We rendezvous with the dashing Price Messick at a splendid Italian joint whose name, Fagiolini, I believe translates into "little fag", but I could be wrong, because quite frankly I don't speak Italian.
To put it quite simply, Ryan Andrew Bruce is a part-time, semi-irreverent iconoclast. His personality, a perpetual joust of unresolvable contradictions. Often described as being far too in touch with his feminine side to be such a proficient basketball player, he nevertheless revels in defying categorization and to be honest, he is probably taller than he needs to be. A youth spent in constant debate due to a loving household helmed by the living incarnation of the devil's advocate. An educational upbringing shrouded in variety which took a tangential turn and an exponential broadening after spending nine months in the company of a coterie of anarchy-leaning, super-intellectual socialists somewhere in South Carolina. An unused degree in Japanese helps to conceal a past history littered with unfulfillment. With previous experience as a failed musician, a failed painter and a failed writer, he
looks toward a future absent of the allure of failure with career resembling that of a fashion designer or couturier, whichever comes first. (the preceding statements are all true although they have not been checked against any preordained spelling or grammatical 'truths')
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