David was born in the Big Easy Chair, Ciudad Camellia, the Queen of the Delta, the capital of the Republic of California, Sacramento. The only child of two middle-class gummint-worker intellectuals, David is a fierce liberal spurring his destrier towards the monolithic windmill that is the declining American civilization, his levelled lance a passion for and belief in the transformative power of art. His parents still live in the same house he was born into. During his formative years, that house contained seventeen radios, zero televisions, and untold thousands of books. David has an industrial-strength posse, many of whom have been rollin' deep since the kindergizzle (East Sac All-Stars, WHAT!), and whom he is repaying by moving three thousand miles away, to the NYC. He has a massive collection of music (and makes good mixes) yet no ability to create it, despite living with the best bass player in Sactown. He has a Theatre BA from San Francisco State. David is a romantic and an incorrigable flirt. He adores Shakespeare, cats, and baseball. He holds strong opinions, talks too much, and has a bothersome tendency to stick to his guns longer than he should. He has loved and lost, and agrees with the cliche. His dad has signed autographs as Jerry Garcia. His mom reads two newspapers a day, ten magazines a month, and all the books she can squeeze in. His father's mother started and ran her own senior citizen center for 20 years after age 65, retiring a weekend AFTER her son. His mother's father played the licorice stick (that's a clarinet, hep cats) in a big band, fought forest fires, freely roamed the halls of a sorority at Cal, bombed Germany, and was a Methodist missionary in British colonial Africa (Southern Rhodesia- now Zimbabawe- to be exact) during a civil war. David will probably never be that cool.
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