Here is my bio, in case you need it for some reason:
Ryan Starsailor is until he isn’t, man.
If possible I would like to have the text surrounded by animated gifs of skeletons smoking marijuana cigarettes (drugs)
(Please note: “man” may be replaced with “you idiot” at your discretion)
“Pointing a pistol at my crotch, Arthur said, ‘Which part of what’s attached to you are you most attached to?'”
Seconds after this picture was taken, Dante bit my elbow and started purring
The following “interviews” were conducted on the night of 7 October 2012 at Mohawk, which is a small music venue in downtown Austin. The lights were dimmed low, and there were hot flames coming from the fireplace near the entrance. People seemed happy to be where they were.
The interviewer, Ryan Starsailor, was under the influence of two to four beers, depending on the time at which the conversations took place. We present the piece in chronological order.
• • •
The interviewer spots drummer/vocalist Linwood Regensburg in line at the bar. He is holding two drink tickets and talking to a young woman with short-cropped bangs and black-rimmed glasses. On top of his head is a little orange knit cap.
INTERVIEWER: Oh, hey, Linwood.
LINWOOD: Hey! You look familiar. Have we met?
INTERVIEWER: No, we haven’t. I just knew who you were. I wanted to say I think you’re an all-right dude.
LINWOOD: Man, thanks. [Shakes interviewers hand firmly.] Hey—what should I get? You’ve got a Lone Star there.
INTERVIEWER: Yeah, Lone Stars aren’t very good—
LINWOOD: I wasn’t going to say that outright, but yeah, it’s just kind of what it is: a cheap beer.
INTERVIEWER: Really it’s no different than any other cheap beer. Hell, it gets the job done anyway.
LINWOOD: Right, right.
INTERVIEWER: You could get something local, I guess. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say here?
LINWOOD: Yeah, I always have this guilt that I’m not trying out more local beers. These days I just want a Miller. [Laughs.] My fallback—my fallback is usually Heineken. Except when I drink too many of those I can’t stand it for a few weeks. Maybe I’ll just get something . . . that, uh, isn’t very good.
INTERVIEWER: Yeah shitty beer rules.
[An older woman approaches Linwood holding a copy of Those Darlins’ second album, Screws Get Loose.]
OLDER WOMAN: Linwood, Linwood—can I get you to sign this for me?! I’ve already tracked down Nikki and Jessi and they signed it.
LINWOOD: Oh, yeah, of course.
[The woman who is with Linwood, with the short-cropped bangs and black-rimmed glasses, turns to the interviewer.]
WOMAN WITH SHORT-CROPPED BANGS AND BLACK-RIMMED GLASSES: I’m Lindsay, by the way. Not sure how I missed out on introducing myself.
INTERVIEWER: Oh, man. I’m Ryan.
LINDSAY: I’ve known Linwood for a long time. He’s one of my oldest friends—so this is so weird to me, to have people come up to him like this. I don’t think of him as being famous at all.
INTERVIEWER: He seems like such a nice dude.
LINDSAY: Oh, he is. The nicest.
LINWOOD: [Turning back.] Isn’t tomorrow Columbus Day?
INTERVIEWER: Yeah. And I still have to go to work. Oh well. That guy was a psycho anyway.
LINWOOD: Was he really that bad?
INTERVIEWER: He was a total asshole.
LINDSAY: Yeah, he was.
[Linwood hands Lindsay a beer and takes a sip of his own. The interviewer thrusts his beer into the middle of the human circle. Linwood and Lindsay tap their beers to the interviewer’s, and everyone takes a long gulp.]
INTERVIEWER: Basically one of the biggest psycho jerkoff freaks in human history.
• • •
Two beers in, the interviewer stands as a lone sentry near the venue entrance, where the fire can be felt, and new faces can be seen. Jessi Darlin is one of those faces. She is 5’3” and dressed in a leotard covered in sequins. She is wearing wrestling boots and blood-red lipstick.
INTERVIEWER: Oh hey, Jessi Darlin.
JESSI: [Turning to the interviewer.] Hey! What’s up?
INTERVIEWER: I just wanted to say hello—and do this. [Reaches out for a handshake.] I’m Ryan.
JESSI: Hello Ryan! It’s nice to meet you. [Shakes outstretched hand.]
INTERVIEWER: Uhh, do well!
JESSI: Thank you! I will. [Walks away.]
• • •
Nikki Darlin stands at the end of the bar with a grown man who is wearing a paperboy cap. Her eyes are partially hidden behind smoky black eyeshadow and an asymmetrical tangle of bangs.
