tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14241434268641014832024-02-07T18:19:41.978-08:00Old Cranston SayingsRyanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-29547125111030897812011-06-30T13:51:00.001-07:002011-06-30T13:51:10.995-07:00Live Bait: Cross the Line<div class='posterous_autopost'><p>This story would have been my contribution to Live Bait: Cross the Line, which took place on June 3rd, 2011.<p />I’ve never been much of a gym guy. I would enjoy gym class when I was in school, so much so where I would get a decent grade. But usually the grade came from effort, not necessarily results. What comes to mind when I think of these classes is when we played a dodgeball-esque game. With me, it was quite literally hit-or-miss. I was never good at getting people out, so I never tried to. On a good day, I was very good at dodging. On a good, day, I was able to fake people out and stay alive, sometimes managing to get others back in. Many times I wasn’t even noticed by the opposing team. On a particular occasion, the second-to-last kid on my team was taken out, which caused a rush from the other side to switch the court. This was halted by the gym teacher’s whistle and a calmly delivered: “There’s one more.” Then people on my team suddenly knew who I was. They had to so they could say, “Ryan, get me back in!”</p> <p>We played this style of game in grade school where we had one line in the middle of the court, and a bowling pin on either side. You had to stay on your side of the court, and of course the purpose was to get people out in a dodgeball-style fashion. If you hit the bowling pin on the other side, anyone on your team who was out is now back in.</p> <p>We were playing this game once, and the other team was doing very well. It was essentially down to me and one other girl. We were both holding our own fairly well, but unfortunately neither of us were good offensively. With the way we each threw, someone was sure to catch our ball and, by traditional rules, get us out. So we had to get the bowling pin. No question about it. Soon enough, she was out and it was down to me.<br />While I may not be the best dodgeball player, I am a smart one. When you are on your own, the first thing you need to do is get all of the balls on your side. So I’m dodging everything they throw at me, all the while stock-piling the balls on my side. Luckily, I managed to get every ball. Now or never, I had to get that bowling pin.</p> <p>I move as close to the line as I can, lining myself right up with that pin. There is one guy on the other team standing in front of the pin, determined that I will not hit it. He will either catch my ball, or he will take one for the team so that I’m still by myself. I only had one shot at this before I had to go back on the defensive. I did a maneuver that only works in grade school, and maybe in young adulthood. I did the infamous “Fake Throw”. This is when you have the ball, and you only pretend to throw the ball. So you move your arm in a throwing motion, but you don’t let the ball go. This guy literally dove out of the way as if it was a grenade coming at him. Once he cleared, I simply rolled the ball with as much accuracy as I could muster. The ball sort of rolled in slow motion, and I was surprised no one ran to stop it. They all just watched what it would do. What they watched was the balling ever-so-slightly nudging the pin, but enough to make it tip over.<br />I then heard two things: I heard a rush of kids run back over to my side, ecstatic that we now outnumbered the other side. I then heard the gym teacher, Mr. Almonte, yell “You’re out, Hanley!” My foot had just barely crossed the line in the middle, so I was out of bounds. Everyone else was still in, but I was out.</p> <p>No one got me back in.</p></div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-47650999639841243622011-04-05T15:43:00.001-07:002011-04-05T15:43:20.512-07:00Oh Theatre, You Have Forsaken Me!<div class='posterous_autopost'><p>I encourage all that can to see "BUSTER KEATON: FADE TO BLACK" A play by Lenny Schwartz, particularly this Friday. It's a great show and has been getting wonderful reviews and responses. But why this Friday, you ask? If anything, please make that day worthwhile for me. Because I won't be in NYC at Barnes & Noble meeting the cast of Doctor Who. Cast and crew, I am letting common sense overtake an over-the-top,outrageous, and slightly feasible nerdgasm. That's how much I love you all and how much I care for this show.</p></div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-81977701899443556082011-03-17T17:47:00.001-07:002011-03-17T17:47:46.794-07:00The Bathroom of Higher Education...and Hotnessssss!<div class='posterous_autopost'><p><div class='p_embed p_video_embed'> <a href="http://oldcranstonsayings.posterous.com/the-bathroom-of-higher-educationand-hotnessss"><img alt="" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/video.posterous.com/temp-2011-03-17/BCqwhbbccIfGGbdFgFbFrJjghJGgpuubJaIEnsbxHJuGFscmayzoqgCaJoBe/frame_0000.png" /></a> <div class='p_embed_description'> <strong>My_Movie.wmv</strong> <a href="http://oldcranstonsayings.posterous.com/the-bathroom-of-higher-educationand-hotnessss">Watch on Posterous</a> </div> </div> Yes, someone was getting down while doing their business. I was just getting down. Go, white boy! Go, white boy! Go! Go! Go, white boy!</p></div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-52900809035345511422011-03-17T08:44:00.001-07:002011-03-17T08:45:00.014-07:00Live Bait: Eat Your Broccoli<div class='posterous_autopost'>This is a story that was meant to be told at the March edition of Live Bait. The theme was “Eat Your Broccoli”. This is the story of how I met Kevin Broccoli…and went to war against him! <p /> I met Kevin back around 2006 when we were both in a production of The Boys Next Door. Immediately, I thought he hated me. I wasn’t sure why he did. Maybe I did something to him in a past life and he had the ability to remember recall this event. More realistically, he might have just been sizing me up. If this was in fact the case, I don’t think he was impressed. Frankly, if I were to go back to 2006 and size myself up, I’d probably go back to “Young Kevin” and agree with him. <p /> Regardless of initial impressions of each other, real or perceived, we got along fine during the production. This was actually my first community theatre show, and Kevin was certainly part of the reason the experience was enjoyable. Once we had gotten to know each other a bit better, our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well. <p /> Once the show wrapped up, I really only saw Kevin on occasion. I might run into him downtown in Providence on the street. I might see him when hanging out with other friends, as it turned out we had some friends in common. But mainly, I would see Kevin at auditions. Right after The Boys Next Door was done, we both ended up auditioning for Proof at the Barker Playhouse. It was a bit weird for me, because now here was a guy I just worked with, and now we were both going for the same role. And this wasn’t a show we could both be in. There was only one character we could both appropriately play. I ended up getting the part. Later on, we both auditioned for You Can’t Take It With You. Once again, it was at Barker. Once again, we were both up for the same part. Once again, I ended up getting it. I’m certainly not saying this to toot my own horn. It’s for chronological purposes, and it will supply some reflective material later on. <p /> Flash ahead some years, and I am in my last year of earning my MFA at Rhode Island College. I performed my thesis project entitled Sex, Please, We’re Americans at Perishable Theatre. It’s coming to the summer of 2010, and I am getting my annual messages of Facebook saying “Please vote for me at this year’s Motif awards”. For those playing the home game, Motif magazine holds a theatre awards ceremony every year, usually at this place called The Hi Hat, where suspiciously hats are banned, and you, the readers, choose the winners. I go on the site to vote for people I want to support, and I am surprised to find that my thesis was nominated for “Best New Work”. Also nominated, “The Kevin Broccoli Monologues”. As many people are aware, Kevin writes monologues regularly and puts together shows. If you haven’t seen one, you should. Also, if you have a moment, ask yourself why. <p /> I am working at RIC, and I run into a friend of mine, Jeff. I’m talking to Jeff, and I mention the Motif nomination. Now I’m the one that can prod people to vote for me. To this, Jeff says “Kevin Broccoli said he wants to destroy you at Motif.” I am certain this was the verb to be performed: destroy. Not beat. Not even overtake. Destroy. Jeff also mentions that Kevin claimed we had a “mutual disdain” for each other. This completely confused me. First if this was a mutual thing, wouldn’t I have been in on it? I feel like I’ve missed many opportunities to express disdain because I didn’t know I was supposed to. I was cheated out of hatred. <p /> The day of Motif arrives. I’m there with my girlfriend Jamie. I see Kevin, I say hello. I’m playing it cool. But maybe to cool because I think he’s on to something, but if he is on to something then he is hiding it well because he too is playing it cool. Too cool, perhaps? By now, I have completely engrossed myself in the “why”. Why does Kevin not like me? What did I…what…now wait a minute. It’s Barker, isn’t it? It’s the two shows at Barker that I did instead of him. Kevin, a fantastic writer who is making his mark in Rhode Island Theatre, a man who is becoming recognized by newsletters and local magazines, a man completely in control of his destiny, is holding a grudge because of two community theatre shows. His success is not enough! He should have been Hal! He should have been Tony! He should have paid the $75 in dues! Not me! And now, Kevin is going to exact his revenge! He is going to destroy me and the work I did! To this I say, “I…think…not!” I will not be destroyed. I will be the destroyer. In fact, I will devour every fiber of this man’s being at the Motif awards! I will devour Kevin Broccoli! I will eat…my…Broccoli. <p /> He won. Rightfully so. <p /> Later that summer, we both were in a show together. And during that rehearsal process, I wanted nothing to do with him. I made efforts to at least be polite. I don’t think I was rude during the process. Just quiet. When we get to the run of the show, I have to say something. I ask him where this mutual disdain is coming from. <p /> “That? That was a joke! I was saying that about everyone. Jeff is a moron.” I don’t know if he really called Jeff a moron. But I am. Jeff, you’re a moron. And I love you. <p /> Jeff actually came to our show, to which I told him that he was mistaken. He knew. In fact he knew so well that he in fact played me for a fool. The whole time. <p /> Since then, I would say Kevin and I have a mutual respect for each other. I would say that we get along pretty well, and our regular interactions at Live Bait are some of the best I’ve had with him. And I am certain that he doesn’t hate me. After all, I’ve gotten to perform his monologues.</div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-87834576686668214782011-03-15T17:55:00.001-07:002011-03-15T18:02:28.159-07:00Ignorance is Bliss(fully Like Drugs)<div class="posterous_autopost">Recently, I had performed in one of Kevin Broccoli’s monologue shows at the 2<sup>nd</sup> Story Theatre in Warren, RI. This is the second time that I got to perform in one of Kevin’s shows, and the first time proved to be a great theatrical experience for me. What I mean by this is that it isn’t like the run-of-the-mill theatre people expect. The kind of theatre that sort of stereotypes the whole form, and it is fueled by the likes of what Peter Brook would call “Deadly Theatre”. This was the kind of theatre that I could really get behind; it was the kind of theatre that understood what it was and it was true to its “self".<br />
