Amanda Fucking Palmer

A little bit ago (I think a week and a half ago?), I went to see Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra in concert. I went with a good friend (who was supposed to make a vlog that I promised to include here, but her camera derped. Oh, well. Her blog can be found here.) and ran into someone I haven't seen in a while, so that was all great. There was pre- and post-coffee, because I have a problem.

Amanda Palmer has been with me through the last two depressive spells of my life. Admittedly, this particular one is more hatred and anger and misery than sadness, but she has songs for that, too!

I got into her when the Dresden Dolls were still a thing the first time around (apparently they got back together two years ago? Why wasn't I aware of this?) when I crashed at my friend Mike's place for a couple of weeks while I escaped the grossness of Savannah. He was convinced I'd like them, so in between trips to Flying Biscuit and being anti-social at MonsterBash, I was exposed. I was in a studio. I had no where to escape to. I had no choice but to like them.

"Mike, give me back my goddamn hat. Oh, whatever. I have a book."

Mike and I have since swapped hairstyles.

 

(People keep telling me Savannah is a major tourist destination. I have no idea why. Is it that you people just LIKE parking lots, abandoned buildings, and a higher murder rate than NYC two years in a row within the past decade? What? Well, yes, I am bitter about having had to live there. Why do you ask?)

Anyway, Amanda Palmer is awesome. The show was just lovely, even though I kept bursting into tears- when she read the #inmyroom tweets and during "The Bed Song" and I was generally a mess.

She didn't play "In My Mind", even though I was really hoping she would, but I can forgive her for that. It has been the anthem of my quarter-life-crisis.