INTERVIEWER: Oh hey Nikki Darlin. I’m just some dude, but I think you’re cool.
NIKKI: That’s always a nice thing to hear.
GROWN MAN WITH PAPERBOY CAP: Man, I’ve got to use the bathroom!
INTERVIEWER: Yeah, it’s right there. [Points to the open door next to the bar.] It’s a weird room. There’s purple light flooding out of it, and the trashcan is propping the door open so there’s virtually no privacy.
GROWN MAN WITH PAPERBOY CAP: Weird, man! Totally weird. [Walks into the bathroom.]
INTERVIEWER: [Turning to Nikki Darlin.] Uh, I’ve always wanted to meet you. So it’s nice that that happened. [Motioning towards the bathroom, where Nikki’s dude-friend/maybe-boyfriend is.] Listen, this might be an inappropriate thing to say, but I guess I was always in the John camp. You could have been the next John and Yoko, man.
NIKKI: The what-camp?
INTERVIEWER: The John McCauley camp.
NIKKI: [Smiling.] Well, I’m not. Hah.
INTERVIEWER: Oh, man, yeah I guess that was kind of rude of me to say. I just like that dude is all.
NIKKI: No, it’s fine. We both live in Nashville and we’re still friends. I guess we broke up . . . about a year ago.
INTERVIEWER: Well, that’s sadder than hell, but I guess that’s just some shit that happens.
NIKKI: Yeah, it’s OK.
INTERVIEWER: Aren’t you from Rappahannock County?
NIKKI: I sure am.
INTERVIEWER: Heck, I’m from Prince William County, which is something like thirty miles away. We’re both Virginians.
NIKKI: [Holding up two drinks—one belonging to her special guy.] Cheers to that.
INTERVIEWER: [Pantomiming a toast with an empty hand.] Uh, I don’t have my beer. I gave it to my girlfriend.
NIKKI: [Winking.] Good man.
INTERVIEWER: [Patting Nikki on the shoulder.] Hey, I’m really looking forward to this. Thanks again dude. [Darts away.]
NIKKI: Wait—
INTERVIEWER: [Walking backwards towards Nikki Darlin.] Yeah?
NIKKI: What’s your name?
INTERVIEWER: Oh, I’m Ryan.
NIKKI: Hi Ryan. [Extends her hand.] I’m Nikki. [The two shake hands. Nikki has a nice handshake, as far as those go.]
INTERVIEWER: Hi Nikki.
• • •
Those Darlins are about to perform. The crowd waits patiently. They are engaged in friendly conversation, and are sipping drinks and staring ahead at the stage. Linwood Regensburg walks through the crowd to get to the stairwell leading to the stage and the green room. He recognizes the interviewer and raises his eyebrows as a greeting.
INTERVIEWER: Hello again, Linwood.
LINWOOD: Hey man.
INTERVIEWER: Linwood, this is Chantal—
[Linwood shakes Chantal’s hand.]
INTERVIEWER: —and Karina and Javier.
[Linwood shakes Karina and Javier’s hands.]
LINWOOD: I gotta get ready. It was nice to meet you all!
INTERVIEWER: Bye Linwood!
• • •
The show has ended and the members of Those Darlins depart from the stage and head to the bar to get one last drink. On the way out the door, the interviewer spots Nikki Darlin, and red-faced and stupid from a few beers, has the balls to say good-bye.
INTERVIEWER: Have a good night, Nikki Darlin.
NIKKI: You too, Ryan.
INTERVIEWER: Uh, is it OK if I hug you?
NIKKI: Of course. [Hugs the interviewer.]
INTERVIEWER: Hey Nikki, you keep on making stuff, and I’ll uhhhh . . . keep on supporting you. H’okay???
NIKKI: That’s sweet of you to say, Ryan. [Turning to the guy behind the merch booth.] Wasn’t that sweet of him to say?
MERCH BOOTH DUDE: It really was.
• • •
The interviewer exits the venue and walks down the sidewalk in the direction of his car. An enormous bearded viking-giant, whom the interviewer recognizes as one of the Mohawk bartenders, makes huge strides in the opposite direction. The two recognize each other as they pass.
ENORMOUS BEARDED VIKING-GIANT: Have a good night, brother.
INTERVIEWER: You too, dude.
It is nearly five am and the world’s least-favorite day is an hour away from sunlight. I am sitting here in my dimly-lit room wearing a terrible t-shirt and a terrible hat, listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack and wondering when was the last time I closed my eyes and rested my body. (Lord—it’s been almost twenty-four hours.)
