Once you get your press card, what happens? You’ll stand in a press pen at a concert, surrounded by people with giant lenses, and realize it’s just a different kind of crowd. You still have to file your story by midnight. The free beer? Not a thing.
But there’s something satisfying about that little laminated rectangle. It says, “I’m here to work, not to party.” It’s a small badge of honor in a world full of noise. And someday, when your mom asks, “Did you get a press pass?” you can nod and say, “Yes, Mom. I’m a real journalist now.”
Just don’t expect to use it to skip the line at the DMV. That’s a whole different kind of press—and it’s never, ever laminated.
