Dick A. Heller (pictured here with his wife Jane) is the plaintiff in District of Columbia v. Heller, the landmark gun case recently adjudicated before the United States Supreme Court. As Justice Antonin Scalia explained in his majority opinion striking down the District’s handgun ban, “the District’s ban on handgun possession in the home violates the Second Amendment, as does its prohibition against rendering any lawful firearm in the home operable for the purpose of immediate self-defense.”

When I arrived at the Supreme Court to photograph Mr. Heller, I was unable to locate him as 1) the Supreme Court is a large building, 2) I did not know what Mr. Heller looked like, and 3) I had left my cell phone at home. I contemplated borrowing a tourist’s cell phone, but deemed the necessary preamble - “Excuse me, you don’t know me, but I’m a newspaper reporter for the Washington City Paper…well, really, more of a videographer…but I’m searching for Dick A. Heller, the plaintiff in District of Columbia v. Heller, a landmark gun case, perhaps you’ve heard of it? Anyway, I am supposed to contact Mr. Heller, but I forgot my cell phone…can I use yours?” - too complex. Also, most tourists on hand were praying as part of a pro-life protest, and I doubted they would be in the mood for lending out PDAs to unshaven strangers. After short discussion with a security guard, I was directed to one of the Highest Court’s two payphones, and was able to locate Mr. Heller the old-fashioned way.

Nizam Ali is the son of Ben and Virginia Ali, who founded Ben’s Chili Bowl at 1213 U St. NW in 1958. The elder Alis are now retired - Nizam runs the Washington landmark with his brother Kamal (not pictured).

When I first contacted Nizam, I suggested meeting at noon to film his portrait. Nizam was concerned that our session would interrupt the Chili Bowl’s busy lunch hour. I reconsidered my initial suggestion and offered an 11:30 meet. Nizam readily agreed to this. However, when I arrived at Ben’s Chili Bowl, I found the lunch counter a-bustle with hungry Washingtonians clamoring for food. Though swamped with customers, Nizam graciously sat for three minutes outside, where the bright sun allowed me to film with few in-camera metering modifications.

Eleanor Holmes Norton has represented the District of Columbia in the United States Congress since 1991. Former chair of the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission and professor at Georgetown University Law School, Ms. Norton is a third-generation Washingtonian and longtime voting-rights advocate.

When planning this portrait, I decided to shoot Congresswoman Norton’s profile - an angle which I thought communicated the understated dignity of her unique position as a legislator without a vote in the U.S. House of Representatives. However, she quickly nixed this idea.

“No woman wants to be filmed from the side,” the Congresswoman said.

Andy Shallal is a restauranteur, antiwar activist, and artist. He opened Busboys & Poets, a cafe whose name pays tribute to the poetry of Langston Hughes, on the U Street Corridor in 2005.

When I arrived at Busboys & Poets to film Mr. Shallal, I learned that he was running a few minutes late and decided to kill some time in the cafe’s bookstore. When Mr. Shallal arrived, he caught me reading Bill Cosby’s controversial “wake-up” to the black community Come on People: On the Path from Victims to Victors. Embarrassed to be caught reading Mr. Cosby’s embarrassing book, I tried to reshelve it, but could not find the section from whence it came. Mr. Shallal was gracious about the mix-up.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Shallal said. “Just leave it on the counter.”

Wendy Rieger is the anchor of NBC 4’s “News 4 at 5.” She has worked as a reporter in Washington for over two decades.

When I first contacted Ms. Rieger about this project, I worried that a person who earned a living sitting in front of a major network’s television cameras would not be interested in making a three-minute silent Camcorder portrait destined to be viewed in low resolution on the internet. However, Ms. Rieger was not only enthusiastic about the project, but sat for an additional three minutes after technical problems wrecked my first take. Her parting words were also inspiring.

“Well, at least this isn’t the same old thing,” she said.

Chuck Brown, popularly known as the “Godfather of Go-Go,” has been making music in and around Washington, D.C. for four decades. I filmed Mr. Brown before a show in the parking lot behind the Ram’s Head Tavern in historic downtown Annapolis on March 17, 2008—St. Patrick’s Day. Though Mr. Brown had a green feather tucked into his fedora, he felt compelled to acknowledge that he wasn’t wearing a green article of clothing as this holiday proscribes.

“I almost wore my green boots,” he explained.

“Have you ever visited the Coca-Cola Museum?” I inquired of my bandmate. We had set our automobile’s controls to the heart of Atlanta, and were speeding towards that sprawling metropolis at speeds in excess of 80 m.p.h.

“No,” my bandmate replied. “What is the Coca-Cola Museum?”

“As you may be aware, the corporation that manufactures the popular soft drink Coca-Cola is headquartered in Atlanta,” I explained. “This corporation has erected a museum in its own honor to celebrate its profits and its product—a sweet, bubbly, black beverage first concocted in Georgia before the dawn of the 20th century.”

“But one does one do in a Coca-Cola Museum?” my bandmate queried.

“The so-called ‘Coke museum’ offers a free education in all topics Coke-related,” I explained. “One can learn about the history of the Coca-Cola and the evolution of its aesthetics; one can study the Coca-Cola’s ingredients and read about its ongoing war with the Pepsi Corporation for control of the global marketplace; and one can, with heartfelt nostalgia, remember all of those special Coca-Colas one has drunk—the Coca-Cola consumed before the first day of kindergarten, the Coca-Cola consumed before winning a little league game, the Coca-Cola consumed before unexpectedly losing one’s virginity at the senior prom, the Coca-Cola consumed on the last night of Hell Week during fraternity or sorority initiation, the Coca-Cola consumed before failing the New York or California bar exam, the Coca-Cola consumed on one’s wedding night during an awkward exchange with an unfamiliar relative, the Coca-Cola consumed before signing one’s first mortgage without a full understanding this legal document’s contents or meaning, the Coca-Cola consumed before the birth of a child one feels unready or unable to raise, the Coca-Cola consumed before one’s retirement from a job that one always thought would offer more stability, financial remuneration, or meaning, and the Coca-Cola consumed before the gastrointestinal, open-heart, and/or brain surgery one might survive but, ultimately, may not survive.”

“Hmmm,” my bandmate replied.

“In addition,” I added, “The Museum offers ‘all you can drink’ free samples of Coca-Cola products from around the world. These can be consumed until one becomes sick.”

“I’m sold,” my bandmate replied. “Let’s go!”

“I suspected that you would be initially suspicious, but ultimately enthusiastic about the Coca-Cola Museum,” I replied. “Coke is, after all, life.”

“Do you want to watch Control?” inquired my host in Birmingham, Alabama. We stood in his spacious living room examining his enormous collection of DVDs.

“What is Control?” I queried.

“Control is a movie about the rise and fall of Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis,” my host replied. “This film, released in 2007, stars Academy Award Nominee Samantha Morton.”

I grimaced.

“What’s the problem?” my host replied.

“I’m sorry,” I ventured. “The prospect of a Joy Division movie forces me to admit that I do not like Joy Division.”

“What?” my host replied.

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“The last time I was in Little Rock, I vomited,” I informed my bandmate. We sped east on Interstate 630 towards the Arkansas state capital.

“What led you to vomit?” my bandmate inquired.

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Dear Home Depot:

I am loath to use the expression “Suck my dick.” I believe the expression is anti-feminist and anti-sex. I am pro-feminism, and pro-sex. However, there is no better way to say it: the Seven Corners, Virginia Home Depot sucks my dick.

Like many Americans who helped you post over $90 billion in net sales last quarter, I followed the once less-than-totally absurd advice that “one cannot lose money in real estate” and purchased a home. While renovating, I purchased a Hampton Bay Brushed Nickel 5-Blade Sidewinder Fan from your company in January 2008. This fan arrived with a broken light fixture (see above). I visited the Seven Corners Home Depot yesterday to address this problem. After 15 minutes with three different orange-aproned customer service representatives, I was referred to a fourth representative who, allegedly, could help me. After 15 minutes of contemplation, this fourth representative wondered whether my problem could be solved at all and referred me to a manager. Fifteen minutes later, the manager had the representative call Home Depot Direct. Though he was unable to explain my problem to Home Depot Direct, he did put me on the phone with them before walking away. I explained the problem to the operator at Home Depot Direct, who put me on hold for 15 minutes. Thus, I found myself in an unusual situation: I stood in Home Depot, abandoned by one customer service representative, and yet was on the phone with Home Depot, on hold with another.

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“Where would you like to sleep?” inquired my host. After a show in Denton, Texas, she had graciously opened her home in suburban Ft. Worth to my traveling musical troupe. We stood in her living room, determining where our itinerant quartet would bed down for the night.

“What are the options?” I queried. “Our party numbers four.”

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“Would you like to see Aliens Versus Predator: Requiem or One Missed Call?” I inquired of my bandmates. We stood at the box office of a movie theater outside Austin, Texas with many hours on our hands and few activities to fill them.

“What is Aliens Versus Predator: Requiem?” my bandmate queried.

