Jody Amable

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

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

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

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.

Harnessing the courage within myself—courage I didn’t even know I had—to coolly, calmly call this guy out has made me a better human being.

I was waiting to finally not like a Harry Potter book, and folks, I found it. Half-Blood Prince was boring.

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

So far, Deathly Hallows is, to me, about the divide between the living, the dead, and the living who have seen death. Harry and I are part of an exclusive club: Those under 30 who have experienced death. And when I say “experienced,” I don’t mean “witnessed.” I mean really, really felt it, all the way through.

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.