Is it finally safe to make my return?
Who can say? I have many, many enemies, and journalism has changed significantly since I last published. Why, I remember the days where publishing an article simply required drugging Leon Weisentaler’s Bergamot Sparkler so that you could slip your copy into the upcoming issue of The New Republic unnoticed. Now, though, now you have to send a pitch to a junior features editor named Madison or Noah who lives in Flatbush and is filled with opinions on LCD Soundsystem. It’s disgusting, but I suppose it is progress.
My enemies are numerous and many are still counted among the living. Candice Bergen has never forgiven me since I threw a drink in her face at the Murphy Brown finale party, thinking that she was actually one of her father’s horrifying anti-communist puppets. Graydon Carter? Well, let’s just say that some men aren’t secure enough in their masculinity to be repeatedly referred to as “a semi-effeminate lump of mid-Atlantic banality” in the pages of his own magazine, that I had scrawled in the pages and sent back to him, while engulfed in a particularly potent mescaline haze. Joni Mitchell? Our love affair that one winter on the isle of Andros, in the Cyclades, sustained and furthered her career by inspiring her best album and song (Wild Horses Run Free and “Sex Kills”, respectively), but when I refused to be her common-law bride she smashed a bottle of rose water on the credenza and said she’d kill me with her single overgrown fingernail if she ever saw me again.
But I cannot hide in the shadows any longer, not while the other New Journalists die, or write about eating grated rhino penis for VICE, or continue to live as a shambling zombie as Tom Wolfe does. Now more than ever, the world needs edgy, iconoclastic journalists such as myself to rip the curtain open and reveal that behind the stage of the world there are no competent stagehands and union technicians, but rather swarms, swarms of angry locusts! And the locusts are eating the grains that were left behind the stage, the very grains that represent the very fabric of society in this very metaphor! This, and this alone, is my duty.
So I shall return, writing exclusively under contract for Over Easy Airwaves, which has been explained to me by my editor Nicholas Tristan as the modern-day equivalent in both relevancy and decadence as The New Yorker during the Roaring Twenties (This is untrue. We are a small comedy vertical based out of Toronto that is only paying Mr. Darcy a small but fair stipend per article, and we have refused every one of his numerous requests to expense ketamine to the company. -ed). Oh, the stories I will be able to tell on this new and invigorating platform! I am pulsating and undulating with excitement to be able to make new enemies -- perhaps Thom Yorke needs a stern talking to for spelling his first name like I do? It could certainly stand to be revealed that Bjork’s favourite television program is Roseanne, and she thinks that Johnny Galecki is a “real dreamboat”. I understand that Kanye West is very eccentric and off-putting at times, so how will he deal with me writing about his collection of Sumerian erotic poetry? And how will Rita Ora’s career be affected by my bombshell series of articles on her ideological closeness to Gaullist Euro-realist movements in France?
Journalism is dead. New Journalism is dead. Post-Journalism is dead. Long live Neo-Journalism, colourful and decadent and full of references to the erectile dysfunctions of celebrities! There is no prince too powerful, no politician too connected, no star too adorkable for me to skewer and satirize, all while surrounding myself in the world of decadence at Over Easy Airwaves (Again, I must remind the reader that we have not provided Mr. Darcy with any ketamine, and that all Over Easy employees have been instructed to not initiate any contact with Mr. Darcy that is not immediately related to any of the articles he will be writing - ed.), and I promise that I shall never censor myself!
My first assignment is the Toronto Winter Brewfest, where myself and a close associate will discover just what is lurking at the heart of Toronto’s beer scene. Could it be assassins? A new experimental drug that makes your limbs fall off, but that’s appealing to you as a teen? Perhaps it will be banal, an example of the deleterious suburbanization of our cities. Who can say?
I shall see you then. To all but my enemies, I bid you a wonderful day. And if Joni Mitchell asks, I did indeed drown on the set of Speed 2: Cruise Control as was stated in that telegram she was sent. Goodbye, for now.