Ruby Ridge

Where’s My Cake?

So we finally made it, kittens. We’ve reached 100 editions of QSaltLake and its baby daddy Salt Lake Metro, and what a wild, weird and wonderful trip it has been. Together we have covered the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping, the death of Ronald Reagan, the opening and closing of Club 161, four years’ worth of elections, the demise of the Utah Gay Rodeo Association, my cardio diet, Martha Stewart’s imprisonment, Mel Gibson’s snuff flick about Christ, the Catholic pedophile priest cover-up, the opening of IKEA and Cabela’s, the Zions Bank/HRC scandal, the Buttars “Black Baby” fiasco and Dell Schanze’s descent into dementia, and so much more. Darlings, we really have covered some ground!

It seems like only yesterday (but it was early 2004) when Michael Aaron, a small scruffy-looking urchin with a pronounced, almost freakish, Hebrew nose and struggling facial hair approached me on the street. Overwhelmed by my sheer glamour and polyester loveliness, he begged me to write for his new gay community paper. His bony little hands flailed feverishly and his excited voice rose to a pitch only audible to neighborhood dogs as he explained how his plucky little gay rag was going to be different than everything that had come before. It would be biweekly, colorful; the events and coverage would be timely; it would be affordable to advertisers, and the copy would be spell-checked. It was sheer madness! I thought the poor little waif was delusional, but glancing upon his meager body-weight I concluded that he was simply demented and weak from hunger and thirst. I reluctantly agreed to write for Michael because, frankly, it was quicker than getting a restraining order. Four years later, the rest is taste-defying, politically incorrect history.

I’m pretty sure that I am the only contributor to Q that has been here since day one. I could be wrong, but none of the office minions look remotely familiar and the latest rash of young writers that I briefly met at the Christmas party look like refugees from a Baby Gap catalog. I’m not saying I’m old, but the little bastards are so young they probably write their articles at Starbucks on a Speak and Spell … It’s appalling! So in the longevity sweepstakes I have to think … Ben Williams goes on periodic sabbaticals (is that what the kids are calling cosmetic body shaping now?) so he doesn’t count. David Nelson only surfaces periodically like a whack-a-mole to oppose anything resembling gun control (God knows he’ll be grieving for months now that Charlton Heston has croaked) so he’s out. I remember that one lesbian writer who moved to Oregon to hug trees or something so she’s toast, and Ryan Shatner, Schuback, Love Schack … whatever the hell his name is (you know the one whose column sounds like the Inuit word for Port-a-potty), well he hasn’t been around for more than a year or two so he doesn’t qualify either. Troy Williams definitely doesn’t count because only Timothy Leary and dolphins can understand anything he writes. Now Tony Hobday may have been here for quite a while, but I’d have to count hundreds of empty vodka bottles around his desk like rings on a tree to check that out for sure. As for our assistant editor, JoSelle, she was still doing hard time for running heroin and shanking a prison guard long after I started writing. Wow, now that I think about it, cherubs, Rocky Anderson had better staff retention than this place!

So despite the high turnover of inconsequential little people that toil in obscurity to orbit this magazine around the life-giving sun that is my column, it has been a wonderful four years and 100 editions. So my question to you all is: “Where the hell is my cake?” Q

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