Laptop warriors rejoice—Portland City Council approved Wifi contracts on Wednesday to bring free internet service to Portland. Deployment is expected to take 18 months, which should be plenty of time for Qwest and Comcast to totally freak out.

As an Internet-based musical news-source—arguably the finest in the world—we are, of course, glad to hear that our native city is embracing such a progressive technology measure. The Interns in particular are pleased, though mostly because it means they can play Mario Kart DS with one another without showing up to work to leech the Internet service for which, needless to say, they are not paying.

 

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There was simply nothing to sing about, as of press time Tuesday evening. And so, an editorial on the subject, in song. We are breaking new ground, here at the Times.

 

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Shine off, you crazy diamond—Pink Floyd founder and acid casualty Syd Barrett has died of diabetes-related complications. He was 60.

The narrow parabola that was Barrett’s functional career—bursting onto the Brit psychedelic scene in 1965 and being more or less ejected from the band three years later after unravelling—is a sort of model, an inspiration, to many of The Interns, who find the idea of taking tremendous amounts of drugs and retiring after three years attractive. Today’s song features seven or eight of them having some sort of sonic argument with guitars.

 

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Put the kettle on—Fire Island, NY water supply tainted by e. coli bacteria. They’ll be boiling their water—or drinking it bottled—for a few days.

We’re starting to look human again, here at The Times. The stuporous aftermath of our Fourth of July office Drink-A-Thon has more or less worn off—except in the case of Gloria, who has been officially upgraded to comatose by the folks at the hospital. Don’t worry—she does this regularly. Plenty of rest and saline, and, like clockwork, she’ll be awake and incredibly hungover by the first week of August.

 

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Diplomacy says un-huh—Japanese Prime Minister Koizumi and President Bush visit Graceland. The world press has reacted with a series of strained, wince-inducing puns.

I met Elvis once—this was years ago, he was neither fat nor dead yet. We shared a bus, he a young, cocksure musician, I a budding journalist with an ear for music. I told him about an idea: a singing newspaper. And, goddam him, he just laughed. Laughed and laughed. We didn’t speak for the rest of the bus ride, and the next time I saw him he was on national television.

But that was a long time gone. And these days, as I sit in the office of the finest musical news outlet in the nation, I reflect on the fact that I am neither fat nor dead. So you can eat your heart out, Presley.

 

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