As today is an eventful day, that being the birthday of not only the author of the book "Fight Club," which is a totally creepy movie that makes you simultaneously want to run and hide and to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, a movie that has a great soundtrack and reminds me of some of my favorite people, but also the birthday of W.H. Auden, and most importantly my favorite author of all time, David Foster Wallace, who penned the imposing Infinite Jest, I felt it fitting to write my post today a la DFW, that is to say, one unending sentence that seems to go round and round a hundred million little things while at the same time getting nowhere, the funny thing being that even writing this way reminds me of that summer that I spent lost in the pages of IF, feeling a strange bond to a young tennis star, but only because I had taken tennis lessons for a few months as a little kid, as it seems everyone did in the eighties, and as such coming to the realization that I had no reason to feel such bond as a) previously stated, I had no bent for tennis b)I was not addicted to cannabis c) I did not have any little brother to speak of, let alone one who was half my height and looked like a dinosaur due to his unusual birth defects, including t-rex arms and homodontia, an affliction that I confess would be kind of cool to have, much cooler than having t-rex arms, which as you can tell by watching the preview to the latest Pixar film on apple.com would be a real pain in the bottom, especially when you're trying to grab something that's retreated into a remote corner, and for the size of your head and the positioning of your body makes it impossible for your teensy arms to extend far enough to grab your subject and make whatever escape you see fit.

End transmission.