In the fall of 1981 I was a student at Harriet Bishop Elementary School, where, under the tutelage of Mrs. K. Miller, who’d recently birthed twins, we were making owl puppets from brown lunch sacks. This involved pipe cleaners, safety scissors, paste, construction paper, etc. She perched on a K-sized
Rob Lowe’s latest memoir Love Life is as dull and disappointing as the first one, Stories I Tell My Friends, was charming and delightful. Sad trombone. It feels super snotty to say, but Love Life reads like it was written by a writer who is kind of full himself. As
Ugh, seventh grade. Do you remember it? That awful year when everything is changing at a pace you aren’t quite sure of — your body, your friends, the rules of society. Kevin Brockmeier nails it in A Few Seconds of Radiant Filmstrip: A Memoir of Seventh Grade. Told in the
I’ve spent the past year or so gobbling up books by and about female singers. Ann & Nancy Wilson of Heart, Pat Benatar, The Runaways, and now you can add Rosanne Cash’s Composed to the list. I wasn’t sure what to expect going into this one. I’m not all that
Gary Shteyngart was still wearing his awkward U.S. newbie ID when he received the nickname Gary Gnu and built an entire quirky schtick around it. This was an upgrade from second-most-hated in his classroom, a delicate balance he maintains soon after his family comes to American from Leningrad in the
When it came to the Two Coreys. I was always much more Haim than Feldman. I mean, “Lucas?” Come on! Sure, Feldman had “The Goonies” and the whole “This one, this one right here, this was my dream, my wish. And it didn’t come true. So I’m taking it back.
Once, a friend of mine was struggling to describe something. She said, “It’s like thinking you’re going to Paris and then getting off the plane in Havana – still nice, but not what you were expecting.” That’s sort of how I felt about Rob Delaney’s Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior.
Sarah Stonich got me good. I had no idea her book Vacationland was...
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