Hi. I’m Ryan Litton and I write things on the internet. I invite my friends to do so, too. The reason I write on the internet is because I never run out of ink, and if I were to channel whatever it is I write through some other medium – say, a notebook or something – I’d have to constantly ship it all across the East Coast and occasionally to Texas (so that Jacob Capo could have a gander or three). Plus I’d probably never get it back, and maybe someone would rip out a few pages or something. I really don’t know.

I think it’s important to stop here for a moment and mention that I’m currently listening to “Lounge Act” off of Nirvana’s Nevermind. I guess that’s the sort of mood that’s going in to this thing. I didn’t choose it, but I’m glad it’s playing. It is, after all, one of the “most important” songs on a CD that is routinely pillaged for the 4 or 5 radio-friendly songs that we’ve been listening to for, like, 15 fucking years. The second half of Nevermind never gets much mention, and that’s probably illegal. I must admit that the fact that this album is very important outweighs whether I like it or not. I don’t really consider that important.

I used to talk about the origin of the word “octonaut” a lot, but that’s, you know, sort of old to me now, so I won’t talk about it too much for the sake of anyone reading this. Essentially I spent a vast amount of time in sushi bars during my senior year in high school. I worked at a movie theater that took from me my ability to love. It also fostered the sort of environment that leads to severe misanthropy, although I’m inclined to think that this sort of thing could be cultivated in any part-time retail job a teenager from a small town is able to get (the only jobs available to people who think sex is “pretty cool, man”). I had a sort of boyhood fascination with the universe and space and all that, only I wasn’t really a “boy” anymore – not in the legal sense, anyway. I never had dreams of being an astronaut as a kid. I guess that probably says a lot right there. I mean, Galileo must have questioned the universe in his early adulthood, right? See, I was just like that guy, only I live in the 21^st century, so instead of creating telescopes, revolutionizing astronomy and getting excommunicated from the Catholic Church, I probably just, I don’t know, listened to my goddamned iPod (named RyPod – really) or something. That and I ate a lot of free octopus salad, which is sort of scary at first and then later really delicious somehow. The texture is bizarre – I liken it to getting a blowjob from a mermaid or something like that, but you get used to it. Eventually Kevin O’Dell, a dear, sweet friend whose loving embrace I’ve never experienced — he came to me and said, “Hey, you’re an idiot. Just call it Octonaut.” It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.

So yeah, there’s the name. These sons of bitches were too little, too late, I’m afraid, but I’ll go ahead and link you to the website of their probably-delightful children’s books just because I’m that kind of guy. Children’s books – now that’s an industry that Meomi (the creator of the “Octonauts”) didn’t fall in to on accident. That’s a $2 billion dollar a year industry, friends. Hell, I’m sure they’re good people. I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable putting my kids through college with money I made designing cartoon squirrels and bears in Adobe Illustrator, though I reckon there are worse ways to earn money. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but at the end of the day I had a sandwich in my stomach and a hole in my heart.

Octonaut was created because Jebzig! died. Well, I shouldn’t say that it died so much that I simply forgot to update my credit card information. It was an honest mistake that I won’t repeat. Domain names are no laughing matter, I’ve come to understand. Some company snatched up my beloved domain and now it is gone forever. (They want upwards of $1,000 for it, says Eli Tilbury of the United States Navy.)

This website was originally far different than it is today. When it was still just shapes in colors in my head, I perhaps had a broader idea in mind. I’m completely okay with what it is now. There used to be this place that I wrote at online, though I don’t write there anymore; I’m guessing this is why people get confused as to what Octonaut is even about. A lot of people who I used to know and some that I don’t, they come to me and say things like, “Hey, you just write about stuff and your friends do, too.” To that I usually say, “Well, yeah.” I’m not exactly sure what it is they’re trying to get across, but if there is a “mission statement” in mind (if we can even call it such a thing), I guess you can just say it’s “stuff Ryan Litton writes, and his friends do, too.” I don’t even know what it is I write. Sometimes I write about Baltimore, other times I’m content talking about videogames. I don’t know, man, I guess that’s just how it is. If I were to put some ads on this website (I won’t), they’d be totally fucked up. Because really, who is my audience? I don’t even know.

Anyway, so I once wrote out the “purpose” of Octonaut in this blue notebook that’s stored in a closet somewhere. Most of the handwriting is Eric Lane’s. (The fact that this website even exists at all is a fever dream of a miracle considering how chicken scratch-y and unintelligible that guy’s handwriting is.) Ryan Butler was present as well, but I don’t really remember what he said; he was eating a sandwich at the time, which doesn’t really allow for a steady hand, so I don’t blame him or anything. He probably would have tried to talk, and bits and particles of a once-delicious sandwich would come spraying out of his mouth like a fire hydrant. It would have been very messy and probably disastrous. Honestly I don’t know what I’d be doing with my life had that happened.

