008. Light and fluffy goodness.

Alright, I'm bad at this "picture-a-day" thing when I spend most of my weekend on the couch. So, you're going to get a bunch of pictures from this morning's (and last night's) snow.

007. Oh, the weather outside is frightful...

You know it's bad when the residents go, "ooh."

006. Wake up from a lazy weekend. It's snowing!

The long walk to work.

005. Justice John Paul Stevens

Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens @ the Newseum Wednesday

004. Portrait No. 1

An intern pal from Texas.

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

Cameron Bright, the brilliant kid from "Thank You for Smoking."

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.

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.

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.

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.

I had a very good Valentine's Day.

And here's proof.
http://picasaweb.google.com/megwilso/ValentineSDay02

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 usually the only ones dancing such the life of the party, the band begged us not to leave. AND we were able to meet Charlie Gibson.

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.

It's not much, but it's a first step to the Pulitzer.

Got an e-mail from the chair of the journalism department.

"Megan Wilson, who is interning for Scripps-Howard News Service in Washington, D.C., this semester, has captured 11th place in the Hearst National Writing competition for in-depth reporting.

She competed again 95 students from the Top 55 journalism programs in the country.

Her story on drunken driving and law enforcement was published in the Chico News and Review in October."

Read the front page feature here. I took the photos, too. CN&R is the one that messed with 'em, though.
This is the sidebar story that I wrote as well.

Good Night, and Good Luck. No, seriously. You're going to need it.

While it's no surprise that Michigan tops Gallup's top ten worst job market (sup, GM?), California ranks No. 8 and DC hits the charts at No. 10. The results were tabulated by asking 100,000 employees if their employers were hiring, who were keeping their workforces the same and who were laying off.

"The figures reported here represent the net difference between the percentage reporting an expansion and the percentage reporting a reduction in their workforces," the Gallup Web site says.

I wonder if DC made the dismal list because of all those out of work Bush loyalists.

The news about my home state is particularly troubling, where unemployment has reached 9.3 percent, the highest since 1994, Newsweek reported. All that, and California is supposed to be the eighth-largest economy in the world, circa 2007. I mean, now, who the Hell knows.

The news comes as a copy of H.R. 1: The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (aka: The $819 -- and climbing -- stimulus bill, prepared specifically for me by the Congressional Budget Office, that's right) sits looming on my desk. The 647 page bound document is a clusterfuck of measures to aimed to (hopefully) keep us from careening to our collective deaths as an empire society.

To keep my head from exploding, I have limited my daily intake and output of analysis on the document. Of course, some things are good -- but some things make you go, "Holy fuck." And that's a direct quote.

But, I digress. Gallup also listed the ten BEST markets. At first glance at the spiffy chart, a reader may inquire, "Why WYOMING?" (Note: Any other state on the list, with few exceptions, can replace the example.)

I had a similar reaction, actually. But it immediately became clear to me that the states on the list are such boring, homogenious states that industry thrives. They're practically begging people to come live there. For example, Wyoming has a larger pronghorn (a deer-like creature) population than it does human residents. Seriously.

At least California's cool. We're poor. But damn, we're cool.

Bonne nuit, et bonne chance.

RING, RING...

"Who's there?"

Oh, nobody, just Mickey Rooney. He called me at the office and gave me his Superbowl pick.

His answer is confidential, but he tried to be all impartial and get away with not picking a team. Or a score. His wife is hilarious, I could hear her from the background: "Give the nice lady a team!" And, when he waffled she'd yell, "Just pick one!"

When he became even more diplomatic, refusing to offer an exact score, she said, "Just make one up! Stop wasting the girl's time!"

"I don’t want anybody to get up in arms over me, so I just say the best team will win, " he said, before his wife and I double-team peer pressured him.

Best office phone call to date.

Walking on marble floors for eight hours does not a comfortable girl make

Imagine my surprise this morning as I noticed a very fresh blanket of snow on the ground. The weather always calls for snow flurries -- well, this time they meant it. I felt an odd mixture of childish wonderment and terror as I navagated the 2-inch layer of puffy, frozen water in three-inch heels. Naturally.

Walking to the Rayburn building (of the Senate) I could feel people within a ten foot radius making bets as to when I'd fall over completely; the non-existant amount of traction on my shoes let me slip a little on the sidewalk, or crossing the street, and people began to pull out their wallets in anticipation.

