New adventure

Hello, Blogger world. You can now find me at my new writing/blogging/posting space:

http://brigidblack.tumblr.com

Thanks for your readership, and please continue to follow me as I tumble down the rabbit hole.

BB

My Blog is a Toddler

Happy blogger birthday to me! Today this little blog of mine turns two years old. Since its conception in 2009, LFTRW has seen a number of layout and design changes, and more recently a name/URL change. I've stubbornly resisted categorizing my blog, so the content has been diverse, opinionated and always original. Thank you to those who have stumbled upon this page and read even a single entry. My gratitude is genuine and I hope you'll stick around for more.

Looking forward to the not-so-terrible twos and beyond,
-BB

Idol Worship II: All Hail Haley



Idol's Top 3: Haley, Scotty & Lauren (from EW.com)


Anyone who knows me knows that American Idol is my longtime guilty pleasure (see last year's entry, Idol Worship). Year after year I follow this show semi-religiously. From January through May, the cycle goes something like this: watch, vote, repeat. It's like karaoke to me: I just can't help myself.

This latest (and Simon-less) season of Idol has featured a number of oddities: a revamped judges panel that doesn't quite know how to judge. The long-awaited addition of online voting. Jacob Lusk's mouth. I could go on. All in all, Idol Version 10.0 just hasn't felt right.

I knew this was true when presumed frontrunner Pia Toscano ended up finishing in a distant ninth place back in April. It was the fifth week in a row that a female contesant went home, showing that even the most musically gifted Idol women don't stand much of a chance these days against the overwhelming power of the boy-hungry tween girl vote.

To my pleasant surprise, another Idol lady stepped up to the plate and made me forget all about Pia. Haley Reinhart broke away from the pack at the perfect time with her growly version of Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets" (one of my favorite Elton songs of all time - I was practically raised on my mom's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road cassette). She followed it up with strong performances of "Rolling in the Deep," "You and I," "The House of the Rising Sun," songs that perfectly fit her raspy howl of a voice.

It was her brazen rendition of Led Zeppelin's "What Is and What Should Never Be" that gave Haley Reinhart true rockstar status. I'm so tired of the Idol women recycling the same old power ballads and teen pop songs year after year, so it was such a breath of fresh air watching Haley take on a classic rock legend with confidence and absolutely kill it. What a tease to have her go all the way to the Top 3 only to come up short, but I was genuinely glad to see the darkhorse Idol contestant make it as far as she did.

I don't want to imply that Haley stood alone this season, since there also were a number of other quirky performers with unique styles and sounds like Naima Adedapo, Casey Abrams and Paul McDonald. Casey's haunting take on Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" was one of the best performances of the entire season. Yet their fanbases proved no match for the ever-growing Army of Tweens. Reggae, jazz and blues-influenced artists can only last so long in the Idoldome, a sad but consistent truth.

Sugary-sweet country-pop teenagers Lauren Alaina and Scotty McCreery are the final two standing, and until last night I would've said that Scotty had it in the bag. Some last-minute pimping from the Idol underworld has given Lauren a slight edge over the lovable Mad Magazine lookalike, but I won't underestimate the voting capacity of Scotty's rabid fans who undoubtedly called, texted and Facebooked their votes well into the wee hours of the morning. No one can deny that the kid has talent and poise, but it's Scotty's baby face and cornball charm that will ultimately win him the Idol trophy.

Whoever takes the crown, I'll be glad it won't be another brooding soft rocker (Lee DeWyze, Kris Allen...), but disappointed that the best singer and/or the most interesting person got left behind as usual. My winner is the girl with the growl who was too fiery to appeal to Tween Nation. Thanks for the memories, Haley.


Links recap:
IdolWorship 2010
Haley rocks Led Zep
Scotty vs. Alfred E. Neuman

Interviewing 101

My second and latest contribution to the Young to Publishing Group (YPG) is now up on the group's website. It's a collection of interviewing tips for young professionals trying to break into the publishing industry (something I went through just four months ago). I also got in touch with several employees from a number of publishing houses to hear about their own interviewing experiences, both good and bad. It's amazing how many of us interviewed at house after house, facing rejection after rejection until the right opportunity finally pulled through.

You can find it here:

Acing the Interview: Tips for Young Publishing Job Seekers

Since the comments feature is disabled on the site, please leave any feedback on the article in this post. What's your single best tip (or warning) for current entry-level publishing job seekers? Feel free to share.

