how many books I could've finished with that lost time?). For the most part, tweets have replaced the function of away messages, and even instant messages. IMs are a time-consuming effort, and full-time employment leaves little room for one-on-one online conversations after staring at a screen for the greater part of the day at work.

With AIM falling out of the picture, Twitter keeps me connected with friends and classmates-- people who have been busier than ever with grad work, jobs, and travel ever since the end of undergrad life-- sometimes even moreso than Facebook does (gasp!). But how?

Well, frequent tweets come off as less irritating than frequent Facebook status updates, since the sole purpose of Twitter is to tweet, whereas Facebook arguably serves more purposes, including photo album storage and an event invitation feature. We also usually tend to follow those friends on Twitter that we feel closer to (remember those 10 kids from freshman orientation you still haven't de-friended yet on Facebook? Me neither), and thus care more about what they have to say.

Twitter has also become the first place where I get my news in the morning. As I'm shoving Cheerios down my throat at the kitchen table, I can flip through a convenient mobile Twitter app on my iPod Touch. My favorite news sources-- the NY Times, NPR, the HuffPost-- are all on Twitter (though I still browse the regular Times & NPR homepages from a desktop computer on a daily basis. Twitter can't possibly cover all the good stuff.)

Thus, obtaining information via Twitter is quick and easy. Information is neatly packaged into 140-character units. Updates are short, sweet and to the point. Drawing upon "brevity is the soul of wit," Twitter users strive to entertain and educate their followers in a manner that's concise, humorous, and most of all, memorable. It's interesting, and often impressive, to see how people express themselves when given such a tight space-- it may even bring out their literary best. Tweeting, or "micro-blogging" as some have dubbed it, is perhaps our newest popular art form.

On the other hand, Twitter is yet another one of those addicting digital drugs. The instantaneous, up-to-the-minute tweets popping up in my feed leave me thirsty for the latest news and friend-related updates. But a mere taste isn't enough-- I find myself wanting to share my own news too. The result: signing in more frequently, tweeting more often. In the realm of cyberspace, Twitter is a massive black hole right in the middle of it, and I'm getting sucked in.

Not to mention that my previous comment calling Twitter an "art form" neglects the juvenile, incoherent babble that graces the pages of numerous D-list celebrities. The tweets of reality stars like Tila Tequila and Snooki aren't much different from what you'd find on the wall of a bathroom stall. These are the people with legions of followers numbering in the hundred thousands (and sometimes millions). And they contribute to what many eager tweeters consider to be the main draw of the Twitterverse: civilians stalking celebs.

Personally, I don't follow too many celebrities on Twitter (the count is at two with Ellen DeGeneres and Coldplay), and perhaps this is part of why I'm not entirely hooked. I also tend to tweet far less on the weekends or stray from Twitter altogether, choosing instead to spend time with my significant other (who I miss very much during the tweet-filled workweek. Is Twitter use a kind of coping mechanism for the lonely long-distance relationship? That's an essay for another time). Additionally, I try to limit myself with a max number of tweets, which is normally somewhere between four and eight. More than ten just seems like too much for one day-- once I hit the double digits, I back off. I don't want to flood my friends' timelines with drivel, which leads me to my last cautionary measure: avoiding the mundane (i.e. "Just woke up. About to use the toilet. Sweet").

Thanks to Twitter, just about anyone can publish their thoughts to the world. It's a gift, but many don't think about it that way. Using the written word to communicate to the masses used to be an amazing honor, and I always made that my mantra as an amateur student journalist. It all comes down to the fact that tweeting is, essentially, whatever we make of it-- in short, you are what you tweet.

Plight of a People

Sometimes it just isn't possible to dodge the real world. By this point, nearly everyone on the globe is aware of the tragedy of catastrophic proportions currently going on in Haiti. Last week, a 7.0-magnitude earthquake struck a country that has already long been ravaged by poverty, disease, and economic ruin. Photos of dead bodies and crying children have been featured front and center on the New York Times site each day since the disaster occurred-- these are the human faces of the horror. I don't think there's a decent person out there who can look at such graphic visuals and not feel anything, be it shock, sorrow, or utter hopelessness.

While my knowledge of Haiti is somewhat limited, I haven't been totally in the dark about the country's ongoing bleak situation. Last year, one of my good friends began working with a microfinance institution based in Port-au-Prince. Before that, I learned about Dr. Paul Farmer's work fighting TB and AIDS in Haiti when I read Mountains Beyond Mountains for a college history class. I now know more about the country than ever before, but unfortunately only because of the earthquake.

I may not have the strongest personal connections to Haiti, but my hometown certainly does. The five boroughs (Brooklyn in particular) are home to the largest communities of Haitians in the United States. When I was a kid, I remember almost always hearing Creole being spoken on the B3 bus in the Flatbush area near the mall. Haitian culture lives and breathes in Brooklyn, and so many locals are mourning the loss of their people and the place they once called home. I can barely get a grip on the measure of their devastation.

When these deadly natural disasters occur-- Hurricane Katrina, the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami-- my mind has trouble registering figures like "50,000 feared dead." I want to feel grateful that New York isn't on top of a fault line, in a tornado zone, or likely to get hit by a tsunami. But instead I can't stop thinking about how vulnerable we all are, and how much suffering can be caused by what we as humans can't control: forces of nature.

And yet that statement isn't entirely true. While it isn't physically possible to stop a 7.0-magnitude earthquake from causing massive destruction, it is possible to be more prepared for its effects in order to prevent further loss of life. But Haiti didn't stand a chance, and that's what I find so heartbreaking. Things were already awful, and just got exponentionally worse. This was honestly the very last thing that the poorest country in the Western hemisphere needed. If these people can hold onto some semblance of hope in a time like this, then their resilience truly amazes me, because I don't know if I could do the same.

A few days ago, my fingers found themselves texting the word "HAITI" to 90999-- AKA the Red Cross relief efforts. In the past, I've rarely given to charities mainly due to a lack of steady income, as a full-time student supported by my parents and whatever cash I've scraped up from part-time jobs. But being employed full-time (for the first time) has allowed me the wiggle room to make a donation out of my own pocket, which is all the more meaningful. I can only hope my handful of dollars helps at least one person-- even if it equates to a single sip of water.