“Aliens Versus Predator: Requiem is a science fiction film that was released in 2007,” I declared. “This film, directed by Colin and Greg Strause and starring Steven Pasquale, Reiko Aylesworth, and John Ortiz, is a sequel to 2004’s Alien Versus Predator, an innovative fusion of the popular, profitable Alien and Predator science-fiction franchises.”

“But I have not heard of those directors or actors,” my bandmate protested. “And I have not seen Alien Versus Predator.”

“Be troubled neither by your unfamiliarity with the directors and stars of Aliens Versus Predator: Requiem, nor by your ignorance of the original film’s plot,” I offered. “There are aliens, there are predators. To watch Aliens Versus Predator: Requiem, you need know little else.”

“What of One Missed Call?” my bandmate queried. “Is this more substantive cinema?”

“One Missed Call is a horror film released earlier this year,” I explained. “This film, starring Shannyn Sossamon and Edward Burns and directed by Eric Valette, is a remake of a Japanese horror film, a la 2002’s The Ring and 2005’s Dark Water.”

“I have heard of the actors in this film,” my bandmate replied. “But what of the plot?”

“The plots of Japanese horror films take a backseat to aesthetics,” I replied. “Think of One Missed Call as you would think of Piet Mondrian’s painting Composition No. 10. Does Composition No. 10 have a plot?”

“Touche,” my bandmate replied. “But what of the cost of these films?”

“This is a second-run theater,” I replied. “The cost of any movie is $1. Thus, the whole band can be entertained for two hours for $4.”

“Well, at least the price is right!” my bandmate exclaimed.

“I would say that the price is not ‘right,’ but merely ‘fair,’” I replied. “After all, most aesthetic experiences—including free jazz, Danielle Steel novels, and museum exhibits centered around furniture design—are worth $4 at most.”

“Andrew Jackson cuts quite a striking figure,” I commented to my bandmate. We stood in the parking lot of an artist’s studio in Houston, contemplating the enormous busts of U.S. Presidents that this artist had made his calling card.

“Look at that hair,” my bandmate replied.

“Jackson’s hair is indeed a thing of beauty,” I observed. “The great swoops and swirls of this former President’s ‘do’ not only denote a severe kind of Wagnerian expressionism (and, indeed, Jackson and the composer Richard Wagner, though separated by an ocean, were contemporaries), but are the perfect physical manifestation of Jackson’s domineering personality. Unlike the U.S. economy during Jackson’s tenure, his hairline refuses to succumb to recession or depression. This is the hairline of a man who served in the War of 1812 and numerous wars against Native Americans; who admitted the States of Arkansas and Missouri to the Union; who destroyed the Second National Bank; who survived an assassination attempt; who presided over the extermination of thousands of Cherokee Indians on the Trail of Tears; who personified the broad outlines of populist Jeffersonian democracy whilst ignoring its humanitarian foundations; and, unforgettably, found his way on to the American $20 bill.” I stared at Jackson and contemplated his complex legacy for some moments. “In addition,” I added, “Jackson looks like the bass player of a garage band from Baltimore, or the troubled star of a 1960’s French new wave film.”

“I appreciate your clever repartee in re: Andrew Jackson’s decidedly pre-Civil War, yet surprisingly contemporary appearance,” my bandmate confided, “but must point out that my family has Native American roots.” Leaving this awkward factoid hanging in the air, my bandmate strolled to the other side of the parking lot to contemplate an enormous bust of William Jefferson Clinton. Having no other company, I looked Jackson full in the face.

“Well, Jackson!” I exclaimed. “What do you make of that? It seems simply impossible to even joke about your presidency these days. In the future, I will have to center my observational humour around the less controversial Presidencies of John Quincy Adams, William Howard Taft, and Gerald Ford.” I turned on my heel and followed my bandmate across the parking lot. Jackson did not reply.

“I didn’t bet yet,” I informed the gentleman sitting to my left. We were playing $1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em at Harrah’s Casino in New Orleans, Louisiana. “I see that you have declared yourself ‘all-in.’ However, I must note that it is my action, not yours. Thus, I deem your premature bet a breach of appropriate poker etiquette.”

“What do I care for your judgment?” the gentleman queried. “I am all-in, regardless of whether you check or bet, and will announce myself as such on my own timetable.”

“He’s right!” exclaimed my opponent’s girlfriend. She was seated to the left of my opponent, and was also not involved in the hand, but, unsurprisingly, came to her boyfriend’s defense. “He’s all-in, and he’s committed himself, and he can commit himself to this action whenever he pleases. Let the hand play out.”

