At a certain age, that rage seeps from your system and you’re mostly left with a vague Ghost O’Marley sense of indigestion and a minor ocular muscle sprain from the eyerolling at the dumbass drama queen of a boy carrying on about the woman who found her good taste in men a bit late but not too much so.

At that point (or right around the time you see Elvis Costello whip through a 90-minute set with no encores to hurry to the next gig), you have a bit more trouble tapping into whatever drew you into a teenage riot lo those many years ago.

Fiona Apple helped revive the song awhile back when VH1 (remember when they appealed to old people?) hooked Fiona up with Elvis (much to Diana Krall’s consternation; she’s seen this film from the other side of the camera) to recall Sinead O’Connor’s service to Prince on “Nothing Compares 2 U”.

She finds a second reading of the song that, frankly, the song doesn’t deserve and chills you to those now-numb toes.  You’re pretty sure that you should, you know, call into VH1 and get someone to take that nice Apple girl home to make sure nothing felonious happens and everyone’s rabbits stay unboiled.

But we’re not here to laud the song or the singer.  We’re here to talk about the little boy who’s fucked.

‘Round halfway through, the director finds a raven-haired beauty entranced by the scene, leaning into her burly boyfriend and set them in the camera frame all artsy’n’shi’.  However, stage right, there’s a few young girls and the 21st century version of “Brady Bunch”’s Oliver obviously foisted on the girls to take with to the concert so Mommy and Daddy could spring clean the liquor cabinet.

Take one look at that kid.  He’s so fucked.  Fuckity fuck fuck fucked.  He now holds a passport from the great nation of Fuckedtonia.  He hails from Fuckedtonia.  Uses the Fuckedtonia stamps to mail his gas bill.  Bemoans the taxes in Fuckedtonia but always pays them on time.  Sings the last two lines of the Fuckedtonia National Anthem just before a sporting event and glares at the asshole that shouts, “WOO!” just before the end of the song.

The substantial and potent powers of Fiona Apple set before a moody stage racked with one of your better sets of musicians are telling Oliver, the boy dragged around by the older kids begrudgingly to keep ratings up, that he is wanted in all dimensions posited through string theory if he would only somehow crawl into the flowing robes of the haunting woman that brings all light through her eyes and all night through her lips.

SO fucked.

That kid is doomed to date a succession of domineering goth girls and stabby Kathys (because no self-respecting goth will touch Baby William Katt now) and agree to sell his car at a discount to an ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend and never get the full payment and listen to 3 am crying jags from jangled girls who treat him like their gay friend before making out with him and then weeping again until the tab wears off.

Why?  Because Mommy and Daddy sent him to play in Viacom’s den of polished iniquity so they could blow enough coke up their noseholes that Mommy sneezed and Juan Valdez’s burro flew out.

And that’s why we need a national health plan: afforable drug treatment centers.