Thanks to my best friend and her entire family (who were my primary babysitters before and after school), my childhood from ages 7 to 12 was filled with the comprehensive works of Mr. Michael “Sweet Lips” Bolton. As school let out, I would not have to scan the cars looking

OK, fine. It didn’t ruin my life. But seriously. It kind of did. I have been cursed with a love/hate relationship with the songs of my Zima drinking, shoulder pad wearing elders who loved them some artists like Richard Marx and the Tony Rich Project. Here are the worst offenders

I am a Californian living in New York City.  I was born in the suburbs of Los Angeles, raised in the suburbs of San Diego, and went to college in the Bay Area, so I’d kind of consider myself somewhat of a semi-expert on Californianity.  Living as a Broke-Ass-West-Coaster-Gone-East for

First things first: I have never been a “wild child.”  During my teen years, I was a dedicated captain of my high school’s Quiz Bowl team– our post-match parties consisted of watching Team Member L do the “human pretzel” behind a dumpster in the Denny’s parking lot, and Team Member

Last weekend, I spent my Halloween dressed as Selena (a costume which– thanks to procrastination and an extremely ill-timed thunder/snowstorm– turned out looking more like an alcoholic 90s-goth-chola in snow boots, but whatevs).  I’ve always had a special place in my kinky-cop-hat-and-bustier-wearing heart for that quick-stepping ranchera, and would probably