I never know when someone’s on drugs or had plastic surgery, or when a poem is supposed to “really” be about sex even though it’s clearly about plants. I never get metaphors. Everything always has to be explained to me, like Ax in the Animorphs series. I can be counted on not to understand what a song is "really" about unless that meaning is spelled out explicitly; if a song does not contain the word "abortion"…

The modern male singer-songwriter has a type. She is thin. She wears a great deal of eye makeup. She is pale. She does not smile, and often walks in the rain. Most importantly, she is very, very sad. Too sad to write songs; this must be done for her, so as not to distract her from her deep and profound sadness. Often she is too sad to even have a name, so great is her…