The catalyst for that notebook and the “bros eating sandwiches”-brainstorming-session may not be all that surprising, though.

At some darkened point in my life, I moved to Baltimore, Maryland. I tend to write about Baltimore a lot, but if you’ve gotten to this point in the “explanation of what this website is”, you probably already knew that – or more than likely you simply know me. I like it there. Sure, people clothed in towels will assume they know your name and ask you for money (“Yo, Jimmy – give me a five dollar bill,” et cetera), though I can’t say it really bothers me anymore. I will point out that the panhandlers can be quite demanding. As harsh as it sounds, I’ve programmed myself to simply keep walking when they approach me with their space man stories. “Yo! Yo! Me and my homeboy just crash-landed and we need enough money to rebuilt our rocket ship” is a story I’ve heard a dozen and one times already. Typically their “thing” is to make sure they tell you at least six times that they just got out of the hospital and don’t have enough money to afford bus fare to get back home. I guess I’m supposed to sympathize with them here, but I simply can’t once you consider that I know which street corners they work. I find it hard to believe that someone can get stranded 4 blocks from the Inner Harbor for 2 years.

If you’re ever approached by a homeless person who isn’t holding a creative sign (give those guys money – they deserve it) or you come across some hapless bottom feeder looking to swindle you for supposed bus fare, don’t freak out or anything and calmly perform one of several fail-proof tactics. The easiet thing to do is pretend like you’re an asshole and that you couldn’t possibly care less about their predicament – don’t worry, they’re expecting this. If you simply cannot bring yourself to do that (it takes many years of putting up with bullshit stories to get to that point, really) then look at them straight in the eyes and say, “Man, I’m about $50 away from where you are,” and keep walking. As you walk away, turn very around very slightly and shrug your shoulders and twist your lips around as if to say “That’s just the way it is, bro!!!” and you should be fine. If all else fails, say something nonsensical and irrelevant. “S’cuse me man, can I get a buck fifty from you? I just want to grab a bus home,” can be easily combated with “WHO-AHHHHHHHHHHH!” while defiantly grabbing your crotch. This appears to work wonders as a repellent.

Other than that, Baltimore is a pretty great little city. It’s not New York City – and God bless it for it. I wouldn’t normally do something like this, but I’ll go ahead and do it anyway: Baltimore has a big secret that not many people know about. This is privileged information, so listen carefully and don’t tell your mom or anything. I’m serious, guys; I’m actually pretty content to keep this thing under wraps, but hell, I’ll go ahead and tell you anyway: Baltimore is secretly a gigantic playground for adults. I know, I thought that was crazy, too. I guess most big cities can be construed as such, but I don’t live in any other big cities, so there you go. The gigantic sculptures aren’t things to be looked at – they are things to climb on. The side of the Baltimore Convention Center where Otakon – the masturbatory convention for everything Japanese – takes places is something you wished existed when you were a kid. And now it does. Except you pay taxes and shit these days. The side of the building is made of very smooth stone something, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that it is slanted and an absolute joy to run up. Then you get to the top, decide you feel like sitting down, and then you slide down the wall. Just don’t wear any pants you like, I guess.

On the corner of Lombard and Charles Street there’s this strange sculpture thing consisting of bendy, wavy pieces of metal which interlock and are painted various colors of the rainbow. I have no idea what this thing is; I assume people eat lunch in or on it or whatever. It’s the closet thing we’re ever going to get to a jungle gym for people over the age of 12 in this city, so I reckon I’m allowed to play on it. And trust me, I do. It’s got a strange little aqueduct system right next to it which empties into a lonely little drain and it’s almost therapeutic to climb on that multicolored thing and listen to that water; as therapeutic as something can be in the middle of a busy intersection, anyway. Just the other day a man wearing what can only be described as “circus sideshow pants” approached me and a few friends. He went through the usual routine – “I just got out of the hospital” (there’s the sympathy card – well played, adversary) – and asked us for “just $2 dollars or so.” We declined – sorry man, we’re not carrying cash, we’re in the city (this is true) – but one of my colleagues made the mortal mistake of reaching into his pocket while this man was talking to us. This is the equivalent of waving a freshly-killed wildebeest carcass in the face of a lion wearing circus sideshow pants. I stepped behind the man while he continued his tirade (lie) and rapidly gave the baseball umpire “Safe!” gesture as if to say, “No, goddammit! No!” After computing that no, none of us has any money, this man had the bare-chested audacity to inquire, “What about a 5? Any of you have a five dollar bill?” The nerve! We just sort of shook our heads and pretended like the ground was suddenly really interesting. He asked for a pack of matches and we continued shrug off his pleas. He quickly and crazily goose-stepped into the thick of the sewer steam as I continued to climb all over a sculpture that I can only assume is representative of what Dr. Seuss’ shit looked like.

