R.I.P. David Foster Wallace

On Saturday David Foster Wallace hung himself in his home.

He was one of my favorite writers, if only because he was so obviously more talented than I could ever hope to be. He was almost the polar opposite of Kafka or Isaac Babel, in his need to fully flesh out every aspect of his message, whether in an essay or a novel. Where their sentences are terse, with unfathomable depth, Wallace's are long, and struggle to convey every conceivable emotion and fact. The mystery in Wallace's writing is all on the page, if you've got the eyes to see it, and the mind to comprehend it.

Infinite Jest is an enormous, heavily-footnoted book. It has become the 21st century version of Ulysses - even if you've finished it, you didn't understand it. Not that anyone would believe you if you say you actually read the whole thing.

The lyricism in Wallace's writing is all mathematical and angular - his sentences don't so much flow off the page as march in robotic perfection. Despite that seeming lack of aenima his characters live and breathe, their words come naturally and true. Reading his stories makes your head crack open and leaves your brain and soul exposed, allowing you to pick through the mess and say to yourself, "wow, who knew I had all that inside me?"

His work is harrowing and beautiful and now there won't be any more.

Just because I left doesn't mean I hate you

Boston friends of the Fancy Pants (who also, incidentally, favor stylish trousers) were mildly annoyed about the last post. Here then, as I sit in Wife's childhood bedroom in Pittsburgh, are things that made Boston peachy keen:

1) Dunkin Donuts everywhere. Turns out that not every city needs their donut fix on every block. Now where am I going to get my glazed stick? /cue penis joke

2) The Brookline Booksmith. Support your local independent book store. Find the owner, give him/her a hug. Buy a book. I recommend Human Smoke: The Beginnings of World War II, the End of Civilization, by Nicholson Baker.

3) Ice cream of all kinds. Frozen Freddy's for the portly and the lactose intolerant, Christina's in Cambridge, White Mountain Creamery in Newton, JP Lick's all over. Almost as many ice cream places as sushi joints. Sucks to Coldstone Creamery. Ice cream is not Japanese grilling - it is not more fun to watch it being made.

4) Red Sox fans. Because hating is fun. And not as easy from far away.

5) Washington Square: the Paris of Brookline. I don't know what it means, but I like an intersection that thinks big.

6) Pubs. Better than bars because they have Guinness on tap. And if you go to The Castle on BU's campus, they'll etch a shamrock into the foamy, perfectly poured head. Hooray for Ireland.

7) Chinatown. Say what you will about Boston's "ladies of the evening," but where else can you see someone getting head in the doorway of the American Cancer Society building?

8) The North End. Because it's always a rush yelling at a large, swarthy, hairy man for cutting in line for a canolli and getting shot because no one raises their voice to Tony the Forehead, mob fixer.

9) Man's Greatest Hospital. So amazing that every other health service location pales in comparison. Just ask someone who works there, they'll tell you.

10) Worcester. Leicester. Gloucester. Leominster. Peabody. Woburn. Haverhill. Billerica. These are not names of towns; they are shibboleths, they are code words.

11) The ladies of the WSM. Babes, you taught me that it's ok for some chick to not only speak in public, but to lead a community. Now maybe you girls have earned the right to vote. Or not.

I'm sure there are other things I'm forgetting (our friends, other cheesy nonsense) but these are the ones that come to mind.

Bad Penmanship Is a Sign of the Devil

The world today is fraught with danger. Some of these life-threatening life-threateners are visible to the naked eye: sociopathic clowns wielding chainsaws, vats of sulfuric acid surrounded by loose gunpowder, perhaps vampires.

I'm not afraid of these obviously sinister characters. What really scares me is the unknown. The indecipherable. Evil incoherent. Remember that little boy (and it's always a boy; girls are too careful to let their diabolic nature manifest itself in a random grammar quiz) who sat next to you in the third grade, who would sneak a nibble at his boogers when he thought no one was looking, but you always caught him? His handwriting was terrible. He never learned to write a proper cursive "z." Do you know what that lad does now?

He kills neighborhood pets, just for kicks.

