Sometimes I think that magical creatures don’t exist and then I remember that I know a little old bearded man who lives in a forest with his dog and a pack of wild turkeys that he tamed, spending his days blowing glass and carving wooden clogs, which are the only shoes he wears.

He also has stars and moons tattooed all over his hands and face and a butthole tattooed on his forehead.

How did I meet this man? My friends and I used to see him driving around blasting psychedelic music and then one day I was driving through the woods and there he was walking his dog so I pulled over and asked if he wanted to go on an adventure and he said yes and here we are.

I could write a book on all the fun facts about this man.
• He has a room where every wall is floor-to-ceiling shelves of vinyl records.
• He saves photo paper for me even when we don’t see each other for years.
• He’s childhood friends with Stephen King. They still have tea.

And my favorite: When he had a heart attack after we became friends, his nurses were rude to him so he spent the whole stay bedazzling a jacket in front of them to say every profane word he knew in rhinestones because they could stop him from swearing out loud, but not on fabric.