It’s clear to me now that many of the pop songs of my youth will be turned into commercial jingles.
Rob Ryan was born in Syracuse, six months after the Bay of Pigs invasion. His parents were Canadian, which explains some of his exotic and foreign ways. He was on Romper Room for a week, and the archival kinescopes show that he was brought to the brink of tears by a gesticulating sound man who didn’t like the noise he made with his straw. He has shoveled asphalt, assembled switches, written bad computer code and driven a bloodmobile. Mr. Ryan is a product of the Seattle Diaspora of 2000, and like many expatriates, he pines (or pikes) now for lost places and lost times, and speaks a dialect that no longer exists. He has seen Nirvana play “Safety Dance” and watched Peter Buck eat Mexican food. He lives adjacent to cows. He has stalked the red eft.