Shrugs

Today was a pretty odd day. I don't want to write, but I feel as though I should.

I saw a homeless man a few days ago while crossing the bridge on Cherry here in town. He was walking down the train tracks that go through Massillon, carrying a large plastic garbage bag and a big wooden plank. I can only imagine he used the plank for sleeping, eating, and maybe other things that require a generally flat and level surface. I locked eyes with him for a second as he walked down the train tracks, me in my polo shirt and my head phones on playing what I imagine is generally snobby music.

In that moment, I felt connected to the man with no home. I understand I'm not homeless but the fact that we both saw each other, if only for a moment, seemed surreal to me. Massillon isn't especially known for its homeless population, though it is there if you know where to look. I'm not really sure what brought us together for that short lapse of time, but it made me feel like a bad guy.

I was also driving home this evening after having a night of fun with my improv troupe. We went out for italian food in Wadsworth and went back to Kevin and Mandy's apartment when we were done. We had a few drinks and played some games, had a generally pleasant time.

While driving home, in a partial stupor due to the alcohol I drank, I noticed I was the only person on all of highway 21 except for one car about a mile ahead of me. I drove slow deliberately to see if the would pull away as I wanted to be alone on my drive home.

Once they left my sight though I felt guilty, just as I had when I saw the homeless man. I'm not sure why, but I felt like I should speed up till I could see them again. Once I did see them though, I was to late. They had turned off of the highway onto one of northeast Ohio's many backroads.

I felt like this may all be some sort of bizarre symbolism that would be appropriate material for a blog. Perhaps along the lines of my fear of being alone or forcing people I love away.

I dunno.

Chocolate Wall

I feel pretty shitty right now, like I came down with a disease that just makes someone feel like a total douche. It isn't quite depression, depression is a psychological condition. I suppose whatever is afflicting me is partially psychological, I would be able to feel much were it not.

Basically the plans to move to Chicago, not happening. Nikki had been speaking with a lady 'in the industry' over in the windy city and she only heard bad new. Her cousin hooked her up with this chick as far as a break down of what to expect upon moving, and she was basically told you'd be better off if you didn't move.

I know I didn't really play a hand in the ultimate defeat of Chicago, but I feel like I did. I wanted to wait a bit longer than jumping the next bus in November. I had basically forced my way onto the trip so because, and I've come to terms with this, I was desperate at the time.

Nikki is a fine piece of action, there is no denying that, but I feel much more for her than the anatomical pleasure. Her and I connect in a way I don't with most other people. She is one of the few unfortunate souls who have the pleasure of hearing my distastes because I am so comfortable with them. Plus, she doesn't seem to mind, so I think we have a pretty good thing going.

But as she got off the phone with this long winded woman ( whom she spoke to for over two hours ), I felt like I had plunged a dagger into her chest. She sobbed and poured her heart out to me, decrying her dreams as useless and her overall unfair treatment as ongoing. I coddled her and whispered to her. I devised a new plan for her, for us.

She eventually calmed down and agreed with me. Agreed that we would move in together and live around here for another year. We would get an apartment together to get her out of her parents' house and we would make new plans during the course of that year, find a new Mecca and plan our pilgrimage at the end of our stay wherever we found vacancy.

She agreed to it. She agreed to leave her dream behind for me and make a new dream starting here. She agreed to it, so why do I feel so low? Why do I feel like I was the lady on the other end of the phone telling her that her dreams were unreachable? What reason do I have to feel like a douche?

I hope this suspected douchery is just that. I hope I have no other reason to feel bad than sympathy pain. I hope I don't come to find that I'm just as big a jerk as you all think I am.

Wrapped Up in Juice

I am a human being who just imbibed a certain amount of alcohol that makes me a Super Smash Bros Brawl warrior. That may or may not be important, but I find it to be an important discovery. It seems that as the amount of fermented yeast in my system increases, so to does my hand eye coordination. Unfortunately, it also increases my general stupidity as well as ability to vomit.

Suppose, however, I was able to find the golden ratio of alcohol to stupidity that would revert my to animal-like qualities. I could become an unstoppable force of physical determination and judgment. Others would not be able to best me in feats of dexterity or physical manipulation. They would, very easily best me in terms of memory and intelligence, however. So, would I be able to realize what terms my challenges were to come to if made?

