I try not to go off-topic too much, but I've gotta this time out of a broken heart. David Foster Wallace, one of the favorite writers in the Extreme Craft household, hanged himself last night. Both Claire and I are longtime DFW readers...in fact, I've been re-reading some of his articles this month. I once picked up a copy of Everything and More, a Brief History of Infinity, his book-length treatise on the number zero, but it melted my mind into a puddle halfway through the prologue, and I had to put it away. His essays and novels were completely brilliant--I just reread his account of John McCain's 2000 presidential campaign, which is (obviously) as relevant today as it was when it was written.
I'm too sad to write some smarmy faux DFW long-sentenced prose, so I'll refer you to "David Foster Wallace and Gromit" by Michael Ward. I'm off to pour a container of tennis balls on the curb.
