I started life like most humans, covered in placenta and with minimal motor skills. I was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts and I have lived in the Boston area my entire life. As a result, I was blessed with a vicious Boston accent, the kind where the letter “r” is removed from words that have it, and added to the ends of words that don’t. For example; “I have an idear, let’s get in the cah and get some pizzer.” That how my family, friends and everyone I had ever met sounded like. As far as I knew, the whole world talked like that. It was nohmal – I mean normal.
When I was 10, I became fanatical about playing the drums. I breathed, ate and slept drumming 24/7. My high school text books were peppered with doodles of drum set configurations. I had a natural understanding of how to play them and I could remember every drum part of every song I listened to. It was the only thing that made sense to me and it was the only thing I felt confident doing. It was always in the back of my mind that I was going to be a rock star with absolute certainty. There was no other option. But that’s a whole other website.
In my teen age high school years I showed artistic promise by doodling on the desks in lieu of paying attention to the teachers. With less than average grades and a general underwhelming academic performance, my parents cut their losses and pushed me towards art school. What I can only surmise as a weak moment for the admissions office, the Hartford Art School felt I was good enough to be accepted and suddenly I was thrown into the abyss of fine art.
Four years and countless all-nighters later I received my BFA. It was 1989 and nobody was thinking about computers, internet or cell phones. Hell, we were still thinking about how much volume our hair could sustain.
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