Sunday 14 September 2008

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Head of the tiny pack

Late last night, after returning home a little hazy following a fun night out at an east London pub with karaoke and an odd mixture of ageing locals, including some fine singers, and younger, cooler non-locals trying to decide whether they were enjoying things ironically or authentically or whether it mattered so long as they were enjoying things, I heard that the author David Foster Wallace had committed suicide.


In Misc on 14 September 2008. 3 comments. Permalink

14 Sep 2008 at Twitter

  • 12:38am: Walking home through Shoreditch, almost wishing I was young again.
  • 01:09am: Fuck. David Foster Wallace is dead. Bad way to end a good night. Ugh. Jesus.
  • 01:21am: Later this morning I will wake up and won't believe tonight I saw someone karaoke to Crazy Frog or that David Foster Wallace hanged himself.
  • 12:30pm: Wedding plans developing and, thankfully, greatly simplifying. I felt horribly like a child making lists of their "best friends".
  • 01:59pm: Carluccio's lunch of livers hitting the spot. Mmm.
  • 06:39pm: Cocking, COCKING Thunderbird. Drag an attachment onto the Desktop and it replaces anything with the same name. Buggery buggery bugger.

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