Jody Amable

I'm 30 years old and stuck in San Jose, the hometown I always wanted to leave. What happened?

There are a lot of things to hate about the Olympics.

In this time of toy-giving, I'm reflecting on the impact one doll made on me and, I'm willing to bet, a small subset of other girls, too.

According to the magazine, women need special help understanding sports. Cue the glorious, hilarious Twitter outrage.

The further I get into this series, the harder time I am having remembering what the eff has happened so far. You see, I am an Old Lady.

A few weeks back, I got looped into an Instagram chat with some coworkers from one of my gigs, who were snarking about the fact that the

Jon Stewart, step aside. Your heir apparent has arrived.

Creator of grungy, gritty rock and roll with a poet’s heart, her critically-lauded record, Beyond the Bloodhounds, tells tales of a tumultuous childhood and split geographical identity.

No matter how drunk he is, he can’t NOT notice this. His hand is moving. What do I do? What do I do? Do I politely ask him to stop? Do I yell at him? Do I wheel around and whack him in the face? You don’t know what he’s doing, Jody. Calm down. Don’t make a scene.

Like most nerd realms, music writing is a predominantly male world. Especially if, like me, your greatest love is classic rock.