HARDY COLEMAN DOESN’T LIKE TO SAY THAT HE’S AWRITER. “It’s one of the things I do,” he says, smiling into the early spring sun in the courtyard of Minneapolis’ Seward Café. “I don’t wanna be seen as some special guy on a pedestal.” Indeed, in his stained punk rock T-shirt, beat-up leather jacket, and well-worn Fedora, Hardy looks about as down-to-earth as a person can get. “Part of the reason,” he explains, “is…