Tony Scott killed himself. Tony Scott made a bunch of awesome movies that kicked ass, lived the A list Hollywood life in the 80’s where he presumably did tons of blow with Don Simpson, made millions and millions of dollars, lived in a nice house, had nice cars, and not one single piece of pussy on the entire face of planet Earth was off limits to him. Late into his life he was still an A list director, the hardest job to get besides President of the United States, and a place in life that thousands upon thousands of people struggle and fail to get to and almost nobody is able to sustain for so many decades. He produced TV shows that will continually crank out sums of money so vast that no one could ever spend it, forever. He worked for his whole life with his brother. Most of us can’t stay that close with our families and wish we could. He jumped off a bridge.*
Heath Ledger killed himself. Maybe by accident, but he took a fistful of pills that any amateur knows you should never combine, trying to get to sleep. He was unbelievably handsome and had just starred in a movie that would go on to be one of the biggest blockbusters in the world, in which he completely owned every frame he was in and the ones he wasn’t in you wish he had been. He was married to your personal Hollywood crush and had a beautiful baby with her. Or maybe it was a plumb ugly baby, who knows, but he was young and rich and acclaimed and talented and had a beautiful wife and family– he had EVERYTHING. Still he either did a bunch of coke or just couldn’t sleep at night and took a bunch of pills that he knew could kill him.
David Foster Wallace killed himself. He had tried before, to hang himself, and apparently had a change of heart and managed to reach up and loosen his neckrope. So this time he tied his hands behind his back and walked into the noose. Then he kicked a lever and tigers were released into the room and it was set on fire. David Foster Wallace was worshiped as a genius not only by critics and highfalootin New York types but also by every single one of the six per cent of college students who actually read books for leisure. He was the Michael Jordan of literature, easily pulling off brilliant moves so far beyond any of his peers that they had to despair at their own ineptitude. He made every other writer in the world look like F. Murray God Damn Abraham in AMADEUS. If your girlfriend read books, she desperately wanted to be going out with David Foster Wallace instead of you. But he hung himself. Twice.
Point being, whatever your dreams are, that you work for and struggle for or maybe even just pine for while doing nothing—whatever the thing is that you think will make you happy, lots of people who have it are either fucking killing themselves or turning to the hardest of hard drugs just to feel normal. Meanwhile the fat jerkoff driving the ’95 Ford Aerostar and heading back from his Walmart gig to bone his hideous obese wife is smiling his ass off. The thing you think is going to make you happy is not going to make you happy.
So what is?
Going out to the park and hearing “ratatatatatatat,” and spotting a woodpecker methodically scampering up a pine tree. The way his little head cocks, listening for grubs. His precise and measured movements—little hops up the tree trunk, quartering the bark so as not to miss anything. His plumage. Black and white, crazy patterns, with a little red head. This is why I don’t kill myself. Fucking woodpeckers. Hummingbirds. A nice sunset. I will probably not fulfill my lifelong desire to impregnate Michelle Williams but the fucking woodpecker is enough. You have to know how to see these things and let them remind you that you have a soul. You pull that off, you can eat shit every day and still not blow your brains out.
*Oh, fuck, turns out Tony Scott had inoperable brain cancer. Forget everything I said about Tony Scott; you get that news, jumping off a bridge is legit. Let’s swap him out for Dash Snow, the good looking young artist and photographer with a fuckload of very old inherited money who had a career taking polaroids of his hard-partying friends that would get exhibited at the Whitney Museum. He also jerked off on canvas and sold it and got famous. He had a beautiful (or plumb ugly) young daughter and his cock resembled a blind cave fish from never being outside a gorgeous teenage art groupie. Still, he couldn’t stay off heroin and OD’d.
(EDIT) Per Wikipedia, Tony Scott actually did NOT have inoperable brain cancer, contrary to rumors. Go back and unread the paragraph about Dash Snow, and re-insert the information about Tony Scott into the beginning of the piece in your mind.
delicioustacos 
*SylviaSarah throws giant internet panties at DT*
The “giant” part of that comment is disturbing.
Really? Because I meant it to turn everyone on. You know, because it’s not like he’s ever made it plainly obvious, as have a lot of the male commenters, that fatties aren’t necessarily attractive.
Though I can;t say I’ve read any of his books,David Foster Wallace just seems to come off narcissistic or at least too self-absorbed. Like this one part in a Charlie Rose interview, he just drops this word that only 10% of people would probably understand, just so it seemed that he knew more than anyone else, like “fuck yea, i dropped that dime, you illiterate bitches” all under the guise or perhaps (genuinely) of a troubled gentle soul, nonetheless, it’s hard for me to reconcile it with his seemingly pretentious deliverance.
Or maybe that’s just most writers, at least him. these are not characteristics to look up to, even if they went out in some poetic way. IMO anyway.
Looks like I’m not the only one who projects. Why shouldn’t he talk/write the way he’s used to talking/writing? DT uses big words pretty frequently, do you think he’s narcissistic? If you do, then I might agree but only because I’m a firm believer in the theory of opposites and it’s only pretense if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
I don’t see why using words in ways which they are meant to be used, especially if they’re being used by someone who’s profession it is to manipulate the English language, shouldn’t be an admirable quality.
What I meant to say, I guess, DFW just comes off as pretentious. And no I don’t think DT comes off the same way. I’d have to meet him in person to recognize a vibe like that, which is what I sensed when watching his interview.
You really should check out his collections of essays and short stories. I really liked the A SUPPOSEDLY FUN THING I’LL NEVER DO AGAIN collection, and I particularly liked his story covering the McCain campaign in CONSIDER THE LOBSTER. I couldn’t read more than the first 50 pages of INFINITE JEST, but maybe I just lack patience. THE PALE KING is more accessible than INFINITE JEST, so I’d check that out first if you’re looking for a DFW novel.
by the way, i never got an anti-suicide tip here. unless you were suggesting to not kill yourself when the rest of the world see’s you as being on top as good enough reason not to. gratitude helps, i agree
goddamn fuckin shit. that link goes to an old, outdated blog. if ur interested here’s the address to the one im pimping out here: emailsfrommyfriend.wordpress.com
sorry to spam DT. thanks
borrrringgggggggg
How to kill yourself. http://suicideproject.org/2010/07/helium-hood-method/
Ironically, the person in that link sucks at killing himself. Just use a gun. Simple.
Dude, wtf? David Foster Wallace SUCKS. Not only does he suck, he’s the worst writer of the past 100 years. He’s the Anti-Bukowski. He writes likes a rabid toothless coked-out meth whore talks. Reading his shit is like driving down the highway on a perfectly sunny day with the person beside you changing the radio station every two seconds and you can’t do a damn thing about it.
At least you don’t write like him, so at least there’s that.
Have a kid. It’s awesome. You can find a woman to do that with in less than 6 months. It won’t be perfect, but it will be … awesome. And will force you to declutter emotionally, big time.
Thank you.
DFW was the Joe Satriani of literature: chops for days, boring as FUCK