Storyteller across platforms and borders, home in L.A. at the moment. I help people tell their stories and share them with the world — on both the page and the screen. For a decade, I've worked as a for-hire writer, author, journalist and storyteller. My specialities are the profile, memoir and biography — I know where to look, who to talk to and what to ask when searching for how someone became the professional, artist, entrepreneur, or adventurer they are today.
Two ooze-green bottles clank together as I carry them through
dungeon-like, musky isles of wines and liquors. "You know what this
is, right?" The grumpy, stout shopkeeper asks me at the register of
his liquor store in Tralee, Ireland.
I'm fed up with LMU's lack of respect for a certain group on
this campus. This is my second consecutive column about alcohol,
and it's not a coincidence.
I rode the short bus to school. Not because I was mentally
challenged, though I may be, but because of the small student
population in my miniature Utah hometown. Having under one hundred
residents yielded only seven or eight school-age children to
befriend. Electronic codes to hotel pools and the occasional
complimentary pizza pie were about the extent of Brian Head's perk
package, outside of ski-related activity. Play dates basically had
no silver linings aside from a shiny pog slammer or Micro Machine
base. The lavish life was non-existent. Then, I came to LMU.
"That makes me sick," my friend complained as we passed Beaver,
a small town off of Interstate 15 in southern Utah. "Every town
we've passed has the same fast food places." This comment came
after 13 hours of driving into our 20-hour spring break
snow-search. Right then, I realized I was also woozy at the
frequency of these fast food places that litter Beaver and other
small towns during our travels.
From two kids who know the stomping ground that is Los Angeles,
Dweezy and B-Hoss present a fresh look at the city's hottest spots
to eat, drink and be merry. We will take you to the hole in the
wall places, the unknowables and the secret delights based on our
first-hand recommendations. Most importantly, we're getting you off
the bluff and onto the block. Get up, go out and get to know the
It was a lot like going to church Sunday morning after getting
dumped Saturday night. Except instead of pews, I sat in a press box
at the Home Depot Center and instead of a priest, I watched the
Galaxy play Toronto FC.
Oh my God, did you see Grey's Anatomy last night? Well, I
didn't, but on Thursday a few of the broads on my block migrated
toward my wall-bang of a flat screen to watch it. These fiends
twitch like freshmen at the prospect of theme parties when their
shows come on. ?
One week from today, the gates of Gersten will be overflowing
with students eager to see Michelle Malkin and Arianna
Huffington rhetorically attempt to wreck each other. This
exhibition of our constitutional right to freedom of speech is the
kaboose of a week-long train of events highlighting the issue. Yet,
there is another event that is equally, if not more relevant, to
the theme of the week.
Thursday afternoon during convo, I scooted down alumni mall on
my skateboard toward O'Malley. I noticed the oodles of tables
plastered with pictures of the beautiful, enticing destinations LMU
offers to students for study abroad. It briefly made me remember
the unforgettable and unregretable experience I had last semester
in Madrid, Spain, a program LMU used to offer.
Your home. Your voice. Your news.
Rachel Bilson, star of the movie "Jumper," raped me of my
dignity on Saturday night.
At times, we are all vulnerable. We stumble out of bars, parties
and classrooms after drinking, dancing and examing to ultimately
find ourselves at the end of our rope. At this juncture, we often
encounter wrong-doers. You know, the ones who take advantage of our