An Open Letter to Andrew W.K.

Not long ago, a member of our staff shared with a number of us a story from his youth, a story that has stuck with him, in which you are a central figure, although it certainly escapes your memory as you have no doubt been involved in countless like it. As it goes, this young writer was attending a show in Scranton, Pennsylvania where you invited the boisterous crowd on stage. Filled with excitement, our young writer scrambled forwards and prepared to hurl himself through the air into the open arms of the crowd. But before he could, you reached out and grabbed him. You pulled him in close with a sweaty arm wrapped around his head, so close that your glorious, greasy locks glanced against his cheek, and whispered these words:

“Everything is going to be okay.”

And you know what? You were right. You hurled our young writer back into the bubbling mass of revelers, and everything was okay. It was more than okay, it was phenomenal. It was the kind of wild, transcendent bliss that only occurs when hundreds of friends thrash about with reckless abandon. It was the one thing that you have encouraged above all else.

It was a party.

We also like to party here at the Voice. And we want to party with you.

You see, we respect the unabashed enthusiasm and relentless positivity with which you approach partying. Your Party Tips on Twitter have inspired us to up our game when it comes to throwing down, and we’d like to invite you to let us know how we’re doing.

A great man once wrote, “Used at the right time, a fistful of confetti can blow minds.” That great man was you, and it was awesome.

We won’t lie to you, you aren’t the first celebrity we’ve reached out to. But you are clearly the best. Last year’s party for Lil’ Wayne was certainly a blast, but general disinterest and a prison sentence kept him from attending. But in retrospect, he may not have been the best choice of celebrity celebrator. We don’t have access to that much cough syrup. And last winter, in a moment of regrettable desperation, we reached out to Snooki, who in turn referred us to her publicist. Apparently Snooki doesn’t party unless she’s getting paid.

But you, Mr. W.K., embody exactly the kinds of good times that we at the Voice aspire to.

Over the years, we like to think that we’ve thrown some pretty good parties. We’ve had traditional college parties of bacchanalian overindulgence. We’ve eaten dozens of animals at rockin’ back yard barbeques. When things start to drag on newspaper production nights, we’ll throw on some Andrew W.K. and have a 3 a.m. energizer party. But should you decide to join us, we are prepared to pull out all the stops to for one all-time, gut-wrenching, party-till-you-puke bonanza.

We’re talking tables sagging under the weight of mountains of nachos. We’re talking high-fives so hard that they break the sound barrier and the sonic boom causes everyone for miles around to spontaneously start partying. You want spandex? You got spandex. There will be shots of whiskey and there will be fresh made horchata, and everything in between.  We won’t settle for a simple fistful of confetti—there will be stadium grade confetti cannons that would put the Flaming Lips to shame. And the pit of dancers will be so sweaty that a thousand Sham-Wows couldn’t dry them adequately.

So what do you think? You name the date, and we’ll set it up. And in the meantime, we’ll keep on partying in your honor.

Anxiously partying until your response,

The Voice