Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens @ the Newseum Wednesday
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
003. Almost Famous
Emily, the roommate and second half to my brilliant reporting tagteam crew.
(With me being the other half, obviously.)
The gorgeous Gretchen Mol
Emily wrote a baller story about this movie premiere, which saves me from having to explain it all. (Don't forget to get a username & password to read our stuff, it's quick and totally free.) The after party was way better, and held at a bar called Tattoo. Free drinks all night. I made the decision to be off the clock (for personal, rather than professional reasons), so there are no pictures from the bar.
002. Fight Club
So, Ticketmaster and Live Nation would like to merge. Some members of Congress (such as the entire Senate Judiciary Subcommittee on Antitrust, etc. issues) as well as smaller concert promoters, venue owners and ticket vendors have a problem with that.
This scene sat on the committee's clerk desk. A "United States Senate" document folder and the book "Fight Club." Brilliant.
This scene sat on the committee's clerk desk. A "United States Senate" document folder and the book "Fight Club." Brilliant.
In focus: Live Nation President and CEO Michael Rapino prepares.
(closest to furthest)- Live Nation president and CEO Michael Rapino,
- Ticketmaster CEO Irving Azoff,
- JAM Productions chairman Jerry Mickelson,
- Seth Hurwitz, owner of 9:30 club in DC and co-owner of Washington, D.C., independent promoter I.M.P. Productions,
- Center of American Progress’ fellow David A. Balto
Story to come tomorrow.
Monday, February 23, 2009
001. Stairway to heaven, or hell -- depending on the direction.
This is the first of two escalators at the Woodley Park metro stop. It's impossibly long.
We take the elevator. Always.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Let's get up to speed, shall we?
- I (finally) found the pool. I'm in love.
- I found the mall. I'm in debt.
- I barely found an elusive shirt from Hollister with the California flag on it; it only took calling four different states to find it in a small. I could probably use an extra small, it's made janky. Hey, you guys, I know we're cool, but get off my goddamn state. It's mine. Mine, mine, mine.
- I love my roommates more than life itself. They're just cool. The rest of the interns are bomb as well. How'd I get so lucky?
- Can anyone tell me the way to write a compelling cover letter? "Trust me, I'm amazing" isn't the way to win 'em over, evidently.
- My bangs are returning to normal. This is exciting news, everybody.
- The Newseum is a fun place. They serve wine in the cafeteria.
- I'm a natural anchorwoman, especially when I've got my other half sitting as my co-anchor.
Because meaningful words allude me as of late, I'm going to begin posting (at least) a picture per day. Starting tomorrow.
Monday, February 16, 2009
I had a very good Valentine's Day.
And here's proof.
http://picasaweb.google.com/megwilso/ValentineSDay02
http://picasaweb.google.com/megwilso/ValentineSDay02
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Charlie Gibson Night.
Scripps Howard News Service / Scripps Howard Foundation Wire has been way too good to me/us. Case and point: The National Press Foundation's annual fundraising awards dinner held at the Washington Hilton in Dupont Circle. What? What's that you say? Free drinks, free three-course meal and more free drinks and dancing. We were
FYI: Networking is much easier after everyone has parkaken in the open bar.
The Brian Williams Day.
Asked about his plans for the following day, a wise man once said, "I don't make plans that far ahead."
On Monday, I made plans to go see Dolly Parton at the Press Club downtown the next morning (she was speaking about her literacy program.), but I decided that even though it might be fun to watch, there was no way I could imagine myself actually bringing myself to write a story about her. So I decided to go see Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner (but he lets me call him Tim) and Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke.
(Here's the article I wrote about it. My first financial piece, eeik.)
But let's backtrack. Cut to 9:30 a.m. I make reservations with the United States Treasury, because the Secret Service does background checks before you're able to attend events within the building. There were two separate, high-profile press conferences going on inside and the economics nerd in me pined to go.
The first one was at 11, with my pal Tim.
