Singer/songwriter Danielle LoPresti waited as the man behind the desk listened to her demo CD. When the last song came to an end, the man leaned forward, looked Danielle in the eye, and said he would sign her in return for sex. “You’re kidding, right?” Danielle gave an unsure smile. She brushed off the comment as humor. “You’re married,” she said.

“I’m as serious as a heart attack,” the man said. “My wife does what she wants and I don’t ask her any questions. I do what I want and she doesn’t ask me any questions. She showers before she comes home. I shower before I go home. Now, what’s your answer to my question?”

Disgusted, Danielle left the man’s office, never to return.

Four years later, Danielle, whisked away to solve one crisis or another, left me to stand alone behind the black curtain that separated the main floor from the backstage of the San Diego Independent Music Festival. It was November 5, 2005. I was two hours into a six-hour gig as emcee.