In July, 2012, I turned the corner to the back area of Crush Bar after paying my tab. Burnt, Tongue, the reading series dedicated to Tom Spanbauer and his infamous…
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IntrospectionMusicVariations on a Theme: In Memoriam, Amy Winehouse: Years Later, My Tears Are Still Drying on Their Own
When Amy Winehouse died in 2011, I was not a particularly big fan of the singer. I knew her big hits like “Rehab,” and “Back to Black” because who didn’t?…
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IntrospectionMusicVariations on a Theme: Sometimes You’re at a Pedro the Lion Concert, Mourning the Very Concept of Existence, and Other Times You are in a Hospital, Celebrating It
There’s something special about following a band for over a decade—especially if you started listening to that band in your youth—as the discography of the band starts to layer itself…
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Every summer, our placid village by the Bay of Biscay was invaded by what dad called the Oxford tribe: dons donning white socks under sandals; fresh-faced dissertators in linen shirts;…
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Summer was nascent, and I longed for it nonetheless. I had vowed to myself — it was going to be the best season of my life. I was freshly seventeen…
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“Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman is the best song on the radio, it is frequently on the radio, and it is the only song on the radio about poverty. Correction:…
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Push your cheek against the porch window. Ha! How fitting the ruckus should come from the neighbors! you snicker. Then, remember how whenever you’d complain about the young couple next…
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I read about a hundred words each minute. It rings impressive, but it’s less than twenty pages an hour in a typical book. I stumbled through a history of the…
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The brown townhouse is smaller than I remember. It sits back further from the road than the other townhouses attached to it, flinching into the shadows. Emerald shrubs under the…
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The little girl who tromps down to the creek, after the season’s first rain, spring rain that comes after the crocuses, after the thaw, she wears black rubber boots trimmed…
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Living alone, a severe stroke victim, I had a lot of time on my hands. I was no longer able to exercise or engage in vigorous physical activity, since my…
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This is part of a recurring column about modern romance, dating, and more. I never intended to be a prostitute. Or a hooker. Or a sex worker. That certainly wasn’t what…
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This is the first in a recurring column about modern romance, dating, and more. I started talking to my first couple on a summer afternoon. I found them through the sex-positive…
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It was the 80’s. Seattle. Four books on feminism stack themselves perilously next to my twin bed, in a teeny apartment, on a narrow rickety dark wood table I stole…