I suppose finding the golden ratio solves this problem, but I can't necessarily know that being at the proper ratio means that I'll be able to understand much and what few I would comprehend would most probably not be very well understood.

But the fact that I'm able to know enough about my current state makes me wonder that if being "inhibited" is really all as inhibited as it is cracked up to be. That is, after drinking as much as I have, which really isn't a lot, should I really be able to sit down and break my physiological being into the parts I am?

I'm not a wonder of insight right now, as should be shown by the general misappropriation of words and sentences in this diatribe of my current state, but the simple truth of my typing it should prove something about my cognitive abilities. I'm no slouch, though I do have a general slumping.

Luckily I am getting a massage tomorrow. A free massage. My slumping should be adjusted into a mild lumbar disruption, which can be cured with peppermint tea and intercourse.

My god I love peppermint tea.

I found the text size button!

I drove to Pat Catan's this morning and bought some art supplies. It may prove a wasted effort, but I always find that driving somewhere far away and purchasing something acts as a bit of a driving force for me. Kind of like me saying to myself "Hey fucktard, I didn't just go out and buy this shit to sit it in my room and leave it to rot! You better use it or your ass is getting thrown into the street!" I'm a total dick to myself, shit.

So I bought some cold press board, at Bili Kribbs' suggestion. ( The possesive form of Kribbs' is fun to try and figure out how to say, just so you know. ) I also got a thick brush and a pallette. Brick-a-brack that artists usually have. I'm living the dream! I also got two things for me though: a twenty-four count box of crayons and some cheap note cards. So cheap, mind you, that they're not even card stock. They're rectangular slips of paper. I drew monsters on them all day at work with my crayons. It was fun, so I think I may post them to accompany this here blog. Maybe boost my readership from me to someone else.

Work was work otherwise. Work. work. work...

I came home and Fathead suggested we go see Pineapple Express. It was good, I enjoyed the humor and the very honest portrayal of pot smoking. It is the kind of movie that would have made me feel something if I hadn't been ill prepared. Beyond that, Fathead and I were frightened by the rain as we left the theater, which proved hilarious. We were not the cool kids at the theater tonight. More like two goofy guys who hang out now and then. That's honest, I think so anyway.

That's all life should be. Drawing in crayon and laughing at each other when trying to be serious.

Moderate Psychadelia

I need to totally write some words down...

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll do this.

Call of the Bored

So I'm just out of it entirely right now. Gonna type some words before going to bed to ready myself for partying tomorrow.

I hope I get to drink some liquors tomorrow, as I haven't drank liquors in quite some time. I suppose I do not need alcohol to have fun, but it certainly helps. It makes me relaxed and ultimately jolly in that my body stores fat much more easily if I'm filled with yeast excrement. ( I feel smart now. ) I like that my body retains weight much more easily when I'm drinking as I'm not especially hungry while drinking. However, when I'm high it seems that food becomes such a pleasant diversion. Smoking and salty snacks can only go hand in hand, as otherwise I'm to self conscious to sully my lips with such garbage.

I'm am a bit of as health nut, but you'd never know it. I work out in the morning, then proceed to watch television till I go to bed. I try to eat healthy, then eat out at burger joints and drink beer. Not to long ago I even hurt my back whilst lifting my twenty pound weight. I suppose having hurt it the day before while doing jumping jacks, it probably wasn't the best idea. But me, I need to work out, need to feel like I'm not wasting what little life remains in my body.

Sure, I'm in my twenties. But that is at least a quarter of my life. Okay, I guess you don't really start living till your twenties, what with college and love and all that. I still have a need to feel like I'm going to be something big. I'm going to make something of this weaselly spindly self of mine. I'm going to turn shit into gold, spin twine into silk, boil water into wine.

I need a prodding though. I need some sort of jolt to get me going. Working out is more like the ticking of a clock, an occurrence that happens in sort of rhythm that only serves to drive me mad. I'm slowly unwinding, ticking down the seconds till either a cog pops out of place or my alarm goes off. I'm hoping it is the latter bit of symbolism.

"I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out
in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom
of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time." -Jack London

I would compare myself to Call of the Wild now, but the fact I can attribute that to the author of the above quote seems good enough for me. For now.

G'night.

Hey!

I've taken up walking to work, as opposed to driving. would bike to work, but I've been lazy recently, what with the muscle I pulled in my back. Walking has its benefits though, as I get to enjoy the otherwise blurred surroundings of my meager Massillonian life.

