Let me tell you about the last time I saw my dad before he was sent to prison.

This is how your life can change in an instant: A stranger with a gun walks in your door.

Hi guys –
I’m finally out of the hospital after spending the last three weeks in Intensive Care and, frankly, I’m contemplating de-friending all of you.

It is a beautiful day to get arrested: not too hot, not too cold, and a crisp breeze coming off of the waterfront.

Every Sunday I perform the sabbathday ritual. First I scan the top ten films at the weekend box office to count how many have female protagonists. Then I count how many are written, directed or produced by women.

I write this with a baseball bat by the bed. A weapon that will do more damage than you can bring yourself to inflict is useless; last time I made the wrong choice.

You’ve sworn never to write a piece in Second Person. You ask yourself why.

Robin Williams was an airman, a doctor, a genie, a nanny, a president, a professor, a bangarang Peter Pan, and everything in between. But he was one of a kind.

Imagine this: You’ve just spent three weeks painstakingly replicating a Picasso painting from scratch—you’ve scrutinized documentation about the artist’s creative process; you’ve practiced his brushstrokes, so your work will look convincing; you’ve even painted in noted preliminary images, then covered them up, because that’s what he did. You’ve toiled over this, all for mere seconds of screen time in a film.

A beloved editor long ago bestowed upon me her loathing of what she called “women who” stories. Women who fight wars. Women who fight fires. Women who accomplish anything significant in worlds once reserved exclusively for men.

David Fincher in a bad mood isn’t easy to discern from David Fincher in a good mood. Fincher tired is the same as Fincher energized.

We’re living in a weird moment. Everything has become archivable.

Apple doesn’t often fail, and when it does, it isn’t a pretty sight at 1 Infinite Loop.

I was not a nice little girl. My favorite summertime hobby was stunning ants and feeding them to spiders.

When astronauts return from space walks and remove their helmets, they are welcomed back with a peculiar smell.

On the night that Jesús Vicente Zambada Niebla strode into the lobby of the Sheraton Maria Isabel Hotel in Mexico City, the price on his head was $5 million.