I can't tell you how sorry I am, friends, for this neglect. I feel like the divorced dad who thinks he's cool because every once in awhile he shows up with a bunch of Nerf footballs and lets his kids swear and eat Wendy's. This last piece of absentee blogging is all my fault. Yes, I'm busy at work, and in the midst of transitioning into a new position, but that is no excuse. The fact of the matter is that I fell out of a rhythm with my entries, and couldn't easily get back into it.

It's sad, obviously, because this blog has left an indelible mark on my work, and I love being able to have conversations through said blogosphere with everyone in our little handsome corner of the writing world. But, like that 90s beer commercial, you have to know when to say when -- and my when has arrived. Besides, it's not fair to you, the faithful conversationalists and commenters who have kept me entertained on the internette for all these years, to read something that I'm not able to put the necessary time, effort, and incredibly engaging music videos into. 

If you'll allow me to get nostalgic for a paragraph, I've grown up through this publication. I was 22 when I first started putting my stupid sarcastic rants in WD, 23 when I got the column, and 25 when I started the blog. Back in the day, I literally had no idea what I was doing -- meaning, I didn't know what was going to come from this urge to write, or how I could possibly make it into something that would allow me to have On Demand Cable, distressed status jeans and an iPhone.

But looking back, that's the way it has to be. As i've said before, such is the beauty and beast of the writing world. Unlike lawyering, doctoring, and dentistying, there is no set path, no specific road that predicts success. And success itself is something that can also be measured on huge and varying levels. For instance, I still need to rewrite my book. This is something I need to focus on this year. Because until I publish that, I know, at heart, I can't truly think of myself as a writer. But that doesn't mean that I'm not happy with where my career has gone. In two months, I will be moving to San Francisco to become West Coast Editor of Thrillist, overseeing our west coast cities, and working specifically with the words of the publication, and that's exactly where I want to be. Not to mention that my girlfriend, who is a native SFer and works for Google, told me that her two winters getting to know Boston's fickle, angry and arrogant Mother Nature were "miserable" and if she doesn't "get sun soon" she will "die of scurvy, or whatever the hell people die of when they don't get sunlight."

So, friends, as I'm leaving to go to the West Coast, a place where it does not snow, and hails delicious burritos 12 months a year, it feels like it's the right time to say goodbye to this chapter of the story. But that doesn't mean that you and I are done, no sir. Aside from haunting your dreams, I will be sure to keep you apprised of whereever my rants end up next, the things I publish, and, when the book finally gets wrapped and comes out, you're all invited to my studio apartment mansion in SF for a personalized book reading with interactive commentary, juggling, and random trivial pursuit question digressions. And Tom, you, Genevieve, and Kim Kardashian can trade off men and women voices for the book on tape. I know, I know, you're welcome.

Anyway, I can't personally thank all of the people who've meant so much to me on this blog, but if you've ever made a comment, and it wasn't negative and about how much I suck at writing or basketball, thank you. Thanks for being here, thanks for reading, and thanks for even just stumbling across this whilst you searched the Internetz for hella sexy pictures of Kevin Alexander Clark to drape across your MySpace page. Frankly, I'm surprised you read this far down.

I'll leave you with a sign off from one of my non-ironic favorite songs of all time, and the second most played song of all-time on my iTunes, with 293 plays. Paul Simon wrote it, he claims, when Art Garfunkel went down to Mexico to film a movie, and he was left all alone, apparently to write music. For some reason, it seems fitting. Thanks again, friends. I love you all.

The Only Living Boy,
in New York

PS- if you feel the urge to be sad and reminisce, talk about the repercussions of coaching the East Dillon High Lions, or recommend places to buy cutlery in and around SF, you can email me at kevin [at] thrillist dot com.

I, friends, am not tech savvy. Yes, technically I have a blog, which, in 2002, would've very nearly made me a candidate for some venture capital cash money, but this is the same blog that took an entire tech team a week to explain to me how to get the ghosts of web pages past to stop deleting my posts. But now the Internette -- that crazy, sexy, unpredictable woman of the web -- is back with more demands. You see, friends, for my editorship at Thrillist, we are now expected to Tweet. In other words, your boy has entered the wild, unpredictable techno storm of Twitter. And I have no idea what I'm doing.

