I get crazy whenever I hear how brilliant Rufus Wainwright is, how his self-titled album is just a gem of a debut, and how charming and personal his lyrics are. Gag. The blind praise and adoration for this drippy-dippy man-boy is overwhelming: the glowing reviews, the write-ups in hip magazines, the comparisons to Cole Porter and the Gershwin brothers, and that damn Gap commercial with the grand piano and his icky sideburns.

I've tried to like him. I really have. But listening to Rufus Wainwright makes me feel like a depressed, loony drunk. His bleary crybaby songs and whiny, nasal voice drones and grates throughout the album, punctuated only by his clunky piano playing and bizarre key changes, making him sound like he's going through puberty. I know I should appreciate Wainwright's "unique" sound, which has been likened to a '30s European cabaret act (with a modern gay twist), but all his tragedy and sloppy romance and melodrama just come across as one big, lonely mess.

Pull yourself together, honey.