On reading in the 21st century: “God help me if I have to wade through another gratuitous description of the hysterical wife of a put-upon man chafing at the bonds of corporate servitude and his milquetoast children. Give me Eileen and her constipation any day.”
Every so often, I give up on pretending that I have sophisticated taste in music and turn on the kind of thing I used to wallow to in high school. It's a sure ticket to the past, which has been especially welcome lately—nothing like escaping to the good old days when the president was just… Continue reading teenage dream
I have thought often since then about where the boundaries lie between what's mine and what's fair for me to talk about and what secrets belong to the people who shape me.
I had just a few simple dreams when I was a child: to meet the Spice Girls, to buy an entire wardrobe from the Limited Too, and to will myself into having perfect vision so I could cast off my Coke-bottle glasses once and for all. Did you know they make miniature cellos for tiny people… Continue reading eyes on the prize
Throughout the northern hemisphere, the school buses are gassing up. Twentysomethings are putting away their cutoff shorts and Indian headdresses until next year's Coachella. Bartenders are replacing their summer shandies with pumpkin beer and the Gap is stocking their shelves with another season's worth of infinity scarves that will last all of four months until… Continue reading the summer of my discontent
“Well, he said you're cute, but kind of... weird,” she tells me, sheepish. “Like, he said he looks over in class sometimes and you're, like... giggling to yourself?” I'm offended, briefly, before I think about myself in Developmental Psychology. It's more about babies than I had really bargained for, and either I'm bored and my… Continue reading rules of engagement
"D'ya want [incomprehensible noise]?" "Um, I'm sorry, what?" "D'ya want [incomprehensible noise]?" "I'm--um--sorry, one more time?" "D'ya want [incomprehensible noise]?" "I... no. No, thanks." I am in London, in a cafe on Charlotte Street, where I learn in short order that drip coffee is an American thing, and there is something else that I could… Continue reading american idiot