Syd Barrett is no longer with us

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, ...angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night." -- Allen Ginsberg, Howl

Jim was looking at the MSN article: http://www.slate.com/id/2145531/?GT1=8391 and motioned for me to look at the photo and help identify the members. I didn't even stop to read the text. For some reason, I only focused on the photo. I point out Syd. Jim says: "So he's the one that died?"
Like I said, I didn't read any of the text and as far as I knew, Syd was still alive. Locked up in an asylum, but still alive. So I said: "Oh, no. He's in a nut ward. But he's not dead."
"He's not?" He forwarded the article to me and after reading it I feel like such a dope for saying that. But then I've been doing nothing but fucking up lately, and being stupid in general...

There were no particulars as to how Syd died and they confess that no one knows the exact day he died. Only that he was 60 years old.
There are arguments about whether the post-Syd Floyd was better than when he was with them, but I like all three eras.(Syd, post-Syd, and post-Roger) But they're each different in their own way. It was like a metamorphasis of sorts.
When I'd completely fallen head-over-heels in love with Pink Floyd, I made up my mind I would start at the beginning and collect all the albums. I started with Pipers at the Gates of Dawn, which prompted me to purchase Wind in the Willows, which was a book I hadn't looked at since I was a wee pup.

Syd's lyrics were light and witty. It was like he preferred having fun with the music as opposed to some musicians that want to spend 14 tracks whining about the woman that left them or growl out angst-ridden diatribes about suicide and general oppression. The message in Syd's musci was to celebrate imagination. To encourage thinking outside the box. Imagination is precious and highly valuable. And each of us need to preserve our own imagination at all costs. If we lose it, the future could get quite scary.

So anyway--
A final salute to you, Syd. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Wal-Mart can suck a black turd

I'd been patiently waiting to hear from them for a little over a month, but nothing. I even called them; "This is all new to us." I'll get a call from the main office if I'm chosen.
My sister put in an application on a Friday and gets an interview Thursday of the very next week. Looking for night shift over at the Dubuque store. As it turned out, the position was filled about four hours after they'd called to remind Sarah of her second interview.
So I figure Wal-Mart's a no-go. I'm told applications are only valid for 60 days and in a week or so mine'll be dead.

Yes, it's time to consider different venues. But it's also time to write. Hell, it's ALWAYS time to write. I just wish I could be better at staying on task with it. I put out three short stories and the 1st 20 pgs of Lunatic Lounge. Of these four, 2 have come back so far.
A little warning to those thinking about submitting to Soho Press: Don't bother putting sufficient postage to return the MS because all you get is a letter.
I mean, I might not've minded- Rejections are expected in this game. What really cheesed me about it was the money I blew on postage. I paid for enough postage that they could've included the MS with the rejection letter. If I'd known they were going to chuck the MS and just send me a letter, I would've saved myself some money and just enclosed a regular business envelope with a single stamp.
ANYway,
29-Cent Stamp came back from Happy with a scrap of paper offering subscriptions to their magazine and a quick scribble saying it wasn't for Happy.
I've yet to hear back on Kirby and Rosemary's Pie. Each of these stories were sent to magazines that focus on horror, so I'd like to think they stand a better chance.
There's a Glimmertrain Short Story Contest coming up and I've got to get a submission together. Maybe two. (You can submit as many stories as you like, but the entry fee's $15 per story)
Be the Writer.
Nanananananananaa....