Suckas, I'm a pro.

And thanks to the somewhat subversive underground subway system that connects the House, Senate and Capitol buildings, I didn't step outside for another eight hours. Instead, I watched Secretary of Defense Robert Gates testify in front of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, wherein I saw John McCain. When he reads to himself, he reads from his lap so it looks like he's asleep. It's adorable.

Then, I situated myself in the Senate Press Gallery like a baller real journalist and wrote a story. I bought a five dollar cheeseburger from one of the Capitol kitchens (to answer your inevitable question: good, but painfully small.)

Showing up a half an hour early to the House Rules Committee was a good idea, because there were like, 20 chairs. I was one of the only media people able to get in. There may have been MAYBE two other journalists. Suck it.

I won't bore you with the details of the meeting, which dealt with desired amendments to the $825 bailout package, but a killer story should be out soon.

It should also be noted that politicians like to compliment each other. A lot.
No, really. A lot, a lot.

FACT.

Nothing says "rookie" quite like glitter eye makeup.

Everytime a Clooney speaks, an angel gets its wings.

People overcome with magnificent starpower often ask the most ridiculous questions.

I'm not going to lie, though; I love being a journalist because you get up close and personal with some of the coolest, most influential personalities in the world. Tonight, George Clooney and his dad, Nick, were on the bill. They were at the Newseum for a special showing of Good Night, and Good Luck. And upon inquiring about the rumored appearance, I accidentally got press passes.

Watching the duo on stage was straight up magical. The elder Clooney has a commanding voice and presence. His son has nearly the same voice, but a much more humble aura -- whenever he speaks, it's into his lap, occasionally making eye contact with the photogs, audience or his father.

Wit practically oozed from both of them.

After the movie and subsequent Q&A sesh, the audience rushed gently surrounded the stage. I ran down from the press box with Emily and finally gathered up the courage to jump on the stage myself. Having nothing better to ask either Clooney, Emily and I had already decided we were going to ask them for their Superbowl prediction, as part of the Scripps Howard News Service's annual celebrity Superbowl Poll.

We basically followed George backstage, but were rendered incapable of shouting demands at the illusive creature, which official-types were ushering to an unknown destination. You know you're famous when you can sign autographs and mingle while being shoved by a staff, who collectively doesn't make half of your income.

Witnessing it all was majestic, though. Two or three feet of air was all that separated us. We're pretty much married.

As if the Superbowl prediction wasn't vapid enough, though, some television reporter kept asking Nick Clooney the most idiotic questions. And then as he began to answer them, she'd interrupt. This came even after he had closed the show with a sentiment of how audiences would only receive the news and the television that they deserved.

If we continue to only care about celebrities and whether or not they wear underwear, he said, "we will go down into the dustpan of history as another empire lost."

Then the reporter asked about ER. And George. Like a proud papa, the elder responded happily.
But I felt like the overall message had somehow been lost. Even as I was preparing to ask about the biggest annual American sporting event, it seemed absolutely idiotic; As interns, we were there for fun. These people had stories and potential audiences and deadlines.

In the end, Emily and I got our prediction, complete with amazing quote. Mr. Clooney actually is a former Scripps Howard employee and engaged us in conversation like he'd known us for years. I shook his hand and he was whisked off.

Video and photos as soon as I upload.

New, New Year's Resolution:

Find my inside voice.

I don't think I've ever been quiet. (Except maybe the entire seventh grade.) Shushes are coming from all over the newsroom and a reporter allegedly is able to hear me from across the entire office.

Note to self: Practice whispering in the mirror.

Story and photo gallery update

To read these, you gotta sign up as a reader of Scripps Howard. Don't freak out. It's free.

Inaugural fashion
"We Are One" concert photos
Inaug Day photo gallery(some of these photos aren't mine, captions give credit)
My inaug story
My visit to the Senate Finance Committee vote on Timothy Geithner for secretary of treasury

Speaking of the latter, John Kerry is part of that committee. He's just so adorably and rambly in person, it made me smile. That four-minute time restriction musta been hell for him.


PS: Gotta take back what I said about North Dakota. They put the profile I wrote on A1.