<br />
I was excited about the monologue that I had. It was much more substantial than the first one I had performed. It was interesting. It was funny, as well as something I could have fun with. I had a fair amount of time to go over it, and I was feeling good about it. When I got to 2<sup>nd</sup> Story that evening, I had gotten to see a fair amount of people who I haven’t worked with in a while. One thing that seemed constant about these people was that they were working regularly, and I mean this in a performance sense. They were working regularly in work that seemed interesting and provoking. At the time of this show, I too was part of a production currently in rehearsal. And while I felt good about this production, I felt a bit stifled with all of the other work I have been doing. I don’t know if it had to do with the monotony of the work, or if it was because the work in itself was not pulling in a crowd, but I was in need of a new creative outlet. I needed something creative that would give me a solid kick in the pants. I tried turning towards writing, primarily through a comedy writing course through Second City in Chicago. Unfortunately, that class was now over. And while the class provided a great deal of information and practice, I am not so sure it provided me with the thing I wanted most: the “want” to write. This is probably something that can’t be manufactured, but nevertheless it is still something that I am eager to grasp hold of. It is something I want to not bury in excuses. “It’s been a long day.” “I’m tired.” “I’ll watch a movie instead.”<br />
<br />
We have a little less than an hour until the doors open, and I’m seeing the space for the first time. I hadn’t the pleasure of being at 2<sup>nd</sup> Story before, but it’s one of those theaters in RI that people want to be involved with. It’s generated this certain amount of clout that those in the artistic community want a piece of that pie. I was unaware that the place was in the round, which was certainly interesting. I was also unaware that my particular monologue was part of a dual monologue. I would be performing this alongside another actress named Katie. It’s our turn to get up. Katie and I are on opposite ends of the stage. We are performing monologues about a one night stand we had with each other, each with very different perspectives. Katie goes first. Her monologue is good. It’s solid. The delivery is where it needs to be. I’m feeling the lights trying to melt me from the head down.<br />
<br />
I start my monologue, and right away I begin to blank. Why am I blanking? I know this monologue. I know I know this monologue. I take a look at it from off my phone, continue, and I blank again. I take another look, and I continue. More blanks. This is getting absurd. I tell Kevin “I need to sit down and look at this”.<br />
One thing I will give Kevin was that he was as calm as could be. I’ve worked with enough where he thankfully had something he considered faith in me. Meanwhile, I was sweating bullets. Here I was, at a monologue show, and I don’t know my monologue. These shows that Kevin had been doing for a while gained a good rep. I didn’t want to be the guy that tarnished this rep. I didn’t want to be the guy that let the rest of the cast down. I could almost picture myself completely blanking in front of a full house, watching Katie stand uncomfortably as I tried to remember my next line. I didn’t want to be “that guy”.<br />
<br />
One thing that I can assure you all of is that one of the biggest rushes one can have is not knowing what you are doing before you have to do it. Not to be confused with being inexperienced. I felt confident in the skills I’ve gained for the stage. I knew this was something I could potentially do. Think of it like a NFL quarterback, at the Super Bowl, and he forgot all of the plays. As I watched the beginning of the show, going over my monologue over and over in my head, I could feel my heart beating in my throat. The anxiety was like nothing else. If it was a drug, I was not only hooked on it, I was hooked, kicking it, going through withdrawal, rehab, and then hooked again. Like one of Lindsay Lohan’s months.<br />
<br />
This anxiety kept building and building, all the way through Katie’s monologue. Finally, it was my turn. I took one moment, one moment to make a choice. Somehow, that choice got a laugh, which was good in this case. I started talking, and thankfully, I talked the whole way through. I had one rough patch, where I had switched some stuff around, but everything that had to be there was there. The audience seemed to have enjoyed the piece. My adrenaline slowly went down all the way to intermission. After that, I went over to Katie to congratulate her on a job well done. Then, I went downstairs, got myself a beer, came back up, and had the best “cool-down” I’ve ever experienced.<br />
<br />
In one fell swoop, I felt what I needed to feel, both creatively and mentally. Pants thoroughly kicked.</div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-55474889554983820872011-02-26T11:18:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.583-07:00Comedic Monologue for Second City Comedy Writing Class<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hello? Eileen? Listen, when you get this message I need you to call me back right away. I won’t be able to come into the office today. I…well, I locked myself in my own basement. I am guessing my wife saw the outside door lock unhinged and put it back, not knowing I was down here. Don’t ask me why we have a lock on the outside of the door. It’s not like we have any kids. All I know is that it better not be a hint. Anyway, I don’t know if I am going to make it in at all. It all depends on when I can get out of this creepy basement.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know what you’re thinking: how can a grown man think his own basement is creepy? Well, you aren’t one to judge, Eileen. Besides, it all goes back to when I was a kid. My mom had asked me to go down to the dryer and get the towels out. So I go down to the basement, open up the dryer, and my sister comes screaming out of it, scaring the shit out of me. She was waiting for me to go down to the basement just so she could pop out like some demon child. Her and my mom planned the whole thing. They thought it was just a practical joke, but it really was a traumatic moment for me. I mean, look at me, Eileen. I can’t even walk into my own basement unafraid, let alone keep myself locked out of it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know that I must be rambling, Eileen. But I feel like if I keep talking I’ll be able to keep myself distracted and not worry about this stupid phobia. I find that I ramble a lot when I am nervous. It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so nervous all the time. Do you get nervous, Eileen? You don’t seem the type to get nervous. Every day, you are at your desk, proper, organized, not at all nervous. But who knows, maybe you are nervous on the inside and just aren’t showing it. Well you really should let it out, Eileen. It isn’t healthy to keep all of that bottled up. In fact, I find it a bit insulting. Here I am, ready to wet my pants, and you’re off somewhere being confident. Where is the compassion, Eileen? I don’t know how I can work with someone that has no compassion. Maybe I shouldn’t work with you at all, you know that? Maybe one minute I’ll walk into that office, and then walk right out the next minute. Just to get away from you, Eileen. Oh…Eileen, you know I don’t mean that. I couldn’t walk out on you because of your confidence. It’s just this basement. It’s making me crazy. And for the record, I didn’t really wet my pants.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wait a minute? Did you hear that Eileen? I’m going to hold the phone out and, when I get back to the office eventually, you can tell me if you heard something in this part of the message. I’m going to hold out the phone right…now. Did you hear anything? I hope you heard something. Wait! There it was again. I’m going to hold out the phone again. So now, when I get to the office, let me know if you heard something in this part of the message. Don’t worry about the first part of the message. I’m guessing that you didn’t hear anything anyway. Unless you did hear something, then I do want you to tell me. So, just to be straight, let me know if you heard anything in the second part of the message no matter what. Don’t tell me if you heard anything in the first part of the message, unless you actually heard something. Got it? Second, definite, first, maybe…wait! I just heard it again. Jeez, if I wasn’t explaining so much, you might have actually heard it. Alright…the third part of the message, let me know. Ignore the second, which was me talking. Only tell me about the first if you heard anything. Ready…and…now…Did you hear anything? I don’t think you would have that time either. Maybe if…oh, there it was again! You know what, forget it. I’m going to go and find the noise myself. I can’t just wait here at the top of the stairs the whole time.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You don’t think I can do it, do you Eileen? Well, I’m going to show you. I’m going down these stairs as I speak. You can hear my feet on the stairs. See, I’ll even stomp loud! Hear that? I’m stomping, Eileen. I’m stomping because you don’t believe in me, Eileen. And I’m not just stomping on the top step, Eileen. I’m really going down the stairs. Alright, I was stomping at the top for the first three stomps, but now I am really at the bottom. Oh! There it is again. I think it was coming from over here. I’m walking towards it, Eileen. I really am. It seems to be coming from…oh, it’s the dryer. How ironic, right Eileen? Here I am, talking about my fear of the basement because of a dryer, and this one is driving me crazy. Can you believe the irony, Eileen? When I get to the office, we’re going to laugh about this. It will be a good laugh, Eileen.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stupid dryer. To think, this is the cause of all of my grief. And it’s just a dryer! I’m a man, Eileen. I shouldn’t be afraid of something so simple. Well, I really can’t say simple. This dryer actually broke down a year ago. My brother came down to fix it. Took him a whole week. So I really can’t say simple. But you know what I mean, Eileen. I’m not going to give into this machine anymore. You hear me, Eileen? I am going to conquer this fear. That’s it. I’m going to conquer my fear by facing it head on. