I’ve been spending a lot of time with David Foster Wallace’s family. So much time that his parents have started to affectionately call me “son” and basically treat me as one of their own. On the night in question, I return to their home quite late (having spent most of that night at a warehouse that Buzz has recently moved into) and am pretty much exhausted and sore. DFW’s parents live in a pretty large, pretty old, pretty Baroque castle. Very last year’s Hollywood meets ancient Celt. Anyway, according to Ma and Pa Wallace, David F. has been in his room for the last two days, crying and just generally depressed. They seem to want to pin it on him. Somehow, this is his own fault. Something that he can control. All that nonsense. Instead, we three have a quiet discussion about how the depression is something else and how we need to get him treatment. But that we might want to give him some time to pull himself out of it, too.