Kate Ryan

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?