Ryan Whitehead

Stanford University, Art Institute of Chicago, Battle Ground High School

Stanford University, Attended 1994 - 1998, Class of 1998, Bachelor's Degree, Modern Thought and Literature

I eat low hanging fruit.

Stanford Alumni Association, Chicago Stanford Alumni, Obama for Illinois, Democratic Party, EFF

Mythology (personal and otherwise), Methodology, Phenomenology, Scatology, Alchemy, All Things Avant-Garde, Poetics (as an abstract endeavor), Mortification of the Flesh (Marathons, Triathlons, etc), Binging, Purging

A Thousand Plateaus, Beckett, No. 111 2.7.93 - 10.20.96, Kafka, Homer, Virgil, Dante, Lone Wolf & Cub, The OED, Glass Bead Game, Genealogy of Morals, A Humument, Hopscotch, 1001 Nights, Quixote, Vico, Ficciones, Finnegan's Wake, Eden Eden Eden ... I like cookbooks.

Sans Soliel, Fellini Satyricon, Aguirre: Wrath of God, Stalker, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, Cremaster 2, Happy Together, Dog Star Man, Satantango, Daisies, The Celebration, Visitor Q, Playtime, Greenaway, Trier's Medea, Conspirators of Pleasure, etc.

Jamaican (Dancehall, Ragga, Roots, Dub), Minimalism, Electro-nic, Disco Mutations, Hip-Hop, World (India, Cuba, Indonesia, Africa), Folk (British, Old Timey), Metal (Black, Sludgey, 70s), Japanese Spastics (PSF, etc.)

You mean that box that I watch movies on? There are moments: Miami Vice's Michael Mann years, Twin Peaks, Monty Python, Voltron, Anime, the public service announcements at the end of GI Joe episodes, etc.

Gemini

I spent my childhood as a Gaucho a freeriding horseman
orphaned to the pampa. By day we herded cattle and scalped
Mapuche rustlers, dropping perforated bodies in
long grasses, at the base of Calden trees. Left the eyes for
the condors. My poncho, my home ... under a hemisphere of
stars. Nights around the fire tobacco, rum, mate
comtemplating the grasslands unclaimed abundance. Drink
flows ... inevitably, blood follows. Recall the shuffling rhythm of Pampean grass. Its sharp edge and fibrous strands whispering like native hips ... Buenos Aires, her waistline, chiffon and cancion. I left the grasslands in 1912 on an ocean liner bound for Paris. Looking for fortune; fate would brought only sorrow. I played the zero hour, lunar demise, the comedy of whorehouses Tango. My bandoneon was the Capitans pleasure during the voyage that saw the
Lusitania touch the bottom of the North Atlantic. A thousand souls
lockered in cold fathoms. A grand ship she was; a floating palace. And Capitan ... an old salt that loved bawdy tango damn near as much as he liked the ladies, pinching and slapping til they scarce new what to do with themselves. When lightning strikes I still take fright, fearing the German torpedoes have struck again, a million-ton hammer's merciless crack to the wrought iron boiler. Though my days in the Quartier Latin mingling with the knife-grinders, umbrella menders, milk goats ... serenading the bordellos of Rue de la Huchette are long past, I miss them not. I am now the proud owner/operator of a Helado de Coco cart in Logan Square. Surely youd like to submerge yourself in a
bath of my delicious and refreshing coconut crystals?

Ballers, shot callers, 18-wheel long haulers, deck-hands
on catfish trawlers. Cyclists and Triathletes. People that REALLY like food ... chef, sommelier, maitre de fromage, or just intrepid tastebuds. Shapes that are easily bound but have an infinite perimeter - triangle spun around the axis of triagle and perversely interlaced. People offended by Alexander the Great's inelegant solution to the Gordian
knot. Does eccentricity make you think of ovals? People laugh at tragedy stemming from insignifigant failures. Discerning druns. If well-rounded sounds less appealing than posessing jagged edges, you're on to something. People that buy more books than they read, know 10 film genres other than action/comedy/porn, have bad habits to balance
out their beatific charm, are fervent about the small and large, and wear misanthopy like a merit badge.