Men! Men men men men men men men. I knew what they were thinking. I had read Freud and Norman Mailer, Murakami and Díaz and Bellow and Nabokov Nabokov Nabokov and I was submerged in the world of indie rock so I was intimately familiar with the music catalog of Ryan Adams. I knew what I could aspire to in the eyes of a sensitive man. “Oh, Maria, Maria / She fell in love in East L.A. / To the sounds of the guitar / Played by Carlos Santana.”