The bridge on Cherry, for being a large and rather charmless construction, proffers an image of the river I had never really taken in. Every morning, I feel like jumping into the water below, but realize that I may end up smelling of a few unfortunate things if I do. That and the total depth of the river may only be a few feet, so the safety of my body would be better withheld on the bridge. Nevertheless the view is breathtaking, as I've found myself breathless looking over it a few times this week. No, its not the Amazon of Nile, but the small river whose name is unknown to me twists lazily through the small hills outside of the Massillon city limits. It seems as the the lackadaisical stance on life most Massillonians have is also shared with the nature surrounding the city.

On the way home, shortly after taking in the view of the river, I had crossed a small intersection with a rather awkward light fixture. The light really does not serve much of a purpose but to slow down any and all drivers. After crossing this light, a group of girls stuck a the light began yelling at me. Seemingly, they were just trying to annoy me, as I was on the phone with a friend discussing the arrangements to get tuxes fitted for his upcoming wedding. I turned and acknowledged the girls with a small thumbs up, to which they giggled. They did not stop yelling though, as I made my turn towards home.

It seemed rather surreal. My girlfriend told me they were hitting on me, but I really just think they were bored. I do suppose that they both go hand in hand, as the best sex is usually had when all parties involved begin spontaneously from whence was nothing. The game they were playing may have been just a teenager's way of passing the time through the doldrums of middle America, showing that fun was alive and kicking in grass roots country.

Or maybe they were just twats.

Whatever way you spin it, Massillon has some hidden beauty, which I'm slowly uncovering and documenting. Hopefully I'll have a few pictures of my discoveries in the coming days.

SHUT UP

The wonder of existence confounds me in its attempts to make me feel bad. I constantly hate the state of my acne, loath the peculiarities of my body, and wallow in the shame of my being. I can only assume that it comes with the job of maintaining one's personal self, but it really blows. Blows ass.

Why should I hate being me? Well, there are many reasons, I'm sure, but I need to get over them. I only get one chance to exist, and this is it. Quit being such an insignificant slouch and stand up to be the mother fucker you were intended to be.

I really don't want to be a mother fucker, unless I plan on having children. The last thing I need right now is children.

What the hell am I writing about? I can't even seem to recall. Something about existing.

What a terrible place to use a writing convention, recalling sentences past as though they happened a few pages back. I knew the whole time what I was writing about, more or less. This is all just the ethereal spew my mind bakes for me on an hour to hour basis. It constantly trods me into the dirt and makes me feel sub par.

But at other times I feel like I just turned a huge spliff into ash. The world is mine, every one of the funny body parts and all. I can take anything I want, be anything I want, eat anything I want, drink anything I want, and ultimately explode into a ball of ash from being such a proactive guy.

But right now? I work 9-5 (more or less) and sit on my ass in front of the TV for at least two hours a day. Granted those two hours are generally spent being sedentary while eating or not being sedentary while working out, but TV ultimately eats those two hours of my life. Why am I such a waste?!

But I'm not a waste. Here I am typing out this completely unreadable drivel in an attempt to be creative. I haven't drawn anything in months and I'm supposedly going to be in an art show? Me? No, that can't be right...

...Or could it? Could this be any more predictable? Could I really have the stones to live as an artist? I do plan on moving to Chicago to do just that, and I'm slowly trading the life I've built here in Nowhere, Ohio to do it. Is it possible for me to draw stupid cartoon animals for a museum that no one has ever heard of?

I guess I could.

I should tattoo "SHUT UP" on my chest upside down, as a reminder.

My name is Ryan

Music is a portal to the mind, a gateway to the brain, an open door to thought and physiology. It morphs and bends the way we think, creating something from where the was once nothing. Music is the god of our day and age. Music sells shoes, music creates social groups, and music helps us remember.

If music is all of these things, what isn't music? Certainly any given form of art has its limitations, and one can only assume this is true of music.

I don't really want to know what music isn't. That isn't interesting. The feelings generated by music, they are interesting. Just like my thought processes running rampantly through my mind and through my fingers, becoming the words in this poorly thought out blog post.

I plant a small seed of music in each day of my life, thanks to the random functionality of my iPod's playlist. Will I have a good day? Will I have a bad day? Will I experience any given moment of my day or will I be replaced with some creature that calls itself Ryan and answers to Ryan?

