Local News Queen

There is a moment in everyday when I think about running out of the building like it is on fire.  Ah, to just leave it all behind. I scan the newsroom looking for the closest exit.   I know I can’t sneak  by the new girl.   She is Curious George and would certainly ask what  story I’m working on and where I am going.

She is 20 something and still has dreams. It will take a few more years, a pay cut and being assigned (for the 4th time) the “a storm is coming people are stocking up on canned peas” story for her to realize she should have gone to law school.

Her goal is to win an Emmy.  My goal each night is to get my story done  with enough time to enjoy my dinner:  Diet Coke and a random selection from the vending machine.  Our vendor has lost touch with reality so the selection is limited.  I suppose having to walk around your entire life with your name sewn on your shirt would drive a person mad.   The latest vending machine cuisine is sausage on a roll.  It;s a cross between a sandwich you would buy at a carnival and Hugh Hefner’s penis.  (It’s old)  I’m not employed by the FDA, but I’m certain sausage needs to be refrigerated and has an expiration date.

Anyway, back to my escape.   There is also a good chance I will run into “Carl.” I’m not sure what department he works in, but “Carl” is always pushing a plastic cart around the hallways.  His hair is overgrown.  It is not quite as long as
Tom Brady’s locks, (Can we talk about the picture of him wearing a scrunchie?  Hello? 1990 called and they want their accessory back) but it is unkempt.  “Carl” wears the same sweater everyday that has a stain on the cuff and is torn at the base of his neck.  (Which once again begs the question: “Who the hell did that interview?”)  His black rimmed glasses are always fogged up which leads me to believe he is a mouth breather.  I’ve never gotten close enough to verify that
to be fact.   Let’s just say I could totally see him sending Brad Pitt a box in the desert.

So, there is no running away.   I must put on a happy face (or sad depending on the story) and deliver the news.

By now I am sure you have all seen the video of reporter Serene Branson speaking gibberish on live TV.   I am amazed at the number of people laughing at her misfortune.   This was not the case of a reporter forgetting her lines on air.  Believe me, I have messed up, stumbled and made up words on occasion.    I had a friend says penis when she meant to say peanuts.     For weeks people came up to me cracking jokes about her genitalia slip.    Here is a news flash: we are not perfect.   Nor are you.   Otherwise you wouldn’t put Clorox Bleach and bread in the same bag at the checkout.    Believe me,  I am the queen of inappropriate jokes.   Human Resources has my number on speed dial.    I also love a good ‘fall on your ass’ home video.   ( I am 50mg of Zoloft away from being unstable enough to build a shrine to Daniel Tosh in my bedroom.  )  However, watching a stroke on tape (or whatever the hell happened) isn’t funny.

I’ve had some tough names to say over the years, but this takes the cake.

I cannot get enough of these videos.   I’m waiting for someone to make the “I’m the Secretary at a Television Station” version.   At my joint, it would include daily trips to the bathroom to stain the toilets,   answering the telephone with disgust because the caller interrupted Maury Povich  and repeatedly making announcements over the building intercom system….. just because she can.

Watch, reflect and keep sending out those resumes to the local non-profit groups in hopes of becoming a public relations director.   That is where ‘newsies’ go to die.  When we get tired of delivering news… we become the annoying people who beg for coverage.   It’s a sick cycle.

“I am an Assignment Editor”

I am about to reveal a secret that newscasters don’t want you to know.  Are you ready? Anchors are reading.  They read.  They are readers.   If they were in elementary school they would earn stickers everyday!   They are not, however, writers.   In fact, they are reading material written by a freckled faced college graduate who lives in his parent’s basement and still masturbates to Pam Anderson.  Sure, they skim through copy and make what they call “corrections” to scripts.   Translation: they re-arrange a word or two.  Maybe, if they’re feeling crazy they add a comma.

Truth is some anchors often have no bloody idea if the story is accurate.  Why? They don’t call to confirm information.   They don’t have sources.   Are they too busy to read every script?  Finding an anchor that is busy is like seeing an Albino at a tanning salon.   I have seen one hard working anchor in my entire career.

