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K. Tighe doesn't agree with the city benches that proclaim her hometown of Baltimore to be "The Greatest City in America." At age seventeen, Tighe fled Charm City for San Francisco where she attended San Francisco State University by day, and designed light shows for rock bands by night. Ever infected by the spirit of Woodie Guthrie, she'd wander off mid semester to pick strawberries in New Hampshire, make wine in Oregon, waitress at an Arizona honky-tonk, or DJ in Berlin. She even once suffered through an ill-advised stint at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in Boulder. Despite having logged over a month of Greyhound travel, countless plane rides, and far too many cross-country road trips, she's always ended up nestled snugly back in the lap of Rock & Roll. Although keeping the lumens night after night is a habit she kicked back in California, she still loves writing about music. Tighe spends most of her time holed up inside of her Rogers Park apartment, secretly fearing the Chicago winter while lording her cold-weather prowess over her L.A.-born husband. Due to pending temperatures and those scary turtle-soup making maniacs at Taste of Chicago, their tortoise, Bukowski, has been sent on an extended California vacation. | 