For those of you who don't own stock in Sun Microsystems, Twitter essentially allows you to send very quick online messages to your "followers" (friends, ex-GFs, Parole Officers, i.e., people who have some (non) compelling reason to want to see what you're doing) so that they can know what you're up to, right now! Like, right this minute. So if i was tweeting in real time, I'd say: "Writing my WD blog for the first time in a little while. So behind!!" or "Drank a moderately large amont of water today" or "Did you Spencer hit that dude on the Hills?!? Major OMG!" And for whatever reason, people read these things. And sometimes comment back. And so it goes.

From a work perspective, I understand why we need to seize upon the Twitter -- it's the hot thing going right now, the pegged jeans of 2009, and you need to be fluent across all these social networking mediums to really get at the kids, who are the key to advertising dollars, which're the key to getting a salary, which is the key to being able to afford Haagen Daaz Brown Sugar Ice Cream. But from a personal perspective, I can barely stand to read my own dream journal, let alone people's Facebook Status Updates or Tweets. I mean, I understand why people do them -- we are in the sharing age, and no thought or task or accomplishment goes unheralded, albeit via a fleeting 140 character or less post -- but still, did you need to know that I just ate six (red!) grapes and part of a Heath bar? Well then, good. I'm glad you're concerned.

In other news, after a several month drought, I'm going to have two large pieces in next month's Boston Magazine -- one about prep culture's sticky, red panted resilience in New England, and the other a back and forth with a female writer about relationships in Boston. The first piece comes nearly a year in the making, after going out last Memorial Day and dutifully recording the doings of the popped collar, whale pantaloon clad Figawi revelers on Nantucket; and the second was a series of emails that I probably should've spent more time rereading. Either way, this is totes going to give me hella topics to Tweet about.

And oh yeah -- if you are f-book friends with Ms. Internette and you want to join up on Twitter, I'm at Thrillist Boston. Get at me. And other friends, please pass your opines and experiences and other commenting gear toward the section labeled Comments. Eyes straight ahead, people.

Ain't Gonna Hurt,
Nobody

Kid N Play

There was a brilliant article in the New Yorker from March 9th about David Foster Wallace by D.T. Max titled "The Unfinished." It's hella long, but intensely interesting, and if you want to read it online, you can do so here. Anyway, the point of it is essentially that DFW was handicapped by the breadth and epic goals of his 1100 page second novel Infinite Jest, and his unfulfilled desire to top that with a new novel centered around a bunch of people working at the IRS, and the idea of boringness. To master these ideas, Wallace "took accounting classes. He studied I.R.S. publications. He enjoyed mastering the technicalities of the I.R.S. bureaucracy—its lore, mind-set, vocabulary. He assembled hundreds of pages of research on boredom, trying to understand it at an almost neurological level. He studied the word’s etymology and was intrigued to find that “bore” appeared in the language in 1766, two years before “interesting” came to mean 'absorbing.'"

Point being, Wallace got crazy into it. He immersed himself in this stuff-- and that's what is so cool and dedicated about him, and why some people are just born to be willing to do that sort of epic research that can push a cool fictional idea into amazing, realistic fiction and other people are going to write books that are pretty much about their college friends, save some serious stuff about sexual assault, and some over-extended stuff about the intense strategy sessions dans Electronic Battleship.  

But the hyper-geniusing undercut a severe depression. Dude was conflicted in intense ways, and couldn't, obviously ever shake free of the weights of intense sadness that would hold him down and eventually kill him. There is a particular portion in the article when he write a letter to Jonathan Franzen that, from a writer's standpoint, is frighteningly illuminating and illustrative of this point:
"In May, 1990, he wrote to Jonathan Franzen, with whom he had recently become friends, “Right now, I am a pathetic and very confused young man, a failed writer at 28 who is so jealous, so sickly searingly envious of you and [William] Vollmann and Mark Leyner and even David f*ckwad Leavitt and any young man who is right now producing pages with which he can live, and even approving them off some base clause of conviction about the enterprise’s meaning and end.”

