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Late Nite FDL: The Graduation Bell

troscar.jpgOkay, as some of you may know, this is my last post at Firedoglake. It has been an amazing year and a half, but over the Thanksgiving break, circumstances arose that made me realize that it’s high time for this Theropod to flap his wee tiny forelimbs and leave the nest.

This may come as a shock to you, but I actually do stress out sometimes about what I write. There have been a number of times since I took over the Late Nite spot here that things I have written have blown back on Jane and Christy and the other great writers on the masthead at the Lake. FDL is evolving rapidly and the excitement around here is going to only get more intense as the 2008 election heats up. I want these guys to be able to go forward from here without worrying that something I write, either on the front page or in the comments, is going to cross the line and potentially hurt their reputation or keep them from being able to have more amazing guests like Naomi Klein, Senator Chris Dodd, John Dean, and anyone else who might want to come by.

So don’t be sad. This is a happy occasion.

Here, I’ll tell you a story. The night I graduated from high school, I remember stepping outside the auditorium and looking around and starting to have what Dave Ehrenstein would probably call a Peggy Lee moment (“Is that all there iiiis…?”). I was wondering if anybody else was having the same feeling when I looked over and saw two of the “popular” girls (Debbie and Melanie, swear to god) clinging to each other and sobbing in what appeared to be an epileptic seizure of grief. Hairspray melting in the sticky June air, mortarboards askew, they cried big eye-makeup tears that made me wonder if I had missed the part of the graduation program where they announced that we were all being marched to the guillotine.

The next morning I had to run to the mall for something and I saw both girls parked at their usual Saturday table in the food court with their shopping bags and Diet Cokes, cheerfully nattering away about whatever totally awesome kegger they had reigned over the night before. Today is the day I’m graduating from Miz Hamsher’s School for Wayward Firedogs, sure, but you guyyys, I’m like totally going to be right over here.

I’ve got myself a little tree-house set up over on Blogger. I’ve got my typewriter and a camp stove, a tire swing and a big sunny window-sill for Ned the Fighting Koi’s bowl. It’s going to be great. No one is going to be flooding Jane and Christy with angry emails when I do a whole set of posts about fountain pens or cell phones or whatever. Yee haw. You guys are going to get probably way more TRex than you ever wanted. (Oh, lucky world!)

We’re going to have so much fun. I’m going to make some more music and we’ll have guests and late nite dance parties and ponies and cute fluffy bunnies. And of course, great heaping bushel baskets of industrial grade snark. Meet me over there. We’re going to hang out here and then when I would normally put up Late Late Nite, I’ll put up a thread at my new digs.

So, buck up, Li’l Buckaroos! Everything is going to be fine. Now you just have more to read and everybody wins! Hooray!

I don’t even know where to begin to thank Jane and Christy and Pachacutec and the rest of the gang for letting me join the band. This has been an amazing and exciting time. I love you guys.

And you readers, too. Thank you, thank you, thank you. See you at the tree-house.

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TRex is a 60-million-year-old theropod who enjoys terrorizing trailer parks, stomping his enemies, and eating things that get in his way or annoy him. He is single and looking for a new boyfriend. He's 60 feet tall, green, with delicate forelimbs, large, sharp teeth, and a lengthy tail. Turn-ons include political activism, bashing conservatives, and volcanoes. Turn-offs are vegetarians, right-wing blogs, and killer asteroids.