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Lowedown, the final curtain 

In which your faithful columnist announces her retirement, but not in a retiring way. With a last poke at readers and a trenchant Brittany Murphy reference, she shows all of us something about making a graceful exit.

The wait is over. I’m leaving this space as a columnist.

What’s that I hear?

Gasps? Sighs?

The odd meh?

Ahh…but there’s the din too, I am certain, of cheering. I just trolled through my email “letter” archive from 2009 and was reminded of a mere sprinkling of my journalistic sins---that I am, apparently, a racist, though only targeting Caucasians; that I write a string of columns filled with “nonsense bullshit”; that I wrongly encourage “little citizen-warriors” on “ill-informed crusades.”

Oh. Wait. There’s this one too: “You are mentally ill and should seek professional help.” Which, if you think about it, is kind of a sweet, heartening note to send someone you don’t even know. Awww…

So, come on, read on. It is the last one. And, pfft, I know you will anyway. Because, plainly, you always have, despite that really desperate column I wrote about a dream I had (and not even an interesting dream---I was at Neptune for Christ’s sake), despite the time I predicted internet shopping would never take off (heh heh...yeeeaah…) and despite once leaving a spelling error in a column where I was railing against the sad state of other people’s grammar, punctuation and spelling. (And not even on purpsoe to make the point.)

I have to admit, I’m halfway through this thing and I don’t know, really, how to land the plane. A goodbye column? How the hell do you write one of those? Oh, hold on, I’ll Google it.

Ahhh. I see. You’re waiting for the long-drawn-out whinge-pot of here-are-the-things-I’ve-learned and here-are-the-wonderful-people-I’ve-met. You won’t get it.

Well, OK. Just this: hyperbolic crankiness is good when you’re writing an opinion column designed not for the good of all humankind---not to sweetly sway the masses to see what is Right and Good and Better for our society---but designed to get the people who are already on your side singing in the chorus with you and to get the rest of the world squawking about your, um, what was it? Oh. Yeah. Nonsense bullshit.

I admit: that gleaning is designed more for the writers in the crowd than the readers. (Psst: there may be an opening at The Coast. Send a boxed chocolate cake, a bottle of Cava and a $25 money order to 5567 Cunard Street c/o Lezlie Lowe and I’ll see what I can do to help get you in.)

Attributed inflammatoriness (yes, she’s making up words again…) is positive. Truly. Because when you poke people, see, they start to talk. And communication (apart from staving off the bubbling fret that you will keel over in the bathroom one afternoon quite before your time, like poor dead Brittany Murphy) is the reason for life on earth, isn’t it?

So will you miss our little talks? We’ve been together 13 years, after all, and we all know our closest relationships are with the people who drive us nuts the most.

American journalist and humourist Helen Rowland wrote a lot about relationships in the early half of the 20th century. She famously penned this zinger: “A man never knows how to say goodbye; a woman never knows when to say it.”

Oh, fuck that already.

Lezlie Lowe is staying on at The Coast as a features writer (watch for her cover story about the aftermath of violent crime next week). She will be scratching the column-writing itch Saturdays in a Halifax Newspaper Which Must Not Be Named.

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