I think we're all a bunch of weirdos on a quest to belong. The songs are echolocation up in impregnable fog. That's why it's odd to see a pile of imperfections and flaws ascend a pedestal to patronize the rest of the cogs.

My God, what am I doing here? It's weird. How do you get to the Met? Money! Lots and lots of money! I can imagine Pavarotti next door at the improv going, "Two Jews walk into a bar...