It's sad, obviously, but it's also noteworthy to see that this man, this genius, who not only can casually confess areas of severe insecurity to Jonathan Franzen of all people, but actually won a MacArthur Genuis Grant, which officially labels him a genius, was crippled by some of the very same things that plague all writers: a lack of confidence, and a lack of happiness in being able to produce quality pages of work.

This kind of begs the nearly-philosophical question of whether you'd rather be less smart and self-aware but hella (NorCal shout out numero dos!) productive or mo' smart but possibly in a way that cripples your ability to feel like anything you're doing is significant. Hmmm, I probably phrased that in a way that pre-biases, but screw it: I'm in NorCal this week, and NorCal is a land devoid of biases, unless they happen to be about Sean Penn films, or burritos from anywhere but the Mission.

I await your thoughts with an enthusiasm that knows three bounds and several Joe Walsh songs.

Life's Been,
Good

Joe Walsh

Friends,

Post my little public display of reflection, I received a prompt and timely email from the new WD editor, who then quickly got to the bottom of said issue (turns out there was a miscommunication re: invoices), and together we peacefully sat down and negotiated a fantastic way out of said scenario, so that everyone feels good, and not in a Treaty of Versailles type way either, like a legitimate positive step forward.

The details that you need to know about are roughly as follows: I will be continuing on with the blog until the end of May, when I will bid WD adieu while we hold each other extra long and falsely promise that we'll hang out when we're both in NY for that thing. But until the end of May, you can count on a shiny blog entry every Tuesday full of insight, outsight, and the occasional reference to Friday Night Lights. And who knows -- by June, maybe blogs will have been rendered prehistoric by vlogs, or Twitter, or the unexpected resurgence of singing telegrams.

Thanks everyone for your support via comments, phone calls, emails, etc. I really can't tell you how much it means to me without getting cheesy, and standards of decorum and dress dictate that that's unacceptable, so you'll just have to accept this e-card.

Also, it should be noted that what I did-- posting on my blog about this matter, before talking to the company -- was not, actually, very cool. I was frustrated, and I vented said frustration via the blog, as I tend to do, but it probably could've been handled in a more tactful way, and-- as a teaching point-- I do not recommend the tactic of public frustration as the quickest way to a solution. Although, if you happen to be writing a blog called This Writer's Life, it probably seems like a great idea at the time.

Now, if everyone would please pass their pitchforks and torches forward, we can get out of here.

Wicked, Twisted,
Road

Reckless Kelly

Hi, friends. 
You may be wondering why I haven't posted on my blog in several weather cycles. I would wonder, if I were you, because you seem like such a concerned reader, and you've always loved the Internet. Well, normally I would harp on about how my deadlines have been strenuously entrenching me with posting block, and how I recently got 16 stitches in my chin and lost two teeth in a basketball-related accident, and that would be (scarily) true. But the real reason that I haven't written anything of note in nearly a month is because of an economic maxim no doubt affecting everyone in journalism: I haven't been paid. In, like, a long time.

When I left the column-writing world, I was asked to retain my blog, partially because that was where most of my writing was done anyway (save 6 1200 word columns a year), and more likely, because blogging is a great bit cheaper in a words-for-the-money type way, and my readers tended to skew younger, or more interweb savvy, and thus would be affected less if I was still allowed to riff on procrastination and post Ting-Tings music videos. It seemed to be a no-lose scenario; I'd still get to do my business, and they would still be able to retain my 18 readers, at a significantly cheaper price. We had some ground rules -- I was to post on Tuesday mornings, keep to writing-world related topics, and avoid Polish Youtube videos of the intro to Tailspin.

And so it went.

But then a weird thing happened. And by weird, I obviously mean bad: I didn't get my negotiated payment(z). Like, at all.

