OK, I spent 22 years in the newspaper business, the first nine as a Democrat, but I'll set aside my know-it-all attitude and
Read the whole thing. To young people, I would say, if you have a "keen interest in bettering the world," and are looking for a job with low pay and little prospect for career advancement, how about you
join the freakin' Peace Corps and stop messing up the news business?
Dr. Oakley's observations about self-selection are right on target. So what explains me? Why am I not "bettering the world"? My original career plan was to become a multimillionaire rock star, but my Dad insisted I go to college, just in case I needed "something to fall back on."

After college, I was a nightclub DJ for about six months, then got fired from a job -- honestly, how was I to know that blonde dancer was the bouncer's girlfriend? -- and signed up with a temp agency, doing warehouse work on Fulton Industrial Boulevard in Atlanta. That led to a full-time job for nearly 18 months as a forklift driver, paying the bills and saving up money for a P.A. system.
Falling BackIn college, I'd been entertainment editor and rock-music columnist (
"Flock of Seagulls: Threat Or Menace?") for the student paper. The faculty advisor urged me my senior year to do other assignments -- sports, news, features -- so I'd have a more "balanced" portfolio of clippings. But I hadn't been able to land a newspaper job right out of school, and didn't really look for one after that. Before the Internet, you see, the business of looking for a job was much more time-consuming, and the rock-star thing was my real passion anyway.
One day, a buddy of mine, an amateur photographer, was out at Sweetwater Creek State Park and it just happened there was a radio-controlled model sailboat club having a regatta. He got some pictures and thought it was pretty cool, and said he talked to the club members and they'd asked him to send the pictures to them for the club newsletter. He was pretty excited about this.
Well, it happened that, driving through the nearby town of Austell the past few weeks, I'd noticed a new sign on a building downtown: "Cobb News Chronicle." That Austell could be a two-newspaper town was explained by the fact that a local businessman had gotten mad at the publisher of the town's original weekly tabloid (
The Sweetwater Enterprise) over ad rates and decided he'd start his own paper.
Seeing this sign while driving through Austell
en route to see my girlfriend (who lived in Marietta), I'd been thinking maybe I should see about getting a job there. Compared to forklift driving, being a newspaper writer might be more useful to my rock-star ambitions. And here was my buddy with these model sailboat photos, excited about having them published in a club newsletter.
"Hey, cool, but I tell you what. There's a brand-new newspaper that just opened up in Austell. If you've got these photos, I could do a freelance article to go with it, and maybe we could get paid."
Well, I wasn't going to write for "spec," see? I was first going to find out if they would pay me before I would bother writing the article.
Two Big Things I Never ForgotSo the next day, I put on the blue pin-stripe three-piece suit my grandmother had bought me for my mother's funeral in 1977 -- hey, bell-bottoms were cool! -- took my portfolio and the photos, and drove down to the
Chronicle office. Walked in the front door, with my blue suit and rock-star hair, and the green-eyed girl at the front desk had a spectacular rack. (Forgot her name long ago, but I never forget a great rack.)
So I tell the green-eyed girl with the spectacular rack I'd like to speak to the editor. She goes back and gets Chris Barker, the news editor. He walked me back to his cubicle, where I showed him my photos and the clips and pitched the idea of doing a freelance photo feature. What would they pay for that?
Well, he wasn't so interested in this feature idea, but my clips looked pretty good . . .
"Tell you what," he said. "There's a city council meeting tonight. You want to go cover that for us?"
"What does that pay?" I asked.
"If it's any good, $4.50 an hour."
That was in April of 1986. The story needed a good bit of editing -- Chris Barker was both a great editor and a great teacher -- but I got $4.50 an hour for four hours' work. When we were through with the story, Chris offered a full-time job at the same rate. A couple weeks later, they'd hired my buddy as a photographer, too.
Rock On, With Boy Howdy!

So the point of that story is this: My career in journalism had nothing to do with any "keen interest in bettering the world." I was just looking to make some money until the rock-star career took off. Bounced around a bit, then met my wife in the fall of 1987, had our first kid in 1989 and . . well, if the rest isn't history yet, it's only because I'm not finished yet.
I never wanted to be Woodward and Bernstein. Maybe I admired the late, great rock critic Lester Bangs (does anyone remember the old
Creem magazine?) and I'd been a Hunter S. Thompson junkie since I was 19, but it never occurred to me, in 1986, that I'd end up as an award-winning political journalist in Washington. (
Hey, Jesse, how'd you like that pony?) Far less did I expect to become a
top Hayekian public intellectual.
Here's the thing: When I was starting out, nobody offered to pay me to write political opinions, and I didn't have any interest in doing that egghead pundit crap anyway. Al Gore hadn't invented the Internet yet, so we hadn't reached the glories of the Information Age, when every random loser with a laptop can tell the world their opinions of stuff they know nothing about. I didn't go to Harvard, so it wasn't like
National Review would ever offer me an internship to go skinny-dipping with Bill Buckley.
So I made my living by
skill, not
opinion. And because of that, I realized the only way to get ahead was to work hard every day to improve my skills.