When A Woman Doesn't Want You

Oh, Gary Lightbody. It's true. You have so much working against you: you're saddled with a visage that's best described as the goofier Zach Braff. No one can really tell where in the hell you're actually from- NotQuiteEnglandistan? You're a bit of tweaker onstage. VH1 is going to make all of us want to commit suicide rather than hear "Chasing Cars" one more time, which is a shame.

And yet. There is also much to love. Remember a few years ago, at the Bowery Ballroom, when you told that very cute story about shopping for sneakers? The crowd banter at the 9:30 Club? So charming. You can actually sing your songs live. You write delightfully endearing updates on your blog. You are tall! Which is why I've yet to understand your painfully intense crush on Martha Wainwright.

Not only did you write this song specifically so she could sing on it, but we have to suffer through your panting, boot-kissing introduction of her every time you perform it live. Maybe it's me - she never seems to be that excited to be there. I'm just saying. But fair enough, let's have at this before you turn into a puddle of puppy love right here and now.

And then it comes (at 2:05 for those playing along at home): Martha busts out The Sprinkler. If you missed it - which, really, you can't miss something as completely ludicrous as The Sprinkler - she does it again. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.

Gary. Seriously. I don't always agree with people's romantic choices - I mean, shit, I generally don't agree with my own - but The Sprinkler? Nothing about this song calls for this sort of behavior. This is a sad, sad, sad love song about a bond struggling to survive 16-months of touring. The "Faithfully" of its time, if you will. Loving a music man is not always what it's supposed to be! And Martha goes and mocks it with her spastic Hunch of Indie Cred.

This is not the woman for you, Gary, no matter how much you want it to be so. I'm telling you this for your own good. You can shove her in a gear case (I'm sure she fits) and trot her out at every stop for as long as you want, but she will never love you. Let her go. Call me.