Yes — say it out loud. I’ll wait. Englishman by upbringing, Las Vegan by choice, organized to a degree my friends describe as “concerning.”
By day I keep an executive calendar honest — research done before it’s asked for, reports that answer the second question too, and a phone manner that gets a straight answer out of a government office before lunch. The rest of the time, the same instincts run my life: I’m the friend who books the campsite in January, remembers your birthday without the app, and has genuine opinions about spreadsheet fonts.
Trailhead by seven, before the heat wins. Farmers-market coffee that has no business costing that much. Arsenal at the pub at an obscene kickoff hour, Ollie’s afternoon zoomies, and an evening margarita logged — strictly for research — in a spreadsheet whose column headers I will not be apologizing for.
Transplanted Englishman, fully naturalized to the desert. The rocks here are redder, the football kickoffs are at obscene hours, and I regret nothing.
Twenty minutes from my flat and it looks like Mars with better parking. Calico Tanks before the heat, Ice Box Canyon when there is any excuse for the name.
French Bulldog, chief of staff, zero administrative ability. Snores louder than my alarm and has veto power over long hikes.
Raised on it in England; now it means 7 a.m. kickoffs in a Vegas pub with the other exiles. The Emirates is home, even eight time zones away.
A rotating study of Summerlin’s finest: Rouge Room, Frankie’s Uptown, Distill, Wax Rabbit. Strictly for research. The occasional night at XS keeps the English pallor honest.
References: my boss answers his own phone, which tells you most of what you need to know about how we work.
I answer fastest in this order: