Born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta. Built from broken transmissions, divorce decrees, and union coffee breaks. My childhood smelled like wet mitts and diesel. My twenties were dive bars and borrowed mics. Karaoke nights, Legion halls, half-empty lounges with sticky floors and one working spotlight. If you could hear me over the fryer or the Friday night fights, that was the gig.

My thirties? Security shifts, call centres, safety gigs on oil sites where "training" meant watching a VHS while someone counted their smoke breaks. I've clocked in under more acronyms than most folks learn in a lifetime. Fluent in passive-aggressive memos, PPE shortages, and the company line that somehow always ends with you covering someone else's shift.

I've done stand-up in every city people name-drop when they're trying to sound successful - Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, New York - and more importantly, in every town they forget exists until they hit a pothole the size of a marriage. I've played Saskatoon in a snowstorm, Sudbury during a Super Bowl blackout, Summerside while the lobster trucks double-parked outside the venue.

Got close to the big time a couple times. TV deal here, development chat there. Both disappeared like a manager who said "we're like family here." I've had my best bits stolen, my worst sets go viral in a group chat, and I still get recognized in at least two truck stops and one airport bar.

I don't do material about apps I don't use. I talk about real stuff - rent hikes, gas prices, HR emails with too many adjectives. My act isn't slick. It's sandpaper. But it works.