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Listen to this, Eileen. Do you hear this? I’m climbing into the dryer, Eileen. And I’m not afraid. It’s not like the dryer is going to eat me or anything. You hear me? My dryer is not eating me, Eileen. And I’m going to stay in the dryer. I’m going to stay in this dryer until my wife comes down with some laundry. She’s going to come down with some towels or the like, open the dryer, and then I’m going to scare the shit out of her. That will do it, Eileen. That will beat this phobia. Of course, you don’t think she won’t notice me, toss in the towels, and start the dryer? Well, if you do or don’t, let me know when I get back. Although it really won’t matter at that point, will it?</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, that will be all, Eileen. I’ll be in this dryer until my wife shows up. Dr. Kniseley is on call. He can talk with my patients today. I have a good feeling about this, Eileen. I have a very good feeling about this.</span></div>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-74431754678992197762010-05-26T18:45:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.602-07:00Live Long and Cover Up<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I had a strange dream just the other night. I was back in Ohio, where I worked summer stock. It didn't look like the Ohio I knew, but I could tell that it was. At one point I saw a whole group of people, but I only recognized two people. One person was this girl I was somewhat dating. I don't think I could really call it dating, though, at least not within the confides of New Philadelphia. Her hair was longer than I remember, and she was wearing a red dress. The weird thing about the dress was that it was hiked up in the front, revealing, well...<br /><br />All I could think was "Put that away!" I didn't want to see what I was seeing, in more ways than one.<br /><br />I am pretty sure I knew why I had this dream, or at least the elements that caused the dream. The dress came from Leonard Nimoy's (yes, Spock) photography. I came across it recently, and he has a series called <em>Secret Selves</em>. One picture includes an artist painting a budding flower, and the model for the flower is in fact a woman lifting her dress. Who knew Vulcans could be that artistic?<br /><br />As for the girl, I can thank Facebook for that one. I was checking out some travel photos posted by an old Ohio buddy, and there she was in his group of Facebook friends. She was much different than I remember. Her hair was actually shorter, formed around her face. She looked older, sort of plain. Her last name was also different, which leads me to believe she got married, or is running from a drug cartel.<br /><br />One thing I need to clarify right away is that I am very much over this person in the loving sense. I have been for a long time now, Jamie being the greatest factor in all of that. To say I have no remaining feelings would be misleading. The fact of the matter is that I have very, very negative feelings towards this person. What could have still been a great friendship ended very poorly. And after trying to figure things out for myself in the time that followed, I became very angry. At first, I was walking on egg shells because I didn't want things to be awkward. At the same time, I wanted to keep in touch because our friendship meant a lot. Things became very misunderstood on both ends, but I could only focus on the negative after all was said and done. Things could have worked out, but at the time I thought I caused too much damage and couldn't talk to her. But I later on, I realized that her anger, or what could have been seen as anger, came out of ignorance. I had all this guilt because she couldn't trust me to stick with what we agreed on. In this ignorance, she treated me like a plague. Spalding Gray might have called it "Walking Dutch Elm Disease".<br /><br />I guess the thing is that I thought I would be angrier. I would very seldom go on an Ohio friend's Facebook because I'd be afraid I'd come across her picture, which would tie this huge knot in my stomach. I went out of my way to avoid this person. On the other hand, I wondered what would happen if we met again. I saw myself yelling at her, wanting her to feel horrible. But the reality was that I didn't care. I didn't care that I saw her picture. I didn't care that she was married (young at that). And I almost didn't know what I saw in the first place.<br /><br />I'm not trying to put this person down. I hope she is happy and living well. I think at this point I can just stop being angry, or I hope I can stop. Call it growing up if you want, or maybe just call it a bad dream. Maybe I'll just pin this one on Facebook and Spock.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-23553587605404273922010-04-14T22:43:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.619-07:00Two Days on the Bus<span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I don’t ask for my car to break down. I try and take care of it as best as I can, but there is only so much you can do for a ’93 Toyota Camry. Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware that a car that old is prone to break down now and then, and I really shouldn’t be as surprised as I usually get when it happens. It’s like being shocked when a glass breaks after dropping it from a good height. “How could this happen to glass?” It’s just that at one end I’ve put so much money into this damn car, but at the other end I probably haven’t put in as much money as it is actually worth. I got the car for $10 from my father’s wife. She was originally going to give it to me for $1, but the guy at the DMV told me to mark it as $10 to avoid some weird tax. Now that I think of it, I actually didn’t pay her a thing. She just made this figurative charge for the DMV. So in the end I guess I get what I don’t pay for.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I don’t ask for my car to break down, but when it does I insist on taking public transportation. I don’t all the time, mainly because my mother insists on me driving her car. I don’t know what she has against public transportation. Maybe she thinks that working through the bus schedule is more trouble than it is worth, maybe she doesn’t want me to spend money, or maybe even she thinks they are just going to run late because I am on them, and within this lateness I get mugged by several men and maybe even a few women. I don’t know why, but I really don’t mind taking the bus. I actually see it as a relief, to both my mother and myself. It should be a relief to my mother because she won’t have to worry about her car. Her car will be fully accessible to her and all will be well. It’s actually a bit of a relief for me as well because obtaining her car is a bit of a hassle at times. Most mornings I don’t have to get up very early, but if I need to use her car I have to get up early in order to drive her to work. So on a day where I don’t have to be at school until ten o’clock, I need to get up at six-thirty to leave for Smithfield at eight and then be back at Cranston around nine. So now I’m technically ready to get to where I have to be for ten, but I have no energy. I need to sleep up until the last possible minute and hit the snooze. So I’m ready for ten, but because I have no energy I lull around and end up being late anyway. I can’t win this way. Driving my mother isn’t the best either. She can very much be a backseat driver, so much so that I usually have her drive when we are both in the car. I drive with her there now and then, and it still feels like driver’s ed, only this time the instructor is trying to get us killed. “What is that on your windshield? LOOK OUT!” The bus is different because I have to adhere to a schedule, which I actually like. If I don’t meet this schedule, the whole day is shot and I’ll feel awful. A bus schedule at least motivates me enough to be on time. If I have my own car, it’s like I’m saying “Well, if I’m late, I’m late. At least I have a way to get there.”</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Recently I got my opportunity to take the bus because my car broke down on the way to teach my theatre class. I was coming up to a red light and there was suddenly this great burst of noise coming from my car, followed by some sputtering and then nothing. Stuck in the middle of Pleasant Valley Parkway next to the Coca-Cola plant, so at the very least I wouldn’t get thirsty. That’s not true, actually. I don’t drink Coca-Cola. I was referring to my situation as a “pop n’ stop”. First I popped, and then I stopped. I saw it as a nice little explanation for my situation, although the situation was far from nice. It was like the car behind me took out a gun and shot my car. I immediately turn on my hazard lights, which should have told the traffic behind me that my car had thrown in the towel, however the traffic behind me was apparently not that smart. The person directly behind me was honking with this confused look on his face. “Why aren’t you going?” Look, buddy, if you can get this thing to start, I’ll let you have it. Maybe not all of my lights were working and I looked like some guy making a turn, but forgot how to halfway through. The worst was that I had to move my car somehow, and the moment I tried to push it myself it began to roll backward, causing a frantic hand to plunge into the break. I was fortunate enough to have the guy I almost backed into get out of his car and help me push, so I was mostly out of the way now. The side street was tight and I really couldn’t be parked there. Funny enough, I was surprisingly calm for having my car break down. This was probably due to the first thought running through my head being “Hey! Day off!” I really shouldn’t have been that happy. I had a class to teach after all. But then I realized they were getting a day off too, so it was alright.