On the days I get replaced, I can't help but feel bad for the people that encounter me. I can only imagine what strange things it tells people as the beat of any given song repeats endlessly in its mind.

Love Ryan

Yup, I Was Gone

So I just got back from Chicago not to long ago. My girlfriend and I went and we had a general time of it. We saw a lot of shows, ate some interesting things, saw some interesting things, and slept in. Vacation is wonderful in respect to sleeping.

We stayed with a girlfriend of my girlfriend who is a student at the Improv Olympic, or iO. She took us to all the shows worht seeing at the theater, such as the Cook County Social Club, Improvised Shakespeare, and many others. It really gave me a taste for long-form improvisation, whereas I'm used to mainly short-form improv games.

We had some pretty good food in Chi-Town as well, including an actual Chicago style pizza. I was absolutely thick, not allowing much to pass through its high density cheesiness. The sauce and dough only added to the decadence of this Italian monster-piece. We also attended Taste of Chicago and the meal of note would have to be the African-style goat I had. Served in chunks over rice, it was very flavorful with a tangy barbeque-esqe sauce. The rice had a hint of coconut flavor, and I think that reaslly made the dish for me.

Chicago is definitely a city on the move. No one can keep still long enough there to really appreciate what they have around them. I suppose I'm glad we went so I could see the city's beauty and culture. It is going to be interesting and different to live out there but I am looking forward to it. I need a shift in gears from living in a dead-end, middle of nowhere town(no offence to those who live here).

State of the Drunk

I kind of hate hats. Not all hats, mind you, but most hats. Caps, for instance, never cover enough of the head, and most brimmed hats cover to much of the head. The head, being one of the most prominent features of a human being shouldn't be cover. I believe the head should be celebrated.

Certain head-borne elements are excellent, and women seem to get it right in the field of head adornment. Tiaras, for instance, may as well be hats. But the way a tiara points in the center and then draws the eyes out and around the head is a beautiful display of headsmanship. Also, necklaces. A simple glint of metal adorned around the neck draws eyes toward the head and neck region.

Necks are elegant as well, protruding symmetrically from the chest, elevating the head to its headly status. The neck is the epicenter for most of the brain's impulse, though the face has to be responsible for more than half of them.

Which only brings me back to how elegant encephalization really is. The musculature of the face is such that it can convey emotion millions of times better than the rest of the body. The face can, in a simple shift of muscle spasm, convey sadness, happiness, grief, anger, fear, and dullness. We are our face.

The key to becoming a world-class human being is mastery of the body, however. Anyone Can create emotion through the face, the ability is bred into us. When we're sad we instinctively frown or grimace. We can change the way we support ourselves in a multitude of ways though, and that is what makes body mastery so special. We are our faces, but through our bodies we can be so much more expressive.

Most people are ashamed of their bodies (at least here in the fattest country in the US (I just drank five beers(shut the fuck up))). Bodies are nothing to be ashamed of, as no one else on Earth can emulate the things your body can do. Your body is not a temple, it is whatever you make it out to be. So I suppose it could be a temple, but that is beyond the point. Nobody else has your ass, or your neck, or you stomach.

Make the most of them! Make them emote things better than others can! Express your superiority! If you don't do it now then tomorrow your ass will be dry, wrinkly, and all in all yucky. Make the most of that firm supple ass while it exists here, in the present.

Enjoying life is one of the principles of being happy, so you may as well enjoy yourself first and foremost. Once you, do you can enjoy somebody else.

Long story short: I'm drunk and horny.

Transcribing the Devils Dictionary: Abasement - Ability

Abasement, n. A decent and customary mental attitude in the presence of wealth or power. Peculiarly appropriate in an employee when addressing and employer.

Abatis, n. Rubbish in front of a fort to prevent the rubbish outside from molesting the rubbish inside.

Abdication, n. An act whereby a sovereign attests his sense of the high temperature of the throne.

Poor Isabella's dead, whose abdication
Set all tongues wagging in the Spanish nation.
For that performance 'twere unfair to scold her
She wisely left a throne to hot to hold her.
To History she'll be no royal riddle--
Merely the plain parched pea that jumped the griddle.
G.J.

Abdomen, n. The temple of the god Stomach, in whose worship, with sacrificial right, all true men engage. From women this ancient faith commands but a stammering assent. They sometimes minister at the altar in a half-hearted and ineffective way, but true reverence for the one deity that men really adore they know not. If woman had a free hand in the world's marketing the race would become graminivorous.

