My first-ever roommate hailed from Dorchester, Massachusetts. At the time, this meant she came from a background of drive-by shootings, gangs and death. And a little later, it meant a 7-minute walk along the highway just after dawn to and from my internship at The Boston Globe, laughing all the while at the unnecessary shuttle the company provided between the JFK-UMass T station and the building. Now, to me Dorchester is where the New Kids on the Block came of age. These three things are so far apart in time but not space that they seem like three completely disparate experiences ... and they probably were very different.

I don't know what life was REALLY like for the New Kids in the late '70s and '80s in Dorchester, Massachusetts. The '80s, nevermind the '70s, were a very different time and Boston in general was a very different city. I know drugs were not uncommon, graffiti art, petty theft ... no word of fighting, death, or any real danger, but it also seems loyalty was far more prevalent in those days.

That is what drew me to the book Townie when I saw it on the New Fiction shelf at the library: a curiosity about the background 4 out of 5 New Kids came from and my having spent years in Massachusetts with people having grown up everywhere from Dorchester and South Boston to the Cape and wealthy towns like Wellesley. Of course the book "Townie" is not about Boston at all, but Haverhill in the Merrimack Valley. Still, it offers the sort of concrete insight I was hungry for.

This memoir is about fighting, family, and fighting for your family. But it is nothing like "The Fighter". Dubus begins the memoir with a focus on his nuclear family, made up of his single mother and 3 siblings, who fall into bad crowds and habits in part because their mother is always working. Dubus places some, or a lot, of the blame on their absent father, the famous author after whom he is named. As the oldest son, Dubus begins to feel the need to protect his family from danger, and he chooses fighting as the way.

Over the course of the memoir, Dubus fights an internal struggle against fighting. He realizes pretty early on that though his obvious impetus for fighting is to defend others, others begin to view him as someone who sucker punches, launches surprise attacks. And perhaps he isn't really fighting for someone else's honor, but as a physical release of his own subconscious anger. Slowly, he begins to learn how to control the impulse to fight, how to stop the now intuitive reaction to a call to fight, and he begins to write.

As he trains himself to do all this, he begins to grow closer to the father he never knew as a father. His father is eager to catch up on lost time, primarily by displaying an interest in his son's fighting career. The elder Dubus sees his son's fighting as a hobby, not as the necessity for survival that the younger Dubus' ability springs from. Dubus wants so desperately to tell his father about the hardships of his childhood, the reason he had to learn to fight in the first place, but never gets the chance. At the close of the touch-too-long memoir, Dubus buries his father and finally puts his past of fighting into the ground with his father.

The memoir is insightful, disturbing, and occasionally heartwarming. At times, Dubus offers incredible grains of wisdom in passing. The memoir is an example of human resilience -- it's hard to imagine that someone could come out of an adolescence like his relatively unscathed. And it seems that Dubus is aware of how lucky he was, of all the neighborhood kids he could've ended up like -- incarcerated, or worse, dead. Townie is not sweet, but it offers a slice of the human condition and a questioning of morality as well as mortality. And ultimately, it gives us another perspective on life, that of a boy born into the world in the late '50s in Massachusetts, and reminds us to look for hope even when we think there is none left.

source: my friend Gabrielle (I stupidly left my camera at home)

"How the HELL did you get tickets?!"

I was met with wide eyes and this question virtually every single time I told anyone I was seeing Adele on May 19th at the Beacon Theatre in New York City. I'm not sure how I managed tickets to her show at Beacon Theatre, but I did. It sold out within minutes and I didn't get great seats, but Adele is the kind of artist you could close your eyes to and still get a full concert experience.

There aren't many artists who I think that of. So many performers today rely on the set, the backup dancers, the dancing, costumes, pyro. Some of my favorite musical acts fall into this category. But then there are the select few who -- stripped bare of backup help, lights, a fog machine -- would still deliver an unbelievable performance. David Archuleta, I think, is one of these people. Adele is another.

source: my friend Gabrielle

Adele is a far more seasoned artist, despite the fact that she is only about 2-and-a-half years older than David. As singers, they are just about equally talented, in a seemingly effortless way. As people, Adele just seems to have so much more to her. When watching her sing, you can see, hear, FEEL the pain and heartbreak she has gone through to get to where she is now. Not to mention, Adele is one of the most charismatic performers I have ever come across. Her banter between songs is light but revealing, self-deprecatingly funny in a way that perhaps only an English person could pull off.

