Phoenix Pharewell

I've been trying to write something about the end of the Boston Phoenix, but for fuck's sake I'm not going to stack myself up against Charlie Pierce, Susan Orlean, Yvonne Abraham, et al who can write circles around me. And besides I loathe writing. Hate every painful thing about it -- and meanwhile I'm already trying to write this goddamned feature, which now is going to get all huge scrutiny as the Last Phoenix Political Story, in the shadow of all the ridiculously good journalists who set the bar here. No pressure, Bernstein.

So the hell with that.

Anyway, I'm not a very sentimental person, and I'm a pretty self-isolated misanthrope at the office, and plus I figured out a long time ago that local journalism was doomed -- and when I say local journalism, I mean the thing where a staff of professional journalists, editors, designers, production people and so on work collectively to put out a publication (or broadcast, or whatever) that helps people understand, enjoy, and improve their community. Which, by the way, I think we did.

So I'm just going to say this: I am insanely fortunate to have been allowed, for nearly ten years, to fill space in a paper and on a web site, with the invaluable assistance of colleagues. I am immensely grateful for that; I feel bad that others may never have that chance; and, understanding the value of what I lucked into, I have tried to not let that opportunity go to waste.


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