I’m attempting to write this while “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” by Pink Floyd’s playing at the Red Bicycle, specifically the intro, wherein not-yet-chubby David Gilmore, at the height of his understated, Britishy powers, plays perhaps the perfect guitar solo. Maybe I should drop acid after all, and embrace a megalomaniacal Roger Waters as the cantankerous brother he is. 

This song has everything I love - obscure lyrics about psychedelic adventurers , not-jazz sax solos, and a rock shuffle into a classic fadeout. Erstwhile songwriters, if there’s ever a formula for success, this is it, or at least a formula for pleasing an unknown musician with scoliosis.

The playlist’s just shifted to the Grateful Dead. I’m as big a John Mayer fan as you’ll find, but he’s perpetrated an egregious crime - making the Grateful Dead popular amongst generations not yet embracing golf and proctology exams - and for that, I’ll in no way make a scene if I’m ever fortunate enough to meet the man, but I feel it’s important sharing that I don’t care for the Grateful Dead, and if you don’t either, consider solidarity voiced.