Jody Amable

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

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

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

Forget a cute story of wizard wonderment — the real moral of Harry Potter is that life is an endless parade of pain and turmoil where you have to watch everyone you’ve ever loved die.

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

If I let everyone off the hook for extenuating circumstances like, “He’s over 50, so he probably just doesn’t know any better,” no one’s ever going to stop calling me “sweetie.”

I couldn’t help but assume the reason these people were telling me not to say even a word to this troll was because women aren’t supposed to fight back. We’re supposed to rise above — to “not stoop to their level,” as my mom used to say.

The neighbors turned their lights off. My dog fell sound asleep. I kept reading. And at 1:03 am, I finished. All was well.

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.

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