Saturday, June 18, 2005
Remy Stern, where are you?
Dear Remy,
New Yorkish 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 behemoth multi-national 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.
New Yorkish 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 behemoth multi-national 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.