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >So that Friday when I had to come and work at the computer lab on campus, I took the opportunity to take the bus. If you haven’t ever taken public transportation, do yourself a favor and take it at least once. It’s really not as bad as you might think, although the two-day experience I had was no short of interesting. It started out well, though, or at least as well as it could be. I had gotten up that morning, determined to take the bus, determined not to drive my mother to work with her backseat driving, but it wasn’t until after everyone left that I realized I had no cash on me. I didn’t make it to an ATM before and wasn’t sure how I was going to pull this one off. I ended up having to take a ten-minute walk to the nearest Citizen’s Bank so I could take out some cash. The ten-minute walk isn’t what stinks, it’s the fact that the bus stops right down the street from my house. I really only had to walk a minute to catch the bus, but today I’m running through rain so I can get on the bus further on its route. But I pulled it off and I figured things would be smooth sailing from there. How wrong I was. I needed to be home in time for a rehearsal later that night, so I take an early bus to give myself some breathing time. My trip ended up being my breathing time. The bus gets caught up in some heavy traffic on our way to Kennedy Plaza and we are stopped. I’m sitting on this bus and I am jumping in my skin. Am I going to catch my next bus? Will I get home in time? Will I even get home? Oh jeez, maybe my mom is right and I am going to get mugged, or maybe that guy in the back has a gun and he’s going to shoot us all to bits! Someone actually got off the bus while we were in traffic and decided to walk the rest of his trip, which in my mind was Kennedy Plaza. I could see him getting there and making his next bus, which was also my next bus, and he’s just sitting there with this smug look on his face because the rest of us are still stuck in traffic. I should have followed this guy, but I didn’t. I sat there and tried to convince myself that we’d make it. The bus just has to make it! It’s on a schedule, how could it be late?! We didn’t make it, so I have to wait at Kennedy Plaza for the next bus to Cranston and basically get home at the time I didn’t want to get home. However, because I am getting home at this later time, I now get to see…the sex. Not real sex, but it was close enough for a bus stop. I’m inside the actual station, and there is this young couple making out in some shadowy corner. There are tons of people around these two people, who had to be freshmen in college or thereabouts, and they are going at it. I immediately give it a month. I’ve seen this type; the type that is so desperately in love that they end up suffocating in their own tonsils. I feel horrible thinking that this relationship is bound to fail, but I know it is. I just know it. I think I have an idea of what love is, and it isn’t it. It’s just two people going at it like bus stop animals, and I can’t look away. It isn’t love, but it’s hot, and now I’m this pervert. Kennedy Plaza has turned me into a voyeur and I need to look away. So I’m trying to look anywhere but in the direction of this couple, and I’m facing a pane of glass, and now I can see them in the reflection of the glass. But I think “Well, it’s not like they can say I’m staring at them.” And this seals the deal. I am officially a pervert now. All I need now is a mustache and an 8mm camera, and Saturday night is going to be alright by me. Finally they stop, and now I can look away. But the girl is very distinct looking, or maybe she just seems distinct because I’ve been staring at her suck the face off this boy. She was wearing this green dress, and now she was sloppily putting on a hooded sweatshirt while fiddling with a shoe. This is what made it like sex. She had to get dressed after the whole experience. I couldn’t tell what the couple was saying to each other, but it might as well have been “That was great, but you should probably get going now.” So now I’ve had my dose of bus stop porn and I go home.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >My second day on the buses was certainly more interesting. It started with me not catching the first bus. Luckily the next bus would still get me to where I had to be on time, which was ironically my theatre class that I had to teach. The guy waiting at the stop claims that the driver drove off early. If this was true, I don’t know, but this man and his portable radio claim that it was this Spanish woman driver who left five minutes before she was supposed to and was a “nice lady”. I think… “No. That’s not a nice woman at all.” But I don’t dwell on it, and as I wait there not dwelling this other guy comes up to me, also waiting for the bus, and says “You look familiar. Were you at East?” “Yeah, I was.” “JROTC?” “Yeah.” “That’s where I know you from. What’s your name?” “Ryan.” “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” “Oh, well, what’s your name?” “Sean.” He wasn’t familiar in the least. He could have been familiar; the guy was only a year behind me in high school apparently. But I respond with “Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright.” I just ramble on like I could even pretend to know who he was. But I chat him up a bit, which is good. I tell him about my car, and later when he leaves the bus at his stop he says to me “Good luck to you.” I don’t know why that stuck.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >There were a few characters on that particular bus. One was this young kid who got on and sat in one of those sideways seats right up in front. I almost sat there, but I ended up not, which was good. I hadn’t noticed that there was a sign at those seats reading “Reserved for seniors and disabled persons. Reservado para los de edad avanzada e incapacitados.” So now this kid was sitting there, and in my mind he is instantly a senior citizen. Why not a disabled person? No idea. Senior citizen seemed funnier. Now this girl comes on the bus and she is pissed! She has this look on her face and it is a scowl to beat all scowls. Wherever she is going, she doesn’t want to be there. She sits in the sideways seat right near me and her scowl is a nose away, not to mention she is now an instant “avanzada”.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Of course Kennedy Plaza had to try and live up to the experience that was last time. It did. I don’t know what it is about that place, but it is a constant show. Now there were two African-American cops, both bald, along with another bald African-American on his knees in front of them. The two cops were talking as if he wasn’t there, so I couldn’t tell if they were there for him now. The man looked like he could have had newspapers in his lap, so maybe he was selling them. So I watch for a while, once again becoming the notorious Kennedy Plaza voyeur. One cop fist bumps some random white guy. Go Obama. Now a fire truck pulls up, and of course it is in the spot where my bus is going to pull up. Some fireman get out, and there are some bike cops as well, and now they are here talking, ignoring this newspaper man. The fire truck moves and an ambulance pulls up, followed by more talking and ignoring. Next thing I know the guy on his knees is gone. It seemed like a lot of commotion for nothing.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Then – CLANG! Something drops in the plaza and my eyes go right to it. A can of iced tea, its owner looking down at his drink that he just carelessly dropped. He picks it up, tosses it, but makes no movement to clean the spill. In fact, he is focusing every last drop of his energy to not look at that spill. He looks down once more as the liquid creeps towards his expensive sneakers, and then he does this weird back-step to avoid the spill. He is avoiding this spill with every bit of his body. It’s like if he doesn’t look at it, it isn’t his anymore. A RIPTA worker sees it, and she knows. She knows its sneaker-boy, but doesn’t do anything. She goes on her way. I look back to sneaker-boy and…oh shit! Oh shit!! He’s making out with his girlfriend! It’s the same stop as that couple from before. No! Why is this place a giant aphrodisiac? I need to get out of there. My bus is supposed to be here in four minutes, but the ambulance is still there. I’m thinking this is going to delay things unless they get the hell out in four minutes. You have to move, buddy. I’m the consumer! And surprisingly they do move. These guys work fast. Lucky I went outside because my bus was parked further back from its stop. I get on with the thought that I could have missed this bus because it didn’t pull up. But I’m there.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I met two more people on my trip home. Two young African-Americans, brother and sister. The brother was bothering the sister about some guy she might have been dating. Apparently they were on and off a lot. The sister wanted no part of this guy’s bull and was gripping his fingers very tight with intent to hurt him. And she was hurting him. He’s squirming there trying not to scream out in pain, and he’s going “Why are you trying to rape me?” Sister wants none of this, insisting through more fingers that he doesn’t throw that word around. But he continues “Why are you raping me?” Finally he says “I bet all the white people on this bus are freaking out because of what we’re doing.” I don’t know what compelled me to respond. Maybe I was just winding down from a long day, maybe I was happy that I was actually getting my car back when I got home, but I turned around and looked at him. I looked at him and said “We are. On behalf of the white people, we are freaking out. In fact, I’m pissing myself right now.” He laughed. He could see I was joking, and I went on to tell him that I was in theatre and this stuff didn’t faze me. This became an invitation for him to fill me in on all the details I didn’t know before, but after that I sat in silence home.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >It was an interesting two days to say the least. In a way, I’m looking forward to the next time my car breaks down.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-53934028658401197102010-03-11T22:56:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.641-07:00Holding Out For a (Public Radio) Hero<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was lucky enough to go down to the Providence Performing Arts Center last night, where I got to see one of my idols, Garrison Keillor, perform about 90 minutes worth of stories, some which I recognized from his previous works, others I was hearing for the first time. All together, it was a wonderful performance. I was afraid that I was going to have to go by myself, which certainly would have changed the experience, however my friend Mike, who is also a fan of the radio bard, was more than happy to come with me.<br /><br />One of the perks of going with Mike was that he had worked in PPAC as an usher for quite some time, and he knew all of the ins and outs of that place. Specifically, he knew where the stage door was and suggested that if we wait by the stage door, perhaps we will get to meet our hero of Lake Woebegone fame. This decision led to quite an interesting evening.<br /><br />As much as I wanted to wait by the stage door, my car was parked in a lot that was going to lock up within 30 minutes after the show ended, so moving it was more than necessary. Luckily, I was able to find a spot on the street near the theater almost immediately, and we soon hurried back to the stage door. There wasn't a crowd waiting, not one single person. Maybe it was a well kept secret, or maybe GK had left already. We wait a few minutes when a security guard comes outside for a smoke. Mike asks him if Garrison Keillor had left, and the guard informed us that he had. "He got here right before the show started, and then he left soon after it was over." Apparently those red shoes are used to be nimble. But who could blame the guy? It was just him doing the show. Why bother sticking around, despite the fact that he could very well outrun 90% of his audience demographic. Jokingly, I looked at Mike and told him "That's what he wants us to think." Little did I know that I would be right.<br /><br />As we made our way back to the front of PPAC, we saw Garrison Keillor leaving out the front door. Mike and I then proceeded to lock our joints. We were starstruck and did not know what to do at all. Should we call out to him? Should we run and catch up to him? We started contemplating "What is the worst thing that could happen?" He thinks we are some crazies and gives us his autograph on a restraining order, or at least that was the scenario Mike and I figured. By the time we would have been able to do something, GK was long gone.