Comedian. Storyteller. Cyclist. Professional over-sharer…
A Kansas kid who found his way through theater, comedy, sobriety, and cycling—and somehow turned it all into stories worth telling.
If you’ve made it this far, it’s safe to assume you have at least a little curiosity about who I am, where I came from, and what really makes me tick—The Man, The Myth, The Mistakes. If you stumbled upon this by accident, consider this your warning: leave now. What follows may create a void that nothing can fill.
Still here? Great. Light a candle, put on some Spyro Gyra, and settle in for some quality me time.
I was born in early June of 1978, making me a Gemini—we, technically. I’d give you the exact day, but I’m already concerned you’re trying to steal my identity.
Chapter 1: The Early Years
I came into the world in Leavenworth, Kansas, courtesy of two young hippies. I don’t know the full conception story, but my best guess involves a drive-in movie, party favors, running out of popcorn, and some deeply questionable decision-making. Eight months later, I arrived early—because, as you’ll learn, I’ve never been great at waiting my turn. I’m the oldest of three kids, with a younger sister and brother, and the oldest of all my cousins. This laid the groundwork for a depth of guilt that no Irish Catholic or Jewish mother could fully comprehend. Growing up, I found immense joy in goofing off. It was fun—but it was also camouflage.
In the 1980s, we didn’t yet have neat labels for anxiety, depression, ADD, OCD, hypersensitivity, possible bipolar tendencies, and a sprinkle of dyslexia. What I did have was energy—lots of it—and absolutely no idea what to do with it. School bored me. Teachers asked why I was disruptive and why I refused to apply myself. The truth was simple: my brain didn’t work the way the room was set up.
Everything changed when I found the arts—especially theater. I was held back in seventh grade, finished my freshman year with a 1.4 GPA, and somehow graduated with a 3.2 and a full-ride college scholarship for art and theater. Turns out motivation works wonders when you’re finally allowed to breathe.
“The truth was simple: my brain didn’t work the way the room was set up.”
Chapter 2: Music and Finding My Voice
Music has always been my safest place.
I remember riding my BMX bike down the gravel drive of our rural Kansas home, blasting Vinnie Vincent and Eazy-E’s Eazy-Duz-It. Music became my entry point to friendship: Oh, you like that band too?
I spent countless hours floating through record stores—sometimes not even buying anything—just soaking in the vibe, waiting for that moment when an employee would put something on that stopped me cold.
Who is this? What album? Is it new?
That’s how I first heard Jeff Buckley at Seventh Heaven in Lawrence, Kansas, in 1994.
For years, I dreamed of being the lead singer of a band. Many of those dreams took the form of long, emotionally charged shower concerts my parents probably assumed were something else entirely.
Looking back, it’s no surprise I ended up in public speaking, comedy, storytelling—rambling with intention, even if the payoff takes a minute.
At 12, I discovered Mötley Crüe, and my life changed forever.
Later, I fell headfirst into jam bands. On the surface, hair metal and noodle hippie rock couldn’t be more different—but the people, the parties, and the sense of belonging? Strikingly similar.
Since 2014, I’ve been emceeing the Annual Hillberry Music and Arts Festival in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.
“Turns out motivation works wonders when you’re finally allowed to breathe.”
I’ve been performing for as long as I can remember.
Around age six or seven, I held an audience of nine or ten kids—my mom was babysitting—with an elaborate impression of Mr. T and Pee-wee Herman getting into a fight. Even then, I knew the bit only worked if Pee-wee won.
Freshman year of high school, I was pulled—literally—into the theater program. A drama teacher caught me being loud and obnoxious in the hallway and said, “I need you for a part in the school play.” Sounded better than detention for being an unruly SOB, so I said yes.
That moment changed my life.
I later auditioned for a commercial acting school in New York and was accepted, but my family couldn’t afford it. I tried not to get bitter at 17 and mostly succeeded. I was also offered a full-ride theater scholarship that I turned down out of fear of losing my girlfriend—a decision that aged exactly as you’d expect.
