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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.