In case you didn't get the memo

or weren't tipped off by the turkey baster method of conception, Clay Aiken has come out of the closet and admitted he's gay.

In other breaking news, Captain Louis Renault is shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on at Rick's Cafe Americain in Casablanca.

The Great Gig in the Sky

Not counting my miserable attempts at learning to play piano and cornet, my real musical education began during my junior year of high school. Until then I had been content with pretty much whatever was on the radio. My junior year, however, brought about a new group of acquaintances due to a county-wide consolidation which reduced the number of high schools from five to three (this new environment also allowed me to complete the classic 70s trifecta which included sex and drugs, but that's another post for another time). My new pool of classmates weaned me away from AM radio and introduced me to such heavy metal stalwarts as Blue Oyster Cult, Black Sabbath and a newly discovered band from Australia known as AC/DC.

I was quite the young headbanger upon graduating from high school and moving away from home to begin a technical program in radio and television broadcasting at one of my home state's fine community colleges. It was there that I met Sherman, who became not only a classmate but a housemate as well.

Under most circumstances, I would probably have regarded Sherman as the village idiot and treated him accordingly. However, he had two qualities which I considered to be extremely attractive at the time. First, he was always - always - up for a good partying session. If we had something that would alter our state of consciousness, Sherman would partake regardless of the time of day and the responsibilities, academic or otherwise, facing us (this would probably explain him partying his way out of school within six months). Second, he had an amazing record collection which he had acquired from his older sister, a la Patrick Fugit's character in Almost Famous. Among the vinyl in Sherman's collection was Pink Floyd's magnum opus Dark Side of the Moon.

I know it's considered a cliche about stoners listening to Dark Side of the Moon but it's true - musically speaking, it's a revelatory experience if you're completely sober upon your initial listening, but stoned - well, you have to experience it firsthand in order to understand why this album is sacred to those who enjoy altered states of consciousness. And don't get me started on headphones - that is an entire topic unto itself.

Confession - yes, I was stoned when I lost my Dark Side of the Moon virginity. I sat there awestruck, as if hearing not just music, but anything for the first time. It was as if there was nothing to hear before I became immersed in this incredible black disc on Sherman's turntable; I had fallen into this twelve inch black vinyl hole and didn't want to come out. Instead, I wanted to venture further into the black hole and experience more.

And there was more. Sherman also had Pink Floyd's previous album Meddle and their follow-up to Dark Side, Wish You Were Here. The latter, with its theme of loss and alienation, remains to this day my favorite album, and the title track my favorite song. It was about this time that The Wall was released and, by now being an avid Pink Floyd fan, I purchased it as soon as I could get my hands on a copy.


It's always hard when someone who has contributed something memorable to your life is no longer a part of it, even if you've never met that person. People often react to the passing of a favorite actor, musician, or member of a beloved sports team as they might a close relative. I remember seeing the shock on my mother's face one afternoon in 1977 when she received a call from one of her sisters informing her that Elvis Presley had finally left the building. Grown men who were raised on a steady baseball diet of the New York Yankees openly wept when the great Joe DiMaggio passed away. I personally went into a mild case of shock when I heard John Lennon had been murdered, and was numb for days after hearing of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide. Now comes news of the passing of Richard Wright, a founding member of Pink Floyd.

Richard Wright died last week of cancer at the age of 65 - too young to succumb to anything, much less the evil incurable disease that has no respect for anyone regardless of their station in life. I hadn't heard anything about him being ill until K sent me a text message at work to let me know that he had died. The resultant shock came not from his death, but that it came out of left field with no advance notice.

I shouldn't have been surprised - not because of his death, but because his illness hadn't been in the news. Wright was an integral component of Pink Floyd's unique sound, but he was also very low key, leaving the spotlight to the band's two creative forces, bassist Roger Waters and guitarist David Gilmour. His contributions, however, cannot be overstated. It's impossible to imagine Dark Side of the Moon's "Us and Them," "Any Colour You Like" and "The Great Gig in the Sky" without Wright's piano and synthesizer work; the whole of Wish You Were Here without Wright's keyboards would not exist.

Like his bandmates, Wright could walk down the streets of practically any major city and go unrecognized to most people, including a good number of Pink Floyd fans. A true musician, one who cares about his art rather than image, lets his music define him. Richard Wright will certainly be remembered for his music, a legacy cherished by millions of fans, including this one whose musical world was forever changed that first time he heard Dark Side of the Moon in a pot smoke-filled living room almost thirty years ago.

So what did I do?

Looking back at my first post since returning to my blog I realized that I didn't really say what I actually did during my sabbatical. Technically I only had two weeks away from work but over the last four months I

- celebrated twelve years of marriage with my most beloved K
- participated in the gas crisis-fueled (no pun intended - maybe...) phenomenon known as a "staycation"
- attended more concerts than I'd seen in the last several years, including Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (of which I'm convinced is America's best rock and roll band, even better than Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band) with Steve Winwood, whom I've been waiting years to see and was well worth it
- finally painted the spare bedroom which serves as my home office, after almost four years in our house
- bought a CrackBerry (no, I'm not addicted to the email and web functions, I need it for the PDA features to organize my life, and I can quit anytime I want, thank you very little)
- got to spend some long-overdue time with my oldest friend and partner in crime Kevin, who is now happy remarried and living the good life in Florida
- almost adopted another cat
- became one of the first five hundred voters in North Carolina to register as a Libertarian upon the state (again) officially recognizing the party
- saw my friend Mighty Joe Young's band ANTiSEEN celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary (or ANTiVERSARY, if you will) with a killer show at Charlotte's Tremont Music Hall
- and spent a week falling in love with New York City, where we celebrated K's birthday (posts and pics on that to come - stay tuned)

Looking back, I guess it was busier than I realized at the time. You know the old cliche about time flying when you're having fun? It did, and I did. I suppose cliches are like stereotypes; for good or bad, they tend to have some basis, however small, in reality.

What I did on my summer vacation

It's the first day of fall, my favorite season, and that seems like the perfect time to dust off the ol' blog and start writing again. I haven't posted anything since May - what started out as a case of writer's block turned into "well, I might as well take a sabbatical and enjoy the summer" - and here we are, four months later. As I mentioned in a previous post, I don't do well with deadlines.

Truth be told, I might well have given up on this altogether if not for three people. First, my most beloved wife K, who has is my muse and inspiration for whatever creative outlets I may explore. Second, my friend Stephanie, who writes the "Medusa" blog you may have noticed under my links on this page. During our last conversation Stephanie was extremely complimentary of my writing, which gave me a wonderful ego boost (one of the things I've always loved about Steph is an uncanny sense of knowing when to stroke my ego and about what). And third, Bill Floyd. Who?

Bill Floyd is the author of The Killer's Wife, his debut novel. The bookstore where I work hosted Bill for an author signing early this summer, and I spoke with him at some length about writing. He told me that the most important advice he could give me is to write something every day - it didn't matter what, or whether or not it was intended for public consumption, but just force myself to write. I'll admit that I haven't put Bill's advice into practice (yet) but it has been in the back of my mind every day, especially those days in which I don't write. Thanks Bill, and to repay you here's a plug for The Killer's Wife, which currently has four stars on Amazon.com.

There's another reason I have to start blogging again. I realized what my last post was and I don't want people to remember me for something I wrote about a damned SpongeBob SquarePants thermometer. Not exactly the legacy I want to leave behind.