two zero one six

thirty-four things to do before I die:

1. hitchhiking across the United States, and all of the wonders therein.hitchhike2. seeing Thoth & Lila Angelique in person (after a decade of anticipation).thoth3. attending a mewithoutYou show, at very long last.mwy4. taking the exquisitely scenic train across Canada.canada5. visiting Australia (new country, new continent).australia

bonus items:

I. surprise trip to Florida to see some of my very favorite humans. (and The Top!!)gainesvilleII. revisiting the ever charming Astoria (and its seals!) with Jeremiah.
astoriaIII. roadtripping New England/visiting Vermont: land of Vil, with Sunita.vermont-ii
IV. spontaneous Port Townsend/couchsurfing-with-new-friends trip.ptii
V. taking on the northwestern northwest for Kate’s birthday adventures.nwnw
VI. attending the Pemberton music festival (as a VIP!) with Corey and Stazzie.pemberton
VII. finally making it to the Bahamas (new country) with Corey and Stazzie.bahamasVIII. eventually completing the Mosa Lina road trip via reuniting in long lost

I, for one, have had a stellar year.


very well then

The A to B of getting to Melbourne from Toronto was objectively probably one of the worst travel experiences I’ve ever had. Unpleasantries arose during every leg of the journey. From sitting in that row of screaming kids (I get it, it happens, it can’t be helped), to New Zealand confiscating my deodorant for no good reason, to being in the middle seat on the twelve hour stretch overseas (and the widow seat passenger taking up half of my legroom in addition to his own). All around it was almost laughable how many frustrating scenarios popped up. But even so, I mostly kept my cool despite the circumstances. Giving in to feelings of frustration never made anyone any happier. Certainly not me.

I had been kind of nervous about dealing with customs in Australia. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to get a visa, but it’s the first time I’ve been on a non-strictly-holiday visa. And the approval process was way too easy. Disconcertingly so. What government approves your visa application the same day you submit it? (Australia’s, apparently.) Anyways, I’ve been shelving for months this slight fear that there was some sort of misunderstanding. And I wondered if I would be like detained and questioned and asked for ten thousand documents (which I had with me, ready to present, damn it). But I was barely at the immigration counter for thirty seconds before they dismissed me and I was magically a resident of Australia. I was acquired from the airport by the lovely Anna, whom Sunita and I were charmed by and enamored with pretty immediately upon meeting a few years ago when she couchsurfed with us in Olympia. She’s one of those people with whom I only spent a smattering of [much too short] days. But I knew with absolute certainty that Anna was someone that I trusted, and respected, and cared about, and would be thrilled to have more present in my life. She’s one of those women whom you hope to be shaped by. And so coming to Australia was exciting in itself, but getting to share a city with Anna was definitely as enticing as anything else this continent has to offer.

At Anna’s house we were greeted by her sister, Nelly, their housemate Liz, the dogs, Bear and Sophie (and the budgie, Caterpillar), and coverage of the American election in progress on tv. To my surprise and amusement, Nelly and Liz were sporting anti-Trump and pro-Hillary shirts, respectively. Liz was sprawled across the floor compiling a state by state chart of the progress. Hillary was currently in the lead. Various members of the household disappeared for a few hours, and I settled into the little sunroom bedroom nook Anna had created for me to reside in until the housing I would inhabit for the next few months was available. img_5405Liz returned with beer, and we ordered pizzas to finish the election evening. By now Trump was in the lead, and it was seeming pretty final. Nobody in this household was impressed by or excited about the results, and I was surprised to find over the next several days how invested Australians in general felt about the American election. Young Australians, especially, were just gutted by the outcome. Upon waking the following morning, I knew that as an American, arriving at this particular time, I would have a lot to answer for. This has proven true. Everyone I have conversed with for more than a few sentences is curious about my opinion on the matter. To be honest, I used to be shy about claiming to be a US citizen while in foreign lands. But I’ve found that most people I encounter in this world are willing to take me as an individual, who has certainly been shaped by, but is not defined by my country of origin. I am thankful for this. Particularly now. I don’t want to go on a political rant, but for the purpose of my situation and my story in this current place and time, some political delving is relevant. So I’ll say this: Donald Trump may have been elected as the president of my country of citizenship, but he does not represent me. And he is a poor representation, if that, for many of the people I am proud and glad to know, including, I’m quite sure, some people who voted for his presidency. I mean no disrespect to those who did vote for Trump, my point is I wouldn’t sit down to dinner with the man (that probably isn’t true…love and understanding and all that, but I wouldn’t like to), but I imagine I know quite a few who supported him whose dinner tables I have frequented. All of this to say: I’ve come to consider my traveling (and this, my residence in Australia) to be a subtle form of ambassadorship for my country. A means of connecting and knitting together the world, individual to individual from one country and culture to the next. I don’t fit the stereotype of An American Girl (I’m told this, by surprised foreigners, frequently), and I am far from the poster child of a resident of Donald Trump’s America. And so I hope that my interactions – with anyone who lacks an intimate knowledge the United States – portray a kind, caring, understanding, thoughtful, open minded, not-only-tolerant-but-embracive, passionate, engaged, diligent, calm, peaceful, globally conscious and concerned individual. That is to say, I hope I challenge the stereotype. I hope to show people that while there are people who fit into the American generalizations, there are others who certainly do not. We contradict ourselves; we quite literally contain multitudes. Donald Trump’s election to presidency, and most assuredly his actions throughout his term will promote a lot of conversations for me here. A lot of opportunity for discussing similarities and differences between the US and Australia and elsewhere. Discussing likes and dislikes and failures and potentials and hopes and fears. It’s certainly an interesting time to be living abroad.

