ain’t nothin’ but a number

When I was seventeen, the sleepy-eyed 26-year-old sound engineer who taped a microphone cord to the back of my neck every night before I went onstage as Peggy in 42nd Street fell hard for me. “I shouldn't be telling you this,” he'd start, his thumbs pressing the tape into the back of my neck for… Continue reading ain’t nothin’ but a number

Advertisements

dana got run over by a reindeer

This holiday season, I fell into a funk, captured for posterity in a series of journal entries where I asked myself some variation of “what's wrong with me?” I blame Christmas, when the answer to this question is obvious: I don't have access to a baby or a purse dog or a mini-SUV that I… Continue reading dana got run over by a reindeer

up in the air

“You got Big Green?” my dad used to ask me every time I’d come home for a stretch—first those monthlong winter breaks in college, later a week’s vacation from the office. I’d nod yes, sheepishly, well aware that I didn’t need to bring a suitcase large enough to stash a body in for a weeklong… Continue reading up in the air

the empress’s new clothes

A red tank top emblazoned with the word DANCE in rainbow glitter. Baby-blue track pants from the Limited Too that snap up the side. Pastel yellow sneakers for skateboarders, doodled all over with ballpoint-pen stars and hearts and Avril Lavigne lyrics. Beige corduroy bellbottoms. A tiered skirt that falls to mid-calf and soars when you… Continue reading the empress’s new clothes

the summer of my discontent

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

fievel goes east

“I'm getting cockles,” I say. My dad looks at me like I just said I was ordering the insect protein. To his credit, he doesn't recommend that maybe I ought to stick with the same buttered pasta I've been eating since I started in on solid foods fifteen years earlier. “Nice!” he says. I'm sixteen… Continue reading fievel goes east

interpreter of melodies

Over the past several months, I've caught myself—multiple times—on the verge of tweeting song lyrics like I'm a seventeen-year-old writing on MySpace. I think it's probably because the last time I had my heart broken like I did a year or so ago, I was seventeen, and it was easier to wear your heart on… Continue reading interpreter of melodies