Fame is a 12-inch dick. Everybody wants it, nobody deserves it, few ever get it, and far fewer could withstand its relentless poundings if they did. This I have learned. This too: There are a quadrillion (retarded) theories to explain why we tend to preoccupy ourselves ceaselessly with, say, Britney Spears's peekaboo gash, the perennial ravings of Old Widow Cobain, the comings and goings and comings and comings of rich hotel sluts, reality TV stars, or even perhaps the light-fingered shenanigans of shoplifty local newscastresses (if I may dust off that old chestnut), etc. All of the theories extant—loneliness, boredom, estrangement, cultural conditioning, Saddam Hussein, vicarious living, the French—are, as I've mentioned, retarded. The truth is simple. The truth is elegant. The truth is beautiful. It is pure. This is the truth:
Gossiping is a fuckload more awesome than not gossiping.
Gossip is fun. Refusing to gossip is prissy, and rather rude. Gossiping vivifies the soul. It balances one's dosha. As Pope Abortionus the XIII declared, "To disbelieve in gossip is the greatest of all heresies." Or something. In many cultures, not gossiping is a clear act of war. Like masturbation, everyone should do it, judiciously, and as often as physically possible. This is what I know.
So I bring all of this up for a reason. This is it, kitten: Our long and celebrity-rich journey here in Celeb I Saw U has been a tremendous joy—far greater than I can say. But I've made a New Year's resolution to murder fewer trees. You must therefore kindly try to understand that I must now vanish from the global-warming-friendly tree morgue that is The Last Page of This Rag, and abscond to something called "Slog." That's right! That which is indomitably me will no longer appear here, but will instead continue fresh each day—every day!—hereafter "on-line" at www.thestranger.com/blog, a mysterious place where no bird sings, but no trees die. (And of course we'll always have the new and improved www.adrianryan.com.)
Let's see... what else? Oh, yes. This I also have learned: Justin Timberlake is fucking brilliant. Sorry, it's true. Dolly Parton really is a living saint, no joke. Absolutely everybody is gay. (Too gay? You bet your ass.) Courtney Love will never shut the fuck up, and God bless her for it. And what ever happened to Dave Matthews anyway? A mystery.
So. There. Now let's begin our journey afresh in that queer space they call cyber, where gossip's sweet river runs fresh and free and makes far more sense. And someday, in some unknowable future, archaeo-linguists will discover that I probably used, in this space, the word "fuck" roughly 460 trillion times. My legacy. Until then, then, I leave you with my love, deepest gratitude and... fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck. I'm sure you understand. It's why I love you.