Name: Matthew Scrivner
Location: Tucson, Arizona
DOB: 1976
Email: mscrivner(at)2walls.com

Bio: Me? I am basically that co-worker whose desk you dare not approach for fear of being infected by sheer weirditude. I am the guy that keeps wind-up toys and Rabbi punching puppets and posters of Walt Whitman and Philip K. Dick at his desk. I am the guy who gets caught reading the Complete Works of Shakespeare or the Illuminatus Trilogy at company meetings. At noon blaring from a cheap pair of PC speakers are the boings and ticks and trembling guitars of sweet strange music and if you ask me what in the hell I am listening to, I will tell you, in encyclopedic detail, with full gesticulations and the flying spittle of the enthusiastically obessed. I will emote, red-faced and furious, until you agree to leave directly from work to the record store and purchase this greatest masterpiece of the human race (whichever one that is this week) just to get me to shut up and leave you alone. I am the guy that wears t-shirts with political statements you have to search the internet to understand. I am the Elvis of the Sonoran desert, the misplanted Russian Juggernaut, I am the one guy on this site who actually likes Radiohead's Kid A.

Tucson, Arizona is a weird place to live and have grown up in and maybe that's a factor. Dealing with decades of 110 degree heat may have cooked my mind, baked my taste and withered my brain into a spiking cactus of pop-culture ideas and fanboy geekifications. Certainly its not quite as hip a place to live as, say, New York or Seattle, but I gave up on hip a long time ago in exchange for happy.

Anyhow, I'm Matt. By day I do tech support for a company I feel ambivalently hateful toward and the rest of my time I spend hanging out with my wife and son and cats, reading, listening to music, watching movies, and generally absorbing twenty-first century culture in order to dutifully regurgitate it into my own writing (generally, fiction.) I am the assistant editor of a small literary magazine which I am too modest to plug here, but I will tell you that if I read one more semi-autobiographical liturgy from a 65-year old retiree who tells me in their cover letter that "all their life they wanted to be a writer" I am going to self-immolate.

I brew my own beer (the latest, an Imperial Stout, was unexpectedly rich and heavy) and mix up batches of my own soap. I was doing this before Palaniuk published Fight Club or David Fincher made a movie of it and I use vegetable oils (better for the skin) so there is no glyercine by-product with which to make explosives (my saracastic apologies to the Homeland Security agent reviewing this site). On weekends I argue Nietzche and Wittgenstein with my brother-in-law or play cards or Dungeons and Dragons with the guys. You heard me, I said Dungeons and Dragons. You have a problem with that?