"Why do you fuckin' care," is what my bestie Jack would say. He's always inside me trying to push his way out. When people take a tone, or give me orders, Jack bristles. Chris has a wife, kids, and a mortgage, so most of the time, Chris is charged with keeping Jack in check. Jack is why I write. The world moved on without Jack. His music scene is nothing but burnt ash from the campfire the night before. Jack's city doesn't exist anymore. It might as well be called Seattle 2.0.
I'm a workers' rights lawyer, a former prosecutor, and a transgressive author. I am also a miscreant with an absurdist and satirical point of view. When I put on a suit, you can't see me, or should I say you see my mask. Who am I? I'm the counterculture hiding in plain sight. Punk rock gave me a worldview, transgressive fiction gave me an outlet to express that worldview. I bring that worldview into society every time I speak in a courtroom or you flip the page of one of my books.
Why do I write, because after all these years, Jack and I are still pissed off at the world and everyone in it. And we've still got something to say about it.
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