Politics aside, my first weeks here have been comprised in part of just chilling and being still and enjoying not moving from one place to the next after three months of such. In part of getting stuff done. With some exploring and socializing thrown in as well. I was surprised by how delighted I was to have new clothing in my wardrobe after three months of wearing the same few outfits. And I’ll say, too, that my luck with finding second hand clothing (that both fits and I like) in Australia has been superior to my American experiences (lookin’ at you Olympia Goodwill). I’ve had some stellar, albeit expensive food. After multiple instances going to cafes with people who’ve said, in response to my not drinking coffee, ‘but will you at least try it?!’ I have, I’ve added coffee into my diet, after long, stubborn years of disinterest. Not that the coffee itself is superior, but I think I like the forms in which Australians drink their coffee better. That, and tea is weirdly more expensive than coffee here. I have been truly surprised by how smoothly all of the official things I’ve needed to accomplish have gone. My first order of business was acquiring a new SIM. I decided on a pay-as-you-go plan and had it delivered in the mail. This, I used the following day to get a library card (which…I’ve used extensively). The mail and library card I used in combination to open a bank account. I filed for my tax number and it arrived soon after. Australia is an easy country to exist in. Anna, Nelly, and Liz were all quite thorough in orienting me to the culture in which I am now immersed. From explaining the trains and buses, to the avocado toast culture, to classic Australian musicians, to their new favourite game of ‘we’ll give you an Australian term, and you have to guess what it means.’ I feel prepared to be a resident without embarrassing myself too much.IMG_5498.jpg

hold your breath

Commencing this trip felt different than others. Within the span of a week I had just sold my car, moved my house, and left my job. Essentially a lot of letting go of stability. I was also looking at fifteen months of being gone. Six and a half had been my record thus far. And I had never really had to deal with leaving an entire house behind. It all definitely required a different mind space. As for the trip itself, I packed slightly heavier than I would prefer for a three month hitchhiking trip, but certainly lighter than I would prefer for living abroad for a year. Eh, balance. You can do without most things. As I’ve said before, convenience is not a priority in my life.
I kind of cheated the beginning of the journey. I caught a ride with a friend as far as Spokane, rather than hitching it. Upon reaching I-90 he said ‘we’re going to be on this for the next few hours,’ to which I replied ‘I’m going to be on this for the next few weeks.’13932829_866126271755_4227691712167924334_n
The lovely Renée (who used to be a friend of a friend, but now is just a straight up friend) offered to host me in Spokane, which I happily accepted. I spent a few days with Renée, her roommate, and his puppy. A few days of being indecisive. Communally. The first evening we got a pair of vanilla bourbon stouts (and I tried a vegan mac n cheese) and we enjoyed the Spokane evening. I’ve heard mixed reviews about this city. Probably more negative than positive. But I think it’s an attractive place. It’s filled with brick buildings, and the structure and spacing of the city is attractive. And the riverfront park we explored the following day was expansive and surprisingly multifaceted.
Renée is a yoga instructor, and I joined her on my second day in the city for my second ever yoga class. It was hot yoga, and let me tell you, it was damn hot. Despite heat being my kryptonite, I quite enjoyed it, and it definitely made me want to incorporate yoga into my life (since I left my running shoes in Olympia…I have *never* been good at running on the road.) But I think I probably should get started with non-hot yoga, so I don’t die immediately. My days in Spokane where a perfect balance of relaxed and active, chill and eventful. A really nice foundation for the rest of the trip.
I did a minimal amount of research on hitchhiking out of Spokane. And basically found nothing promising. Spokane is apparently, even for seasoned hitchhikers, not an optimal hitchhiking location. Indeed, the hitchwiki map showed only red (bad) dots. Despite how disheartening this discovery could have been, I refused to be anxious. I took that knowledge and decided since there were no good starting points, that conversely meant there were no bad starting points. I started at 9 the following morning, and headed to the nearest I-90 East on ramp. It was a twenty minute walk, and the weather was still cool. I had decided to use a sign (there are pros and cons) reading ‘Montana.’ Idaho is the only state on my itinerary where it is completely illegal to hitchhike. And I definitely didn’t want to get dropped there and get picked up by the police on the first leg of my journey.


