Walking home today,

His English was fine, thank God, and he even had instructions: Upend the camera to take a vertically oriented picture so the flags would be in the frame. U.S. flag, Hilton logo flag, Puerto Rican flag (I think), D.C. flag. He was really insistent about getting all the flags in.

The usual judgmental thoughts ran through my head: Why take pictures of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g? Why do you need to be in the picture with dumb, boring stuff? Just, simply, what is the point of this?

To his dismay I let the camera drop and hang from its strap between my fingers. “Why do you want a picture with these flags, and this hotel?” I asked non-confrontationally, stepping closer to his face. He had no answer and I was about to inform him of something I assumed he didn’t know, which is that this parking lot was where our 40th president, Mr. Ronald Reagan, was shot by a man trying to impress movie actress Jodie Foster.

And he was even less likely to know how once a year, this hotel becomes Little Hollywood on the Potomac, and a grab-bag of shiny stars empties out into the dull dishwater of D.C.’s political star system. They walk the red carpet, and if you’ve got enough chutzpah, you can put on a tuxedo or ball gown and walk down that red carpet, too. No matter who you are!

Just then, the only logical idea came to me.

“I know what you need,” I said. “You need a picture with me and you.”

I nodded hard as he gave me a long, horrified look. I assured and then re-assured him that it was fine with me, no trouble at all, but he still had a worried facial expression, his mouth all contorted like I was going to steal his camera or his soul.

Still dangling his camera from my hand, I ventured about 20 feet toward the busy sidewalk and flagged down a blond girl with fashionable sunglasses on. “Hi. My… this man here needs a picture with me. Do you mind terribly?” She was just as pleasant as can be and helpfully counted 3-2-1 before snapping a photo.

We all looked at the image display, and unanimously agreed that she should take another shot because I looked fat in this one. I told her, sotto voce: “That one was embarrassingly bad. Can’t you see that?”

I kind of grabbed her lightly by the shoulders and moved her over toward a brick sculpture/fountain and told her to get up there.

“If you shoot downward, my… we won’t have double chins.” I thought everyone knew that basic fact of photography, but apparently not.

I jumped up next to her on the fountain wall and looked through the camera viewfinder. “Nope,” I said. “No, no, no.” I know my angles, and this was not going to work. I repositioned her.

She balanced herself on the top edge of the bricks and took a photo. Her hands were shaking like she was cold. “Take another one just in case,” I ordered. I wanted this shoot to be over with before her performance anxiety totally paralyzed her. Also, it was getting dark, we were about to lose the nice natural light.

I checked the display and this one was okay. It showed my good (right) side, my clothes looked smooth, tummy sucked in, I was making the proper ducklike lip shape and jutting my chin out while making my eyes as round as possible and raising my eyebrows slightly.

My good deed for the day was done. Now this tourist has a quality photo to take home, with something of interest in it.

An ambulance rushed down Connecticut Avenue with sirens a-sounding, and I turned to make the sign of the cross so the driver could see me, and when I turned back to my friends they were gone.

I cringed along with the rest of you during the holidays when Tareq and Michaele Salahi got busted for crashing a state dinner President Obama held for the prime minister of India.

But for me it was personal. As the pictures of the outlaw couple posing proudly for pictures at the White House flickered across CNN, I said to myself, “Oh, man. The jig is up.”

FOR THE REST OF MY CONFESSION, PLEASE CLICK HERE.

The event attracts a unique mix of glamourous celebrities, policy wonks, journos, and what Wonkette has termed “famous for D.C.” people.

I could list dozens of famous I’ve seen there, but the one that really caused me to be star-struck was Carole King, successful mid-20th-century singer-songwriter and, it turns out, jerk.

My parents had the album Tapestry in the house when I was a kid, and I loved it. Each song is basically a masterpiece. “So Far Away,” “I Feel the Earth Move,” “Natural Woman.”

So when I saw her I was taken back to a place that was quite small and childlike in my star-struck heart, and, out of character for me, asked her shyly: “May I take a picture?”

With all the grace and charm of a big-city sanitation worker hanging off the back of a garbage truck, she waved me off and just kept walking, responding to me over her shoulder: “I’ve kinda got another agenda right now.” I think she was on the way to the bathroom.

“Another agenda” she says. What a jerk. It actually hurt my feelings. She made me remember for a moment that I have feelings that can be hurt. And then she hurt them. I later deleted her songs from my iPod.

So I resolved not to ask for any more pictures, just to start taking them. A moment later I was extending my arm, hand, and camera right into Colin Powell’s face and just snapping a picture without asking or aiming or anything.

FOR MORE ON MY WHITE HOUSE CORRESPONDENTS ASSOCIATION DINNER PHOTOGRAPHY, CLICK HERE.