Kate Ryan

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.