Tag Archives: my name

thank you, Spielberg

30 Mar

When I was seventeen I worked in a movie theatre.

It was the summer that Saving Private Ryan was released.

I wore a nametag.

You do the math.

Obese gentlemen of all ages found it hilarious to inform me as I heaped piles of popcorn into massive buckets (with butter smeared in the middle as well as the top), that the feature they truly wished to see was Ryan’s Privates.

Some of them even offered to save said privates, which of course was especially tempting when uttered from the greasy lips of men known to inhale cheese-dogs and nachos faster than oxygen.

It was after one such man was zipping up his fanny-pack and preparing to balance his buckets of popcorn, pretzels, candy and gallon-sized soda that a sixteen-year old boy made me forever wary of certain peanut-butter and chocolate treats.

He had overheard the sweat-pant donning walrus casually request a view of my genitalia, and took it upon himself to redeem all of mankind.  So, cautiously approaching the counter I manned, he smiled, shook his head and said:

‘Betcha get that one a lot huh?  Sorry. That sucks.’

Standing there covered in popcorn grease burns, wearing a man’s button down shirt, and sweating from the heat of various hot-dog, nacho, and pretzel ovens-I instantly deemed him a poet. Compared to the rest of the sludge that rolled up to the counter-here was my adorable, grungy, dimpled, teenage hero.

I blushed, laughed, and smiled at him in gratitude for recognizing the horrors of working a concession stand.  He returned the smile, stared at the ground for a moment, and glanced up at me determined to continue the flirtation.  Which, given my mood-very well could have led to an overly dramatic teenage romance.   Delicious make-out sessions in the backseat of cars, hand-written notes, and romantic proclamations of love were all unfolding in our collective future.

But sadly, love is fleeting.

The next words out of Romeo’s mouth were:

“I’ll take a coke and a pack of Reeses Penis please”

Needless to say, he didn’t make it to the select screening of Saving Ryan’s Privates.


Who I am

23 Mar

I’m Ryan, some people call me Ry.  You can if you want to, if not-I have also been known to respond to Ryzilla, Zilla, Buttface, Menace, and Blondie.

I once spent a year referring to my brother as Mutant.  I now call him kid-Ginger.  He features in the blog sometimes.

I haven’t had a real address in two years.  I’ve been traveling and writing.  I am in love with Paris and I haven’t lived in the US since 2006.

I have an obsession with sandwiches.  Seriously.  Making them is an art form, and I’m all about it.  If you serve me a dry sandwich, I really don’t know if our friendship will survive.

I write stories about my life, but I try to keep love and dating out of it unless it just happens to be something so ridiculous I feel like sharing.

I was never a cheerleader because I have the coordination of an ox and lack the proper motivation for flipping around in a skirt with a bunch of girls who would kill me in their sleep if given the chance.

I was definitely a drama geek.  I’ve been known to dress up in costumes for no reason, and have an ability to convince others to join the festivities.  Nothing screams good-time like wandering a public park dressed as a giant foam condiment (ketchup, mustard, or mayo-foreign options also up for discussion).

People who bite their silverware should be shot.

That was a hoot.  Glad we talked.

Ryan Mikel………

19 Mar

The day I announced my engagement to a Serbian, my mother started quoting lines from Not Without My Daughter.  In case you don’t watch Lifetime-that would be the flick with Sally Fields about a woman who marries a Middle Eastern guy and then can’t leave his country.  Well, can’t leave it without her daughter.

Insert my mother’s irrational fear.
Don’t ask me how she made the connection.  I distinctly remember her referring to the ‘tribal’ nature of Serbs, despite the fact that mine was about as Parisian as they come.

Regardless, during the course of my six-month engagement (no-we will not be diving into further details on that subject), she took to randomly calling me with questions about our future.

I should mention here that when it comes to pronunciation, my mom is handicapped.  So the day she called me to ask how to pronounce my would-be last name, I knew we were going to have problems.  It had taken her three months to stop calling him Lukas (his real name being Luka), so I just figured the surname was going to be a lost cause.

Nevertheless, this is the conversation that transpired between us when she unleashed the Spanish Inquisition on me:

Mom:  ‘Hi honey, just calling to see how things are going.  Say, how do you pronounce Luka’s last name again?  You are going to take it, aren’t you?  Or are you going to hyphenate?  Just want to make sure I can pronounce it.

Me:  (Deep breath) ‘Ok Mom, its Markovic.  Mar-Ko-Vich.

Mom: “Mykarvo?’

Me: “No, Mar-ko-vic’

Mom: ‘Mer-kar-ma?’

Me: ‘Nope, not Merkarma Mom, MAR-KO-VICH’

Mom: (deep sigh on her end) ‘Mary-Kug-vok?’

Me: ‘I have an idea, why don’t we talk about something else for twenty minutes, and come back to this.  Approach it with a new start a little later.

Mom: ‘k, yes, great idea.’

(We continue chatting about God-only knows what for the next fifteen minutes)

Me: ‘Ok Mom, are you ready to try the name again?’

Mom: ‘yes’

Me: Ok, grab a pen.

Mom: “Graaaaaaa-Baaaaaaa-Puuuuuuunnn’

Me: (pinching nose between eyes with one hand, deep sigh of concentration with the other)  “No Mom, Grab. A. Pen.”

Mom: ‘Gruuuubbbb-Aaaaaaaa-Piiiiinnnn’


(thirty second silence)

Mom: (laughing)  ‘Oh Whoops, did I really just do that?’

Me: (shaking head in disbelief) ‘Yes mom, yes you did’

She never did learn to pronounce his name.  God help me if I ever marry a Middle Eastern man.  Scratch that, God help that man.