an industrial area zoned for blight

People that I read and respect are distraught and upset over the death of David Foster Wallace. I had the decency to look puzzled while reading the heartfelt memorials, comfortable with my ignorance. I hate being the person that only takes an interest in people after they die. I don’t like reading about iTunes sales skyrocketing after someone croaks; posthumous success depresses me. I have a weird concept of ownership with the artists I enjoy (the kind that makes you resent any success they have because you have to share them more). This ownership can also make you childish with other fans, comparing the dates your first encountered said artist, gloating over the ones you beat, deferring to the ones you don’t, wishing for an experience similar to hearing the Beatles rehearse for the first time or proofreading the Bible for a friend. And if that artist should die, your grief is real and you resent the people picking up the artist’s work for the first time: soulless, grave-robbing wretches.

And so, when I came across Mark Morford’s eulogy with links to Wallace’s work, I didn’t want to seem overeager to read his work, like I am encroaching on the ownership of true believers , but one of his famous essays is Shipping Out: On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise. Having just returned from an Alaska cruise, I couldn’t resist. It is delightful. Now I will probably go buy Infinite Jest like the soulless, grave-robbing wretch that I am.

*edit*
This passage describes an identical conundrum Villi and I had about overtipping our awesome cabin steward, Francisco, and undertipping our stupid, useless headwaiter Paul (who could never remember if he visited our table already).

Tibor's ambition is someday to return to his native Budapest for good and with his Nadir savings open a sort of newspaper-and-beret type sidewalk cafe that specializes in something called cherry soup. With this in mind, two days from now in Fort Lauderdale I'm going to tip the Tibster way more than the suggested $3 U.S. per diem, balancing out my total expenses by radically undertipping both our liplessly sinister maitre d' and our sommelier, an unctuously creepy Ceylonese guy the whole table has christened the Velvet Vulture.

Unfortunately, Royal Caribbean has instituted pre-paid gratuity packages that pre-define how much each person gets. The night we put our envelopes together, we, regrettably, had no extra cash for Francisco. I'm sorry, Francisco.