Around the same time Def Lepard was packing stadiums, me and my corkscrew perm were flunking statistics at the University of North Carolina, Charlotte. And just like that, my journalism career was born. (English majors rule!) My first byline was in my college newspaper; a review of the Bill Murray film “Scrooged.” It was all up hill from there, chasing the suspected “Olympic bomber” through the Georgia mountains, shadowing the pathologically verbose Newt Gingrich and narrating for AP Radio as the Margaret Mitchell house burned to the ground. At the Los Angeles Times, I started as a lowly beat reporter who somehow managed to draw the ire of the Nation of Islam (they later apologized) and the tear gas of the LAPD (they did not. bastards.). As a feature writer, covering Hollywood for a decade, I witnessed the Botox Trial of the Century, caught a red wine buzz with John Malkovich, split an appetizer with Angelina Jolie and survived three very intimate days with Metallica’s life coach. Still haven’t met Bill Murray.