Ha. Hahahaha. HAhahahahah HA HA HA.
Ahem. Ha.
I never listened to early Pink Floyd until Dr. Demento, of all people, ran “See Emily Play” one night. It was the weirdest thing I’d heard (though I’m pretty sure a fourteen year old suburbanite’s weirdness quotient is pretty low), and I wonder what the rest of Floyd’s sound would’ve been like if he hadn’t gone mad. Or, at least, if he’d stayed.
Everyone and his mother will be quoting “Wish You Were Here” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” and it’s appropriate, especially the latter. I love that mournful, cosmic sound, the expanse of sadness that the band must have felt to watch their friend descend. Maybe Syd was fine with it all, maybe he was tormented. I don’t know. But I hope everyone’s got some peace out of it.
Ken Lay is dead. He was a convicted felon who ripped off the retirement funds of his workers and stuck my state with an outrageous power bill. I’d like to think he’s now going to be an example of What Not To Do for executives across the country, but I doubt it. The lesson people will take away from his downfall and death will probably be this: if you commit fraud and conspiracy in order to make an obscene amount of money, then cover your tracks better than the Enron guys.
This also, of course, means the betting pool is now off.
UPDATE: Wrong, the pool’s still on. I didn’t realize that there’s such a thing as a posthoumous pardon.