RYAN STARSAILOR
☆ミ
1988–2023
“HE WAS ALWAYS ON THE WRONG SIDE OF IT”
The other night at Wolf Hound we were all outside smoking a joint, and these two guys with bad haircuts walked over and asked if they could take a drag. We said “Of course!” and passed the ghost chimney around while talking about nothing of consequence.
Then, out of nowhere, these two dudes started talking about their clothing company in Santa Cruz. They make “California-themed merch.” Oh boy.
They gave us three stickers (and told us how much they would have cost us otherwise). One of them was the shape of California with the California bear in the middle. Another was the exact same thing except it had . . . tree roots coming out of the bottom near San Diego. The last one was just this crappy vector drawing of the same California bear that was stamped over the other two stickers.
Later we were back in the bar sans Santa Cruz Cali Merch Bros, and a guy we were with said, “My inability to do what they did to us is probably the reason I’m going to be poor for the rest of my life.”
What else could I say except “Yup, me too.”
(At last call I would stumble down 56th Street and slap all three stickers onto a street sign.)
If the minds of the masses are quiet empty rooms with no one at the controls, then I don’t know
There may be a crazy son of a bitch pulling the levers in my head, but at least someone is watching over the circuit board
Right? Who knows. Maybe not.
Good-night!!
I can’t wait till one of my eyeballs falls out of my head so I can just get the hell on with it and wear an eyepatch
Here is a sexy thing to say to someone fyi:
“LISTEN sister: if you wanna break off a little piece of this KitKat bar, then you best go ahead and break it right the heck off right the heck now— cuz lemme tell you somethin, this flesh ain’t gonna last!!”
Try it!
(Hmmm maybe you shouldn’t)
Won’t somebody please????
Help me with my miseries??????
Can somebody see, yeah??????
What this world has done to me??????
(Lord! This song!)
Man, I hate that I care. I really don’t want to care. Today I sat in my chair at my desk, and I was just angry about how I care. What a dumb thing to do! Who sits in a chair and thinks about dumb stuff like that??
And you know what, I don’t even really want to explain what it is I care about, and why it bothers me that I care about it. I don’t trust . . . uh . . . whoever or whatever reads this thing to go easy on me. Hell, in this world, you’ve gotta have something you keep to yourself or they’ll poke you full of holes or rip you to shreds. Those terrible bastards.
Anyway: tomorrow I am going to wake up and do some Cool Stuff and, as best as I can, dampen and dismantle whatever worthless thoughts enter my head. Yahhhhoooo!
OK I am putting this here I guess
I’m just gonna go ahead and say it:
I think the Bay Area sucks.
Last night at Wolf Hound we had a conversation about butt plugs.
We were talking about butt plugs because someone had recently had an incident involving a butt plug. And I wondered aloud: “What does one do with the butt plug afterwards? Does it go in the sink, or in the dishwasher, or do you put it in a shoebox under your bed?”
I mean, for god’s sake, if you just toss it on the sheets or on the floor, it’s bound to collect cat hair and dust and pieces of Cap’n Crunch or whatever. You wouldn’t treat your toothbrush like that. It’s unsanitary!
The discussion grew from there, with nearby tables chiming in either with empirical evidence or their own personal theories. It was great!
There was one person at our table, I can’t remember her name but I’ve seen her around, and she definitely wasn’t having it. She looked downright angry that we were having a dumb conversation about butt plugs in a gloomy dive bar.
I thought, “Hey. Come on. Chill out. We’re experiencing a nice thing right now, which is the joy of conversation!!!!”
I like having conversations. It is fun to talk, especially when it doesn’t matter what you’re talking about.
Maybe the idea of a butt plug made this woman uncomfortable. I don’t know . . . I don’t personally want anything to do with butt plugs—mostly because of the hygiene issue, and also because it would make me feel weird to encounter one out of context (e.g. you have to move it when you’re vacuuming or something)—but there’s nothing wrong with them.
And anyway it doesn’t matter what we were riffing on. We were just riffing, man.
What makes me think she was just uncomfortable with talking about anything at all is she wore the same bitter facial expression when we got into pulp. See, the bartender gave me an expensive cocktail just for the hell of it, I really don’t know why, and it was all right. I think it had tequila and Campari and grapefruit juice in it. I let my friend’s girlfriend try some, and she said, “Ew! It has stuff floating around in it!” To which I told her it was just grapefruit pulp. She said, “Pulp is gross!”
Pulp is not gross. Pulp is Real Cool. I am pro-pulp. She is anti-pulp. We polled the table. It was a fifty-fifty split.
The woman who hates any sort of bar-room conversation didn’t give me an answer. She looked pissed off, like, “Why are these assholes still talking?”
If I had to guess, I’d peg her as anti-pulp.
The pulp, baby—the meat of the fruit—that’s what makes it all worthwhile. And I ain’t just talkin bout JUICE.
Yup! The end.
