Kate Ryan

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."