On (Insert Sad Boyz II Men Song)

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.