I Still Don’t Know What I Want To Be When I
Grow Up

Like most people I bought my name as a domain name without ever thinking about what I might actually do with it. At some point, I imagine I had interesting things to say, but now as I go into that proverbial last lap of life I find that any insight I had has devolved into a series of repetitive stories that everyone I know has heard a million times and which people politely try not to roll their eyes when they hear. I imagine any wake or memorial service held for me in my passing would be a series of people yelling out for someone to retell a tale of mine like they were at the umpteenth Rolling Stones farewell tour and calling out for Beasts of Burden. The thought that Keith Richards might outlive me causes me no end of irritation.

So, here I am in a nutshell. I was born in 1959, so do the math because I don’t know when you are reading this. I am a first-generation American, my parents having immigrated here after World War II (or as my mom calls it, The World War Second).

I can read because of comic books and as a result spent my entire life working in comics as a retailer, show organizer, writer, publisher, and experienced whatnot. Fucking comics, avoid them like the plague.

I ran a music venue called The Art Boutiki Music Hall until 2025 when I closed it because there was less money in live music than there was in comics.

I am a husband and a father, not a great one but I hold the titles nonetheless.