Banging Your Heart Against Some Mad Bugger’s Wall

I spent a lot of the seventeenth year of my life analyzing the lyrics of “The Wall” with my dear friend Herman. My children like to point out that I’m probably amongst the .001% of Pink Floyd devotees whose relationship with the band is non-cannabinical, and, though my reflections might have been more profound if I’d partaken of the sacred herb, it’s hard to imagine that I am not also amongst the .001% of devotees who mined that double cassette like it was the Old and New Testament.