Once upon a time, one of our main anchors read the same script in three separate shows.  Then, five minutes before the 11 p.m. newscast I overheard him ask the producer, “Can you explain to me what this story is about.”  He delivered the story with such conviction at 6 p.m.  Families trusted that he was giving them accurate information.  He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

I have a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend…. who works at a station where the anchor read a script about a recalled crib.  The producer thought it would be funny to add a little “spice” to the script about what could happen if you own one.  Among the warnings in the copy, “The crib could also explode!”  This chick read that in horror.   She didn’t bat an eyelash over how utterly ridiculous it was that a crib would spontaneously combust.

Oh, and I can’t even tell you the number of times an associate producer typed the wrong lottery numbers in the prompter.  They too were read on the air.  Somewhere, there is a poor bastard who thought he was a millionaire.  In reality he would have to work the fryer for another dozen years.   I can’t blame anchors.  If someone offered me six figures I would read for a living too.   Don’t hate the reader…. Hate the game.

A wise young man once told me: “You are way overdue for a post Missie!  That’s all. Word.  To your mother.”   He is right.  What the hell have I been doing?

First and foremost I’ve been busy drinking Eggnog lattes.  Yes, I am a proud Starbucks patron. There are several reasons I don’t waste my money at the local coffee shop.  First of all, I don’t want to sit in chairs that were found on the side of the road.  Second, those hippie baristas couldn’t make a good drink if a 300 year old Redwood depended on it.  Nor do I have 2 hours to waste while they heat up some milk.  I once had to interrupt a conversation to order a beverage.  The cashier looked at me like I took a shit in her mouth.  She was showing the ‘sandwich maker guy’ her recent piercing. She looked like a roadie for Veruca Salt or a member of the Zulu tribe.  Her earrings (if you could call them that)looked like small tires.  I could see through her.  I’m certain these crazy kids are going to regret this decision when they are 70 and their lobes are touching their shoulders.

Back to my excuse for not blogging……

I was (in TV speak) ‘braving the crowds’ to do some Christmas shopping.  I envisioned the theme of Chariots of Fire playing as my children raced down the stairs Christmas morning.  They would embrace me, grinning ear to ear before dropping to their knees in gratitude. Reality check.  Christmas Eve went a little something like this in my house:  “Santa may not give you everything on your list, honey.”  Temper tantrum.  “Well, then he is going to ruin Christmas!”  I tried to give the “There are kids in Africa who don’t have water” speech.  My son told me he didn’t want water. He wanted videogames.

I can’t blame work.  I’ve been at this hellhole long enough to get a few holidays off. In fact, I was spared having to do the New Year’s Eve celebration story. Thank baby Jesus!  There isn’t a whole lot you can say when covering New Year’s festivities.  (Evident if you saw Natalie Morales covering the ball drop in Times Square.  She just bopped up and down to the music in her head and threw the microphone to a bunch of idiots in the crowd.)  Locally, the report goes something like this:  ”The fun gets started in an hour, blah, blah, blah”.  Then, inevitably your script turns into a MADD commercial. We encourage people to take public transportation even though we wouldn’t be caught dead on a city bus.

In closing, I don’t have a good excuse, but I’m back bitch. 

This is hysterical (and sadly true)

SO YOU WANT TO BE IN TELEVISION NEWS

Election night in a newsroom is insane.   It’s the one time of the year that management doesn’t care if photographers, producers or reporters get overtime.  Everyone is on the schedule.  It seems like a good idea until the big night.   It also seems like a good idea to eat doughnuts everyday…… that is….until you end up with a muffin top.   Then, at 30-something you end up buying “Instant Button”.   I must admit, when I saw the rack filled with these “magic” buttons I nearly dropped to my knees.   It was as if the lord heard my cries and sent a discount store angel to ease my pain.  In a nutshell, it’s a button that extends the waistline of your pants.  It was invented by a mom and resembles one of those pins you got in Boy Scouts for reading to old people.  I was flying high when I wore the “Instant Button” to work one day.  I was finally in a pre-baby suit.   I thought I was hot shit until I bent over to pick up a pen.  Like a downed pilot…. that button ejected from the waistline of my pants with such force it landed across the room beneath a producer’s desk.   “What the hell was that,” someone exclaimed.  I began swatting the air and complaining about bugs in the newsroom.   I was too embarrassed to bend over and pick it up.  Besides, I figured without the “magic” button my zipper would split apart if I moved too quickly.

