The Burn Unit

A Fond Farewell Because I'm Dying

By David Thorpe

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Alas, this Burn Unit will be my last. Having received an offer more appropriate to my skills, I'll now be moving full time to Working Mother magazine, where I'll contribute breast milk reviews in the same lazy, stupid asshole voice that Boston has ostensibly grown to love.No, just kidding. I'm leaving because I'm dying. Goodbye forever. But let's not make this a maudlin farewell! I've had some wonderful years of fun and extremely lazy journalism that I'll never forget as long as I live (that's easy—I'm dying). To celebrate my departure, I'd like to reflect fondly on a few of the worst columns I ever wrote:

--Sometime early in my career, I wrote a column about my imaginary beef with the '90s new-age rap-pop group PM Dawn. It was fucking dire, and I'm still shocked that anyone printed it and more so that so many people seemed to enjoy it.

--I wrote a column about my favorite non-existent albums of 2004. It was so bad that then-editor Michael Brodeur wisely declined to print it, which I think is the only time in the history of this column that it's happened. Considering how bad some of the ones that did get printed, that should tell you something about how bad this piece of shit was. Highlights included a Don Johnson post-rock comeback album, reminiscent of Mark Hollis' solo work and later Scott Walker.

--Once upon a time, the Dig was doing some sort of special issue about DJs, and they requested a piece that had something to do with DJs. I delivered a disjointed and completely ridiculous piece, in which I stated that my favorite DJ was DJ Tanner from Full House (I don't even think that was funny, I was just trying to fill space).

--I recently wrote a column that was nothing but anagrams of popular musicians' names. It was maybe the most fun I ever had writing a column, and it was probably one of the worst columns I've ever written (although everyone seemed to enjoy it, amazingly). Even worse were the ones that I cut out, including: Avril Lavigne = Vaginal Liver and Robyn Hitchcock = Horny Bitch Cock.

--This one.

If you notice a substantial boost in quality while reading the next Dig, please take a moment to check out the byline and say "no wonder." At the same time, I ask you to experience a brief, heart-tugging pang of nostalgia for your old friend, Dave. No, not for me—for the Dave you knew in high school and haven't seen in like seven years. I heard he had a kid (fucked up, huh?).

Now that nobody can usefully fire me, let me get something off my chest: Every single Burn Unit ever was written on the night that it was due. Sometimes it was noticeable and sometimes I managed to cover it with my god-given talent, my ironic swagger and my easy-going Paul-Newman-circa-Cool-Hand-Luke I-could-eat-50-eggs charm. Usually, it was noticeable.

Also: I do not live in Boston. I've never been to Boston. I've never been halfway to Boston. I had to think pretty hard to apprehend that it was in Massachusetts, just now, and that was really the first time I've ever thought about it. I'm picturing it somewhere near the Great Lakes (Close? No?). I was hired to write for the Dig by Luke O'Neil, who spotted my writing on the internet and gave me a chance in the big bad world of newspaper journalism. He ought to be ashamed of himself, and for that, I'm grateful.

I'm also not really dying, but that seemed like a pretty unimpeachable excuse.

And before I go, I'd like to thank some awesome people for their awesomeness and their kind indulgence: Luke O'Neil, Michael Brodeur, Joe Keohane, David Day, Jeff Lawrence and everyone else who was willing to tolerate me throughout the years. Without you guys, I would have spent my weekends enjoying my life like a free human being instead of writing this garbage.