Climbing out of the 72nd Street station on my way to the show, I was met with a shocking number of people begging for Adele tickets. I have never seen anything like it! Scalpers (ASKING for tickets, not selling them) and desperate fans lined the two-block walk between the station and Beacon Theatre, and when I arrived at the theatre, the will call line drew further around the block than the line for entry.

Once inside, I took in the theatre-like atmosphere and the mixed crowd. I often think an artist's audience is the true measure of their success. Female, male, gay, straight, old, young, hipster, preppy, white, black, Hispanic, Asian ... all groups were represented that night.

See, I used to be a full-on celebrity gossip blogger. I made it my job (without being paid a cent) to keep up with the goings-on of the likes of Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan, the cast of Laguna Beach ... so and so forth. For several years, these people's nonsense consumed me and I even made friends and was presented with great opportunities through my blog. I became intimate with the city of Los Angeles through these celebrities I wrote about from afar; I knew that Joseph's was the place to be on Monday nights (or was it Tuesday? It's been 7 years!), Ivar's, LAX, Mood, Area were all popular. I knew the rundown of the shops on Robertson Boulevard. Of course, in the case of Hollywood High School, things change. Fast. Nightclubs got stale quickly and hotspots shifted every few months.

So after some time of writing about these people from afar, it became clear that I needed to be where there were, and not stuck in a dorm room in Massachusetts or even in a magazine office in New York City. No, I needed to be in the City of Angels itself.

So four days after graduating from college, without a job or a car, I set out to claim Los Angeles for myself.

I don't think I really need to state that I wasn't very successful ... especially not without a car. One job interview I went on took over 2 hours to get to ... by bus. Granted, I got a spectacular tour of Santa Monica, Westwood Village and North Hollywood. But everyone was growing up or locked up -- Nicole Richie must have had at least one child by then, Paris Hilton was locked up at Lynwood jail and Lindsay Lohan was in rehab that summer. After 3 relatively peaceful (and not crazy and wild, as I had hoped) weeks in the city of my dreams, I dejectedly bought an airplane ticket home, vowing to return.

I haven't returned since, but not because I haven't wanted to. At first, it made sense financially to move back to New York City. Then I got a full-time job. Then that transitioned into another full-time job. Then the economy collapsed and California fell into ruins. I'm still waiting for things to improve, but I realize that I may be waiting for a very long time. In the meantime, I have gotten older and my interests have changed. I've given up on keeping up with the latest and greatest celebrities and whether they have or haven't gotten married, or what the best nights are for which club. (I should've known things were going south when I opted to head to Cinespace -- hipster, and not starlet, central -- on a Monday night. I did, however, see DJ Steve Aoki, Shane West and the Cobra Snake's Mark Hunter himself, so all was not lost. No sign of the then-infamous Cory Kennedy, I'm afraid.)

Santa Monica Pier source: coastal.ca.gov

Whenever I watch those sparkly reality shows set in Los Angeles, I still grow a little sad, as if I'm watching an ex-boyfriend succeed from afar. It's a mixed bag of emotions ... pride, joy, sadness and a little bit of bitterness.

Here were some of my haunts back in the day, when I loved Los Angeles (no idea if these places still exist):

Cafe 50s
838 Lincoln Boulevard, Venice

This was my go-to place for meals when I was living out there. I was fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it) enough to be living out in Venice -- a block from the beach -- when I was out in Los Angeles for a few weeks. My friend Caroline and I loved this place, the shakes particularly. During my last meal there, I had the Elvis shake -- a milkshake consisting of Elvis' last meal. Very apropos.

Bob's Big Boy
4211 West Riverside Drive, Burbank

This was the first restaurant I went to the first time I set foot in Los Angeles, before I realized it was where I needed to be. I had heard about it through all the Disney stars who lived in the Toluca Lake apartment buildings for child stars. I recall having one of the best burgers I've ever tasted here, and my very first banana milkshake ... which was gigantic, cheap and simply delicious.

Third Street Promenade
Santa Monica

The Third Street Promenade reminded me so much of Lincoln Road Mall in Miami, except better. Better because it was bigger, and better because it was in freakin' Los Angeles. I recall many days spent in this area, from Saturday morning breakfasts at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf staring out the windows and laughing at the yoga-matted women barging in for their caffeine fix to leisurely browsing the shops. I fell in love with Santa Monica the first time I saw it, and my dream is still to live in Santa Monica if I ever move back. I'd be a West Side girl, if I were an L.A. girl at all. I've still never been to the Santa Monica Pier, but I will someday.

