When I was 20 years old, my soul was divided between two Jims: Morrison and Buffett. One spoke to my dark brooding side, the other to my romantic, nostalgic nature. Both of them encouraged my budding interest in debauchery, but one was benign and fun, the other destructive and kind of scary. In the end, I sided with Buffett… but not the Parrothead party-tune aspect of his scene, which frankly grew dumber the more of an institution it became. “Come Monday,” “He Went to Paris,” “The Captain and the Kid,” “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” “Last Mango in Paris”… those songs about restless spirits looking for some place to toss out their anchor and the bleary-eyed survivors of the night before… those were the songs that spoke most to me. And they still do.

This one hurts.