I should mention again, that this is my first time hitchhiking in the States (something on my list of thirty-four things to do before I die). I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Despite not knowing anyone in the US who would pick up hitchhikers, I suspected it would be more or less similar to my experiences in Europe. After all, they didn’t expect anyone to stop for hitchhikers either. I felt mostly excitement. The kind where you can’t lose your grin. It was a beautiful morning, I had the whole day to travel a mere three hour distance, and my life was suddenly filled with newness. Okay Spokane, okay America, show me what you’ve got. There were a few waves here and there, which is always appreciated (sidenote: please at least wave or smile at hitchhikers, we’re not all weirdos or terrible people, and we appreciate being acknowledged. Nobody wants or is asking for a lift from someone who isn’t willing to give it. Hitchhiking isn’t a demand, it’s a request, and you as the driver have total control of whether or not you want to participate. We respect that.) It was roughly ten minutes before a man in a red pickup pulled over and offered to take me as far as Coeur d’Alene. Idaho. I hesitated, then explained about hitchhiking being illegal and whatnot. He was sympathetic, but thought I might have a better chance, since everyone heading east from there would definitely be headed to Montana. There was some truth to this. I piled in, still unsure whether this was the best decision. As we took off, we both decided that maybe it wasn’t. So he dropped me at an exit with a truck stop just before the Washington/Idaho border. The Kite Flyer was my first official US hitchhiking lift, and I told him as much. He wished me well and in turn I thanked him enthusiastically. However, immediately upon setting my bags down, I realized this was not an optimal hitching location. This happens sometimes. Never trust other people to understand the intricacies of good hitching spots. At this particular intersection, there was very little traffic, and two-thirds of the traffic that did come along, was not heading the direction I needed. Joy. I was reassured when I woman in a minivan offered me a ride to, yet again, Coeur d’Alene. And then again a couple in a huge truck. At least people were stopping. If it got to be late enough in the day, I might just take a ride to Coeur d’Alene. At some point, I noticed two older women behind me, motioning me over. So I grabbed my bags, and went to meet them.
“We just wanted to tell you, that you aren’t going to make it alive to Montana.”
“It’s not safe, and there are a lot of evil people out there. We’ll buy you a bus ticket. We’d be happy to.”
I explained that I’ve hitchhiked pretty extensively, and that I was willing to take my chances.
“Oh, but it’s just not safe. We’d take you to Montana right now if we could, but we can get you a bus ticket.”
I thanked them, very genuinely, but gently refused.
“Well then we’d like to give you a bible.”
Again, I thanked them, but assured them that I already possessed my own bible. They both hugged me before returning to their car. I still can’t quite figure out what the benefit of giving me a bible would have been, if they expected me to be dead by evening, but hey. I do appreciate people’s sweetness, in all of its forms.
Not ten minutes later, a red SUV pulled over, and the driver said the magic words “I’m going to Butte.” So I spent three hours with The Public Defender. Who had also triple majored in chemical engineering and two other fancy science degrees. He worked seventy to eighty hours per week, and described his life outside of work as a ‘nerdy game player’. That said, the rhythm of our dialogue was pretty laid back. I asked him about his opinions on how the United States handled criminals versus other countries, and I really liked his response. He said “every country has a little piece of the puzzle right.” As we came upon Missoula, I was shocked by the amount of trees in the city. I’ve never seen a city so filled with trees. It’s beautiful. It stands out hugely. My lift dropped me at the exit I needed, and that was the pretty non-eventful conclusion of my first hitchhiking journey in the US. I found a coffee shop across the street from my couchsurfing host’s house, and spent the afternoon logging hitching locations, eating delicious food, and drinking tea. A pretty stellar start.13895388_865927305485_4628216313654029555_n