<br /><br />Mike then made a suggestion. "You know, if he is staying at the Biltmore, he might just go get a coffee at Starbucks." It was certainly a long shot, but we figured "what the hell", we could go for a coffee anyway.<br /><br />Needless to say GK was not there, however we had some good conversation on various topics. One thing that did keep popping up, however, was the fact that we missed an opportunity to meet him. We even had books of his with us in hopes we could get his signature on them. But by the end of our drinks, I figured we had completely put aside the notion of spotting him.<br /><br />We go back towards PPAC, looking to finally go home, when Mike exclaims "Oh my God, Garrison Keillor is eating at Pizza Queen!" Sure enough, there he was in the window of Pizza Queen, a small pizza place right across from PPAC. Here was this star of public radio, eating with the true people of Providence, RI at 11:00 at night. I looked and Mike and figured "There has got to be a reason for this. There is no way this is just a coincidence. We missed the first opportunity, and now God was saying 'Here is your second shot.'" I insisted that we take this chance and not extend a sense of disappointment.<br /><br />There were a few problems, however. He was on his phone, for one thing. As theatre folk, Mike and I know that it would be very rude to bother a fellow artist and be an annoyance. We were tempted to be, but we had to think of something else. We also couldn't just walk in there as it was and not order anything. Besides, the show had been over for about an hour, and we would look like creepers. Maybe we were. So our idea was that we would go in, order something, and if the opportunity arose that we could say something, we would. All the while, we are once again pondering "What is the worst thing that could happen?"<br /><br />This time, my imagination ran away from me a bit. I figured that maybe he would give a grim look and perhaps pull a gun on us, demanding that we put our books down and back away slow. If we wanted those books back, we would have to order them on eBay for over $100 a piece from the user name "GKeillor". Most importantly, we couldn't listen to his show anymore, and if he found out that we were listening, he would come back and sue the pants off of us. To me, that was the worst thing that could happen, and I was willing to risk it.<br /><br />The plan fell apart immediately as GK rose from his table and was about to leave, still on his phone. Mike and I had to think fast. Our new plan was simple: act like we were talking, and when Garrison comes outside, Mike will say "Oh my God, it's Garrison Keillor!" That will get his attention at the very least. We were willing to commit to this insanity, and it was in this insanity that I realized we are swooning over a guy on public radio. While this isn't necessarily up there on the manliness meter, we swooned none the less.<br /><br />GK comes outside, on his phone, and I look over. I looked at him straight in the eye and did nothing. I didn't know what to do. I may have given an odd smirk, I am not sure. But in my head, I thought "Oh crap, he knows the plan!" Mike then went on to say "Oh my God, it's Garrison Keillor!" He said this, however, in his lowest voice possible. GK, meanwhile, turned and walked off. A man, taking a nice easy walk back to wherever, which we could clearly outrun, got away for the second time that night.<br /><br />I don't know why we were so starstruck. I am not sure how we let this happen twice. Yet what I do know is that it made for a very interesting evening. That, and I learned that Garrison Keillor is surprisingly quick. It's got to be the shoes.<br /></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-64682003494028647992010-03-11T22:49:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.656-07:00High School Lunch, Part 2: Origins<span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >The simple things are very fulfilling when you are young. When I was really young I love Guy Smiley. At my grandparents' house, they had a chain curtain in front of the fireplace that I would pull open, as if it were a stage curtain, and I would have my mom or aunt go "It's Guy Smiley!" Then I would take the pulley of the curtain in my hand and use it like a microphone. "Thank you, Thank you!" I was odd. I don't know how I became odd, but it worked for a while. I know it worked because in kindergarten...I was cool.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >There I was. Walking into PM kindergarten at Monsignor Bove like I owned the place. I was cool. Confident. Well-liked by all of my friends. We had races in the playground. I would win those races and the other would cheer. They girls went wild for me. Especially Jeannie. Jeannie Riley, with her big poof of hair and wide grin. She had the hots for me and everyone knew it. But that wasn't my scene, man. I had to break her heart. Didn't want to, but a man knows what he wants. But Desiree? Desiree Hamilton was a different story. The cute, quiet, blond girl that kissed me at graduation, me wearing my little grey suit, her wearing her white dress, both of us in paper graduation caps. I had no problems there. Life was good, my friends. Life was good and then we moved. Out of Providence, from the little duplex where my aunt, uncle, and cousins lived right below us for a time. We were only a little ways away in Cranston. Nicer house. Nicer neighborhood. And no kids.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >People take kindergarten for granted. It's where you meet your first friends. I had to start my first year of Daniel D. Waterman School in the first grade. This is the worst possible grade to start. My sister was lucky enough to start in third grade, but I didn't realize she was lucky at the time. You see, by the time you are in third grade, there is a good chance you know most of your classmates and you are sick of them. A new student is a breath of fresh air. A new student in first grade is an intruder. In my case, a weird intruder. "Does he honestly think he is funny?" "What's wrong with you?" But it's ok at that time, because no one is smart enough to start little societies yet. It's not until the leap to middle school where things begin to change. That's when The Rules take effect. We don't know who created these rules. We have men working on it. But I do in fact know the story of the first person to write them, and I'd like to share that now.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >In the beginning, there was Kent, England. And within this town lived two boys, Michael and Steven. Michael was a creative young child, Steven was a studious pursuer of academia. It was perhaps for this reason that Steven found Michael unlikeable. So he would tell Michael "Yes, you can sing and draw, but can you name everyone in the Queen’s bloodline? I didn’t think so? No one wants to hear from you. Just shut your stupid mouth." The masses didn't know what to think. Is Steven right? Does Michael have a stupid mouth? There were no societies. No order. Chaos reigned in Mrs. Wilbur's seventh grade class. Michael didn’t like the fact that Steven simply didn’t like him because he was more creative than academic. He thought that Steven wouldn’t like it if things were flipped. Until one day, where Michael had a vision. A vision that would provider order in the midst of destruction. He envisioned...The Rules. He wrote them, and brought them to the class. He presented them on two stone tablets, and there was a fire in his voice as he proclaimed these rules of society. The class was in awe, and they parted two different sides of the room. They knew where they were supposed to be now, because Michael would lead the way. From that day forward, Michael had the world at his fingertips, while Steven was nothing more than a crapface. And just what happened to Sir Michael Phillip "Mick" Jager? I think history tells us the rest.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-58000075346631433282010-02-12T22:53:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.671-07:00I nominated Speed Of Thought Playhouse to win a $35k #smallbiz grant on LoveALocalBusiness.com. Help them win!<a href="http://lovealocalbusiness.intuit.com/?b_id=14222">I nominated Speed Of Thought Playhouse to win a $35k #smallbiz grant on LoveALocalBusiness.com. Help them win!</a><br /><br />Posted using <a href="http://sharethis.com/">ShareThis</a>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-33268944176692267442010-01-17T20:04:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.688-07:00High School Lunch, Part 1: Take a seat<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Welcome to high school lunch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Let’s get the first question out of the way: what’s for lunch? I’m having the same thing I’ve had since I was little: a peanut butter sandwich. You would think I would be sick of peanut butter after all of these years, but really I am just sick of jelly and Fluff. I also have some sort of cookie product. Oreos are a good choice. You can’t untwist a Chips Ahoy. Finally, I have milk. I used to buy milk, but now I just bring something like a Hershey’s or Yoo-hoo. If you couldn’t guess, I like chocolate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now on to the more important question: where do we sit? This is a much more complicated question than we realize. So complicated that we can’t think of food at a time like this. What makes it so complicated are The Rules. These rules we just learn to follow one way or another, and if we are going to grow the balls to break these rules, then we better aim for the blue ribbon at the county fair. I’m talking Linus and the Great Pumpkin big. But right now we don’t have time to grow these “juevos grandes”, so we better just fall in line.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Basically, we need to find out what group we are allowed to sit with. Let's look at our options.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">First, we have the Jocks. The captains of the school. A football in one arm and a cheerleader in the other. When it is time to go to prom, all they have to do is look at the women in their bed and go: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Eeney meenie miney mo,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Catch a tiger by the toe,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If he hollers, let him go,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Out goes why oh you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And you will be the one I take to the prom,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And sleep with later that night,</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Unless my parents are up!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sorry, Suzy and Suzy's mom, but it looks like Jennifer is going to be the school slut this Monday. Up top Bret!