Remy Stern, where are you?
was a little ray of sunshine in my otherwise dank dark pit of solitary despair. I miss your elequence with language, your razor-sharp, downtown kinda wit. Your were hip without even trying. That's the best kind of hip, Remy. Where have you gone? Why have you gone? Are you secretly chained to a Gawker media laptop, kowtowing before the ruthless Mistress Denton
into service journalism from some bloated
spreading your wit and your hipness like Marmite spread to thinly on a mammoth, never ending pretoated slap of Melba? Or have you been dispatched to one of the Gawker media titles as Oscar night, toilet exit, editorial seat filler
? You have even gone absent from New York Magazine's
occasional freelance. Where are you, Remy? Where are you?
Oh. There you are
. From Denton to Roshan. From Lucifer to Mammon. Welcome back, Remy. Welcome home.