Daviad Foster Wallace died and all I did was wear a lousy bandana.

The first real post.

It seems a first post should be so exciting, dynamic, interesting; (Jesus I spent over a year between starting all this and mustering the gumption to post some writing that fatefully, no one will EVER read) something to grab hold of this phantom intersoul audience,  to wriggle these vaporious echos in to their corporal, pimpled, dim, fantastic selves. Instead all I have is an overwhelming sense to feign empathy for a man whose works I've sparcley read, whom I never took the time to see lecture and whose vocabulary consistantly assured me that I know nothing of my own language.

First off, top of my DFW list is Everything and More: A Compact History of Infinity, detailing the long and troubled trail of our misunderstandings of the infinte.

"What did I learn?", a great deal, the most amusing being that the great powerful and mighty ancient Rome contributed nothing to either the study of the infinte or mathematics in general. Don't know why but that's what truly stuck.

Also in my trusty, ever-ready DFW reading list is Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, a collection of short stories, and interviews with the humorously disturbed.

Enough commmercial, onto the tender meat nearer the to the bone.

David Foster Wallace shaped my belief in challenging the reader at every moment, and I believe shared a common feeling of inundation: with the world at large, the information obtainable, and the emotional stresses all those around you fabricate. A sense that at some unforseen core, simplicity in all things is merely equivalance.