This Round Of Andre Is On Me


[Mood: Unsettling mix of trouser-soiling fear and misguided hope. Song: "The One Where Everyone On 'Six Feet Under' Dies" by Sia]

Well, here it is: The Last* Post. As it's getting late and no one wants to be stuck here when there's a perfectly good happy hour at which you should be drowning your end-of-week pain, it's time for the Goodbyes, the Thank Yous, and the Boozy, Andre-Fueled Reflections:

My time here at Defamer has been a life-changing experience, in every possible sense. Before we started the site back in 2004, I'd never had a paid writing gig, and now I find myself moving on from one that I've had for nearly four years—a run that was made possible by our readers. (And by this mysterious "Nick Denton" character who continued to sign the paychecks.) So thank you, all of you, for your tips, your hilarious comments, your support, your wasted productivity. Whatever I get to do with myself from this point forward is because you kept showing up here every day. Did I just get through an entire paragraph using only sincere words? Blogging may have stolen my attention span and much of my sanity, but it seems it hasn't destroyed my ability to learn a new trick on my way out the door.

Next: nothing I can say here can possibly equal the incredibly generous thoughts that were written (and expressed in video form—um, wow), but my first words of thanks have to go to Seth Abramovitch, who for the last two and half years or so has been the best co-worker I could have ever dreamed of having: Incredibly funny, massively talented, and just generally a great person with whom to spend 12 hours a day.

Most of all, what I'm going to miss about this job is the roughly 15,000 IMs it requires to complete our daily shift down in the blogging salt-mines; in fact, I treasured our time together so much that I've already changed my screenname and put him on my AIM ban list so that we can't taint what we've shared. Gonna miss you, old pal from the Great White North, and if the INS comes calling, it wasn't me who tipped them about that green card you bought at that head shop on Melrose. And enough already with the boombox-under-my-window thing. I get it, you'll miss me. (Also: You're supposed to play "In Your Eyes," not "Sledgehammer." Fucking A, guy, what kind of teenage years did you have?)

Moving right along to the rest of our rapidly expanding Defamer Family: "Old Molly" McAleer, you've been with us since August, and already it feels like we've spent a blogging lifetime together. (In the best possible sense!) I'd apologize for dispatching you to Hollywood Blvd. with that camcorder of yours so many times, but I know you never really minded, especially once you learned to enjoy the "accidental" gropings by Handsy Spider-Man and The Pantsless Terminator. Mark Graham: We've been friends since the days when we had to press our posts into soft clay Blogger tablets with primitive, wedge-shaped implements, so it feels like we've somehow come full circle by getting to work together these past six weeks. More fun awaits you on the go-forward, obvs. "New Molly" Friedman: Good luck with this bunch of lunatics. (I also mean that in the best possible sense.) "Interns" Kerry and Megan: Thanks for sticking with me since the very beginning, and somehow lasting all the way until the end.

Those who have served time on the bridge of the Gawker Media Mothership: Nick, I'll always be grateful to you for turning over the reins to me and letting me figure this all out as I went along, asking in return only that I fear and worship you in equal measure, and answer the occasional e-mail suggesting I more fully explore the issue of John Travolta's massage etiquette . And thank you for never pressing that button that would have detonated this explosive collar. Can I take if off now? Choire Sicha: You helped me get this thing off the ground, have always been around when I've needed to bitch, and have been a great friend and mentor. Yes, the word "mentor" makes you sound old, but tough. You are much, much older than me. Much! Lockhart "Not Your Real Name" Steele: You always had my back. And now you're well on your way to being the kind of blog emperor/tyrant I always knew you could be. Also, that's not your real name. Noah Robischon: Your seemingly endless patience with me was much appreciated, and I have no idea how you continue to get your job without the assistance of clones. Fellow editors from other Gawker-brand blog titles, both past and present: It's been a lot of fun working with you. Twenty-five years hence, let's meet up in Denton's long-abandoned SoHo loft and compare war wounds.

If there's anyone else I'm forgetting, I'm sure I will remember once the hangover from this Andre-bender fades, and I promise to personally—personally!—make amends.

It's been amazing, really. Thank you all.

—Mark Lisanti

[*"Last" is a really tricky word. See you in three weeks! And one more thing: Please stop calling it "The Defamer." There's no definite article involved. There, I finally got that off my chest!]