Sunday morning and no time.
We were up between 3 and 5 taking a little boy to the emergency room after he woke gasping with a closing, clanking windpipe. All's well, but in those situations you have to imagine what would happen if it got 50% worse in the next hour (rather than 50% better, as was the outcome).
He's fine, if a little cranky. Me too. Made the more so by waking up to read the New York Times and seeing that David Foster Wallace hanged himself yesterday. I don't know why we're more sad/irritated when a good writer or singer or whatever tops themselves, when hundreds (thousands?) of anonymous others do the same every day, but there it is.
In a little piece of post-modern shtick that he might have approved of, every article in the online Times has a 'this article sponsored by' box and the page with his death notice, the notice of his hanging, was brought to you this morning by a new movie coming out about now: Choke.
There are never that many good ones around, but we just lost one of our very best.