no shelter to be sought

I probably would never have decided to travel the one thousand seven hundred and eighty nine miles from Washington to Wisconsin to experience the Eaux Claires festival if not for Sunita’s mild (and by mild I mean severe) addiction to Bon Iver. When I saw that Justin Vernon was organizing a music festival in his home town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, it wasn’t really an option. I had to get that woman to that festival. Alas, mid-July found us in mid-America.


Cold. White. Canadian tinted accent. These were the only notions I had about either Minnesota or Wisconsin. So upon exiting the parking garage of Minneapolis St Paul airport and finding grey skies and green surroundings, I was perplexed. Were we still in the pacific northwest? The ubiquity of Minnesota/Wisconsin license plates suggested otherwise. I found the entire two hours of scenery both enchanting and surprising. Who knew this part of the country was so quaintly interesting?

It took a goodly amount of time to check into our temporary home in Whispering Fields. Our fancy two wheel drive rental car didn’t agree with the foot deep mud of row H. Fortunately, festival goers are lovely humans, and we were immediately swarmed with offers of help to push the car into place. It took some effort, but we settled into our site in no time.



The festival commenced at 12pm on Friday. We took a shuttle around 11 and waited excitedly in line. Unfortunately we were snagged by security for Sunita’s ‘camera with a lens’. I had read that professional/dslr cameras were prohibited, but figured her glorified point-and-shoot would be fine. Not so. We had to take the shuttle back to camp to deposit her camera and then wait in line again. Regardless, we arrived and we were ready. We tried to catch a little of everything. But there were a lot of bands playing. Sometimes we just sat wherever we found ourselves and listened to whomever showed up. Which is kind of a pleasant way to go about a festival.feet

Personally, I was most excited for The Tallest Man on Earth. I’m no fan girl, but he does have a special place in my heart that no one else can match. I certainly wasn’t disappointed. Kristian put on an excellent show. Better than I could have even imagined. Full of a captivating and impossibly energetic playfulness. And the heart that seeps from his music doesn’t seem to have faltered from all of the time and touring it has weathered. It was truly a delight to experience. I’m platonically smitten.  ttmoe (1)
Still enchanted from The Tallest Man on Earth show, we shuffled across the way to the stage opposite. The National, the first band claiming the star-ceilinged stage of nighttime, was pretty perfect. Well, apart from the high-and-getting-higher bunch behind me who sang louder than the band and thought this was the opportune moment for loudly discussing the finer points of life. Those guys kinda sucked. But otherwise I think we were all caught up in a magnificent cloud of musical ecstasy. From both this particular show as well as the days’ musical offerings up to this point.  lelIItntnIII


Sore and sleepy, we caught some of one more band before retiring. Sunita woke in the middle of the night, declaring she was moving to the car because of her old lady back and the recently commenced rainfall. I waved her off and was almost back to sleep when I drowsily heard a passing golf cart driver say something about a tornado. Reluctantly, I joined a beckoning Sunita in the car where we watched in fascination as the trees in front of us danced frantically in the sudden wind. The lightning show was at least on par with the stage lighting of the various shows of the day. The thunder, however, was decidedly quieter than all of the passionate performances and sizable high tech speakers. I wasn’t much concerned about my safety, In fact I don’t think it occurred to me until the following morning. I was concerned rather with my nonchalant decline of insurance for the rental car. I was thinking about those larger-than-Oreo sized dents that I was meant to avoid. Tornados didn’t seem favorable for keeping a giant scratchable/dentable object in pristine condition. But, instead of worrying about what I certainly couldn’t do anything about, I snuggled down and fell asleep. Morning arrived with a sunnily; with no limbs caving in the hood and no flyaway tents having scratched the silvery sides. And we were okay too, I guess.