But who knew to suspect little Roger? It took me twenty years to understand the threat, to comprehend the precarious limb upon which society is balanced. But I've seen it too many times to ignore it now. And that's why I'm going to become a Satanist.

I must concede, for the good of humankind, that my handwriting is nearly illegible. My 6's look like G's, my e's disappear, showing up randomly at the end of "the," and then only as a squiggle. My m's, n's and r's are indistinguishable. Often I have no idea what I've written as a reminder to myself: am I supposed to see the doctor, or wash the car? I have no understanding of my own mind. What evil lurks in my heart? The Shadow would know, if he could read chicken-scratch.

So I shall devote myself to the propagation of evil. I will trip old ladies as they cross the street, and beat up cub scouts. I must fulfill my destiny as revealed through my handwriting, a clear indication that my life is meant to do Lucifer's work. The very sight of my grocery lists will make grown men weep, and clergy hose themselves off with holy water. My personal checks, abominations every one, will be used to purchase diabolical utensils, like sporks, and pentagram branding irons.

No one may understand what I've written, but now the world can be sure that whatever appears on my stationery shall be missives from the depths of Hell. Or maybe just a to-do list. A vile, odious to-do list.

One throw, and now the Cannon is the Messiah

You weak people may be ready to forgive and forget, but not me. Rexy throws one bomb, and now it's all "I don't care if you didn't call, I'll still let you do that thing that I thought was uncomfortable but you seem to be fixated upon." Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and...something about a king, maybe? Sayings are for losers.

Bears finally pull one out, although it was against the Raiders, so it's not like it was against a real team. 6-3 with 5 minutes left? This is AMERICAN football, not the other kind, the one with the shin guards. And yes, even though this is a win, I shall be ripping the team. Why? Because I'm a bitter old man with nothing else to do?

Perhaps. But I still wanted to see the Great Orton Neckbeard, so the Cannon can kiss my ass.

Don't you think we're good now either, Cedric. I know it's a little above your average, but a legitimate running back should be able to gain 100 yards on 29 carries. 76 yards? I've mowed more yards than that in a summer!

Zing! I totally got you! Did you see that take down! Oh man, what a great insult! Ha ha! Mowing the lawn is fun!

Oh, and Norman Mailer died. As the author of theThe Naked and the Dead, which suprisingly contains no necrophilia, and Prisoner of Sex, which also isn't about what you think it is, he would have been surprised to hear that it was old age, and not some shrewish, plain-Jane feminists that finally did him in. He didn't hate women, per se. He just didn't want them talking, or writing, or voting.

I once worked for a guy who looked like Norman Mailer. And he had a lot of books...maybe it WAS Norman Mailer! Weird...

Also, I know exactly how long it's been since I last posted. I'll post when I damn well please, and you'll beg for more.

Not two entries?!? Are you worthy? Eh, maybe

I try not to do multiple posts in a single day. Partially because I don’t want to exhaust the last three or four ideas I have before the end of September, but also because I’m fantastically lazy. But once in a while something comes along that demands immediate attention.

Right now is one of those times.

Ballooned Brother-in-law reminded me of this over the neverending New Year festivations, and it is incumbent upon me to share it with you.

As you may know, I read excessively. Really, it’s obnoxious, and it throws off the national average. I’m trying to cut down, but then, well, then this sort of thing happens.

I refer to Ant Farm, by smart guy Simon Rich. His dad’s Frank Rich, and he got a two book deal before he graduated from Haaaaaaa-vaaahhd (sorry, Boston U insecurity requires me to refer to it that way any time it comes up).

2 excerpts have already been published in the New Yorker ("The Wisdom of Children" and "Hey, Look"), so you know it’s hyper-literate, and pretentious and quite possibly paddlin’-worthy. But it also happens to be hilarious. The kind of funny that makes you want to walk directly to your car and slam your head repeatedly in the driver’s-side door, if only so you might lose, via concussion, the knowledge that you’ll never write something so good. It makes me want to hunt this Simon guy down and punch him in the nads, then apologize profusely and buy him round after round of drinks.

Like Demetri Martin, he is a comedy wolf in indie-geek sheep’s skinny jeans.

So kudos, Simon. And damn you straight to hell. But mostly kudos.