An Open Letter From Ryan to Stanley (With Editor's Notes in Italics)

Stanley,
Being the guy whose name sounds a lot like "Wry and," and who some might ill-advisedly title the "co-founder" or "Lord of" Wry & Stanley dot blogspot dot com, I have to come clean: these days, I only ever check the blog once per week, on Saturdays, in the early afternoon, from the Internet cafe next to the cafe cafe where I like the short black coffee. (Never went to college, mind you, but not a word of that sentence makes sense. Not a word.) And, as the qoute unqoute co-founder of said blog who not even all that recently left all friends and family to live on a small Island near Australia, of all places, to make wine and jump off bridges and teach breadmaking seminars, I think it is quite understandable that I yearn, if that is the correct spelling of the word - I shiver and shake and tremble and crave in the core of whatever it is that makes me human - for the hot gossip of my motherland of Charlottesville, for the word on the streets, for news of my friends living in the town that I now always have to refer to in the past tense. (Again, nothing.)

So, buddy, as I digest my meat pie (Ernie's makes a good meat pie, mate) and sip my espresso and put a two dollar coin into a slot in the side of the monitor, what I really want from Wry & Stanley is some legitamite news of what's happening in TJ's backyard. Even if it's just for me, old pal. Even if it's just for me.

Love to all my lovers,
Ryan
(Not a fucking word of that.)