I believe there few people on this Earth who look back with a sincere fondness for their adolescence.  For any creature, that uncomfortable halocline between childhood and maturity is filled with its own special potion of traps and confusion that lead many of the smartest animals into a frenzy of bad poetry and ill-fitting clothing.  For late-bloomers such as myself, the awkward process – oh, let’s call it a dance – of cultivating those first buds of our adult selves is something with which I can still greatly empathize, the last vestiges of a younger me hav

Most of my life-shattering mysteries involve frantic searches for simple household items hiding in conspicuous corners: scissors, lip balm, my favorite nail file, the roll of tape, that little scrap of paper with that oh-so-important number scribbled in the margin.  I have made a frazzled career tracking these elusive little creatures to their hidey-holes, but the extent of my everyday detective work usually ends with the junk drawer (it’s not really a “utility drawer”; don’t kid yourself).  Not the case if your name happens to be Kinsey Millhone.

The term “hysteria” can trace its rather curious roots back to the ancient Greeks.  Often attributed to Hippocrates, “hysteria” began its journey to the modern English lexicon as a term used to describe the movements of a woman’s uterus as it flew about her body, causing disease and driving her wild.  A fun fact.  While it is now clear that the female womb remains stationary, the idea of the wild or “bad girl” still remains an alluring taboo in our society.  Grabbing misbehavior by the horns, Louisville poet

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