I am the spawn of a mad scientist’s experiment; he attempted to mix the genes of Dick Yorke and Shane MacGowan of the Pogues in an effort to make the most ironic suburbanite known to man. In this, he ultimately failed when out came I, the less-than-super-groovy (just somewhat groovy) sponge for all things Nauseum wherever I have to travel to find it.

Ironic, though I may be; suburban I try to deny; nomadic, I ultimately am. An aspiring beatnic of the modern era who does not have the same ambitions nor the same demons that inspired those of the same ilk who came before to explore and appreciate and deconstruct. A restless soul, I am one who dances only when in peoples’ periphery and swears under my breath or through a microphone connected to a speaker turned to 11.

I have been a professional student, in sales, a whore of the travel industry, and yes, I had a stint in advertising.

I have many opinions, some of which might actually seem substantial if I provide at least three references, none of which would ever be wikipedia.org, I promise. 

I am not promising my words will be incindiary, nor will they necessarily be safe, but they will be words about advertising and all of its glory and grime, that much I can promise you.

Now to sound faux british, "Cheers!"

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