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don't think we are going to sit with the Jocks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Along the same lines, we have the Cheerleaders, who are...like, totally awesome! They're so pretty, and energetic, and pretty, and awesome, and pretty...and if we want to sit with them we have to BE. AGGRESSIVE. B-E AGGRESSIVE. Unfortunately, the minute I go over their "spaz alert", which was implanted in their brains when they got their pom-poms glued to their hands, will go into the red. Besides, they're so fucking air headed. You just want to snap them back into reality in the back of your 85 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We're not sitting with them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There is a general "Cool" group as well, and they are sort of a collection of high ranked individuals. There are the Good Looking People, which could mean either normal good looking or "hot off the runway" good looking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We also have the Class Clowns, those comedic martyrs willing to go to the principal’s office for a joke. You can hear the nails being driven in as they deliver the joke.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Paul, please tell me what you know about Harold Pinter."</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Pinter, I hardly know her!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">CLUNK</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"No, Paul, we are talking about 'One for the Road'."</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"WELL IT'S...ONE FOR THE ROAD, TWO FOR THE SHOW, THREE TO GET READY, NOW GO, MAN, GO!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">CLUNK</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Paul, please go to the Principal's office."</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"Alright, but, 'Ah'll be bach'."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There are others in this group as well. It's sort of a not-as-dysfunctional, yet not-as likable Breakfast Club.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We aren't sitting with them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So who are we left with? We have Weirdos, who are generally nice people, but certainly walk to the beat of their own, fucked up drum. You look at them and you don't know what is looking back. Again, nice folk, so we'll say "maybe".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We also have Geeks, not to be confused with Nerds. Nerds are academic. They can tell you why you will indeed use trigonometry at the super market. Geeks are into more pop culture things. Date night is the Geek and his DVD collection of Battlestar Galactica. But like the Weirdos, they are accepting and we could sit with them, if necessary.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Finally, there are the Losers. The bottom of the barrel. They just don't seem to fit in anywhere right now. Maybe they never will. They would love it if we sat with them. And maybe we will. But maybe not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don't fit purely into any of these three, but I think a combination of the three will indeed work. We could be Leekdos, but that sounds like a side-effect of Viagra. We could also be Geirsers. Geirsers sounds like Geezers, and I don't consider anyone here ancient. Weekdos would work. It rolls off the tongue pretty well. But I think it should be W-e-a-k, not W-e-e-k. Weakdos. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Welcome to the Weakdos table.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-26812332474889304172010-01-17T19:58:00.000-08:002011-03-14T21:13:44.706-07:00High School Lunch: Intro<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Hey all.<br /><br />Not to anyone's surprise, I haven't posted in a long time. Grad school and the such is keeping me busy. It's not that I don't want to post, but I never know what to post as it is. However I really do want to get back in the habit of writing. Not to mention I have done some stuff for other blogs.<br /><br />To hopefully remedy my situation, I'm going to be posting (in segments) a script I had been working on for a solo performance class. It went over well in presentation, hopefully people will get a kick out of the writing. If it helps, picture the delivery to be Spalding Gray in style.<br /><br />I am still not crazy about the title, hopefully that will change.<br /><br />Enjoy.<br /></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-10175543696961642862009-08-06T12:37:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.720-07:00Will someone flush Facebook already?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I never have the time to read anymore, which is why I really like public bathrooms. Once in a while you get into a stall, you take your seat, and the next thing you know you are practically in a Borders.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Most times its a lot of gibberish. It's mainly just vandalism that is supposed to be "an artist expressing himself" (ooh-la-f'n-la). But a lot of times its some really interesting conversations. Yes, conversations!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"But how can there be a conversation on a wall?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"Haven't you ever heard of AIM?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">It's like a dirty version of playing chess by mail. One person writes, another responds, they respond back, lives are threatened, things are sucked, numbers are given out (for those wanting a good time), and the world keeps turning.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">When you think about it, Facebook could potentially turn into a bathroom stall. Everyone has "walls" that people write on, and there is very little stopping people from writing whatever they want. Sure, you could find it and delete it if its on your wall, but between the time its written and the time you get rid of it, one of your friends is going to have to "go do poopie" and see it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">There is an idea for an application: WallPoop. Sure, we have Super Poke, but having an app called WallPoop brings so many possibilities. You get a notification when you sign in and its like:</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"Bob just pooped on your wall! Click here to poop on his!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Super Poke could still work just as well though, plus its a little more open ended.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">"Jane <em>boinked you in the tush</em> at 7:35pm. Click here to <em>boinked in the tush</em> back!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The more I think of it the more I think Facebook is a pervert.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Back to the real bathroom stalls. I wonder what a janitor does when they see that first bit of vandalism after they got rid of all the old stuff. My guess is take a dunk in the toilet. After all, if they are doing their job efficiently, then it should be sanitary.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So here is your Old Cranston Saying: Eat more bran to become more social...and become a fan of WallPoop.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-79905694496188489312009-08-05T08:38:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.735-07:00File under: death and Oreos at 2:00amI had a very odd dream last night. I can only remember a few details, plus the fact that when it woke me up, I wanted to write it down. I honestly don't know how people keep a dream journal. I'd try and still be so tired it would start to turn into a grocery list or something.<br /><br />"There was a giant alligator and was chasing me, and it wanted eggs...milk...ham...cereal..." Apparently I buy a lot of breakfast food.<br /><br />Anyway, I dreamt that I was in some sort of dining hall and that I saw the late actor Peter Boyle (Frank from <em>Everybody Loves Raymond</em> as well as a slew of other great roles). I saw him and then I looked over to someone next to me, and I was about to mention something about Peter Boyle. Suddenly, he rushes over going "No! Don't talk about that!" I responded with "But you worked with Brando. What's wrong with that?" I don't even know if he worked with Brando, but in my dream I thought he did. Apparently so did he because that wasn't the thing I couldn't talk about. From there, it was just an incomprehensible rant.<br /><br />But wait! Now it's going to get weird!<br /><br />He then went over to Dr. Drew (?!?!) to talk about how he felt about being dead. He knew he was dead! I don't remember anything else after that. All I can say is that eating really late will do this to you. I'm sure of it.<br /><br />I realize many people fear death, but this dream made me wonder what the dead would fear. According to my dream, I am guessing that they would fear their own reputation and how they will be remembered when all is said and done.<br /><br />I don't fear my own death, at least not at this point in my life. I think its true that, when you are young, you sort have this sense of being invincible. You know that you can get hurt, but you don't think it will be the way that you will go. Maybe that's how we deal with the fear. But it is certainly common for older people to think about it more. In my case, I get caught up in the death of others. I probably fear their death more than they do in some cases.<br /><br />Here's the thing, folks. We can't be afraid of death because we can't do anything about it. We have to accept that its going to happen and that in some cases it is necessary. Perhaps we don't fear death, but the fact that we don't know what comes next. All we can do is choose to believe what happens and just do the best we can before that.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-87831589376918582772009-05-15T07:18:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.805-07:00Now THAT is movie magic<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Never thought I'd see these two in a room together.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1kr54dpNSp7QdZ7yWGRJqA_JH8m1lokA0Ds6OkIZUlSFcWNrDrDeXamlBwXArSwVqonN7NNZSAuIIpHkPKimPIDiiK6cEALvcxHdfIhYyrnHvqNWnPMhF5NvttgQJFBBFolBzs8of7c/s1600-h/vaderoscarhomeboys.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1kr54dpNSp7QdZ7yWGRJqA_JH8m1lokA0Ds6OkIZUlSFcWNrDrDeXamlBwXArSwVqonN7NNZSAuIIpHkPKimPIDiiK6cEALvcxHdfIhYyrnHvqNWnPMhF5NvttgQJFBBFolBzs8of7c/s400/vaderoscarhomeboys.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336055169348455762" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Crazy.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-60170362130284980392009-05-12T21:39:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.825-07:00Grow up and go to bed<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Before I get into the main part of this post, I just wanted to say that if you haven't checked out Kacie Kinzer's <a href="http://tweenbots.com/">tweenbots</a> project for the ITP program at Tisch, you are missing out on something extremely unique. And if you happen to live in that area, keep an eye out for it.<br /><br />OK...