I would have written something poetic here about the hardships of my childhood and the torturous persecution that I suffered through grade school which made me into the remarkable writer that I am now at 31 years of age, which in itself is a travesty that I must suffer with being ever closer to the ripe age of 40 by each passing day, but I digress. I fortunately (or unfortunately, for my severely non-tortured imagination that desperately craves trauma for authorship food), grew up well in a middle-class, white neighborhood in a small town of Northern California. Now I am resigned to spend my days trying to achieve the “American Dream” of middle-class white male-husband-father-provider and also pursue my true passion as a starving artist. What path to follow my friends? Like the improbable Mr. Frost would say, take “the one less traveled by”. And as Kid President would reply, “Not cool, Robert Frost!” And so we are here.