I first started making art while I was working in a cafeteria at the University of Oregon. I was studying philosophy and had minimal interest in art, other than the fact that a girl I had a huge crush on said she was an oil painter. I thought the stuff was strictly for the birds and was much more interested in the punk rock band I was in at the time.

After I finished scrubbing huge industrial pots and pans I would bike over to her house and sit in the garage filled with fumes while she labored away on some gothic icon or other and I would write self-absorbed lyrics about how shitty everything was. I remember the day I picked up one of her brushes and did a painting on an old toilet seat cover and thought, "This is the coolest fucking thing in the entire world!" The band broke up, the girl and I split up, and I moved to Portland, Oregon. I was dead broke and I mean flat-fucking broke. I needed money that day for rent and I had no job to speak of. I was filing out applications for these convenience stores called "Plaid Pantry" (Oregon's 7-11) and was on my way home, hang-headed, and wanting to get drunk, when I passed a sign for a place hiring called American Dream Pizza. I thought to myself, "How cheeky is that!?" Little did I know I would spend the next 7 years of my life darkening that doorstep. So I slung the sausage, peeled the pepperoni, tossed the tomatoes, and ran a privately owned greasy pizza joint for 7 years. The owner treated me like a king and would give me time off for my shows and even bought some of my paintings.

I then moved to San Francisco and lo and behold, I moved without a goddamn dime to my name yet again! My ex-wife and I moved into a place on 25th & Mission and when we were done paying the rent and deposit, we had $12.87 to live off of in one of the most expensive city's in the world. I scoured the town and came up with a job at a place called Shooting Stars. It was a photography company that took glam-shots of kids playing sports. Soccer, baseball, you name it. I've taken thousands of pictures of kids sitting on their parent's knee, telling them to say, "1,2,3...say spaghetti!!!!"

This job wasn't enough to cover things, so I got a job as a customs broker in downtown San Francisco as well. I was working 7 days a week for months and months. My art production had dropped to zero and I was noticeably more of an asshole. I finally quit taking the glam-shots of rich children in tights, allowing more time for making art, but I have stayed on at the customs house for the time being. Painting has begun to pay out, but not enough for full monthly support. Soon.... soon.....