Here’s the thing with rock and roll memoirs (at least this is the thing I’m getting after reading, well, two) stories about playing crowded, smoky clubs all the sound the same after you hear about…
Browsing Category Writing
Proof #481 that I am psychic
I was just sitting here staring at a blank word doc waiting for brilliance to appear, an “A Different World” rerun on in the background when I was hit by a tidal wave of craving…
On making out and Blue Oyster Cult
If we had a nickel for how many times I’ve randomly shouted (both outloud and in my head) “Time to play B sides, time ain’t on my side, time I’ll never know” we could all…
Two pages that include Bruce Springsteen
I’ve got two pages filled with 638 words. This is the furthest I’ve ever been on a Tuesday night/Wednesday morning. Of course it’s 638 pages of stream-of-conscious bullshit involving a bowling alley and Bruce Springsteen,…
Where I become the girl who cries at poetry readings
I cried at a poetry reading tonight. I cried. At a poetry reading. It bears repeating because, seriously who actually cries at a poetry reading? I don’t even like poetry, really. It’s anarchy and chaos…