Name:  Ty Hutchinson

Bio:  My name is Ty Hutchinson and I’m from Hawaii. What does that mean? I don’t need to tan.

Most days I’m an Associate Creative Director and writer at Goodby, Silverstein & Partners. For you people not in the know, it’s an advertising agency. Yes, I’m fully aware that it sounds like an law firm and that’s why, depending on the situation, I’m also a lawyer.

If you visit, you’ll find me making an ad or looking at an ad or discussing an ad. Sometimes I’m in the 4th floor kitchen drinking coffee though. You can check out my portfolio if you’re so inclined by clicking this here link —

My work has appeared in all the major advertising award shows and reported on in publications like Advertising Age, Creativity, Communication Arts and Archive. Is this helpful in my life outside of advertising? No. 

When I’m not solving client problems or building brands, you’ll find me traveling the world, playing video games, eating, reading, exploring SF’s Chinatown (to date I have six Shrimp Boy sightings) or hard at work writing thriller novels.

While advertising is a blast, I thought it would be fun to write a book. Guess what? It was. My first book, Chop Suey, is out now. It’s about Darby Stansfield, the first telecommunication consultant to the criminal world. It had my editor gasping, giggling and laughing so hard, she more than once choked on her drink. I hope you enjoy Darby as much as she did. I’m currently editing the second book in the series. Look for it to be out in the fall of 2011.

Aren’t you glad I didn’t refer to myself in the third person?

Author’s Website:

Author’s Blog:

Book: Chop Suey

Book links: Amazon, Barnes & Noble

Genre: Action/Thriller

Locale: San Francisco/Hong Kong

Protagonist’s Name: Darby Stansfield

If this book had a soundtrack, what type of music would it be? Eclectic like a Tarantino soundtrack.

What emotions do you hope the work will trigger in your readers? Everything from snorting to sphincter clenching.


I kept a brisk pace as I walked into the heart of North Beach, San Francisco’s Little Italy. Pasta and cannolis reign supreme on Columbus Avenue, but Fat Sal’s Pizza by the Slice was my destination.

Turning left on Green Street, I continued until I saw the large red and white pizza sign jutting out from the building. A smaller one hanging on the door read “Closed,” but I knew better. I took a deep breath, checked myself over once again and headed inside.

My black oxfords called out my arrival as I crossed the chipped, tiled floor. Click clack, click clack, click clack. I had put on my best that morning, a two-button windowpane black suit accompanied by a crisp, white dress shirt complete with French cuffs and a steel-striped tie. The entire ensemble was off the rack and a gift from my mother seven years ago.

I placed my briefcase near the bottom of the counter and cleared my throat. The fat man behind the counter turned and said, “Darby Stansfield. To what do I owe for this visit?”

That’s Fat Sal, the owner of this one-man operation. He specializes in cheap slices heated to perfection in a microwave. Only the occasional tourist and the after-bar crowd ever think to set foot in this dump.

“You forgot so soon? We had a meeting.”

I had been a sales rep for Teleco for almost three years now. Selling wireless business solutions to small businesses was the game. And I was the pawn getting my ass kicked. Pizza parlors needed a couple of cell phones, maybe a website. Anything else was complicated, or so Fat Sal believed.

One by one, I plucked extra-thin napkins out of the metal dispenser and dropped them onto the dirty countertop. The outer edges of the napkins turned bright orange as they soaked up the grease left over from the late-night rush, when Fat Sal did most of his business. I doubt these counters ever saw a bottle of cleanser. And I doubt Fat Sal ever saw what was coming his way today.

There’s no turning back now anyway. I stabbed the small mountain of napkins with my pen and navigated the countertop. Grease trails and a rogue hair followed the makeshift mop wherever it went.

Fat Sal already told me on the phone that he had no interest in the deal. Too bad—I did.

I removed the product from my briefcase and placed it on the counter, officially putting my plan into action. What I was about to do would change my life. I was sure of it. No turning back. Are you ready, Fat Sal?

“I present the R-450 Teleco Wireless Router. It’s got a powerful reach and impressive download speeds. Giving your customers free Wi-Fi is exactly what you need to increase sales,” I said.

Fat Sal raised his shoulders like it was part of the English language and said, “Darby, people come here to eat. That’s it.”

The wife-beater he wore was stained beyond repair and hugged every roll around his mid-section. And he had more exposed hair on his body then his head. Why he even wore a hair net baffled me.

“I get that, but nowadays you gotta have an edge on your competition. Wi-Fi is––”


Fat Sal’s sneeze interrupted my spiel. I watched a light mist settle on the counter and my router. And it pissed me off a bit.

Fat Sal then said to me, “This ain’t a library. Understand?”

Oh, why thank you, master of the obvious. I watched Fat Sal back away from the counter and over to a wooden table where he picked up a flattened piece of dough and tossed it high into the air above him. The pasty white disc spun in a perfect circle effortlessly until it smacked against his forested arms. Again, smack. Again, smack. I hate to guess how many of those tiny black hairs would be absorbed into the dough.

“People come, they eat, and they leave. I have five tables, Darby.”

I nodded as I watched Fat Sal place the twelve-inch flat pizza dough on the table in front of him.

“You know Darby, every time you come in here you try and sell me something. Maybe if you help out around here, sweep up a bit… I think about buying something.”

“That’s what you said last time Sal. And I did sweep up a bit—for almost a week.”

Fat Sal wobbled from side to side as he came out from behind the counter. He reached around the back of my head and pulled me into the underworld of his smelly armpit. The left side of my forehead tucked in perfectly under his large man-boob.

He lowered his voice and his tone turned serious. “Darby, am I not one of your few customers?”


“Then I think you should treat me better, no?” Sal said. Then he erupted in laughter causing his boob to jiggle on top of my forehead.

The more I struggled to free myself, the tighter his arm clamped down around my head. This had become a common theme over the last year or so. The headlocks, the false promises to buy product, the expected ass-kissing—this bullshit would end now.

Are you ready, you fat fucking Mortadella? I am.