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Three hundred days after Kurt Cobain killed eighties music, a baby boy named after a failed automobile gasped his first breath, flaring a head full of giddy newborn neurons into a curious frenzy. Starting at that moment those neurons and that wide eyed boy wonder were unstoppable.The coupe christened tax write-off continued to breathe and those little neurons began to eagerly eat up the Kettle Korn of brain food; Sesame Street, Sunday School, infomercials, Power Rangers, Pokemon and the all knowing Speak-N-Spell. Those electric little bundles of cells thought and thought, pondered existence,the sound of one hand clapping and the meaning of life. By about the age of blushing puppy love a great little mind began to weight down the head of our vehicular monikered hero, and from deep in the daisy chain of those inquiring cells came deep thoughts. But they were ignored and he instead devoted his time to flannel shirts, ripped jeans and the cool kids. At school though, as he clutched a freshly sharpened pencil to extra-large lined recycled yellow notebook paper a curious little stick figure appeared as he moved his pencil instead of the preamble to the Declaration of Independence. Jesus Christ riding a Harley appeared where his cellular structure notes should have been. Pin-Ups in Darth Vader masks took the places of the x's and y's in Algebra problems. Portraits composed of secret messages in Morse Code took the place of the laws of Physics. A lifetime of useless information procured from Douglas Copeland novels, riddles on Popsicle sticks and three hundred television channels took form on notebook pages and binder covers. Chewed up pens replaced Gods finger, carving unbreakable commandments onto napkins and ticket stubs. The doodles spread from his notebooks, onto his knuckles and forearm, into sketchbooks and napkins, and finally onto canvas. Pencils were replaced by spray paint, acrylics, x-acto knifes, chocolate syrup, stencils, fingerprints, coffee, masking tape and sharpies, anything that could turn a canvas into a message. Before he could grow in his third chest hair he was grinning in front of a gallery wall surrounded by fresh pieces of art created under the shifting shadows of a bare basement bulb. That swinging fluorescent fixture and those walls of cardboard and Christmas decorations became a cathedral, a holy place of reverence and spray paint fumes. From within those hallowed walls came the designs that would bring international stardom. Our coupe christened champion found himself again proudly grinning in front of a wall of his art, this one however was eight stories tall  in the center of Copenhagen, Denmark, an edifice to the brilliance of those nebby little neurons. A few weeks later, Boston was cloaked in his posters for the Boston Film Festival. Now our auto aliased antagonist, finding his name plastered onto the very walls of the worlds cities, is beginning to step out from under the title of the ruined roadster. I am a bundle of giddy neurons, I am a chronic doodling, ink stained, paint splattered artist. I am Tucker Hughes.