It is possible that I knew about the painting of the sycamore before I was even born. From my position in the womb, I may have eavesdropped on my mother expressing her appreciation[...]

H. twatbagensis , alternatively designated as Homo douche bagiens twatbagensis, [95] originated  in New York City and Los Angeles some thirty years ago [94]. Recent evidence from s[...]

I arrive, my luggage does not. I booked this trip just before midnight on my twenty-seventh birthday. It was my reward for a year spent not belonging, eating terribly, sleeping poo[...]

My big brother is getting married in May. His is the first of five weddings I’ll be attending before the year is out. And there may be even more if any of my friends get knocked up[...]

The party is loud, but it’s not too loud. This is one of those moments you forget about the instant after it happens, I suppose. I’m standing with my back against the side of a foo[...]

“I’m wearing your shoes to take the dog out,” she called, sneaking her feet into slippers several sizes too large, too loose, too worn to provide condolence. He had no reply. He wa[...]

On Thursday nights, my mother and I watch Grey’s Anatomy “together,” even though she lives in Buffalo and I live in DC. We  communicate our thoughts and observations through text m[...]

First dates are like interviews. At least in my experience. Every halfway decent one I’ve ever been on is a volley of questions, as if both parties are reporters and the person acr[...]

One afternoon last July, while standing in my driveway next to my newly purchased car, I held a videotape encased by a scuffed and faded cardboard sleeve in my hands. The star’s fa[...]

There is a Zen-like quality to not giving a shit about anything. I usually feel this way right after I leave Bikram yoga, when the sweat and the heat and the humidity have hammered[...]