-BB

Ode to a Bunny

In all honesty, there was always something slightly more magical about the Easter Bunny than Santa Claus. I'll admit that the idea of a rabbit going door-to-door giving out gift baskets seemed even more outrageous than a fat man squeezing down a chimney. A thick cloud of mystery surrounded E.B. even more than S.C.:

1) How big was the bunny-- pet-sized or human-sized?
2) Did the Easter Bunny speak, or simply make cute rabbit noises?
3) Girl or boy bunny? The option was open.
4) Could E.B. disappear into thin air? (and subsequently reappear)
5) Why did my cousins always get video games in their Easter baskets?

Snug as a bug in a rug. Err, bun in an egg.

These questions had no definite answers, but it didn't really matter. I envisioned the Easter Bunny as a 4-foot-tall, gender-ambiguous talking rabbit that could appear at will and had an infinite supply of chocolate items hidden under its ears (when you don't have a sleigh with reindeer, what else can you do?) who lived in a giant egg (far superior to Old Mother Hubbard, who lived in a shoe). That's my Easter Bunny, who exists deep in the back of my childhood memory pile, and I still enjoy the colorful quirkiness and total absurdity of it all.

Hoppy Easter, peeps.

The Writing Bug is Back

To e-read or not to e-read?

Live From The Real World has been on a bit of a tape delay these days, but I have a good excuse! A new job and a long-awaited leap into an industry I'm passionate about have consumed this blogger's life for almost two months already. Time flies fast when you're adjusting to a field that you have little to no experience with, excluding the bits and pieces of knowledge I've collected over the years from my father, a longtime publishing pro.

Now that the rocky intro period is subsiding and I'm finally beginning to settle in, I hope to return to this blog on a more frequent basis. In the meantime, I'm happy to report that I recently became a contributor for the website to the Young to Publishing Group, a networking group for entry-level and junior publishing employees in New York City. My first write-up on YPG's enhanced e-books panel is this week's featured story, and can be found here.

Happy reading! Please feel free to share any thoughts or comments on the article.

Twenty Inches and Twenty Eleven

Little Q train that could

2010 ended in a world of white. A snowstorm of gargantuan proportions nearly shut down New York City during the last week of December, and it wasn't pretty.

I was on my way to the Lincoln Center area on December 26th when the snow started picking up speed and strength. I was probably on one of the last Q trains to make it into Manhattan, which I photographed as it pulled into Kings Highway station. Thankfully, I arrived safely at my destination after a quick detour on the limited edition holiday nostalgia train running on the M line (such a treat. Photos below).

Bad parking job.

The next day I made a brave but foolish attempt to get home to Sheepshead Bay. After completing roughly three-quarters of the journey, I waited an hour in ice cold winds at the corner of Flatbush & Nostrand Avenue for a B44 bus that never came. Accepting defeat, I begrudgingly abandoned the mission and schlepped back to the city, where I stayed for two more days. Manhattan certainly isn't the worst place to be snowed in-- especially during a well deserved week off from work-- but I was completely blindsided by the storm, as was most of the city.

Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island were hit the worst. My neighborhood was isolated and unplowed for days. B and Q trains were suspended for most of the week. Buses were either frozen in their tracks (literally) or completely missing in action. Local blog Sheepshead Bites provided excellent coverage of the Ravaging of South Brooklyn-- excuse me, the Blizzard of 2010.

Never before has snow been so destructive, so crippling, so thoroughly debilitating as it was last month (at least in the eyes of this twentysomething). How eagerly my friends and I used to await the first snowfall of winter, a joyous occasion that almost always took place in January. But our early bird blizzard has struck lasting fear into the hearts of New Yorkers. Forecasts calling for "flurries" or a "wintry mix" now cause widespread feelings of panic and pandemonium. Quick, run to the store and stock up on milk and toilet paper before it's too late!

Living history

All aboard.

All weather-related jokes aside, 2010 may have ended on a bit of a rough note, but ultimately made for another pretty good year of post-grad wandering. Ten books, five concerts, one west coast vacation and countless happy hours later, I'm about to embark upon a brand new chapter. Wish me luck as I begin a career in publishing and move one step closer to figuring out what the real world is all about.

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.