It pays to be young, tragic, and talented in the '00s. A couple of years ago, our generation frowned upon the lay-me-bare memoir and the confessional song. The mere mention of such things conjured horrible images of James Taylor turning his heroin addiction into nursery rhymes or Elizabeth Wurtzel dining on Prozac while doing a Butthole Surfer behind a Dallas nightclub. The notion of someone telling all held as much allure as a stranger sitting down next to you at a bar, spilling his guts as the bartender... More >>>