We started the day with Eliot Moss – a band neither of us had heard of (and a fine start it was). Then layered food and music throughout the afternoon. Lake Eaux Lune stage saw us for the better part of eight hours. Bon Iver was set to perform at ten, and we showed up by four to see Givers…and reserve our spot for Bon Iver…ahemroommateaddictionenablerahem. Not that we just sat – our staged boasted a great show by Givers as well as Indigo Girls, also Charles Bradley & His Extraordinaires, Poliça, and Sufjan Stevens performed opposite at Flambeaux. So, we were hardly in poor condition. That said, we got damn good front row spots. Out of twenty-two thousand people. Do I feel guilty and selfish for claiming the front? Yes. Was it completely awesome? Also yes. I said I was most excited about The Tallest Man on Earth, because if I had an actual list of favorite bands, he would likely make the top three. But realistically I was equally looking forward to Bon Iver. This because they aren’t exactly together anymore; because this is Justin Vernon’s shindig; and also because their music is flawlessly beautiful (and they also boast high standing in my nonexistent list of favorite bands). Yeah, anticipation levels were high.flambeauxcrowd

I oughtn’t have been, but I was surprised by the lack of glamour and extravagance of Bon Iver’s show. I think festivals, by definition, exclude a ‘main event’. If there was one, however, this would certainly be it. I don’t know if I expected fireworks or a four hour set or a heartwarming speech or what. But somehow I didn’t expect the humbly understated, yet exquisite show that we got. It was exactly as it should be – no pretension of superiority to any of the other bands playing during the weekend, no demands of fawning or admiration. Just some guys on a stage doing what they are passionate about and thankfully sharing it with the rest of us.



I’ve never been one to want to meet celebrities – we idolize them to this distant inhumanness which I find uncomfortable and bizarre. However, the impression I have of Justin Vernon from everything leading up to the festival, as well as the few glimpses I had of him once there, I suspect he’s a particularly good human to know. He seems full of passion, creativity, motivation, collaborative ambition, and geez have I mentioned humility? I’ve just been constantly impressed by what he has created as well as the way in which he has made it happen. He certainly put together a stellar weekend. Filled to the brim with both as-yet-unheard-of and well-listened-to music. An endearing smattering of the place he proudly claims as his home. I certainly have an affinity for the place, in contrast to the complete apathy I held before. Everything seemed very intentional and I dare say even personal. Despite being one of thousands, I feel like I connected with what he set out to create. Anyways, I’m pretty excited that my first music festival was his inaugural festival as well. It was totally worth every penny, every mile, every moment. Thanks Justin Vernon. It was mighty fine.


unamplified accordians and giraffes

On an innocent, unassuming Tuesday supposedly like any other I went about my lazy day. Perfecting my chai latte, and perusing the goings on of the world via my Facebook newsfeed. Nothing terribly exciting on the horizon before my imminent trek to work. Until I saw ‘Amanda Palmer’, ‘TED’, and ‘Vancouver’ all in the same sentence. I was suddenly launched into a tunnel vision focus obsession. Over the past few months I’ve seen a handful of Amanda Palmer’s spontaneous, free gigs happening over in the faraway land of Australia. Inaccessible to the likes of me. But Vancouver is close. Well, three and a half hours and in another country, but definitely closer than Australia. It was happening tomorrow night. A show featuring Amanda Palmer and her husband Neil Gaiman, as well as a cornucopia of TED speakers. There was no way I was calmly going to work tomorrow knowing that such an event was occurring a mere three and a half hours away from me. Amanda Palmer. I’m not the obsessive type, but I’ve recently been a little preoccupied with absorbing everything she has created and everything she has said and everything she does and stands for. I was ever so grateful to switch my shift on such short notice. NinjaVan, count me in!! It was decided, it was happening, I was there.

I left Olympia at eleven so I could explore Vancouver a bit before the show, and primarily so I could get there ridiculously early to ensure a spot. No way was I missing this. No way was I driving a total of four hundred miles and seven hours and missing this. Surprisingly spending those resources to attend a three hour event didn’t bother me in the slightest; I was unequivocally convinced it would be well worth it.

The border control was very curious to know why my car still has Florida plates, why nobody came with me, and who is Amanda Palmer?

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the seemingly superfluous mph to km/h conversion feature on my car actually comes in handy (when you don’t live in Florida).