This puts me in an uncomfortable position, obviously, because I do love posting to the blog and I really only do it because I have such sweet, cool, and aesthetically talented readers, and the pay is, admittedly, pretty nominal, but still -- you've got to draw the line somewhere, right? I mean, if I'm not getting paid, then I might as well just post to my own blog, and throw up all the links to old Disney Afternoon intros that I could ever need, along with a bunch of hilarious poems that I've been holding for special occasion, and several links to my Facebook photo albums from Europe, and the things that I would Tweet about if I knew how to use Twitter. But then again, I'm lazy, so really--who knows?

Maybe it's all a big misunderstanding. Maybe my checks were getting sent to and cashed by my Mom, who is using them to buy old seasons of 227 and Designing Women. Or maybe I actually got fired, but I'm like that dude in Office Space who still comes into work, just because he's not sure where else to go.

Anyway... this, friends, is where I'm at right now. I'm sorry that I haven't been posting, I really am, and it would've pained me to give you some fake excuse about my over-usage of calisthenics. You're better than that.


Old,
Enough

The Raconteurs

Note: Apologies on the wild swings in blog posting time. I'm going to get back on the Tues or Wed posting schedule, just as soon as I'm not overwhelmed with deadlines and Celtic-Laker overtime disappointments. Pinky swear. 

The idea of meta is the whole idea of thinking about the fact that you're thinking about something. It means "about its own category." So what I do, because I write about writing, is pretty damn meta. But, apparently, not nearly meta enough. Because right now I'm-- as we mutually connect via the Webz-- doing a rewrite of my Boston Globe Magazine piece, and I kind of think it'd be a good idea to keep writing the blog as I'm editing and rewriting, keeping a commentary of those changes. I have no idea why I want to do it, but did Columbus have any idea what he was doing when he convinced the Spanish Queen or King or whomever to let him sail to India via a shortcut? Of course not. But Columbus was kind of a d**k like that.

Let's get to it:

First issue-- I've been looking for another word for flower for the past half hour. Nothing seems to do it, though. Inflorescence doesn't really work. Perennial, annual, blossom, bud, vine-- Jeez, Thesaurus.com-- have you no good word for me to work with?

Second Issue-- How much of this flower buyer's bio do I put in right here? I'm already way over on my word count, but someone needs to know that this Dutch dude wrote a complete and detailed guide to everything about the cultivation of roses for his "masterpiece", as he calls it. Well... I guess you guys know now. Spread the word!

Third Issue-- I just spent twenty minutes actively looking for ways to talk more about myself in the piece. I guess that's not an issue, more like a statement.

Fourth Issue-- I need to discuss "the hierarchy" of the company, and do it in the context of how the offices are set up in the design studio. Yeah, I know, I don't know what that really means either! I think a few more well placed "I observed"s will safely put that issue to rest.

Fifth Issue-- I need to describe something that happened in Holland, that I didn't actually see with my own eyes, and only heard about through lots of questions from a guy who speaks great English, but, you know, sometimes uses terms that confuse me, like "masterpiece" when he probably means "thesis". I'm also not sure I'm confident that the farmer in questions name is Gerard.

Fifth Issue, resolved-- It is Gerard!

Sixth Issue -- The hed and the dek (two more termz!) need work. The hed is the title and the dek is essentially a few lines explaining the essence of the story-- and both sound like they're blurbing a Lifetime movie, as they stand right now, which is unacceptable because I fancy myself edgy!!

...

I still have no ideas, even after spending 15 minutes looking through a Rhyming Dictionary. I instant message with the Big Cat and he comes back with: "The Leaning Flower of Pisa??" I immediately sign off.

Ok, I'm giving up. I need to sleep. So if anyone has any ideas about what I should title a piece that involves a flower traveling across the Atlantic, and being followed all through its entire life -- send your comment to my pager, and be sure and put in 911, so that I know it's important when I'm calling you back from my payphone.

Significantly less cracked out posts to follow. 

Rhythm of,
The Night

DeBarge

If you cared to notice, friends, last week I did(n't) accomplish two of my goals; one of which was to play Ice Hockey on Nintendo using the time-tested strategy of two fat guys, and two skinny guys on my squad, and the other was writing a sweet, sweet entry for this blog. Apologies need to be distributed according to weight, height, and comment capacity, but since I can't physically touch you, all I can try and do is touch your soul with this e-card.

