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Draplin Design Co., North America
Employment History

Wilderness, Portland, Ore.
Partnering with John Phemister and David Nakamoto.
February 2008 to Present

Draplin Design Co., North America, Portland, Ore.
Sole Proprietor
August 2004 to Present

Cinco Design Office, Portland, Ore.
Senior Designer
April 2002 to August 2004

Our first “big time” studio gig. I worked primarily on Nixon watches, Gravis footwear and Helly Hansen outerwear. Gigantic thanks to John “Goo” Phemister and Kirk James for believing in me, as well as to the colleagues I did battle with day to day: David Nakamoto, Dean Gross, Chris Soli, Ben Munson, Josh Nelson, Ed “Little Hands” Morales, Kristin Denight, Gary Vossenkemper and Sunny.

Snowboarder Magazine, San Juan Capistrano, Calif.
Art Director
April 2000 to April 2002

What started with a loose-lipped phone call from Mark Sullivan promising fame, riches and an upgrade on my tan turned into 22 months of making pages, being hot, sitting in traffic, paying way too much for way too little and the occasional wearing of flip-flops.

Much love to Pat “the eYe” Bridges, Evan Rose, Jeff Baker, Michael “Chief” Nusenow and Mark Sullivan for taking such good care of me down in that hell hole.

Charles Spencer Anderson Design, Minneapolis, Minn.
Scanning Technician
Fall 1999

We scanned, scanned and did some scanning. Just happy to help out. Real Good.

Princess Tours, Anchorage, Alas.
Summers 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999

“Wash To Live, Live To Wash,” and, “Don’t Take Any Shit From Those Servers,” respectively. Another quote we were famous for during those “summers on the rail” went something like this: “We’re not here to make friends.”

Draplindustries Design Co., North America
Sole Proprietor
December 1995 to 2004

And so it all began, in a shit-ass rental house just off Century Drive in Bend, Ore.

Nickel Ads, Bend, Ore.
Layer-Outer, Pagemaker Wizard, Pagination Magician.
Winter 1995

My first “design gig” and almost last due to “Nickel-gate,” or, the informal launch of the Bend-famous “Volcano Magazine.”

Sunflower Productions, East Jordan, Mich.
Carnie, in a Pizza Wagon.
Summer of 1994

Step right up! Read all about! You in the Billy Ray Cyrus t-shirt! Win yer girlfren a Bart Simpson mirror!”

Mt. Holiday Ski Resort, Traverse City, Mich.
Lift Operator, Tow-Rope Button Starter-n-Stopper, Rentals.
Winters 1991-1992, 1992-1993.

We owned that place.

China Fair, Traverse City, Mich.
Fall 1991-Spring 1992

That, by far, was the dirtiest walk-in cooler I have ever had to “clean.” Insurmountable filth.

Crusted Creations Pizza, Traverse City, Mich.
Pizza Maker
Fall 1987 to Fall 1991.

An infamous lawsuit-which we won, goddammit-soured the business relationship.

Had three-and-a-half good years there, making many friends and a million pizzas.

It has come to my attention that there is some “ill will” felt towards me regarding this tiny lawsuit. As direct as I can be on the subject: When someone hires you to design a logo, tells you they are going to pay for a logo, use it in an application, then don’t pay for it, well, ya gotta pay up. I defended myself in court after being told to take a hike. I stood up to the owner and manager, was paid for my time eventually, and, some 15 years later, am very proud of that.

Second Chance Body Armor, Central Lake, Mich.
Brass Rat
A couple weeks in the Summer of 1985.

On a big stretch of land a couple miles outside of the town I grew up in was the estate of the local business man, Richard Davis. He ran a body armor business in town manufacturing kevlar bulletproof vest. The motherfucker would even go as far as shooting himself in the chest wearing one, hit the deck and then jump up to shoot some bowling pins, or, crooks dead. Those were days of insanity.

Well, each summer they held an event called the “Second Chance Shoot” complete with shoot ‘em up competitions where cops, swat fucks and sketch-ass Vets would shoot up bowling pins for prizes. It was VERY intense and for a couple week this one summer, I was a brass rat.

In between these animals shooting shit up, I’d run and pick up the shells for a local recycler. Hence the term, “Brass Rat.” It was an exotic event. Cops and crazies from all over were attracted to it, and there was this sense of lawlessness and chaos lingering everywhere.

I remember having a pocketful of firecrackers and knives and a lighter and matches and well, just all sorts of rogue shit a 11-year-old shouldn’t have in his pocket.

I’ll never forget walking up to a picnic table of vice cops laughing at a scrapbook. When I got closer and on my tippie-toes, I could see the center of their guffaws. A crime scene photographer from the Chicago Police Dept. was showing off some of his prized “scenes.” I remember a picture of this little girl…bloody, crumpled up in some barb wire after being murdered…and this guy making some joke about her guts being spilled or something. And all of them laughing. I was 11 at the time.”