Finding parking near the Vogue theater was a nightmare (I really would have nightmares about parking in cities; it’s one of my least favorite things). I arrived at six, and I was planning to stay until after midnight. My frustrating conundrum was that the metered street parking all had a two hour limit, and the garages all closed around eleven or midnight. In one of them I ran into a ticket checker guy on a bicycle and he tried, unsuccessfully, to help me with my dilemma. As I continued driving in circles and squares and squiggly lines I found more and more of the same. I actually ran into the ticket checking bicycle guy again a few blocks away and he gave me a sympathetic look. I finally found an open air lot that seemed promising. Until I actually parked and got out. There’s a whole story I could tell, but let’s leave it at: I’m pretty sure I almost payed a drugged out homeless guy for a spot. But my instincts kicked in and I left, and I’m very happy with that decision. I found a completely non-sketchy situation for only two dollars more, and it was pretty much in sight of the venue. Yay!

question every thing
The theater reportedly holds around eleven hundred people. I couldn’t even begin to guess whether only fifty people would show up on such short notice, or if there would be thousands waiting to get in. I arrived two hours and forty-five minutes before the doors were supposed to open. People, as they headed towards the back of the line, kept commenting “we should be counting. We probably should have been counting.” I never saw the end of the line, but I know it looped at least all the way around the block; I could see the people queuing across the alleyway. By the time nine rolled around, I think everyone was hugely relieved to get out of the very cold (albeit gratefully dry) Vancouver night.

A Balkan brass band was playing by the time I got in, and played until the ‘planned’ show began. Amanda Palmer entered the theater without the introduction one would expect of a rock star. But this was an intimate gathering. ‘Amanda Palmer and Friends’, as the marquee read. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said “welcome to our fucking mess.” In true Amanda Palmer style, that sentence pretty well describes both the evening and the woman herself. Real, direct, and rather inappropriate for genteel settings.

Amanda Fucking Palmer
I really don’t know what I found the most exciting. Being in Amanda Palmer’s living room, I suppose. For the TED after party. It truly did feel like that. Not like a concert, not a formal event, not clean edges and polished surfaces. Everyone who performed that evening took their permanent seats for the evening in clumps around the stage. Which was awesome. You could see the amazement on Amanda’s face as Usman Riaz while he played ever-so-skillfully on his guitar, you could see several of the other performers taking selfies with Chris Hadfield, the astronaut, during Amanda’s performance of ‘Astronaut’, we watched everyone on stage leisurely sipping their whiskey and wine, and during a four-person musical collaboration most of the people on stage were coerced into dancing. I’ve never been a fan of meticulous schedules and hidden framework. Which is in part why I enjoyed this evening so much.

One of my absolute favorite aspects of this show was how much every person on that stage seemed so very much like a real person with a real life. Not some distant, different, celebrityesque, inhuman being. Amanda flitted around the stage during various performances and took pictures; Amy Cuddy was so excited at meeting (not to mention sharing a stage with) Amanda Palmer; Imogen Heap has what I’ve come to consider more of an adorable-older-lady british accent rather than a younger-woman british accent, which is probably really inaccurate, but it made me really happy. Something about the informal setting just allowed for everyone to actually appear to be the very real people that they are. I don’t know how to describe it. Other than it really felt like we were all just hanging out at someone’s home enjoying each other’s company, rather than being an audience kept at arms length from the performers in the theater.

So there were a lot of people who made an appearance. I think Amanda could have put anyone on that stage and we would have all been thoroughly excited about it. There was a standing ovation of awe for Usman Riaz , there was standing all throughout the performance of Chris Hadfield, Imogen got the audience to act as her background music, Amy Cuddy got us all to practice power poses, Jason Webley elicited a huge volume of laughter, Sarah Kay silenced us all with her spoken work poetry, Geoff Berner had really enthusiastic participatory singing from us, Neil Gaiman was brilliant in his performance of Elvis Costello’s ‘Psycho’. So much more. So much more awesomeness ensued. Apparently the whole thing was recorded and is now available for everyone’s listening pleasure.

Neil Gaiman
It was an incredible evening. I am so glad that I heard about it, and that everything came together so that I could be there and participate. I am in awe of how Amanda Palmer makes things happen. Three days notice for a packed-out event? Amazing. I am convinced I will never attend a better show. But, convince me world.