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">At the age of 25, one would hope to have a certain degree of maturity, at least compared to a few years ago.</span><br /><br />Let me just say that 22 had potential to be a great year. The set-up was there. It was the end of college, a summer in an area that was a plane ride away from home, and I was basically moving into the world on my own. I had my friends and people that I cared about, but there was a sort of clean slate feeling. My days at MCLA were now behind me and there was no telling what would happen next. Ideas perhaps, but nothing was certain. It turned out to be not so great.<br /><br />I don't know what is making me think of that time either. Something just came into my head earlier in the evening and it made me have sort of a revelation about growing older and taking responsibility for one's life. I really don't want to make this extremely personal, but I have a feeling there is little ways around that.<br /><br />Probably the biggest events that happened in my life during that year happened in Ohio. Ohio turned out to be a very big, emotional growth. It was a development so big that you might even think that I enjoy reflecting on it, but I really don't. I'd like to, but it's seldom positive.<br /><br />For some reason, one of the biggest things that sticks with me from that time was the fact that I gotten the drunkest I had ever been in my life. It sounds stupid, but it's one of those events in a person's life that is sort of fun to remember. I was at a bar in Tuscarawas County where they served Long Island Ice Tea that was both very strong and very cheap. I didn't have more than one, but I did have some beer after. I was basically in the clouds. I'm certain I was having a great time, yet for some reason I kept apologizing to people for being intoxicated. Why was I sorry? Everyone was getting wasted and they were not sorry. When I got back home, I was literally brought into my room and told to go to bed. That doesn't happen frequently to a 22 year old, not even by parents. But here I was, being told to go to bed. About five minutes later, after getting into pajamas, my restless self went next door. Why the hell should I go to be anyway. Pretty soon after, I found my energy just crashing and a great need to use the bathroom. I didn't get sick, thankfully, but I felt like I was going to fall asleep. By the time I mustered the strength to get out of the bathroom, I only made it to the kitchen, literally telling myself "break time". But soon after I went to bed.<br /><br />Again, the one thing that sticks with me there is wondering why I was sorry. I guess it comes down to who I was saying it to. I had met a girl in Ohio. We didn't go out "officially", but whatever we were doing was a close second. We liked each other a lot at the time and, despite the fact that I should have known better, I thought I was falling in love with her. I say thought because now I know that I wasn't. I didn't get what love was at the time. What 22 year old really would? People that age and younger might think I am wrong and are fully capable of knowing love, which might be true. Someone younger may indeed be capable, but being capable isn't enough. Because I can promise you that by 22 you don't know the opposite of love yet, which in this case is heartbreak. When I left Ohio, and when I left this girl, I was extremely upset. Me being upset got her upset. The result is running on three years of not a single word spoken. The saddest part about that is I'm sure we are both fine with that. Probably more than fine.<br /><br />No one really likes to admit that they hate someone. How can you? What kind of person are you to completely want to shut another person out? It's revolting. The idea of denying the existence of someone just as worthy as yourself is mind boggling. But it happens anyway. People hate one another. I'd like to think people love more people than they hate, or at least I am hopeful that is the case. Unfortunately, despite three years, I think I might hate this person when I should be feeling a lot of other things. I should be feeling thankful for making me go through all that and know what is true. I should just be done with it. I'm way past what I thought was the love, why not the hate?<br /><br />Again, I don't know what made me think of this person again, or even this time in my life. But rather than just thinking back and wanting to shake it off, I thought of why I haven't stopped hating. I thought about why I haven't really finished growing up after three years, at a time where I should perhaps be older than I am. I've wondered in my head if this person and I still talked. If we were able to just drop a hello once in a while and ask each other about the people who surround us today. Why don't we ask each other who has our hearts? Instead, I wonder why the bridge is not just burnt but still on fire. I thought I became the better person out of all this, and now I'm convinced that I am not.<br /><br />For anyone reading this, take my advice and don't get into a situation like this. We all need to start being thankful for who we are and for the people in our lives that make living great and meaningful. While we might have been slightly shaped from hatred, we can keep the shape and drop the emotion. I wonder if I've held on to the emotion for too long and now I have to keep it, like a scar. If you are able to shake it, do it. Shake it off any way you can. Run, jump, dance, just do something. Save your emotion for the better things and then offer it to the people who deserve it.<br /></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-16977421702559422812009-05-09T22:08:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.844-07:00A letter to my fellow artists<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Dear fellow artists,<br /><br />You are all pricks. I repeat, pricks.<br /><br />But that's alright. I'm one too.<br /><br />The reason all said artists (which include, but are not limited to: actors, painters, comedians, musicians, singers, circus performers, mimes, and prostitutes) are pricks is mainly due to a selfish nature. As artists, we pretty much turn out to be selfish even when we don't want to be. Because at the end of the day, we want to know who liked <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>routine, who heard <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> song, who commented on <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> painting, and of course, the grand daddy of them all..."when do <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> get paid?"<br /><br />To be fair, this situation is kind of out of our control. There is nothing wrong with putting together a work for the right reasons. It doesn't matter to me if it's to reach a particular group, or if it's to say something meaningful, or even if it's to just entertain a crowd. In the end, you're all dandy. A-number one. I'm very proud of you and I mean that despite any sarcastic tone. But with those hopes of meaning and outreach come hopes of putting food on our respective tables. Perhaps we even want to feed a whole family with what we do. And if being an artist is what we do, then we need to be selfish in order for people to pay attention and, in turn, pay us. Most artists are all for free art, but even those advocates accept donations (which, again, I don't have a problem with). Our calling as artists almost forces us to be selfish.<br /><br />Is there a cure for this? The answer falls between "perhaps" and "sort of". We want to get paid, meaning we want people to pay attention to us, meaning we need to take hold of something. Let's all say it together:<br /><br />Initiative.<br /><br />To an artist, initiative is an ugly word, especially when you throw in the money factor. This is because artists are generally not businesspeople. We don't want to deal with W-2s or 401ks or any of that jazz. We want to support ourselves with what we do and we pick up this mentality and attitude that if we are talented enough things are just going to start happening. For some, it does work out that way. But for most, it's because the initiative kicks in.<br /><br />The other unfortunate thing with initiative is that you have to "take" it. Artists don't so much take as they do create. Many of us make something out of nothing and this creation is fueled by something almost unexplainable. Initiative is explainable, and it can be explained best as "work". When artists aren't creating, we're generally lazy. We don't see what we do as "work" and therefore we don't see any need to "work", especially when we aren't creating. When else are we going to take our break?<br /><br />I am fortunate enough to know potential non-pricks. In particular:<br /><br />An individual who tirelessly went from job to job since graduating college and now works steady for Disney.<br /><br />And an individual who recently earned his graduate degree and will not accept anything less than he deserves.<br /><br />We may not be businesspeople, but we need to all understand is that art is, among other things, a business. To have a successful business, you have to give a lot in order to get a lot, which takes initiative.<br /><br />I am at a point where I need to take initiative, and I hope to God it actually happens.<br /><br />So to all my fellow pricks, let's get this done.<br /></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-23112329859049324442009-05-09T14:40:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.860-07:00Now you too can work for HarlequinI realized today that there is a very easy and effective way to add about eight layers of cheese to any story. It's all possible with one line and I'm about to reveal that line to you. It is:<br /><br />"We made passionate love that very night."<br /><br />Indeed. Because let's face it, sex is usually pretty funny. At least it's funny when it is in a random context, I think. When you think about it, it's very similar to the "in bed" rule for fortune cookies. While it may not be as compact, and as we are about to see it makes a horrible acronym, WMPLTVN is good for an inner monologue or perhaps even a story. Let's cook up an example:<br /><br />"I was walking to my car from Hallmark as another woman was about to cross into the parking along with me. The woman did not seem to be paying attention as a car was speeding down the road. Luckily, I was able to say 'excuse me, miss' and stop her just in time."<br /><br />There you have it. An everyday incident that could quite happen. Now to cheese it up and perhaps make it humorous.<br /><br /><br />"I was walking to my car from Hallmark as another woman was about to cross into the parking along with me. The woman did not seem to be paying attention as a car was speeding down the road. Luckily, I was able to say 'excuse me, miss' and stop her just in time.<br /><br />We made passionate love that very night."<br /><br />Whoa now! Did you see what just happened? This may have been a poor example, however, as the danger of the speeding car might have influenced love making. Let's try something else.<br /><br />"I was waiting by the bus stop and realized I forgot my watch. I asked a gentleman next to me if the bus was running late. He told me we still had a couple of minutes before it was technically late."