I agreed to do this story in the "Washington Post".

I turned down the "L.A. Weekly".  I just about said yes, then I read one of the guy’s articles while feasting on a tostada in Burbank and lost my appetite.  It was snarky!

When you submit yourself to others, you’re at their mercy.  And they’re never one hundred percent positive.  They can’t be, it seems to be the journalistic code.  They’ll comment on your appearance, even if they don’t twist your words, you’ll read and wince.  It’s their ego on the line too.  A rock star might be worth millions, but he’s an equal when speaking to a reporter.  Maybe less.

But this guy said he didn’t want to do an expose.  That he was genuinely interested in getting my story out there.  But did it make any difference?  Did my audience read the "Washington Post"?  Used to be that that was the only way to get the story out there, by playing with the major league gatekeepers.  I figured I’d get a ton of hits on my site, a hundred or two subscribers, most of whom would desert me once they got a taste of my act.  Then again, it was the "Washington Post".  I’d be lying if I said my ego wasn’t stroked a bit.  So, after about four months of back and forth, I said yes.

Then came the logistics.

The "Washington Post" commissioned an army.  There was the photo editor who had freelancers on the west coast…  When could we do it?

Well, I’m not going to let them come to my house.  I don’t want people seeing my true life.  But outside, the light fades.  And I’ve been traveling, and hunting up some real money.  But this photographer…he called me on my cell.  And I almost always pick up my cell.  Because I give almost nobody the number.  I agreed to come to his apartment, this afternoon, after my shrink appointment, at 3.

Where my doctor ended up raising my rate.  Oh, I agreed to pay.  I live frugally.  I’ve saved just about every dollar I’ve earned.  But I had a bad year, I lost almost ninety percent of my income.  Through no fault of my own.  They laid off just about everybody I worked with at Rhino, and they sold my hours at KLSX to a psychic, for a glorified infomercial.  But the increase threw me off guard a bit.  Whenever I’ve flown on hopes and dreams, I’ve fallen flat on my face.

I ended up finding a parking space not far from the photographer’s abode.

I was less worried about how I was going to look than what the reporter was going to write, so I let him drive the shoot.  But while we were setting up, I engaged him in conversation.  I love to hear people’s stories.

He’s a news photographer.  That’s his beat.  He doesn’t fantasize about art, he loves the adrenaline of this fast-moving world.  He shot McCain last night, and then the Democratic debate.  He’s slammed through Tuesday, the election.

And a bereted gentleman emerged from the apartment next door.  A sporadically working music video director.  He helped hold the giant reflector, to generate light in the late afternoon.

And we’re talking about the program, about life, about getting ahead.  I’m living in an alternative universe.  Not the one of business, but art.  These guys weren’t solely in it for the money.  They weren’t at 9 to 5 jobs.  I realized…I was a lot closer to them than the people minting dollars.  The photographer told me he loved what he did, and that got him through.

And after the video director asked the photographer if he could help him with his connections, I got back in my car and while driving up Pacific Avenue I heard "More Than This".

It was fun for a while…