I looked to the dealer—the one person in the casino who could shed light on our debate—for clarification. The dealer remained silent. I regarded my cards. I held the ace of spades and the jack of clubs. I had raised from early position pre-flop, determined to thin the field, as my holding was relatively weak. My opponent had been the only player to call my raise. The flop had come ace-five-deuce of assorted suits. Though I had flopped top pair with a decent kicker, I suspected my opponent had flopped two-pair or even trips. After all, he was a boor and a rogue, but no fool.

“Time!” my opponent exclaimed. The dealer began to count down the seconds which remained for me to choose my next move. My opponent had invoked this obscure technical rule to pressure me. To my dismay, I found his stratagem effective.

“All right, then,” I conceded. “I’ll check.”

“As declared,” my opponent replied, “I am all-in.”

“Well, then,” I conceded again. “I fold.” My opponent raked a not-inconsiderable pot. I stewed.

An hour passed. Some thirty-two hands later, I found myself holding the king of hearts and the jack of diamonds in early position. As is my habit, I again raised with my unimpressive holding to thin the field. All players folded except the moll who had come to her boyfriend’s defense. The flop came K-Q-2 of assorted suits, giving me top pair with a middling kicker. I bet a not-inconsiderable sum. My bet was called by the grande dame, leading me to suspect she had flopped a better king or two-pair. The turn came—a seven. I again bet, and madamoiselle again called. The river came—a nine.

“I’m all-in,” I declared. Though I still held only a pair of kings—and, truth be told, I believed the young miss to hold a superior hand—the nine was a good bluff card. My opponent might believe I was holding jack-ten and had rivered a straight, and throw her cards into the muck. The senorita stared at her cards for some time.

“I don’t know what to do,” she declared.

“Time!” I called, invoking the obscure technical rule so successfully used against me earlier in the evening. The dealer, neutral as ever, began to count down the seconds in which this mild-mannered debutante must make her decision. Her boyfriend, prevented by house rules from making any recommendation to his lady love, remained silent.

“I fold,” my opponent announced only seconds before her hand would be declared dead. I raked the not-inconsiderable pot, stood up, took my chips, cashed them, and walked to Canal Street. There, I hailed a taxicab.

“Where to?” the driver inquired.

“Oh, driver,” I cried, “take me to country where the power politics—or, at least, the power politics of poker—do not exist.”

“Sir,” the driver replied, “that country does not exist.”

IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD

“How goes the academic rat race?” I inquired of my host in Tallahassee, Florida. This generous, learned gentleman, a classics professor at Florida State University, had opened his hearth and home to my bandmates and I. We were discussing the politics of professorship as we stood ordering breakfast at the counter of a local deli.

“Ultimately, academia is kind of a sham,” my host replied. “It is, as they say, publish or perish. I find that—”

“What would you like this morning?” queried a food server from behind the counter. She had interrupted my host just as he had arrived at the meat of his argument.

“Oh,” my host muttered. He scrutinized the menu and considered his gustatory options. “I’ll have a bagel. Anyway, as I was saying, I find that there is a proliferation of scholarly publications right now. This is not because fresh scholarly insights are in oversupply. Instead, books are being published simply because books must be published by associate professors on the tenure track who seek to show their worth—“

“And would you like that bagel toasted?” queried the server. She had interrupted my host a second time.

“Oh,” my host muttered. “Well, yes. I’ll have a toasted bagel. Anyway, consider my own situation. I’ve just secured a new job at a very reputable university. Now, I have some fascinating articles in the pipeline. However, it makes more sense for me to publish these articles after I start my new job. This way, they will count in my favor when I am considered for tenure. Though they contain new ideas, to publish them at this point would really be a waste—“

“And what would you like on that toasted bagel?” queried the server. She had interrupted my host a third time.

“Oh,” my host muttered. “Well, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have cream cheese. Anyway, my point is that the academic world isn’t really fueled by original ideas in and of themselves, but by the perception that one is coming up with original ideas that is constructed upon an edifice of publications—some of with, truth be told, may be redundant, irrelevant or even nonsensical—”

“One bagel, toasted, with cream cheese,” the server declared. She had interrupted my host a fourth time. “One dollar, seventy-five cents.”

“Oh,” my host muttered. He rummaged through a pocket, retrieved the correct denominations of American currency, and paid the server.

“Thank you,” the server replied. She turned to me. “Can I help you?” she inquired. I ordered my own bagel. My host and I sat down at a nearby table and contemplated our breakfasts.

“This really is a lot of cream cheese,” my host commented. He poked at the large tub of viscous paste that sat beside his bagel.

“The cream cheese overflows your plate like the excess knowledge bursting from the pens of graduate students around the globe,” I remarked. I looked at my own plate and regarded the dry bagel there. I had neglected to order cream cheese.