WHAT IS THIS THING?
Critics and audiences agree: Ryan Starsailor is “a self-perpetuating black hole who got lost on the way to his own funeral.”
Uh, anyway: Welcome to this here website of mine, which somehow contains over 350 pages of absolute space trash. You are welcome to read as much or as little as you like, though maybe you shouldn’t read any of it at all. I don’t know! I reckon I’ll leave it up to you to decide.
OK, so, ugh: My name is Ryan Starsailor. Before you ask: Yes, I like stars, and yes, I like sailing through them. Isn’t it nice when things are simple like that??
My good friend Laura Rokas took that photo at the top. I met Laura online. She moved from Montreal to a spare bedroom in my house in Oakland before we had ever met each other. We lived together for two years. The photo is of me and my friend Dante in our backyard in North Oakland. I now live about five blocks from that house, but maybe I wish I still lived in that house. It was a very good house, as far as those go. Anyway, thanks Laura.
If you’d like to write me an email, just go ahead and do it, man. I like receiving email! I will write you back as quickly as I can.
I am maybe good at a few things. At any rate, I have what you might call a PORTFOLIO, where I document any and all evidence that “””proves””” I am at least good for something.
I also, uh, have a sort of WISHLIST if you wanna take a look at that. As anyone will you tell you, love isn’t real, but anonymously sending me WILD AT HEART is the only way to my (wild) heart.
DID YOU KNOW?
I, Ryan Starsailor:
- . . . grew up in a suburb of Washington, D.C., and have since lived in Baltimore, Austin, Oakland, Portland, and Berkeley?
- . . . own multiple pairs of purple boxer briefs?
- . . . am 76%~ asexual?
- . . . have fair skin and, according to an optometrist in Oregon, have very little retinal pigment—which is why the inside of my house is lit like a Bangkok karaoke bar?
- . . . have a gold front tooth?
- . . . am incapable of procreating on account of a vasectomy I had that cost me all of $25 in the form of an insurance copay?
- . . . cut my own hair, which is why it’s bad?
- . . . am dumb, and also stupid?
- . . . am an insane loser?
- . . . am maybe disliked by a handful of people, but probably not hated?
- . . . drink a gallon of green tea every day?
- . . . can count fluently in German?
- . . . always watch movies with subtitles on?
- . . . will not watch that TV show you recommended?
- . . . love fruit?
- . . . have a favorite book, which is MOBY-DICK? (duh!!)
- . . . can’t feel at home in this world anymore?
- . . . will most likely die alone on purpose during a self-imposed exile in Antarctica?
- . . . once slept on an elementary school playground in Providence, Rhode Island?
- . . . used to deliver donuts within a seventy-mile radius of the Bay Area?
- . . . was briefly a cab driver in San Francisco, California?
- . . . was the doorman at an Irish Pub in Oakland, California?
- . . . was the personal assistant to a well-known artist in Baltimore, Maryland?
- . . . was a copywriter at a large biotech company in Austin, Texas?
- . . . was fired from a law firm for contracting the swine flu?
- . . . tested over a dozen experimental medications to help pay for college?
- . . . was hired by the U.S. government to test a malaria vaccination that ended up working?
- . . . have dated two painters with French names?
- . . . was once asked to sire a child for a woman who wanted to be a single mom?
- . . . threw up on a wall at the MacArthur BART station in Oakland, California while a hundred people watched on?
- . . . used to own a decommissioned P71 V8 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, which was stolen four times?
- . . . flew to Tokyo when I was 19 years old and slept on the living room floor of good ol’ Tim Rogers?
- . . . have made out with the lead singer of Deer Tick on two separate occasions?
- . . . used to live with my Canadian and Australian pen pals?
- . . . have not eaten meat in over ten years?
- . . . am nicknamed “Starbaby”?
- . . . have been referred to more than once as a “lonely diatribe”?
- . . . was hugged by Sir Ian McKellen at a cafe in Berkeley, California after complimenting him on his portrayal of King Lear?
- . . . am little more than a garbage bag filled with rained-on newspapers that someone accidentally stapled to a scarecrow?