I was weaned along the verdant peaks and valleys of the Pacific Northwest, and harbored from the torrents by a dilapidated grain silo and a father with a whiskey-nicked soul.* But from composted strife springs a fecundity of riches, as so I soon did learn. Upon reaching the University of Oregon, it became clear to me that my No Fear clad peers of Dig Dug and Full House grooming were all but cut from the same ubiquitous cloth. I myself–raised on the insights of Bazooka Joe wrappers and a dog-eared Viking Portable Nietzsche–had an entirely different frame of reference with which to infer. In sharp contrast to the rigid, categorical thinking of the preterit class, I found the convergence of scholastic acumen and pop naïf absurdity the best catalyst for cracking wise, and, more importantly, evoking some tremor of hidden truth–both of which serve vital roles in the necessary shedding of visceral light upon the doldrums of suburban sprawl.

I have an irrational hatred of Tina Yothers. I believe that math is Heaven's whipping boy. I no longer fantasize about the forest moon of Endor. My only regret is my No Regrets tattoo. I believe that inequity breeds iniquity. I have a theory that 65% of redheaded males are named either Andy or Scott. I believe that Miracle Whip is the mother of all euphemisms. If I could be anywhere at the moment, I'd be wrapped in swaddling clothes, in the arms of a virgin, on the sun-dappled shores of the Mediterranean.

Though there persists a void of starshine and cricketsong, I wish to remain in San Francisco–this sparkling diamond on the continental lobe. To dip my quill into the poison well and scrawl works of enduring strength and beauty. To perpetuate the cogs and wheels of commerce; no matter if capitalism killed democracy. To amass a sizable booty** so I can afford the limited edition QVC Elf Slayer knife with a contoured galvanized steel blade sharp enough to annihilate the wooded depths of an entire Elfin populace with one fell swoop of my limpid wrist. But more to the point, I wish to be in the company of revved up visionaries who rail against the conformity-tinted Plexiglas ceiling of mediocrity: ennui has its allies, we must enlist ours.