There’s Japanese beer in the refrigerator and I’ve watched all three Daniel Craig James Bond flicks in the wrong order in the last four days. Skyfall is pretty good. I think I like that one best.
Tomorrow I will ride my bicycle to Downtown Oakland and get a P.O. box for this fine website. And then I will figure out if my roommate’s mother actually runs an art store in Berkeley (as opposed to me just thinking (or perhaps misremembering) that she does), and when I get there, and if it exists, I will buy a watercolor set. Then I’m going to create some things that I will give to anyone who is interested.
I just knocked over the French press with my foot. I guess I forgot to clean the damn thing out. Hours ago, who knows how many, I was drinking coffee straight from the press, which is not only hardcore strange but also greasier.
Somewhere not far from here there are cars racing down black highways to get to San Francisco for reasons that can’t be altogether good. I’m going to close my window now and shield myself from the noise and the cold autumn breeze that comes with it.
The other day I was carded buying DayQuil
I’m making a new website! It’s called Kinoko Forest (茸の森).
Kinoko means mushroom!
Mushrooms are cool!
I like forests as well!
I guess I’ll say more soon~~
(Thanks for the pixel art, Jackson <3)
I went to a party tonight. I’m not sure why I went, or why I go to any of these damn things anymore. Maybe because people ask me and I just say “yes” without thinking about it much. (Soon, I think, I will curb this behavior.)
After trying to talk to few people and realizing they didn’t have much interest in talking to me, I poured myself a cup of gin and sat on a patio chair out back, watching a few cardboard boxes blow around in the autumn wind.
When I was starting to get to a bad place in my own mind, on account of all the drinking, an older man in his mid-fifties opened the back gate and stumbled in. It was dark, but through the darkness I could make out his face, and while it was slightly scary (black rings around the eyes, unkept hair, ghoulish grin), he seemed like an agreeable fellow, so I said hello and asked how he was. “Never better,” he said. “And you?”
“I feel nothing,” I said. He laughed. I laughed as well.
He walked around the house and entered in through the kitchen, where it was warmly lit and people were talking and laughing and saying nice things to each other. I heard someone say, “Uncle Eddie! How are you?”
“Never better!” he said. “Where are the drinks?”
Over the course of two hours I became progressively slanted to the point where I knew I needed to be in my own environment. So I went into the kitchen to rinse my glass, planning to slip out the back again. Instead I found that the last few party-goers had convened there and were eating key lime pie. With no other choice I shifted gears and put on a nice enough expression and ate some pie as well. Uncle Eddie, meanwhile, was laying it on thick and heavy with a young woman from Estonia, who was dressed in studded leather boots and who had on a studded leather jacket. I thought she was kind of neat, mainly because of her clothes, and for a moment I considered telling her more than my name. But the longer I listened to her the more I knew there was no god damn point. And anyway, Uncle Eddie was creeping big time, and lord knows I’m not going to get between a creep and his creeping.
The girl from Estonia said something dumb about books, and then some other guy said something dumb about how books are dying, and how no one reads them anymore, and then something else about the human condition or some shit, and I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I had scraped them on the inside of my skull.
Estonia lady said, “What cake is this? Is so good.”
“Key lime,” I said. “And it’s pie. Cake ain’t pie.”
“Pie? I have never had before.”
“Well,” I said, “you just did. Welcome to America, baby.”
On my way out of the house, I heard Uncle Eddie trying desperately to get Estonia lady into his car. He told her he had a studio at his house, and could play drums, and wouldn’t she like to see that? I thought, man, I’m twenty-five years old and I would never, ever put in any sort of effort like that just to, what, get laid? Who cares.
“Um,” she said, “um, yes, I think I can go with you.”
“Great, great,” said Uncle Eddie. “Fantastic. My car is large and can accommodate bicycles of any size.”
“Lord,” I said aloud. An awkward silence dropped out of space and hung around for five or six seconds.
“Yes?” said Uncle Eddie, slightly annoyed. I was stomping his weak attempt to ward off loneliness.
“It’s just. . . .” I looked at my shoes. “It’s just . . . we’re all definitely going to be dead in twenty years.”
I turned to leave, shook Eddie’s hand, tried to shake Estonia lady’s hand (she ignored it), and then got on my bicycle and flew through south Berkeley and back into Oakland—where the streets are uneven and the lights are dim, because that is where I belong.
Tonight I gave two people genuinely heartfelt hugs and it felt nice and they didn’t immediately threaten to call the police
Yesterday I told my father I would never get married, have children, or work for anyone ever again—and that I had come to accept the fact that one day I would die
And to that he said, “I support you”
(Cool!)
