Matt Nippert - air guitar denier, Auckland

Sunday, October 03, 2004

WANTED: Journalistic protégé to acerbic and elegant New Conservatives spokesman. Must enjoy rambling romps along headlined beaches, support the state of Israel and prefer Soft News. Knowledge of html and blogging admired (and deeply needed). NSOH. Contact "David" c/o National Business Review.
Dear David,

I am sorry you feel crushed. I know we haven't talked lately, but I didn't know how much you cared. I am touched, and a little surprised, you felt the need to cry out to the world to bar your jilted soul. To hundreds of thousands of businesspeople no less, who all care nothing for oxygen rock and quaint blogging subculture.

Really, in my life, I only have room for one media commentator. Putting both of you on one page would be explosive, any story would get lost, overwhelmed by egos and petty jealousies. It wouldn't work David, and you must know and need to accept this.

Russell may be drunk in body, but at least he's sober in mind. Nothing personal David, but I'm trying to write for the serious pages, not a tabloid gossip column. Remember when I suggested you should go see your optometrist? Check your prescription and ask for rose tints, I don't think green is working out for you.

Russell has a blog, David, and you don't. I know it's petty and shallow, but it's important to me. Blogs live off each other, and if you had one I'd link to you too - if you wouldn't consider it too forward. The internet's a free world, much like the 60s (do you remember them David? I know you love the music).

Come and play with us David, even Mr Hide's in on this game. You'd be way better than Rodney. Better than John, better than Helen, maybe better than even the dearly departed Don. That way you can write what you want and not worry about looking silly. It's safe, and fun.

You know what I like about you David? You're passionate. Passionate about education, books, unions and myths about the lost tribe of Israel-tawhenua. Where some might stick to job descriptions and move with developments, you tenaciously hang on to the things you love. It's endearing, cute even.

But passion causes crimes, and the case against you grows with each printed, tortured, sentence. Neil Falloon doesn't exist. As a serious reporter he's a figment of your imagination, he's only real in the way that Kate Wrath filing on mescaline is real.

It was a joke, David, something to laugh at, nothing to shed a tear over. As I've said before, breakdancing is for trackpant wearers, not the hardest rocking air strummer in the land. Laugh with us David, it truly is the best medicine for a heavy heart.

But I am getting concerned about these delusions, worrying soon you'll end up banging on my door, calling late at night, sending unrequited French letters. I may have to take out a restraining order. I may have to alert the DPS, who I hear carry guns and care nothing for reputation or big business connections.

Don't make me do it David, I wouldn't be convincing in denying it to the Press. We'd both end up looking the fool, and I don't have a PR firm who employ disgraced hardmen to manage the fallout for me. I prefer eggs in my omelette and I know you do too.

It's time to move on David, time to get back the hardboiled work you were born to. It's time to lose this obsession and become the man so many of us loved. There's more fish in the sea, a whole world of media happenings, so many interesting things you should write about, you need to write about. If only you could rehone your rapier wit and find a new mark.

(Remember hearing something about hatchets, muesli and a man called Jock? Something big, something involving millions of dollars, public figures and politics and lies and the fate of a million souls. It's right up your alley, under your nose even. Have a look into it.)

Come back David, come back to us, and all will be forgiven.

Platonically yours,
Champion air guitarist, respected pillar of the establishment and celebrity chair of the Fashion Week jury.