Jody Amable

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

A new feature with music picks tailor-made to ensure your weekend jam sessions are absolutely ravishing.

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.

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?