The Author is Nicholas Alexander Taylor, born January 30th, 1979. His most recent (alas, his only) degree is in Computer Science from the University of Waterloo (a mistake he is only now beginning to correct), with time left to minor in English.
He makes his home in Montreal, Canada, in a downtown highrise a stone's throw from the old Montreal Forum. He has, in the past, lived in Ottawa, Toronto, Waterloo, and San Francisco, but he would like very much to add to that list, if only you, Cruel World, would let him.
Nicholas ("Nick") is a cranky, self-serving pedant and a loving son. He does not currently swing dance, or hang with baby Jesus. Despite being born in the Nation's Capital, the cradle of Parliament, he holds few positions of political sway. Nick was raised on the essentials of suburban existence: hip-hop, pro wrestling, and poor manners—and will cherish all three no matter what.
Cut him and he bleeds red. Punch him in the stomach and he crumples forward, not to the side. He's just like you, Nick is. He likes his steak red and his wine even redder. He, like you, talks to himself in the mirror while shaving, and constantly wonders how he can improve his life. He exfoliates in total secrecy. He'd like to see salsa granted the A-list condiment status it deserves.
Nick is currently employed after being shaken dry by the dot-com bust and then coming up roses. Not that he is one of those talentless dot-com hacks; he can do things with obsolete HTML that you never imagined possible. For many years, Nick ran a site called Succaland that made no sense to anyone, himself included. The site died a horrible public death after the domain name was poached by a band of soulless, Viagra-peddling bandits. The incident was not without widespread speculation of a sellout, a greasing of the proverbial palm, but such claims have not been sufficiently investigated to a point of closure. Nick's lawyers have deemed it case closed, and he will answer questions about a possible Succaland reunion tour by splashing a cool glass of blended whisky into the face.
Nick went to big-ticket private school, Ashbury College in the priveleged Rockcliffe neighbourhood in Ottawa. He would get on the bus at 6:30 AM, at the stop outside his parents' home in the wretched, stinking slums of Hunt Club. He'd switch buses three times en route, and step off the bus into a world of giant homes, shrubbery, and full-sized sedans. Opulence and sickening ornamentation for miles, and in the breeze was the stench of money—filthy Croesusian riches. That stench, the smell of crisp dollars, never left Nick's navy blue blazer and grey flannel pants, and he carries it about him to this day.
To reach Nick, you can e-mail him at:
nick DOT taylor AT-SIGN gmail DOT com