|
|
|
|
Thursday, October 10, 2002
Ah, it has been an absolutely stunning couple of weeks!
First, I had a chance to have tea with David Gilmour of Pink Floyd. Roger Waters had asked me to visit him in an attempt to broker some sort of reunion.
The situation is grim, to say the least. In essence, Waters wrote all of the worthwhile songs, while Gilmour played guitars, sang, put on weight and had tons of children. He says "eight," but I sometimes have a difficult time telling the difference between his children and the Thai whores he lets live in his guest house. Excuse me, "maids."
As you perhaps surmise, I am more in Waters camp in this whole little dispute. Gilmour is rolling in cash which he earned on the strength of Waters' talent. What's worse is that Gilmour takes himself so seriously. He rubs me the wrong way, to be frank.
Anyhow, I think I basically made things worse. Our conversation went something like this:
Gilmour: Gosh, but it is jolly good to see you, Lady P.
Me: Eat my wrinkled hole, you no talent hack.
Gilmour: B... but I wrote that lyric about "the fearsome fist of fate that fit him like a glove."
Me: Ah, blow it out your comfortably numb anus, ass hat.
I don't think a reunion is in the works.
2:48 AM
|
|
|
|
|
