Dairy of a Madman

Let’s see. Manson thought the Beatles were talking to him. Chapman thought he was Lennon’s mirror self. And some nutbag last night in Columbus apparently blamed Dimebag Darrell for breaking up Pantera.

Once again, insanity rears up and bites the music world on the ass. There’s no making sense of any of it — why would you want to kill your “other self”? Why would you try to start a race war because of someone’s lyrics? And what logic underlies shooting a guitarist over a band breakup? Didn’t it occur to the shooter that bullets are a minor impediment to a possible reunion tour?

It’s sad and stupid and pointless to try to figure out, but it’s scary, too, knowing that anyone can go at any time because some cross-wired brain sends a goofed impulse at the beginning of the day.

You look around you and see the behavior that you can’t explain or understand, no matter how empathetic you consider yourself, no matter how in touch with thinking outside the box, and it’s hard not to wonder why.

There’s a lot of wrong in the world that still ends up making sense — murder for revenge, starting wars over territory, whatever. It’s the other evil that makes me truly sad.

RIP, Dime.