So as you can probably gather, a lot of my writing is influenced by my geographical location. I write about Baltimore because I’m in Baltimore. Well, not always – my home is about 7 or 8 minutes south of Charm City, but I visit the city quite often. I spent my 18^th birthday on the 32^nd floor of a hotel room that was far too cheap for what we received. That place had a kitchen. Later my very drunk brother drove (yes, drove) us to a sandwich shop that for the life of me I haven’t been able to rediscover (their french fries were delicious – I won’t say orgasmic because only girls say shit like that). Right next door was a transvestite bar. It really was something. The car we drove in wasn’t my brother’s, but his then-girlfriend Andrea’s. Andrea, if you’re reading this – yes, Jeb scratched the paint on the side of your car. I’m sorry. He pulled up to curb a little too fast and we all sat cringing in complete silence and dread as the white paint on your cute little car was scratched to all hell by a man who thinks it’s okay to put salsa on his cereal. When we got out of the car and lamented at what he had done, he defended his destruction by saying, “What? This is Baltimore, guys.”

We can talk about the website again, if you’d like.

Why are there so many Mother 3 sprites around the site? And why Mega Man? Well, because I like Mother 3 and Mega Man a lot. I like to look at them too, I guess. The pink octopus with the little hat at the top of every page is ハチ, or Hachi, if you’re not in to that katakana thing. Hell, I’m not either. (I think hiragana looks better, anyway.) He’s a minor character from Mother 3. I played all the way up to that point in the game just to take screenshots of him for the logo. I needed an octopus sprite, and I thought the dude was completely crazy-looking, so I figured why the hell not. Here are two of the screenshots I took for the sole purpose of this design:

You might have noticed another smaller octopus at the bottom of each page. That’s an iron octopus statue from Mother 2, and I have no idea what it’s doing there. I guess I just thought it looked nice or something. In EarthBound, the statue is replaced with an iron pencil statue. Well, I didn’t need a pencil statue, and considering they don’t talk, I just didn’t see a point in using it. Now, I’m not saying that iron octopus statues talk either, but then again I don’t really know what I’m saying so here’s a picture I took anyway:

Again, I simply like to look at artwork from these games. I love them and that’s just about all there is to it. The rest of the website was designed entirely by me and developed tirelessly by a truly wonderful human being named Tim Holt. You may look at his prices and think hey, this guy isn’t half bad, and you’d be 100% correct – but keep in mind that this guy is dealing with the pound sterling here, so he’s laughing all the way to his British bank. Just kidding – I love you, Tim. Though really, this man did a truly excellent job and created a really simple platform based around Wordpress. I cannot thank this man enough. He once referred to me as a sound bloke – terminology that doesn’t allow for an eloquent translation – but from all of us at Octonaut in the United States of America, I say this to you, Tim: you are a radical bro. That is the closest translation I can offer, my friend.

As for the randomly-generated images at the top of every page: Yeah, I know a lot of websites do that. I don’t really care. I think it looks pretty nice and it’s a way to keep things constantly changing. I add a few pictures to the pool every month or so — maybe 2 or 3 if I find a picture of something funny/old/important/Baltimore. You can send me pictures to put up if you’d like.

If you’d like to write for Octonaut, there’s only one thing you have to do: know me. That’s it. If you’re reading this and you know what size shoe I wear, you’re fine. If you know the size of something other then my feet, please stay away from me. :( But really, even if I don’t know you, I’d be more than willing to read whatever you send and consider putting it up just because I’m just that kind of guy.

Regardless if you know me or not, feel free to email me with, uhh, anything. I mean that. Don’t be embarrassed to fire off an email with a Dig Dug review attached to it, or a simple “Hello” followed by ten paragraphs of ASCII penises (8===D, et cetera). I’m open to that sort of thing, guys. Better yet, if you’re in or around Baltimore and don’t know where the hell you’re going, or if you’d simply like to slide down the side of the Baltimore Convention Center in pants you no longer like with me cheering you on in hot desperation, then by all means, send me an email. I’m a pretty nice guy. I try to shower twice a day, which I’m told isn’t the best thing you can do for your skin, though hell if my clothes and sheets don’t smell terrific because of it. Actually, I lied – I usually take 2 baths a day. I guess you can argue that I am less of a man because of it, but that’s just ignorant and said only by those who do not take baths, and therefore someone who simply doesn’t understand. If you see me on some godforsaken street in Baltimore, feel free to say hello – I’ll probably say hello back to you. Just, you know, don’t ask me for money.

If you’d like to link to this humble website, feel free to do so with these little buttons I made just for the occasion. And yes, I used the various octopi from the Mother series. And yes, I think they look all right.

Should I have anything else to say, I will amend this rather ambling origin story with something spectacular. I’m assuming I will at some point. What I’m trying to say is watch this space occasionally, but only if you’d like to. I’m not in the business of barking out orders or anything.

I love you all equally.