Ability, n. The natural equipment to acccomplish some small part of the meaner ambitions distinguishing able men from dead ones. In the last analysis ability is commonly found to consist mainly in a high degree of solemnity. Perhaps, however, this impressive quality is rightly appraised; it is no easy task to be solemn.

Bierce, Ambrose. The Devil's Dictionary.
New York: Dover Publications, Inc.:
1993.

Story Time: The End of Innocence/Humanity

How many people does it take to change a light bulb? First you must wonder how many people it takes to create a light bulb.

You've got the glass outside, which takes some degree of skill to blow. In this day and age, I'm sure a machine has been taught to blow the glass, but that only makes it easier for machine to ultimately take over if they can lord over our light.

Filaments are also key in making a light bulb, but they're little more than a few wires twisted around. At least, as far as I can tell they are.

As I recall, I used to make people out of pipe cleaners in kindergarten, so I'm sure a few five-year-olds have been forcibly employed to make a few million circus tight ropes.

If the light bulbs are made on US soil, though, the five-year-olds may not be forcibly employed, which begs the question of unionization. If these children were to form a group, they too could lord light bulbs over us in the end times of humanity.

The scariest thought will be when the five-year-olds and the machines ultimately group together to form an army of prepubescent cyborgs. These hairless androids may spell doom for us, as they demand juice and our bodies for their giant robotic power consumption needs.

Ultimately, we'll concede our humanly empire to these young death devices, but will they truly be happy? Perhaps they'll spare the Eric Carls and Teletubbies of the world to entertain their simple microchipped minds.

Children, children, what do you hear? I hear apocalypse screaming in my ear.

improv

Improvisation, for me, is the best form of self expression. I feel while on stage I can be anything and do anything, anything being the imperative word.

I want to take improv to the next level, and make it my bread and jam. I want to be able to live off of my skill as an actor and produce something wonderful right away all of the time. Granted I've only been doing it for about two years now, so I'm not a professional.

This is where the move to Chicago comes in. My girlfriends and I are planning on going to the windy city in the coming week to look at apartments and get our feet wet. She wants to do traditional acting, so we're both pretty supportive of each other's goals.

Chicago though, besides costing much more than Ohio, may as well be the center of improv for the world. The Second City is there, iO, and countless other theaters all catering to the make 'em up crowd. There is always something going on in Chi-town, and the world spins much faster up there.

Yes, I do perform improv here in Ohio, and I love every second of it. So why give that up? I'm familiar with my fellow actors and we're actually quite good friends. I am comfortable on the stage we perform at and have performed there dozens of times. The group is really beginning to take off and get some recognition as a comic performance piece.

However, I feel if I stay here, I'm not going to go anywhere with it. I love my fellow actors, but the group is more in the vein of 'after school activity', in that we all work real jobs to support it. Nearly all of the acting we do is for no pay, though we have done what I'll refer to as gigs on a few sparse occasions.

Yes, we're getting recognition. But recognition in the central Ohio art community is just what it sounds like: not that impressive.

I hate to sound like I'm shitting on my group and really the important thing is we have a ton of fun, which we always do. The people in my group are some of the best friends I have ever had and wouldn't trade them for anything.

But the world isn't confined to my back yard. I need to go experience change. I've lived in the same two city area my entire life, and it is starting to wear on my consciousness. I need to be shaken back to life, my bare ass smacked to ensure vitality.

Chicago or bust.

I'm not a writer, though I have tried writing things in the past. Most of the time they end up pretty horribly, and things never go quite the way I want. If things went the way I wanted, I don't think I'd try as adamantly as I do.


I tried once writing about science and atheism, but that proved to political, which struck me as odd. I have also tried just writing about my life, but that was boring. That did not strike me as odd, though I have a feeling it will soon.

So now I'm just writing. Writing whatever I think of in a no-format internet diary. I think it may end up working better than the past endeavors of mine.

I've recently been reading Impro by Keith Johnstone, and have found the book fascinating. This blog is my 'tribute' to the book, just writing what comes to my immediate mind. So format can't really be brought out into this as it wouldn't really fit the idea behind the whole scheme.

So, without further ado, I'm smashing and age old bottle of chianti on the ship of this blog. Let's light it up?