Keith, you are fucking fabulous. You make me want to be an indie bitch like you, busting my hump on tours and going broke over self-published books, all the while nine shades of drunk. If we ever met, there'd be this marvelous hate between us; I with the childish views and the depth like a puddle who cares more about haute couture than whatever the hell's happening in Haiti, you with that whole fading punk-come-hipster-come-old-age stupor with the grammar that actually makes sense. I'd roll my eyes over your dirty shoes and the holes in your shirt and you'd laugh at my Hello Kitty socks and miniskirts. Then we'd both move on, thinking "What a fucktard that one was!" But on paper, with the words and the drawings and the tra-la-la, we'd have a smashing relationship.