You're that liberal arts college douche that throws terms like esoteric and Sartre-esque into every day conversation.  The first time you listened to Joanna Newsom (after your Serbian lithographer friend gave you the disc, and before "everyone else heard about her on NPR") you probably had some sort of epiphany.   Whereas you always listened to her at home on your headphones (from your record player) while drinking Indian Oolong tea and petting your roommate's (not the same sex as you) chinchilla, you once decided to play her in the car when picking up your platonic, hipster friend (also not the same sex as you) to go the bookstore.   Neither of you talked, because talking would demean the deep rhetorical whimsy of her story.