About

If you want the technical stuff, ask for my resume.

This is the real dirt.

As the oldest of six kids, I led the pack around our city neighborhood. The day would really begin after school let out.

I started fires with magnifying glasses, was banished from a drug dealer’s yard, and spied our neighbor standing outside in her backyard—completely naked—after one of her many drug binges. I collected cigarette butts from the ground with my brothers and then cashed them in with Dad for a penny each. I tackled a thief to the ground after she stole my plastic jewelry. (Later, in an attempt to get further revenge, I offered her marshmallows that I had glazed in Elmer’s glue.) When the streetlights came on, I made my way home to eat fish sticks with my family. On special nights, the college exchange student we were hosting would join us. (He usually asked to cook. Something about an allergy to fish sticks.)

Fast forward 25 years. I've upgraded from fish sticks to salmon and I don’t offer Elmer's marshmallows to friends. I like to think my childhood prepared me for creative writing. Reality entertains in a way fairy tales never will.