See? The boots WERE Fluelogs! (sorry about spelling, so tired.) that's what I get when I ask a question when I get drunk after a show. Glad other wonderful fans and followers set the record straight.
Those Docs are sick though...
In response to the question regarding Amanda's boots, She told me once that she got them in a thrift store in London, I'm assuming Doc Martians but don't quote me on that. But do go check out their store, They have a style called Jazz Jemma...here's the link: http://www.drmartens.com/ProductDetail.asp?PID=13374001
or, you can go and buy some at your local thrift store, I got a pair like those for my AFP shows for 20 bucks.
On Amanda's shoes: I knew where they were from, but I've forgotten the name. The only thing I know is that they don't make them anymore. They're from a shoe shop in Boston that makes really pretty and different, but expensive, shoes.
I Google You - Amanda Palmer & Neil Gaiman (lyrics)
I Google you Late at night when I don’t know what to do I find photos you’ve forgotten you were in Put up by your friends
I do, I Google you When the day is done and everything is through I read your journal that you kept that month in France I’ve watched you dance
And I’m pleased your name is practically unique It’s only you and a would-be PhD from Chesapeake Who writes papers on the structure of the sun I’ve read each one
I know that I should let you fade But there’s that box and there’s your name Somehow it never makes the pain grow less or fade or disappear I think that I should save my soul and I should crawl back in my hole But it’s too easy just to fold and type your name again, I fear
I Google you When I’m all alone and don’t know what to do And each shred of information that I gather Says you’ve found somebody new And it really shouldn’t matter Ought to blow up my computer But instead… I Google you
You tell that you love me when I’m lying by your side, You tell me that I am the only one who understands your troubled mind That I’m blind to any evil you could do, And that I love you more than any other girl could ever do. You love the things that I love, you love art and you love books, And you love love as much as I do, and you love my dirty looks And you love me right now, so, how can you love
Vegemite? It tastes like sadness. It tastes like batteries. it tastes like asses. I cannot hold a man so close who spreads this cancer on his toast It is the Vegemite, my darling, or it’s me.
You have to make a fucking choice — I cannot sit with you at breakfast. The very smell of it obliterates my senses. And if that weren’t bad enough, you also eat the shit for lunch Which means we can’t spend any time together — What kind of relationship is that?
The choice is yours, my heart is in your hands — Please wash your hands. You just ate Vegemite For lunch, you selfish bastard.
(Shouting) Its all about you, isnt it?! It’s just take, take, take, take! What about me?! What about my feeiings?!
(Spoken) … Sorry. I had this really awful experience when I was six years old and our British next-door neighbor Christopher Gill, he was babysitting us, and he made me eat an entire spoonful of Marmite, which is just like Vegemite pretty much, except it’s grosser. And he made me eat it by telling me it was chocolate fudge, and so I swallowed the whole thing and then I had to go to the bathroom and throw up, and it really traumatized me. And I’m sorry I got so emotional, I just… I love you.
And no matter what you eat, Ill always love you completely. I might just always leave the room at meal times, Or refuse to touch or kiss you for a week If you insist on putting that foul death paste in your mouth
You’re in my heart, but put yourself inside my shoes. I have to know, it shouldn’t be too hard to choose I know its tearing you apart, but it’s the way it has to be It is the Vegemite, my darling, It is the Vegemite, my darling, Put down the Vegemite, you fucker, Or I’ll leave.
I feel like shit. What can I say? My period is six days late. My pubic hair is turning gray. But I don’t believe in the beauty standard And there’s no way that I’m pregnant, So it’s technically okaaaaaaay!
“I’ve been really shocked and distressed to find out that 8- and 9-year-old girls are getting all their pubic hairs waxed off by their mothers. I think if I have any purpose at all, it’s to stand up there and say, ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, girls. You totally have a choice. You can wax it, you can shave it, you can grow it out, and this really is up to you.’ That’s the way that I feel about everything, that you just need to know there’s a choice out there.”—Amanda Palmer Gives Pubic Hair a Shout Out! | Good Vibrations Magazine (via sexisnottheenemy)