It started out great, this whole ‘Occupy’ thing. Some long-simmering anger finally hitting the streets. Wall Street and its greed had crippled our economy, and it was payback time.

Of course, it was too good to last. They’re still out there, those feisty souls on Wall Street, but their dream of a worldwide protest has accomplished the complete opposite: The original message has been watered down. The anger scattershot. The jokes are piling up.

We’re now at the point they’re occupying parks. That’s right, here in Niagara the protesters will fight ‘the man’ from Montebello Park in St. Catharines. Until 11 p.m., of course – there’s a curfew. This is even worse than the laughable ‘Occupy Niagara Falls’ someone tried organizing last month on her front lawn. She asked people bring her food because, well, it’s hard to protest with an empty fridge.

It was a beautiful thing watching the original protesters swarm Wall Street in September. It meant something. The rage had been building for years, and even if a few opportunistic goofs skewed the message, this could be the most important mass protest since the ‘60s. Real change could come from this.

And with anything so big, the venom from both sides has been extreme. Frank Miller, the comic legend behind 300, The Dark Knight Returns and Sin City, called the protesters a bunch of “louts, thieves and rapists,” while urging them to “go home to your parents, you losers.”

I idolized Miller as a comic-devouring teen. His early ‘80s run of Daredevil remains one of the crown jewels of the industry. It’s a bit sad to realize someone you admire so much has turned into a complete jackass.

Unfortunately, he’s probably right when it comes to Occupy Niagara. What are these people protesting at Montebello Park? Squirrels? How are you drawing attention to economic and social equality while trying not to step in dog poop? If they’re serious about the original message, the protest needs to be in front of city hall or one of the major banks.

Breaking bylaws? Blocking sidewalks? Risking arrest? Yes to all three – it’s a protest. It’s not supposed to be polite. City hall isn’t supposed to approve. If Occupy Wall Street played by the rules, it would have been over in a day. If you aren’t going to do it with the same conviction … what’s the point?

Diluting the Occupy movement renders it irrelevant. Go big, or go home.

There’s no way of putting this without sounding creepy, so I’ll just spill it: All through Grade 12, Patty Smyth was the last person I saw every night

She took up most of the wall by my stereo, strutting her pouty lips and baring that midriff like all the singers in the mid ‘80s did. This gigantic poster wasn’t available in stores, which made it even more of a prized possession. When I saw it at Sam the Record Man in downtown Windsor, I asked – pleaded, actually – for the manager to sell it to me once they were finished with it. Perhaps seeing the fanboy desperation in my eyes, he grabbed a ladder, unpinned it from the wall, and handed it over. “There you go,” he said, basking in the glow of another satisfied stalker customer.

That’s how it was back then. Before you could download everything, before every image and song and intimate detail was available online, you had to work to obtain ‘stuff.’ Finding that specific poster or album took some effort. If they didn’t have it, they’d order it for you. If they couldn’t do that, they’d call other stores.

If nobody could get it for you, you’d spend months – sometimes years – hunting it down. If you were a big enough fan you did it with a purpose.

And I was a huge Patty Smyth fan. Pat Benatar was my queen, Stevie Nicks was second-in-command, but Patty was in the ballpark. And for a year that poster was my pride and joy.

Which is why, almost 30 years later, there was that twinge of anxiety expecting Smyth’s phone call last week for an interview. This is the weird part about being an entertainment writer – to be one, you had to grow up with this stuff. Obsess over it, actually. Inevitably, especially in the twin casino town of Niagara Falls, you’ll interview one of those objects of your affection.

There’s no template for this. You can prepare for hours, come up with ten probing questions, but deep down you’re still a fan. And the fan can still get nervous. It gets worse when the interview gets off to a rough start: Smyth had that ‘let’s-get-this-over-with’ tone from the get-go, and wasn’t in the mood for small talk. After about a minute, she dropped the bomb: “Have you not prepared for this interview, John Law?”

Ouch. I don’t know what rattled me more: That she referred to me by my full name like a disappointed math teacher, or that she assumed I knew nothing about her and was just winging it. In actuality, I had more questions than she had time to answer. I own every record she ever made. I was a Patty Smyth fan long before her breakthrough album in 1984, The Warrior. But 30 seconds of poorly-timed chit chat doomed me. I was shooting at the walls of heartache.

The silver lining? She’s at the Seneca Casino Saturday night, where I might get a chance to sheepishly explain myself. And … uh, get that six-foot-tall poster signed (can’t wait to explain that one to customs). If not, well, Goodbye to You will sting for awhile.

To be honest, I hadn’t really thought about Pink Floyd in years. The albums are collecting cobwebs in the basement. I’ll usually turn the station when they come on the radio. The saturation point arrived.  They’re one of those bands I hit, uh, the wall with years ago.

Unlike the Beatles or Stones or Zeppelin or Who, I never felt the need to revisit Pink Floyd. I had gotten everything out of the music after countless spins throughout high school and college. Like a good book, I enjoyed it while it lasted then put them on the shelf. Much like Roger Waters and David Gilmour did, after a bitter parting of the ways.

But I’m a sucker for a good comeback. Once it was announced the entire Floyd catalogue was going to be remastered, I knew my Visa card was in for more abuse. And boy, were they worth it: A revelation for the ears. A band that was already a sonic feast sounds otherworldly on these discs. I’m hearing guitars I didn’t know were on Wish You Were Here, nuances in A Saucerful of Secrets … hell, even Dark Side of the Moon, which I’ve committed to memory, had a few new thrills. It’s not the bonanza the Beatles remasters were two years ago, but for now I’m obsessed with these albums again.

And I’m not alone. Fans old and new are freaking over Floyd again, which will inevitably bring up reunion talk. Again. Because Gilmour and Waters haven’t addressed it enough the past 28 years. We want Pink Floyd to reunite because it benefits us and our incessant need to see our favourite bands just one … last … time. Do you think we’ve seen the last of the Stones on tour? The Who? The Eagles? The fans won’t let them go, and they pay ridiculous ticket prices for the privilege.

Which is where Pink Floyd earns grudging respect. Waters and Gilmour have teased fans with reunions lately – Live 8 in 2005, this past May in London – but refuse to take that massive pay cheque for what would surely be one of the biggest tours in history. Their reason is simple: They can’t be around each other that much.

Can you blame them? Creatively and personally, they drifted apart after 1983’s The Final Cut, and they’re okay with that, even if the fans aren’t. Since then, every interview inevitably leads to the same question: Will you guys get back together? How tiresome must that be?

I haven’t spoken with one of my best friends from college in about five years. For those three years at school, we were inseparable. We assumed we’d be friends for life. Then came graduation, new jobs, different cities, and now we’re practically strangers. Not an e-mail, phone call or “Hey, what’s up?” in five years. I don’t hate the guy, we’ve just …. moved on.

I can only imagine if every conversation I had – with anyone – led to “Hey, are you guys getting back together?” It doesn’t matter what Waters or Gilmour do, the fans want them to do it together.

So even as I devour their albums again, I admire their tenacity not to capitalize on nostalgia. Pink Floyd are adding to their legend by not milking it. Money, get away.

Which isn’t to say I won’t be there if they change their minds. As the song goes, welcome to the machine … where have you been?