Hi, I’m Kyle.

When I was 18 years old I moved into an old surf shack a few blocks away from the beach in Santa Cruz. My housemates consisted of three college students and about three million termites. We had an unspoken agreement with our landlord. He would keep the rent low and we would never bring up our dysfunctional toilet, refrigerator or faulty central heating system. It was a mafioso style, “I didn’t see nothin’ if you didn’t see nothin’” sort of relationship. 

The house was sailboat themed, detailed with a burgundy wood-paneled floor and cabinet handles in the shape of miniature wooden steering wheels. When winter storms descended upon us, the house would creak and moan like a ship at sea. 

The central heating system had been broken since I had moved in two years prior. 

Rather than try to fix it, I submitted to making breakfast in outdoor gear typically reserved for mountaineering expeditions. One morning as I was frying eggs wearing a down parka, my brother, who is seven years older than me, stopped by and proclaimed, “It’s colder than a witch's titty in here!” He pointed to the large heater that sat on the wall in the kitchen and asked why we weren’t utilizing it. 

I informed him that the heater was broken and argued that it wasn’t even that cold, as misty clouds huffed from my mouth. My brother knelt down, removed the grate, fiddled with a knob, clicked a button, and the heater ignited, warm air thawing our living room within minutes.

He stood up and nonchalantly said, “Your pilot light was off, bro.”

That pretty much sums me up.

I do a newsletter, podcasts, and occasional meetups. Welcome to my weird little corner of the internet.

If you show me your email, I’ll show you mine.

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I reject the idea that surfers can’t spel.