Syd Barrett and other matters pertaining to an Early Demise

So, Syd died yesterday. Bummer. I mean, it doesn't affect my life one bit, since he stopped putting out music many years ago, but it still saddens me to hear about the untimely death of a True Musician.


I've always been a fan of Syd's work (okay, if at this point, you're still asking yourself "Who the fuck is Syd Barrett?", either Google [TM] his name and discover his Genius for the first time, or just do me a favor and kill yourself.), and back in Music Appreciation class in high school I chose to do a "presentation" about him when tasked to compose a report about a Musical Hero. I darkened the room, fired up the Lava Lamp, and proceeded to wax philosophical about The Madcap while playing old Pink Floyd songs in the background. My teacher gave me a hesitant "A," dismissing Syd as an "Acid Casualty," but acknowledging my admiration for his oeuvre.


Shine on, you Crazy Diamond.



In other news: I almost died tonight. Oh yeah. I was on my way home from The Side Door, and feeling saucy. It was a decent night, filled with good jams and many drinks. James gave me a pair of Spider-Man boxers that he had purchased with my booty in mind ("I just wanna see you in them"), which I'm pretty sure in several cultures means we are now married. Oh dear. There were some familiar faces at the gig, and Pancakes even showed up to play! Pancakes rules. Its a Fact.


Driving home from The Side Door, I popped in a Mix Tape (that's right-my Stratus has a cassette player in it-Old School represent!) that my pal, Joe, made for me many years ago. Just as I was hitting the entrance ramp where 287 South links up to 23 South, "Losing All" by Down came on. Throwing caution, common sense, and all higher brain functions to the wind, I sped up around the tight left turn that the leads to Rt. 23.


Bad Idea.


The funny thing is, just before I decided to stomp the gas pedal, I spoke aloud in my "Dimebag Voice," saying "Why don't you drive like you've got somewhere to be, fucker?".


[This is the part where I admit to having lost my mind. As of late, I've developed the alarming habit of talking aloud to myself quite often. It pretty much breaks down into two "personalities." When I'm attempting to be "rational" or "responsible," I speak to myself in the voice of "young" Obi-Wan Kenobi, as personified by Ewan McGregor. I don't know why. When I'm Hellbent on "chaos" and "destruction," I tend to channel the mannerisms of Dimebag Darrell, shouting out such Bon Mots as: "C'mon, man- getcha pull!" and "Whoa-yayhee!"]


[I have Brain Problems.]


So, Dimebag (or a reasonable facsimilie thereof) commanded/inspired me to gun the throttle and tear ass around the tight left leading to 23 South.


Bad Idea (see above).


The road was damp, like your Momma's panties after she gets a good whiff of my musky taint. (Holy shit, I do have Brain Problems) Halfway through the turn, my car decided to attempt to leave the road and achieve Orbital Velocity. Not good. My "Jedi training" kicked in, and I spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction of the skid (which is exactly the Wrong Thing to Do), whereupon I realized:


1) I suck at driving

and

2) I was about to die



Hooray.



Now, I don't fear dying. It happens.


("40,000 men and women everyday [like Romeo and Juliet]
40,000 men and women everyday [redefine happiness]
Another 40,000 coming everyday [we can be like they are]
Come on baby [don't fear the reaper]
Baby take my hand [don't fear the reaper]
We'll be able to fly [don't fear the reaper]
Baby I'm your man
La-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la-la"- "Don't Fear The Reaper"- bitches)


What I fear is; wrecking my car, getting arrested for being stoopid, and having to bum rides from everyone for awhile. That's just embarassing. (And, just to stem the tide of e-mails asking - no, that isn't a dig at "The Ex," get over it - I have.) If I'm gonna fuck my shit up, I'm determined to do it Big and Fatally. I'm talkin' Front Page Big. Channel 9 News Big. The Punchline of a Joke on Conan Big.




Ffffuck, its getting late...where was I? I'm lost in my own narrative...I'm bored with the tale of my own near-death experience. That's just sad. Hold up, time to crack a Sparks and pop in another Floyd disc...



Ahhh, much better.



So, obviously, I persevered, and managed to pull out of the skid just as I merged onto 23 South. Actually, it was more along the lines of "several prolonged and absolutely frightening skids that Shawn was blessed enough to navigate without either wrecking his car and/or shitting his pants." It was Serious and Scary. Even Scarier still, was the fact that I was giggling throughout the whole debacle. Really. Part of me welcomed the Embrace of The Void, and that probably speaks volumes about the degradation of my already tenuous grasp on "reality."



Don't mistake my fascination with Oblivion for unhappiness or malaise, though. My life is pretty good. I have some interesting shit going on right now, both musically and personally, and I'm looking forward to the imminent selling of Casa Hendricks, so I can take the next (and way overdue) step in my "Spirit Journey."



I'm just a big fan of Spectacle. Like that guy who recently exploded his own house in a bid to smite his soon-to-be ex-wife. You've gotta admire that kind of dedication to Making a Point. Unfortunately for him, it was an exercise in futility, because he failed to kill himself. Nothing is more sad than a failed suicide attempt. Especially one that took so much planning and gumption.



I just realized how much I'm rambling. I'm tempted to just go on and on, typing about whatever crowds my frontal lobe next, but the sweet embrace of unconsciousness lures me with its siren song, and Oblivion awaits...