Columns

This summer, my imagination has arrived, like the truncating tick of a Technicolor pinwheel, at the following isosceles triangle: I want a man to play me in a naked game of chess.

New York, which I had expected would offer some rest and relaxation, still dragged me along with little relief.

Email is a medium where it pays to be either concerningly nice or meticulously cruel.

“He’s the perfect naked man,” she described the statue with too much arousal for comfort. “Half tense, half relaxed.”

Learning to accept Vegas for what it is — Sin City, lost wages, the gambling and marriage and divorce capital of the world — must happen to enjoy its sinful fun.

A little unhinged, vulnerable and heartbreaking, SZA’s record will forever perfectly encapsulate fighting my imperfectionism.

There’s a strange freedom in extending the body’s limits, a clear-eyed frenzy of indulging artistic temperament.

I’m always a bit embarrassed to admit that I listen to Sublime; I feel an obligation to explain an attachment I don’t completely understand.

The last time I would ever be in Landmark’s Shattuck Cinemas was the first time I went to the movie theater alone.

Few artists have been able to capture the fraught tension of growing up the way Lorde did in six simple words: “It feels so scary getting old.”