Seriously though, that kind of absence is not something I'm proud of, and I don't plan on doing it again until the summer, when I can run nearly naked through the streets in a sunbonnet, sipping Dark N Stormy's out of a Camelbak, not draped in beaver pelt pajamas, and not listening to the weatherman use phrases like, "a white, wintery, altogether dreadful, dreadful day tomorrow."

This week is somewhat of a lull before an intense writing storm. I'm waiting for edits to come back on the Globe Magazine piece I complained about last time, I'm building up an interview list to strategically plan a Boston Mag piece coming out in May, and I'm actually ahead at my day job with Thrillist.

What I should do, of course, is take advantage of said lull to get in some desperately needed time with my novel re-write, but that just feels like it won't happen, mainly bc I'm so focused on other things right now that not only can I not see the forest for the trees, I can't even definitively say I see any trees. So where does that leave us, friends? 

I'll tell you exactly where it leaves us -- in just the right frame of mind to get our education on about some sweet journalism termzz!! Here's the deal: because I spent several thousand euros on an education in journalism, I regularly throw journalism shorthand into the mix of my daily conversations. Not only does this annoy the people trying to make my turkey wraps, but it makes me sound confusing, and possibly insane... which is why it's so damn fun! Now I know most of you smart, aesthetically pleasing, modestly well-off readers already know what these things are, but just in case you don't, let me break down a few of my faves so that you, too, can use your journalism shorthand to pick up potential love partners in hot clubs, or, better yet, social networking sites.  Added bonus: I'm experimenting with changing font colors!

TK: To Come, meaning more info will be added at a later date. I use this term at least seven times a day, mostly to signal to my editor that I'm too lazy to Google something. Popular usage: Casey lost his virginity when he was TK years old, which seems weirdly young.
Hilarious verbal usage: "I seriously don't know if I DVR'd The City, probably because I've had like TK beers."

Lede: Not to be confused with the Belgian municipality of the same name, the lede is the intro, or "lead" to a piece, and can be a straight newsy style telling of the biz at hand: hard lede; or a creative super awesome never-been-done-before move that puts you right into the heart of the story and immediately signifies to the reader that you spent money on post-graduate work, use the term "mettle," and enjoy Tom Wolfe's early journalism: soft lede. 
Popular usage: (often in a note to my editor) This isn't the best lede, but this is the one I wrote.
Hilarious verbal usage, usually following someone taking forever to get to the point of a boring story: Wow. You really buried the lede on that one, didn't you?!?

Nut Graf: One or more paragraphs that explain why exactly you're supposed to want to stop texting your cousin to read this story; a considerable source of angst when you really have no idea why you're writing a story, even after 4000 words and several expensed meals. Often shortened to "the nut."
Popular usage: (often in a note from my editor to me) Yes, I understand you think a rhino going to the bathroom is hilarious. I get that. But what is the nut of this piece, exactly? And no, James isn't going to expense your second trip to the Franklin Park Zoo.
Hilarious verbal usage: Um... nevermind.

Comments should be placed in an airtight container, and stored in a dry, safe setting.

That's Not My,
Name

The Ting Tings

The funny thing about this blog entry, friends, is that I shouldn't be writing it. I have a deadline that is two days past its expiration date, it is 11:35 PM at night, and I've just settled in to finally bang out the final piece to this story that I need to turn in before an editor I haven't really worked with in the past (new magazine!) decides that I'm not worth the (modestly!) spectacular and wisely worded self-deprecating jokes in the piece.

Perhaps the scarier thing is not that I need to switch over to Word and get cracking or I am seriously regretting the two drinks I had with dinner, but that my freelance schedule over the next month is downright frightening. I have agreed to do a Red Sox package due at the end of the month, I have a huge 4,000 word piece that's sort of been waiting in the wings all year that will be due end of February, I have tentatively agreed to do some sort of sitdown discussion piece about the dating, relationships, and the social scene in Boston, and all of this is in the next two(ish) months... And that's on top of my day job editing, writing, and researching daily pieces AND, most importantly, writing this lovely and vent-worthy blog. Whew. Until I re-read it, it felt really good to get that stress quantified.

