“Kip,” of course, means “dweller at the pointy top of the hill” in Old English. It’s also the Dutch word for duck; the smallest unit of Thai currency; a gymanstics maneuver; a tanned cowhide, or bundle of same, as well as a method of drying and preserving fish; shorthand notation for one thousand pounds of pressure; and a place to crash, as well as the act of crashing, for the night.
“Manley” is of either Irish or English extraction. In either case, it means “the lee of Man”—though, on the one hand, it’s the lee, or side protected from wind and weather, of the Isle of Man, and, on the other, it’s a lea, or meadow, somewhere not far from Manchester.
But Kip Manley—far from dwelling on a pointy hill somewhere near a Mancunian meadow—was born in Sheffield, Alabama, in the ninth month of 1968. Currently residing in Portland, Oregon (after stints in Virginia, Kentucky, Ohio, both Carolinas, Illinois, Arak [Iran], Puerto Ordaz [Venezuela], Boston, and the Pioneer Valley), he ekes out a meagre living as a writer, designer, and cognoscente of marginalized eclectica, with the invaluable companionship of Jenn Manley Lee, Taran Jack, and the best two cats in all the world.