Abbot Kinney, Venice source: LAist.com

Abbot Kinney
Venice

I mean it when I say I'd be a West Side girl. My friend Caroline was staying at a film industry veteran's house in Santa Monica, and the woman suggested we check out Abbot Kinney for good eats. She was not wrong. We didn't spend as much time here as I would've liked, but I recall random mornings and mid-afternoons down this way, after having walked from Rose Avenue in search of a library or an internet cafe. Life was easy breezy and just wonderful in southern California.

Martha's 22nd Street Grill
25 22nd Street, Hermosa Beach

The first time I visited Los Angeles, I stayed in Hermosa Beach. This was inconvenient for sightseeing, but oh-so-convenient for late morning meals. Martha's was incredible. I must've gone three times in a span of five days, but I can't remember anything I ate. I just know that it was delicious.

Melrose Avenue
Typical, I know, but I spent a lot of time here too. Not shopping, but killing time. While I was stranded without a car in Los Angeles, my pal Caroline had an internship to see to. And I was trying my best to find a job, which entailed a lot of walking around and doing nothing during the day. On one day, I walked from Beverly Hills all the way to downtown Hollywood -- not an incredible feat for a New Yorker, but apparently somewhat insane. I realized this the further I walked along, seeing the sidewalks bare and the sun beating cruelly down on me. I browsed the shops along Melrose and recognized the Italian restaurant the Carter boys were seen leaving, the shops Seventeen magazine had featured Selma Blair shopping in back in the late 90s ... I dropped by Fred Segal for fun. I think it was Kirstie Alley who slowed her car in front of Fred Segal for me to cross the street. And the first thing I did when I reached Hollywood and Highland was pop into The Gap and buy myself a new outfit.

Venice Beach
Seeing as I lived practically ON Venice Beach for those weeks and didn't want to be cooped up in my rental room all day, I spent a lot of time walking up and down Ocean Front Walk. I grew fond of Small World Books, which was recently featured in the Los Angeles Times. I grew weary of rollerbladers and erratic bike riders. I missed Lindsay Lohan on a bike by mere minutes, on a rare outing from rehab that summer.

White House photo: Inside the Situation Room, May 1, 2011

Apparently the thing to ask today was, "How did you hear about Osama bin Laden's death?" So much has changed in ten years. The United States has its first African-American president. There is something called Facebook now, the iPhone, Catherine the Duchess of Cambridge, Twitter, full body scanners.

I found out about the September 11th attacks waiting outside my high school classroom on the second day of the school year. I'd wanted to speak with the teacher about the class before the period began, as I was given a choice of two English classes. I overheard one English teacher tell mine in a panicked voice, "We're going to be stuck here for a million hours. The subways have been shut down. We're never getting out of here." Though I had no idea what he was talking about, his tone filled me with the deepest dread.

Inside the classroom, in a hushed tone, my teacher briefed us on what she had heard about what had happened downtown. Minutes later, the rarely-used intercom crackled to life and the principal made a solemn announcement and directed us to go on with our day as scheduled.

And that's what I've done since. We were allowed, miraculously, to go out for lunch that day as usual and I remember numbly chewing my cream cheese bagel while staring at the white cloud drifting up Park Avenue towards us. We could all smell the scent of destruction, and it was an ashy, charred smell that lingered in the city for days, even after the skies opened up that night and cried for the lost.

This time around, I was at my desk in the comfort of my home, a stone's throw from where I was on September 11, 2001. I was "lurking" on Twitter and spotted a retweet about Obama making a surprise announcement at 10:30pm. I knew it had to be something major. 10:30 came and went, and ABC broke into Brothers and Sisters to cover the event. After some minutes, the topic of the address was announced and I was surprised. But not shocked.

I haven't been shocked in a very long time. Ten years is a long time. People grow up, technology advances, generations are born, sentiments change. Ten years is enough time for someone to grow used to certain ways of life. And ten years is a long time to spend looking for one person, no matter who they are and how big of a threat they are. I don't think I've ever been angry at Osama bin Laden for what he did, but I've been deeply saddened. There will always, always be someone who doesn't like us or even hates us as a country and for what we represent. That will never change, whether Osama is alive or dead. More likely than not, there will be someone to carry on his work.

Terrorists existed well before September 11th and they will continue to exist now. An era has come to an end, but our mission is not accomplished. As a lifelong New Yorker, I remain cautiously optimistic ... but adaptable too. Life carried on on September 12, 2001 as it had in the early hours of September 11, 2001 as I got ready for school. I have never lived my life out of fear of terrorism, but perhaps for that reason I don't feel the jubilance or pride so many Americans now feel over Osama's death. I don't feel any more or less safe than I did yesterday.