Some kids come out of the womb calmly assembling Lego castles with the concentration of a German watchmaker and you just know they’re headed for a future in orthopedic surgery or actuarial science or whatever profession requires a person to enjoy following instructions. Other kids hurl themselves off the roof of a treehouse with a beach towel tied around their neck and you think: there goes tomorrow’s stunt pilot.

If I could’ve chosen my own destiny, I probably would’ve become an astrobiologist. I spent my whole childhood convinced that I was an alien. But at age six, when I won my first advertising award, it became clear that I was something far stranger, more grotesque: a copywriter. 

I spent the next twenty years attempting to outrun it, trying on a bunch of ill-fitting costumes: a case assistant at a law firm in Boston. An operations manager at an education non-profit in Newark. I even accidentally charted at #15 on rock radio.

But as soon as I stepped inside my first ad agency, I knew I was home.

It was as if I had been a sleeper agent my whole life, and my first creative brief activated me like the Manchurian candidate.  I sprang to life like a cursed doll, spewing headlines, and never stopped. 

Since then, I’ve worked agency-side and brand-side, at giant companies and tiny ones, in America and Canada (random side quest), both the well and the Unwell. I've launched and relaunched brands and made work that has put them at the center of culture. I’ve been recognized at international award shows, won Fortune 50 pitches, turned around creative departments, built agencies, taught advertising classes, and made some of my best friends along the way. 

Because above all else, I love making smart, funny stuff with smart, funny people.

When I’m not making ads, I’m usually writing songs, reading, hiking, overanalyzing reality television with my dog, or threatening to write a novel. Maybe something about aliens. I don't know.