weeds finale, entourage continues, true blood--ech!, etc

the weeds reboot worked. the best season yet, by far. the last two episodes were indicative of a season marked by an unbelievably crisp balance of seriousness and absurdity.
--again, the same place entourage is at now, which is at an equally amazing point in its run, after an equally low point.

true blood's first episode sucked. cool world, terrible episode. episode two was great...until it wasn't. in an instant you could see the series get canceled; it really is a cool idea, so that--like--totally blows and stuff.

in other rockin' news, malcolm reruns are back to the pilot, which is amazing because the show gets progressively worse from day one out. getting to the beginning after suffering through the end is like peeing at a rest-stop.

in yet more news, because i don't know what else to say, this somehow feels appropriate, albeit morbid: isn't it perfect that dave wallace committed suicide in the method most frequently discussed through the use of incorrect grammar? (and isn't the forced construction of the sentence it takes to express that idea even more perfect? any students of his that may be reading this [barnet in particular, but he wouldn't be reading this], please correct away.)

david foster wallace

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/15/books/15wallace.html?_r=1&em&oref=slogin

it took me a few days to decide if i had anything worth writing about this. ultimately, i decided: sort of. i never knew the man. i used to make up reasons to go visit the english building so i could pass the open door to his office and casually glance in, giving a head-nod if eye contact was made, but i never had a real conversation with him. i made a comment about tennis in passing once, but that's it. that's all.

i take a lot of pride in knowing he read a story of mine once, though. i wrote it about him. i'm not sure if he knew that or not, but i did. it was in application for his advanced fiction class; i wrote about how if you have large breasts no one will ever see you for anything different. that in any public place, once those breasts are noticed, that's what you'll be seen for/as. it's not to be taken seriously.
for someone who's work i'm not all that familiar with (i've read many individual stories and essays, and the first 300 pages of ij at least 4 times, but no more), i do a lot of writing about him. i think it's because a great deal of the fiction i've been writing recently has come immediately after reading something of his. he inspires. saunders, feig, delillo, and he are the only four writers i can say that of of late.

i don't know where i'm going with all of this; i'm really just getting thoughts out. the newsweek memorial talks about reading his work in retrospect, looking for clues. that upsets me. that shouldn't happen.

i rarely get upset about a death, even that of someone close to me. i think evan put it best, although i'm paraphrasing and somewhat re-interpreting here: his suicide was presumably quite logically thought out. this gives too much validity to depressing thoughts. it doesn't bode well for the world.

it's also possible that this is not the case. it's possible that his decision had nothing to do with the world outside of him, and that it says nothing about the way someone with his propensity for logic and clear thought would see the world through my eyes. it's very possible that it is that very same logic and clear thought that made this world unbearable, and not the other way around. it's possible his problems were internal, not external. or maybe my stupidity--or my unwillingness--is my salvation (i have a feeling this is the case.)

rip, dave wallace. you will be missed.

http://www.marginalia.org/dfw_kenyon_commencement.html