Well, Secret Service at the gate had other plans. After what seemed like hours, repeatedly checking with the guard, my name still hadn't showed up on the list. A pool of journalists stood outside the Treasury building on an unusually warm winter day in Washington, also denied access. Although I never did get into the building (the person who was supposed to send my information never did), what I witnessed outside became even more entertaining:
An unnamed big-deal Washington Post A-section staff writer began huffing, puffing and throwing a big 'ol tantrum when he couldn't get into the building. Blackberry in hand, desperately throwing out names and guarantees of confirmation and expletives under his breath, didn't get in for at least another half an hour.
I know you've paid your dues, dude, but welcome to being an intern.
A little while after that incident, suddenly, the heavens parted. A man in a fine suit walked down the visitors entrance steps. He never took off his sunglasses; just simply walked up to the security booth. Having my camera, Randy, slung over my shoulder, it took everything inside of me not to (creepily) snap a photo or run up to him with my reporter's notebook and beg for an autograph. Instead, I looked wide-eyed at the poor, pity-party of press standing next to me and lipped, "oh. my. god." The 30- or 40-something journalists weren't nearly as excited as I was (maybe it's 'cause they're guys).
"Brian Williams," the tall man said, handing the guard his ID.
"Brian Williams is here," the Secret Service guard said over the phone to whomever at some computer, somewhere. "You're good," he said, handing back his ID.
Williams either just smiled or said something jokingly, like, "that easy?"
"Yeah, I think I've seen you on TV a couple times," the most-laid-back-Secret-Service-agent-I've-ever-met replied.
I later told my mom that, "his skin is so creamy!" It is. His hair's perfect too. Maybe that's because he has an eight-figure salary.
I've always sort of flown by the seat of my pants, and this is an affirmation that not making plans can work out just fine. Or even better.
On Monday, I made plans to go see Dolly Parton at the Press Club downtown the next morning (she was speaking about her literacy program.), but I decided that even though it might be fun to watch, there was no way I could imagine myself actually bringing myself to write a story about her. So I decided to go see Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner (but he lets me call him Tim) and Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke.
(Here's the article I wrote about it. My first financial piece, eeik.)
But let's backtrack. Cut to 9:30 a.m. I make reservations with the United States Treasury, because the Secret Service does background checks before you're able to attend events within the building. There were two separate, high-profile press conferences going on inside and the economics nerd in me pined to go.
The first one was at 11, with my pal Tim.
Well, Secret Service at the gate had other plans. After what seemed like hours, repeatedly checking with the guard, my name still hadn't showed up on the list. A pool of journalists stood outside the Treasury building on an unusually warm winter day in Washington, also denied access. Although I never did get into the building (the person who was supposed to send my information never did), what I witnessed outside became even more entertaining:
An unnamed big-deal Washington Post A-section staff writer began huffing, puffing and throwing a big 'ol tantrum when he couldn't get into the building. Blackberry in hand, desperately throwing out names and guarantees of confirmation and expletives under his breath, didn't get in for at least another half an hour.
I know you've paid your dues, dude, but welcome to being an intern.
A little while after that incident, suddenly, the heavens parted. A man in a fine suit walked down the visitors entrance steps. He never took off his sunglasses; just simply walked up to the security booth. Having my camera, Randy, slung over my shoulder, it took everything inside of me not to (creepily) snap a photo or run up to him with my reporter's notebook and beg for an autograph. Instead, I looked wide-eyed at the poor, pity-party of press standing next to me and lipped, "oh. my. god." The 30- or 40-something journalists weren't nearly as excited as I was (maybe it's 'cause they're guys).
"Brian Williams," the tall man said, handing the guard his ID.
"Brian Williams is here," the Secret Service guard said over the phone to whomever at some computer, somewhere. "You're good," he said, handing back his ID.
Williams either just smiled or said something jokingly, like, "that easy?"
"Yeah, I think I've seen you on TV a couple times," the most-laid-back-Secret-Service-agent-I've-ever-met replied.
I later told my mom that, "his skin is so creamy!" It is. His hair's perfect too. Maybe that's because he has an eight-figure salary.
I've always sort of flown by the seat of my pants, and this is an affirmation that not making plans can work out just fine. Or even better.
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