I grew up in Boston, the fifth of six boys, son to a firefighter.
I attended to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, where I am alleged to have studied Journalism and English Literature.
Uniquely unqualified to hold a real job after graduation, I worked as a caddy, carpenter’s assistant, plasterer’s assistant, nanny, and driver of the Fenway Frank Mobile.
I then spent a year traveling around Europe and the Middle East, living for a time in Israel, where I worked excavating the site of King Herod The Great’s winter palace in Jericho.
I returned to Boston eager to start my adult life.
So I immediately accepted a job at a coffee shop and lived in a dilapidated apartment that smelled of cat urine. (I did not own a cat at the time.)
In my spare time I wrote exceptionally bad stories and put together a copywriter’s portfolio.
I shopped it around and landed a job at Hill, Holliday Direct.
A few years later I moved to New York and took a job at Ogilvy & Mather Direct, working my way up to the general agency.
I had kept at my own hugely unsuccessful and non-lucrative writing.
Eventually I sold a piece to The New Yorker and have been contributing to that magazine off and on for some time.
I left to write more, moving to Paris for a time.
During this time I was fortunate enough to publish a novel called Truth In Advertising, which came out in 2013. It won the Thurber Prize for American Humor. The book was optioned and I wrote the screenplay, which now sits buried deep in the basement of the William Morris agency.
Later, I was lucky enough to worked closely with Andy Bird and Carla Serrano at Publicis, pitching new business and helping out on Cadillac, Citi, and Heineken.
In January 2019, my second novel, Talk To Me was published, as was a slim book of exceptionally bad poetry called Love Poems (for Married People).
If there is one common thread to both my work and personal lives, it’s that people often forget I’m in the room.