But you know me, friends. I'm not really alive until I am bitching about the stresses surrounding my writing, an infliction that makes my girlfriend alternate between stressing for me, and actively looking for creative ways to disown me. But-- at least, I think-- the stress of the deadline invigorates my creativity. It gets me fired up. It makes me reach deep down inside and, um, write mostly because I have no other choice. So we've come to that point. And this is my plan: I am going to fire up some caffeine-heavy Twinings English Breakfast Tea.  I am going to slay like six cups of it. No milk. No sugar (substitute). Just f-ing straight. Whatever, I was in a frat. Then I'm going to write the Big Cat an email/e-card wishing him a happy birthday, but not in any sort of earnest manner, because we are male and in our 20s, and that would scare him into thinking I was terminally ill. Then I'm going to re-read where I left off, get confused, glance through my notes, and quickly play a game of Ms. Pac Man on my iGoogle page. Then I'm going to put some Vicks Vapo Rub on my nose, because it hurts from the negative 86 degree (Kelvin!) Boston weather. Then I shall start to write.

It's a system, friends. And it damn well (better!) work. Stay tuned to your regularly scheduled comments to see how this actually plays out. Now chillax to one of my top 7 favorite music videos of 1994, directed by that dude Michel Gondry, the French guy who did Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and that movie with Mos Def and Jack Black that I told everyone I wanted to see, even though I didn't.

It's Lucas With,
The Lid Off

Lucas

Apologies for the 24 hour delay, friends. I spent all of yesterday battling through a return to work that included responding to (roughly!) 23 work emails and (definitely less than!) 4 phone calls, and then made it a priority to attend the redesign party for Boston Magazine. After TK years (eight? thirty?), BoMag totally redesigned itself, and threw a party celebrating that fact, which included samplings of foods from a ton of ridiculously upscale restaurants around Boston -- including a butter soup from No. 9 Park, which satisfied my caloric needs for 2009. Pathetically, that's my excuse.

But enough about my eating habits. January -- an underrated candidate for worst weather'd month of the year in Boston -- is the time when people sit inside and reflect about how they're going to do things differently outside. I have 19 goals for the newest year. Three(ish) involve writing:

1. Finish the d*$% book. We don't need to talk about this. This needs to happen. This needs to happen soon. This needs to happen so my life can progress and not resemble a particularly extensive writing version of Groundhog Day. I think Thomas the Tank Engine said it best when he said, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can... buuuttt my engine is kind of tired due to my other jobs, and I definitely don't dig getting up early, especially when I'm wearing these cashmere socks."

2. Put a story in a prominent national magazine. WD aside, I have pretty much remained a regional magazine writer for the last five years, content to sit on the beanbag chair of comfort, zoning out with the blinds shut and my iHome (Christmas present!) set to that catchy version of "Devil Town" from the third season of Friday Night Lights. No more. All I ask this year is one story -- one solid story in a national mag. That's all. Just some sort of forward tilt there. Frankly, I don't understand why it hasn't happened yet, especially with all the Sweet Query Letters I've showcased on this blog.

3. Get my a$$ promoted. See how I put those dollar signs in place of the s's? That's because promotions mean mo' money (also, we're vaguely admonished for swearing) and it means you're doing something right. I guess. I wouldn't actually know, seeing how this is my first full year of gainful and traditional(ish) employment, but I think that's the gist of that Rich Dad, Poor Dad book.

That's it. Three simple, yet powerful goals for the year that I will celebrate my tenth reunion with my high school class -- the first actual reunion where people sort of look different, have real jobs, and aren't even embarrassed that they no longer remember which superlative you won.

Anyway, this is not all about me. It's 78% about me. The other 22% needs to be filled with your own writing, personal, work, or pop culture goals for the 20th anniversary of the first time I heard a New Kids on the Block song. Donny D's on the back up, indeed.

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You spoil me.

I was living in,
a Devil Town

Glen Hansard