My point is it’s a bad idea to have a cluttered newsroom.  Producer’s end stepping on each other’s toes.  Associate producers waste air.  They spend much of the night updating their personal Facebook pages with election results so their friends and family think they’re important.   Managers are only there for the free pizza.   (Like animals at the zoo they feed you on election night to keep you from escaping)

No matter how many people you have behind the scenes it’s inevitable…..you WILL have awkward moments on live TV.  There is only so much you can say to fill time waiting for the loser to begin speaking while his loser friends clap like they’re at The State of the Union Address.  You’re fancy graphics can’t save you either.  In the market I work that amounts to a colorful graphic that reads “Decision 2010” in Lucida Sans.    We don’t have those fancy touch screens or virtual studios.  (Kuddos to MSNBC for being able to afford the technology) Still, there is something about election night.   Your adrenaline is pumping and no matter how much you screw up….. your news director will send out an email the next day telling you how you crushed your competitors with your coverage.  Everybody wins.

These great stories come from a photographer – the unsung heroes in the news business.  Thanks for sharing!

Market 79 – Someone tried to kill a very old tree because they were not allowed to cut it down due to its historical relevance. “Tree rescuers” were watering the tree and working on saving it day and night. The reporter wrote, “The twenty-four hour watch to protect the tree begins early each morning.” I tried without success to explain to him that a twenty-four hour watch begins once and ends once.

Market 41 – AP wires going nuts over a celebrity stabbing. 20-something producer stands up in the newsroom and shouts, “Okay. Who is George Harrison and why do I care that he was stabbed?” Side note – After I explained to her that anyone who owns any music – at all – should know who George Harrison is, she challenged me with trivia from her world.  “Okay, I bet you don’t know who Puck is!” I said “Well, he’s the bike messenger on “The Real World” and I wouldn’t exactly match his footprint on the world of pop culture with that of George Harrison’s.”

Market 29 – While trying to explain to a producer why her tease was just flat out wrong and therefore misleading, she said, “David, I try to not let the facts get in the way of my teases.” I told her that if she truly believed that, she should reevaluate her vocational choice. (We agreed to bring the tease dispute to a third party of her choosing and I was vindicated.)

Market 29 – Written by an AP and caught minutes before air by the tape editor – referring to the death of Edward Kennedy – “Edward Kennedy was the sole surviving son of John F. Kennedy.”

And I saved the best for last. This one aired in Market 29 – Written by a producer, this was a tease for a story about a little boy who was lost and a former pedophile helped the kid get to safety while doing no harm to him. Here it is…….drum roll…………..”A former sexual predator finds a little boy and gives him a happy ending.”

I met my new neighbor today. (Sigh) I was outside doing yard work when the “man of the house” strolled over.   I was knee deep in dirt or I would have raced inside.  I’m not exactly the kind of woman who bakes a pie to welcome people into my hood.  I will give “the wave” when I pass your house, but that’s it.   Actually, the last time new neighbors knocked at my door I made the entire family hide until they left.  These people were like Jehovah’s witnesses.  They didn’t get the hint.

I suspected this guy was an idiot.  From a distance, I could see the outline of his testicles.  (Who the hell decided men look good in skinny jeans?) He has medium length blonde hair and a cowlick that sweeps his bangs away from his overly tanned face.  As he got closer I discovered I was now living next to “The Official Thong Inspector, Daytona Beach 2001.”   Now, there are several reasons this t-shirt confirms he is a tool.   He paid money for that shirt.    Second, he went to Daytona Beach in 2001.   Now, I will admit, back in the day, I curled my bangs, threw on a pair of cut-off jean shorts and jammed to “Humpty Hump” at a MTV beach house.  However, this man is well into his 40’s.   At his age he should be pretending to be happy as poses with Mickey Mouse for the 5^th year in a row.

I knew why he was coming over.  The realtor uses me to sell homes on this street.  “A reporter with the TV station lives right there.”  It’s kind of like the Starline tours of Mayberry.  So, this guy walks up, we exchange pleasantries and then he starts asking about my job.   “Wow, that must be fun!”   In recent days I’ve interviewed the family of a soldier killed in Iraq, a teenager whose best friend was killed in a car accident  and people who lost their jobs after working at a company for 25 years.  “Yep,” I said like a high school cheerleader.  “It’s a blast!”