Crackhead to the stars, umber hulk for a generation of wishywashy, bald Smiths fans - J Ryan is just the sort of man you dream of introducing to the producers of all those awful teen-dream television series: Dawson's Leak, Felicity, My So Called Whatsit; these are just the lonely moments through which we wait for a mad, bizarre, man of destiny like this.
What'll we do til then.
Take him home to ma. "Look Ma!" emphatically, "Look what I found ass down in the gutter when us and the Johnsons went to Californ-i-a." Quizzical. Isn't it. "Can we keep him ma? Can we? Keep him?" Find him a cozy hole in the back yard with a typewriter, maybe a restored dog house, the old tool shed, not the loft in the garage. Is this Nebraska or just a model? Of course the CIA's been molding primacy into it's program for years, the accents, the chicken-fry stains on the white aprons, it's obvious isn't it, the whole thing. Hell this could be in the Ukrain for all the Risk playing he's done, where's the Urals, weren't they around here someplace? And what's with these hamster graves in the backyard.
