I want to be Scott Brison's Fag Hag!

Ok and thus begins something I very rarely do: an Ode to someone in Public Office.

oh Scott Brison, my fruit-fly heart burns for you! Seriously. this is one lovely man. What's not to like? He's openly gay, married to a man even, he posed nude for a fundraising calender (which was quickly snapped up by old ladies and others who want to ogle Canadian politicans), he has a really nice dog he walks constantly and even pooper-scoops for, AND HE CALLED ME BACK.

ah yes. the quickest way to a journalists heart: returning the phone call in a prompt manner.

that, and not being condescending. Here's where this degenerates into a rant. I'm new back on the east coast, and I'm not from here anyway. Thus, I know nothing. I have no background knowledge, no intuitive insight into the twisty turny logic of this province. So when I ask dumbass background questions, I'm begging, I'm pleading, please don't treat me like I'm the kid in the back of the kindergarten classroom eating my shoelaces dipped in glue.


so maybe I should update the wide world on what I do: I write for a small and I mean SMALL weekly newspaper in the middle of nowhere Nova Scotia. I pretend I work in Halifax. I don't. I'm slowly coming to terms with that. what do I write you wonder? everything and nothing. to sum it up in terms my journalism profs would adore: my goat is getting very very fat with all the feeding I've been doing latly.

(for you non-journalist types: feeding the goat is when you produce stories that have to be done, even if they bore you. They are interesting sometimes and have value to someone, I'm sure, but for the most part you start to feel like a widget in Henry Ford's giant machine-o-slavery).

What makes my day better and makes me LOVE my job even though I bitch about it constantly and am pretty sure I'm giving myself braindamage from the head-banging-against-the-desk routine that's become part of my daily life, is the occasional story that goes REALLY well. The car on fire at McDonalds, the political scandal that will hopefully net you an angry letter just to prove someone is reading your stuff and you couldn't just be running old Backstreet Boy's lyrics for all people actually pay attention, or very simply the great interview.
Hell, some days, like today, I'll even settle for the mediocre interview with someone that calls me back, is nice and well spoken and says lovely things, and is moderatly important or at least has the veneer of being someone that matters.

and music swells as Scott Brison enters the room....


oh Scotty....you're not Green...you're not NDP....you're a librel and generally I'd be demanding you remove the fence post from your ass and pick a side immediatly but.....how I love you. You own my soul. Please, oh please, let me join your inevitable stable of Alternative Lifestyle Companions.

because clearly all gay men have those.

Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?

Well, I guess it had to happen eventually. Yup, someday, I was bound to put down my notebook and actually get in on this whole internet-revolution. I hear it's not actually just a phase.

So what marvelous and insightful insights can you expect? Not much I'm afraid. What I can promise however is disorganized, sporadic, and occassionally vapid trips into the inner reaches of my mind (god that sounds emo- what I can promise is that I will nto be going the emo route; never will this blog degenerate into mindless spewing about the glory of death with a bad haircut and a worse soundtrack. nor will I let the blog take a razor to it's delicate blog-wrists. unless it annoys me).

Why does this matter? well the truth is, it doesn't. But I'm jumping on board with this blogging thing, and the point of blogs is a totally unmerited sense of self-importance. and who knows; maybe there's another confused mid-20-some out there who'll take solace in the fact that they are not the only ones with a job they really really want to like, a boss they really really really want to smother with computor papers, a boy situation that is twisted on multiple levels, parents who have entered a realm of alientation unheard of since they were 13, and an empty bankaccount.

I can only hope.