I regularly open up my browser and search for new writings by David Foster Wallace. If not by him, then about him. I even visit his fan site which has not been updated since early the early 00s; you can never be too sure.

I remember when Good People appeared on the New Yorker website - that was most recently; also when I found a list of interviews, including the one for Salon that comes up continuously on Web searches; there was the piece he wrote about Roger Federer for the New York Times; and the Infinite Jest companion I found on some university class website that helped me when I went back recently to read pages 400-500 of IJ.

About to walk off to the toilet at work - something else I do regularly - I looked up the New Yorker, to print out some reading material for the sitting. Lo I was delighted to see the picture of DFW, one I have never seen before as a matter of fact. I printed out the single page article, which I thought was some introduction to go along with the three short stories that were on the site; all stories I had already known and read before.

I walked past my boss' office, exchanged a few words, then by the kitchen sink to drop off my empty afternoon glass of tea, and in to the toilet behind the door on the right. I sat down. Unfolded the printed paper. And read:

David Foster Wallace, who died on September 12th, at the age of forty-six,

Was this a joke? Was someone trying to be DFW-like and take satire to its limits? I read it again.

David Foster Wallace, who died on September 12th

It is September 18. I must've missed this. I must've missed. I miss.