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.