In my family strange is relative.

I swear you must have a rainbow shooting out of your ass, you're so bright and shiny and wonderful.

In reality punk people are usually the gentlest, kindest folks you'll ever know. They're like hippies, only they wear way more black.

For as long as I can remember, my father saved. He saves money, he saves disfigured sticks that resemble disfigured celebrities, and most of all, he saves food. Cherry tomatoes, sausage biscuits, the olives plucked from other people's martinis --he hides these things in strange places until they are rotten. And then he eats them.

Ah, sweetie. If the poets couldn’t unriddle them, then you certainly can’t. Be kind, and keep your ears on offer if she wants to talk. But you can’t draw out the strangeness, Edgar. It’s not a poison.

I think, actually, everyone starts out with some strange in them. It's just whether or not you decide to keep it.