Once upon a time this gig was a golden ticket. All you needed was a face sculpted by angels, a voice smooth enough to sell whiskey, and the willingness to sign away your soul along with the rights to your face and voice so your employer could own you like a rental car. The pay was dazzling enough that you happily bent over the contract and did not complain. Those days are gone. By the mid 1990s the fairy tale soured. Out went the journalists, in came the bean counters. Today your paycheck is not money but “exposure” and your privacy is shredded. One mugshot for a DWI or one shoplifting slip and your shame is blasted everywhere faster than your best stand-up in front of city hall. The bare minimum now is brutal. You must write like Hemingway on espresso and hold a diploma from Northwestern or Columbia. Lesser schools need not apply. Then you will be tossed into the wild to recite stories in public while hecklers scream “fake news” behind you. Extra credit if you can keep a fake smile ...