Welp, Dear Reader,
This is it. Listen up …
LAST DRUNK STANDING
Well, it happened. I got that call from that big Neil Patel in the sky. My time at the Caller is coming to a close. We’re all called one day. We all eventually get that obit. Some later than others, and I guess you could say I was the latest of all.
When Tucker left, I was only just short of two years on the job. Even by that point I had seen some things. We were markedly wilder in those days, if you could imagine. We had an active keg and bar inside the newsroom. It came in handy when Pennsylvania was called at 2 am in 2016, and we were all still there, hooting and hollering, smoking and joking, and most importantly of all, still posting.
We all expected Tucker would get the call and move on to the great beyond someday, but nobody really expected it’d be that soon. And then I got that call from Patel.
It would be a challenge running a Tuckerless Daily Caller, people assumed. That first Friday of my tenure as editor-in-chief, we all sat in the newsroom drinking too much and smoking too many cigarettes. Yeah, we were probably the last newsroom in America that still occasionally got lit indoors and on the premises, literally.
While Tucker was certainly missed, morale was never a problem. We were a band of merry warriors, overworked and overserved, but nevertheless optimistic about everything, especially our place in the world. The tricksters of American political media. Pirates sailing the open seas. It didn’t matter if our ship barely worked at times. She was ours. She was a beaut. And you could almost feel them flinch when she appeared on the horizon.
Oh no, I imagine them thinking, maybe in the WH press pool or on Capitol Hill or at some gala we’d managed to get invited to, oh gosh, it’s them again.
It was through one eye, pinched shut and absolute belly laughs that we all watched NBC’s Brian Williams air the front page of our website on the nightly news when Trump was considering amnesty.
“And over at the Daily Caller, they covered the news with the headline, “Don’s Juans,’” he said with barely disguised disdain.
RW, “Don’s Juans” RW “Don’s Juans” RW yet again “Don’s Juans”
We cackled. Tables were slapped. Fresh beers were passed out. Lord of the Flies was merely fiction. The Daily Caller newsroom was real life, and when we weren’t hunting and killing, we were sitting around the fire laughing our f*cking asses off.
There are many fond and funny memories. We once raffled off free AR-15s in order to build an email list. The Washington Post was pissed. We also handed out free ice-cold beers to Kavanaugh protesters outside the Supreme Court. Wapo clutched pearls over that one too. The cops didn’t like it either. Turns out it’s not quite legal to hand out booze in public.
Inside the newsroom was even crazier. We hired a video producer who’d open the day with about ten ounces of vodka. One of our managing editors was rather renowned for going through people’s trash. The most prolific writer we had would routinely resign with long screeds bemoaning everyone else on the staff. He’d always title these emails the same way, “Howlz Out.” The next day he’d show up like nothing happened. Tucker even hired our media reporter – one of the only liberals in the newsroom – so she’d stop reporting on things he said in the editorial meetings before he’d even gotten finished holding them.
Literal RIP Betsy.
The peak of it all was, bar none, in the 2019 timeframe. Calling this crew motley would be the king of all understatements. Saagar Enjeti, Benny Johnson, Stephanie Hamill, Richie McGinniss, Dave Hookstead, Sagnik Basu, Amber (Athey) Duke, Will Ricciardella, Will “Willy D” Davis, Vincent Coglianese, Lauryn Overhultz, Justin Caruso, Greg Price, Logan Hall. Every one of them to a one was an absolute savage.
I recall Neil calling me into his office to tell me that Showtime would be coming by to film the newsroom for an episode of the (aptly named in this case) “Circus.” I hated broadcast. I hated TV people. I tried to say no, and it was one of the few times Neil flat-out said you are doing this.
Needless to say, they were not prepared for our editorial meeting. Without going into detail, I’ll just say the crew was visibly shocked. Afterward, the executive producer approached me.
“That was truly something else,” he said, “I’ve never seen one like it.”
“Yup, they’re definitely something else.”
“How did you do that? How’d you put that all together? You do that meeting every day?”
“Ayuh, every day. And truthfully? No idea. It just sort of happened.”
He pitched Neil on a show just based on our meetings and newsroom banter. Neil wanted to do it. I did not. It was the second time a producer wanted to make us into a reality show. Just as truthfully, I’m glad it never happened.
For the record, I wasn’t exactly coiffed either. There’s a reason they called me the pirate king. I’d previously picked not one but two fights at our yearly fundraising galas. (Fwiw, DC media and politics people are the absolute worst.) And if I regret anything at all, it’s that I didn’t spray our chief operating officer with the bear mace Tucker handed me while we were all fishing in the wilderness. It would have been hilarious, and even as Chris Bedford agreed, he flatly told me no.
“You’ll get fired, dude,” he said.
Covid hit. The lockdowns came and went. Years passed, I got older, and we cleaned things up a bit. We still did happy hours, but generally outside the newsroom. The staff religiously went to karaoke nights at a local dive that perennially smelled like a mix of dried urine and bleach. I bowed out. I’d started having kids and slowing down a bit.
I probably should have left sooner than this, honestly, but Tucker got canned at Fox, and Neil asked me to keep the lights on while they set up TCN, so I stayed. It was a bit like being the last guy up at the party, though. Everyone has left, and you’re still sitting at an island in the kitchen that’s strewn with empty beers and smoldering cigarette butts. Corpses and the heady smell of a battle won, and the field is vacated but for one lone drinker.
They call that guy a “wupton” in my circles. There are maybe two people who will get that joke. And the legendary wupton has since cleaned himself up, as we all must do someday. Do or die.
We still left our mark in ways most of the media probably didn’t expect. I’m proud of the reporting we did on Russiagate, on foreign influence operations, on the transgender craze, on crime, corruption, and the dirty liars in Congress. We took on the likes of Google and won on multiple fronts. We ended their “fact-checking regime” and published their “black list.” We almost single-handedly outed the Clinton Foundation as a foreign influence operation, and our “riot squad” in 2020 put an end to the “mostly peaceful” lie. We were also well ahead of the curve on Fauci and gain-of-function research, the Covid lockdowns, and the censorship apparatus.
We made mistakes, sure, and tried to own up to them gracefully, but we hit hard and above our weight where it really counted.
It’s fitting in some ways to finally go out on a last call from Neil. I think this might be the third or fourth time I’ve been fired technically, but this one’ll stick. I’m tired. I should have moved on a long time ago. Patel is doing me a favor.
“I’m glad you swung the ax yourself,” I told him.
“There was no other way,” he said.
This canning is a bookend to the one that brought me here in the first place. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that it’s the challenges that define us, not the blessings.
I used to be big on Irish goodbyes, Dear Reader, but then I realized it’s just selfishness. You take the time to hat-tip everyone before you go. It’s the least you can do.
And now it’s done. This might seem abrupt, but it’s all I’ve got left. Thanks for coming. Thanks for reading. Thanks for everything.
-Howlz Out-
A quick note from State of the Day: As Geoff signs off, we want to reassure you that this newsletter isn’t going anywhere.
Starting tomorrow, State of the Day will continue to march forward, hitting your inbox every weekday morning.
We’re excited for what comes next.
I for one appreciate your refusal to pull your punches. I will miss your truth telling even when that truth isn’t pretty, polite, or socially acceptable.
Good luck Geoff. It’s been a pleasure and privilege. Hope to find you again out there somewhere.