My Punkest Friend


One of my greatest friends will not admit that he is a punk.

When he rolled his own cigarettes, he made them out of old receipts, using post it notes as filters.

He painted the lights in the hallways of his apartment building with farm animals.

He allowed a homeless guy to sleep on his couch and print his extremist manifestos because if he was a homeless queer person, he would have wanted someone to give him a roof.

When he had a party at his place, he brought a toaster and bread and butter to the room where a stoned girl was suffering from cravings and made her that damn toast.

He is always good for bumming cigarettes.

He tries to exchange ice cream for weed.

He lets friends borrow clothes for job interviews.

He wore a beanie he found on a bus in Portland and gave it to me.

When he shop-lifted, he gave the things he stole to people who needed them/wanted them.

When he went backpacking in New Zealand and he needed money, he spent a month picking apples.

He gives away art projects that he has made as home-warming gifts.

He embroiders lascivious things on his underwear.

He punches assholes in the face who call him a queer.

He inspires me.



Amanda Palmer is a godsend (and I’m an atheist, so that’s a pretty big deal)


This week I went to a bookstore hosting Amanda Fucking Palmer reading her fan-fucking-tastic The Art of Asking. It made me cry.

I'm so goddamn in love with her.

I’m so goddamn in love with her.

My boyfriend and I rolled out of bed around 7 o’clock to drive forty-five minutes to the city which would be graced with her presence. We listened to Who Killed Amanda Palmer on the way there, the guitar hero serenading us as we drove down the unreal empty streets of the city. We put some shitty donuts in our digestive tracts, and some even shittier coffee.

We drive to the bookstore, get one of the very last spaces in the parking garage, and get to the bookstore proper. There’s one fan waiting outside the unopened storefront. We decide to take a stroll through the park across the street, shouting at the geese to get a job, threatening them with fist fights, which was punk as fuck.

We return to the bookstore. Still no one. Jesus Christ people, where is your taste?

Got stoned at a friend’s. She let us play with her chihuahua/pug mix puppy which, due to the nuances of genetics, has about five years to live. Just super duper blazed, and suddenly you would be pulled into a puddle of puppy love.


They let us into the bookstore and we got our books. I devoured the first fifty pages. Then we waited. And waited.

Then we waited some more.

About threeish hours later, despite the plane delays, the Palmer had landed. She was amazing. She was all like “Soooooo – I wrote this book” and it was punk as fuck. God. Jesus. Mary. You had to be there.

She read from her book, about her time as a street performer. The premise of her act was that she dressed in a gigantic wedding dress and stood on top of some milk crates, and handed out flowers to people who dropped some money in her hat. It was pretty Zen and whatever: an analogy of asking for help to support your art and delivering the goods to your audience.

Then she sang. I swear, everyone in the room fell in love with her all over again when she strummed the strings of her ukulele. She played “In My Mind“, a favorite of mine.

She read more passages from her book about her relationship with her husband Neil Gaiman (for whom I have the utmost respect). She talked about her own problems with asking for help from him, that even she struggled with the concept. But she articulated it in a much more eloquent way, I swear.

And we waited some more. We went out to smoke with all of the ukulele-bearing, tiny piano-toting awesome people. Quickly munched some sandwiches, wandered around a pagan & Wiccan ceremonial supply store, went back in.

The way the system worked was that everyone was given a ticket with their book, and the ticket had a number on it. Amanda would sign the books, starting at number one, going down and down the line. That was cool, though. Hoss and I chatted with this cool chick in front of us.

The light at the end of the goddamn tunnel. Amanda was doing signatures in a fucking blanket fort. I gave my phone to a guy for a picture. I sat all nervously, legs folded beneath me as if I’m sitting down for a blaze sesh, five inches away.

Something magical happened.

Amanda FUCKING Palmer looked at me with an amused look then pulled me closer into the picture. Our cheeks were actually touching. We walked away, and I shook her hand and thanked her.


(Consequently, that is now the only picture of my boyfriend and I where he is not in drag. And its with Amanda Fucking Palmer. We win.)

We got our complimentary muffins and went out the door. We drove home, lit some cigarettes, and listened to the rest of Theatre is Evil. This song came up and I cried. Silently. I cried because I was caught up in the love for art. I cried because I thought that just maybe I could do this writer thing.

Not to sound like a Misery ripoff or anything, but I love you, Amanda. My thank you to you was more than an appreciation of your time. You renewed my belief in the online art community, and made me proud to be a part of it.

A final note: stop pretending art is hard, goddammit:

I’m a misanthrope, and that means that I hate you a little less than everyone else


I have an American coot. Perhaps I should explain. 

My highly esteemed sister is wildlife biologist. Her specialty is birds. On one excursion, they were sitting around the campfire, exchanging the local bird gossip, which I assume all bird-watchers do. Anyways, after a few PBRs I’m sure, they got to talking about relationships.


Goddamned bird.

After discussions of girlfriends and boyfriends, one woman talked about her coot. That is, a boy who looks like a boyfriend, swims like a boyfriend, but is not a boyfriend. A “thing”. 

My cousin was diagnosed with a case of a coot-ownership. Her coot was a college boy with a tall orange mohawk. My coot is a pierced-up punk. 

We dated for a couple months in spring, but we had to break up when I left town. 

He left Colorado and went back to Maryland. But, because the town he’s from is apparently a poisonous environment, he left. He had a job, got fired, freaked out, and flew out to Colorado four days before he had planned to visit his friends and I. 

I like this punk a lot, and its awesome that he’s back in Colorado. Its really the place to be if you love pot the way he and I do. But he did something amazing with his time visiting. Sitting on one of his hippie friend’s couchs, he surfed the Internets for a job. Within 48 hours he had one, a drastic difference from his job hunt in Maryland. He is now a “puzzle technician”. Whatever that means. Then he had to fly back to Maryland, pack up his shit, and drive back to Colorado. He gave me what was left of the Lemon G, which I plan on smoking later.

The last week and a half we crashed on the futon of a faggot friend of ours. His life was shoved into duffle bags in the back seat of his Ford Focus. We bought an ounce, smoked, and watched Archer while he hunted for an apartment, having clandestine sex. 

Why am I telling this to the hordes of the Internet? No idea. Perhaps because I want to share my happiness with someone. After all, you can’t expect a real-world person to understand when you say, “He’s my coot.” 

Its only a few short weeks before I can see him again. I’m experiencing a withdrawal from oxytocin, which all musical artists experience before they write a love song. If I so much as strum a guitar, I want you guys to shoot me.