Wikipedia defines journalism as "the discipline of gathering, writing and reporting news, and broadly it includes the process of editing and presenting the news articles." Personally, I define journalism as non-fiction (or fiction depending on your employer) I want to write and a great excuse to get press passes to things I might otherwise have to pay for. And never the twain shall meet.

Yet I find myself relatively undisturbed. I might never be considered a "serious" journalist but all the writing that gets done still gets proofread. I still have to be at events to cover them (most of the time). Hey, I even get that sweet, sweet press pass; and regardless of what other folks with gainful employment and health benefits have to say my laminate says otherwise, so if you'll excuse me I have some "journalizing" to do.

I got into this gig initially for the bitches and fame. However, quickly realizing that neither bitches nor fame were to be had (and having ruined any chance of gainful employment via several pokes of needle in face) I was forced to actually work. But what do I do? My bitches-and-fame lust blinding me to the vagaries of this "journo" thing I was like a lost child wandering the mall parking lot of life. Quick word of warning, if a balding man in a blue panel van attempts to lure you away with promises of candy, he doesn't actually have candy. No friends, there's just screaming and creepy smiles to be had down that path.

Thankfully, I have had many saviors. Those that swooped down in my hour of direst need like a mother bird to her starving young, vomiting the life-giving vittles of a regular gig into my hungry journalistic gullet.

My first was a comics gig, but they were really "handsy" and kept making me pick up pencils and pens (which I suspect were purposefully dropped) so I scampered off into the arms of another, that of Senor CeeFurn and the Weekly Geek, rapidly followed by a regularly humiliating post at Ectomo HQ. Let it never be said that the duo of Gauger and Brownlee are completely heartless, they are simply mostly so, yet found enough pity in themselves to set me up as an editor in between my regular beatings.

And now I find myself here, the hallowed halls of Destructoid, staring down the barrels of the shotgun of journalistic credibility (as drunkenly wielded by Niero of course). Am I scared? Christ, you have no idea, I saw like 3 dead guys just in the lobby. Am I intrigued? Natch. Am I bringing honor to the Destructoid name? Well, considering the stories I've heard about Ron Workman, at least I won't be able to besmirch it further.