In 2003, I walked in on a different girlfriend cheating on me, which sent me into a full psychotic break. I lived in fight-or-flight for nearly three months. Ninety days is a long time to wonder if you’re going crazy—and almost too long to deny it.
During an overnight shift at UPS, I heard about an open call at a comedy club in Kansas City for the William Morris Agency. I signed up for stand-up as a way back into the arts—and a way out of codependency.
I was 40th out of 40 comedians. I had three minutes. The show was already pushing three hours.
About 90 seconds into my set, a woman in the front row threw up.
The emcee grabbed the mic and said, “That’s our show, folks!”
I was in love.
Not with the barf lady—with comedy.
Comedy gave me independence, identity, and a lifeline out of chaos. Today, I’m a paid regular at the world-famous Comedy Works and continue to build a career rooted in honesty, connection, and the occasional glorious train wreck.
Chapter 3: Comedy & Performance
“Comedy gave me independence, identity, and a lifeline out of chaos.”
Chapter 4: The Ride
In May of 2024, I bought my first adventure gravel bike—a Salsa Journeyer. My first time on drop bars. I fell in love faster than I ever thought possible (my wife excluded, obviously).
Cycling gave me something I didn’t know I was missing: freedom, focus, community, and motion. I could move through the world, listen to music, and quiet my mind. I knew from the first ride that my life was about to change.
Since then, I’ve found community in cycling, ridden events like the FoCo Fondo, Mid-South, and Old Man Winter, and made a film about how cycling positively impacted my mental health.
Before riding, my anxiety and depression were worsening. I was prescribed 450mg of Wellbutrin; 300mg proved to be the sweet spot. One year into cycling, I’m down to 150mg with no negative effects—and now my doctor and I are discussing what life off medication might look like.
In August of 2027, I’ll attempt my biggest adventure yet: riding the 3,500-mile Great Plains Gravel Route from Canada to Mexico. Along the way, I’ll document the journey and book at least one comedy show in each of the six states I ride through, culminating in both a stand-up special and a documentary about the attempt. I’m currently building the bike specifically for this project. Why do it? Simple. I wanted to do something great.
So many of us talk about the things we want to do, and so few ever make it to the starting line. This journey is personal—but it’s also for anyone who’s ever felt stuck, afraid, or late to their own life.
I invite you to follow along through live tracking, daily videos, and—if you’re nearby—by coming out to a show, joining me on part of the ride, and being part of this great adventure.
“Before riding, my anxiety and depression were worsening.”
Chapter 5: The Rest of the Story
I met my wife in 2008. She loves telling people that on the night we met, she watched me talk to every woman at the bar before finally introducing myself to her… and then immediately wandering off to talk to someone else. Somehow, against all available evidence, she stuck around.
At the time, I was lonely, restless, and trying really hard to outrun my demons. In 2014, after years of self-medicating and struggling to get my life together, I got sober. It was one of the hardest and best decisions I’ve ever made.
In 2016, I moved to Denver. To be clear: I moved hundreds of miles away from my wife, into a house I had never seen, to live with two men I had never met—which is obviously an excellent plan for someone with anxiety.
In 2018, my wife joined me in Colorado, and we built a life here together. We bought a home, adopted two dogs named Willie and Waylon, and somehow created something that felt stable after years of chaos and reinvention.
In 2019, I became the face of Kelty outdoor equipment. In 2020, the world shut down, and I was forced to reevaluate what mattered, what didn’t, and who I wanted to become moving forward.
What I know now is this: the things that saved me were never fame, achievement, or proving people wrong. They were connection. Community. Creativity. Movement. Music. Laughter. Long bike rides. Time outside. Learning how to be present in my own life instead of trying to escape it.
And I’m still moving—on stage, on a bike, and toward whatever’s next.
“This journey is personal—but it’s also for anyone who’s ever felt stuck, afraid, or late to their own life.”
That’s the story… so far.