I was gonna post a long update/apology for not posting in so long/list of things that are cool that y'all should check out, and then explain that the Ladyfriend and I are taking the Little Miss on another roadtrip (despite the fact that I neglected to regale y'all with anecdotes from our last one, "Losing Our Shit In Smalltown, B.C."...), but then I found out that David Foster Wallace killed himself yesterday.
Well, shit. I can't even make a joke about that one.
Wallace, to those who don't abuse themselves by reading frustrating fiction, is the author of such works as Broom Of The System, Girl With Curious Hair, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men and more. (He also wrote Infinite Jest, but I'm convinced that no one aside from myself and a few others have actually read it, that most people who claim to have read it actually gave up at around page 100 and are just fibbing about finishing the monstrous thing, as most people are smart enough to stop beating their heads against brick walls after the first few times they try it. Seriously: the thing is over 1000 pages, and most of that is one paragraph about tennis players getting high.)
Finding new work by Wallace in the bookstores was always exciting, because the man never repeated himself, and rarely disappointed. It's sad to see a contemporary artist who's truly deserving of the label 'genius' end this way.
So there ya go: this is me being sad.
And now this is me saying: I'm gone for a week. Me and my little family unit are gonna go make fun of British Columbians and then hopefully make them cry. Don't touch my stuff while I'm gone, or I'll punch you.
(No, really - Infinite Jest? Put it down and walk away. Just walk away. Go read the new Harry Potter instead. I hear he even has sex this time.)
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