<br /><br />BORRRRRRRIIIIIINNNG. Let's sex it up!<br /><br />"I was waiting by the bus stop and realized I forgot my watch. I asked a gentleman next to me if the bus was running late. He told me we still had a couple of minutes before it was technically late.<br /><br />We made passionate love that very night."<br /><br />SWEET!<br /><br />Please feel free to help me think of a good term for using this phrase. Perhaps you and I can make an Internet sensation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ySkLxiQ6gMIFvy1tUO0LveQhfB4JXdiItimXdN9zSdtqjxq9ub73pSF2I55zBLMMSww1XkaBBq9JhVmVEco2e67vOEqWW9qZZfzsW7l55PVyTfQ3M-kVI0J6cxz3MgGZ0e1usemPeJU/s1600-h/harlequin_01.jpg.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ySkLxiQ6gMIFvy1tUO0LveQhfB4JXdiItimXdN9zSdtqjxq9ub73pSF2I55zBLMMSww1XkaBBq9JhVmVEco2e67vOEqWW9qZZfzsW7l55PVyTfQ3M-kVI0J6cxz3MgGZ0e1usemPeJU/s400/harlequin_01.jpg.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333945935843751042" border="0" /></a>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-70911016241060505742009-05-08T19:34:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.878-07:00Put it on my tab<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I am currently at the SOTPlayhouse working behind the bar. Unfortunately it is a bit slow tonight. I'll be playing tomorrow night and hopefully there will be a bigger crowd.</span><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Things are coming to a close. I'm almost done at Black Rep, Kaleidoscope stuff will start soon, and I'll be starting summer hours at my job next week. Good stuff, especially the job part. It will be nice to save some money for once.</p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It is weird watching an improv show. There is a great want to just jump up there. However the small crowd, while energetic, can be discouraging. We should have better crowds by now. One day. It takes patience.</p>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-82091531519653201172009-05-07T17:19:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.926-07:00She said that he wanted me to tell you that it isn't you...it's me...or least that's what I heard...<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I got an interesting phone call from my girlfriend Jamie moments ago. Apparently our relationship of nearly two years is over. No explanation. It's just over.<br /><br />At least, that's what she heard.<br /><br />Indeed, somehow my relationship with Jamie has become ammo for the rumor cannon. Although I am not exactly sure why.<br /><br />Allow me to bring those of you playing the home game up to speed. I met Jamie through our mutual friend Frank. One night, Jamie and Frank were out and I called Frank about something. After our conversation, Jamie asks who it was.<br /><br />"Oh, just my friend Ryan. I went to MCLA with him and he lives in this area."<br />"Oh...is he gay?" (She asks this because Frank's gay and has many gay friends. Somehow a breeder passed his barbed wire.)<br />"No, he's straight."<br />"Oh...is he single?"<br />"Yes, I think so."<br />"OH! Is he cute?"<br />"He's like a younger, much more sober Robert Downey Jr."<br />"I LOVE RDJ!"<br />"I KNOW, ME TOO!"<br /><br />Alright, everything from the first Downey line was made up. However, Frank did end up showing Jamie a picture of me and I got the thumbs up. There seemingly wasn't an opportunity to meet up, however, so Jamie actually knew who I was for about a month and I didn't even know who she was. Fast-forward to a day at Rhode Island College. I'm dropping off papers to apply for an MFA program thinking "Frank goes here. I wonder if I'll see him." Sure enough, I run into Frank.<br /><br />"So Ryan, how's your love life?"<br />"Umm...bad."<br />"Well, I know a girl that goes here that would like to meet you."<br />"WHERE?!"<br />"She's not here right now."<br />"Oh."<br />"But we'll get together soon. Her name is Jamie."<br /><br />Soon was not soon enough. So I did the only sensible thing and tried to find her on Frank's MySpace (STALKER!). Jamie is one of the top friends. Cue my awkward, middle school-esque, message:<br /><br />"Hi, my name is Ryan. I'm a friend of Frank's. I hope this is the right Jamie, but...I don't know if you wanted to go to the prom or something. If not, that's cool! I'll just hate you!!! LOL!!!!1"<br /><br />OK, so it wasn't that, but I did send a message and it was the right Jamie. Pretty soon we did get together for a nice evening at Frank's. Soon after that I had gone to see her perform in <span style="font-style: italic;">A Chorus Line</span> for a community theater. And then after that I asked her out on some actual dates. The rest, as they say, is history.<br /><br />I can honestly say that things are great between us and our relationship is very strong. Testament to this statement is the fact that for a good portion of the relationship Jamie has been working in upstate NY. I'd go down to visit from time to time and she would also be home around the holidays, but generally she was five hours away. Regardless, we are very happy and wouldn't ask for anything else.<br /><br />Somehow, someone saw this nice picture of a good relationship and said "I know, let's f%ck with this!"<br /><br />I'm not sure who started the rumor, but apparently Frank has already been on the case. He's been making calls back and forth and traversing this web of lies, deceit, betrayal, and murder. Again, I'm exaggerating, but Frank wants to figure this out.<br /><br />Jamie had been a tad upset, but not really. I just found it curious more than anything. Mainly I wondered who would want to say that in the first place. But the search is on.<br /><br />This besmirchment will be avenged!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">At least, I hear it will be avenged.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-24824329690415317832009-03-20T13:54:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.948-07:00New poem on the blogI just need to keep doing all these different blogs, don't I?<br /><br />I have somewhat inactive blog just for poetry. It's been pretty inactive for a while now, but I found a site online that offers free poetry classes and decided to give it a try.<br /><br />My first assignment involved writing a poem, which I decided to put up on <a href="http://poems-rhanley.blogspot.com/">my poetry blog</a>. Not sure how good it is, but I might as well put it up.<br /><br />Enjoy.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-55212675342803112632009-03-19T22:59:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.964-07:00Blog updatesHey all.<br /><br />Just posted a new blog for the <a href="http://kscopetheatre.blogspot.com/search/label/Looking%20Through%20The%20Kaleidoscope">Kaleidoscope Theatre</a> blog. Be sure to check it out and get a little insight of what its like working with the Cranston-based children's theatre.<br /><br />Also, be sure to take a look at the <a href="http://sotplayers.blogspot.com/">SOTP blog</a>, the official blog of The Speed of Thought Players.<br /><br />Get readin'!Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-62153612344112142992009-03-16T20:15:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:44.985-07:00Ramblings from a rambling kind of guy<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Just some random thoughts to share...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I just came back from <em>Watchmen</em>. Whew! I'm glad I finally saw it. I've been waiting to see this movie for ages, way before it came out. I have to say that it was well worth the wait. For those of you worried that it would be too different from the graphic novel, it's pretty true to the source. All in a "compact" 2 hours and 45 minutes! The wonders of movie magic, folks.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">My tenure at RIC feels like its coming to a close at rapid pace. I'm almost through year 2 (of 3) and today we had a meeting about our final projects. The two main things that seem to need approval are the budget and the space. I don't think my budget is unreasonable, however I would sincerely like to perform on campus. Yet I am receiving word that two of the possible open spaces are "crap". That's right. Two steaming piles of dog doo. Lovely.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">It was great seeing Jamie this past weekend. She was down here for NETCs (that's New England Theatre Conference for those of you playing the home game), which are held in Natick, MA, and I went down to see her. Unfortunately the trip to Natick took much longer than it should have. I had to stop on the highway to double check the exit and the clerk at the gas station sent me west when I needed to go east. I realize I should have just known from the get-go, yet a trip that would have taken 1 hour and 15 minutes took nearly 2 and a half. Oy...but a good time was had by all. I didn't have to rush out on Sunday despite having a show in Saugus that afternoon and I also got to see my buddy Frank.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I've been doing a ton of stuff with Kaleidoscope lately. Enough to warrant another blog entry with them, seeing that I haven't done one in a while. I just did a show of <em>Little Red</em> and there is a performance of <em>BULLY</em> this Thursday. This is on top of some other performances going on, including helping (a different) Frank with a performance, taking part in an MFA final, and the Barker Playhouse gala. Such high demand, yet most of it is free work. As in free on my end.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Some of you may be aware of a movie that is haunting my life. It. Will. Not. Die. Apparently I got to deal with some contract BS and I get to (da, da-da, DA) film some more! Kill me! Slowly and painfully! With something blunt, like a ladle. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">That's all for now.</span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424143426864101483.post-85809055088223711862009-03-13T22:07:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:13:45.006-07:00I'm sort of a blog polygamist<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;">While I realize I don't seem to do general blogs a lot, I do contribute to some other ones. Specifically, I contribute to the blog for The Speed of Thought Players, an improv troupe I perform with. This past Friday's show was a particularly special one called "Blogs, Brews, and Belly Laughs", where a local Internet blogger named Drew, who runs a blog at <a href="http://www.benspark.com/">BenSpark.com</a>, joined in the festivities, setting up a meet-and-greet for other bloggers to get together and network. Later, he even helped set-up a live webcast of the show. Be sure to check his stuff out at his website.<br /><br />I decided to join in with the bloggers and even did some blogging myself during the show. I put up a few entries which you can check out at the <a href="http://sotplayers.blogspot.com/">SOTP Blog</a>.<br /><br />I'll let you all know when other stuff goes up if you are interested in reading them.<br /></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13711443644668981808noreply@blogger.com1