Goldberg: Newsworthy

By Tod Goldberg

I am fascinated by small-town TV news stations: the vague asexuality of the anchors, the faux camaraderie they pretend to have with the network reporters they get national coverage from ("Thanks, Geraldo, for that report"), the awful cable-access newsrooms. I understand that most people in small towns watch the local news to find out if the trains are running, if the roads are closed and who stole horse tranquilizers for their nefarious will, and that's fine. We all need gossip, even if we live in a tiny burg.

Just a few days ago, I was in one of those tiny burgs and booked to appear on a local news station's "book chat" segment. These three-minute spots have very little to do with books or chatting. If it were about books specifically, it would likely center on how Jenna Jameson has managed to sell more books this week than any other American with a vagina. If it were chatting, it would be a bit more interesting because the interviewer (in this case, a stubby and beady-eyed gentleman named Bob, who, in addition to his Charlie Rose turn with the visiting authors also serves as the station's weatherman) and the interviewee (your humble columnist) might actually engage in a conversation about...anything. Anything at all.

Alas, 'twas not to be.

I arrived at the station--a small CBS affiliate--and was ushered into the newsroom. At the anchor's desk was an attractive blond woman named Mindy going over her Teleprompter notes with a practiced ease, her voice smooth and professional, her hair just perfect. When she stopped practicing, I said, "Hi."

She said, "Hiya? How y'all doin?"

"I'm good."

"You tha gist?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well that's fine? Real fine?"

The teleprompter flickered back on and a producer popped out of a back room and asked Mindy to do a few pick-ups. She immediately shifted back into her streamlined Jane Pauley imitation (save for that whole new bipolar aspect, though young Mindy seemed ready to adopt that, too) and went to work. I wondered if she was a local product. I decided she'd been a cheerleader at the high school I passed on my way into town, had gone off to college, entered and lost a few beauty contests along the way, came home, got a job at the station and worked her way up to the 4 o'clock anchor desk. Next stop: her own design show on HGTV!

Before I could engage the duplicitously dialectal Ms. Mindy in further conversation, Bob the Weatherman/Literary Guru wanted to go over a few pre-interview questions to get acquainted.

"What do you make of our city, Tod?" he asked. He smiled at me like we were already on camera.

"It's nice, Bob," I said.

"Great. Great. Well, it's great to have you here, Tod."

"It's great to be here."

"What do you write about, Tod?"

I rambled on for about five minutes, telling Bob the fascinating twists and turns of all the words I've ever written. During the duration of this, Bob continually patted down the hump of hair along his skull, as if he were afraid it might hop off him at some point.

"Well that's great, Tod." Had I said anything all that great? Or that would require that response? No, in fact, I'd just told Bob that I write about the darkness of the human heart. "We're gonna go on in about 10 minutes, so let's have a great show, okay, Tod?"

"Okay, Bob," I said. I realized right then that I hated Bob. He was a karaoke machine with an excessively bad hair piece, or a genetic wonder who could make his own hair take on the quality of something synthetic. He said my name too many times, to the point that it made me uncomfortable with the sound of it, as if it was the secret word that would cause Christians, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Scientologists and crazed Rick Springfield fans the world over to begin writing me hate mail (again) and flooding my e-mail box with home-refinancing offers. I'd have to battle to say anything interesting on this program, I just knew, so I reconciled that I'd have to basically ask and answer my own questions by virtue of being a long-winded ass-bag. Heck, I might even throw in something of local interest, just to get the people in the city fired up. Something like, "Vote John Kerry!"

Moments later, I was ushered onto the stage with Bob. The camera man pointed to us, Mindy excused herself to the bathroom, and the following conversation ensued, cameras rolling...all of Bob's questions flashing on the prompter:

"What do you make of our city, Tod?"

"It's nice, Bob."

"Well, it's great to have you here, Tod."

"It's great to be here, Bob."

"What do you write about, Tod?"

I pondered making local news history. What if I just stood up and punched Bob on top of his toupee? Is it even against the law to punch an inanimate object?

"The darkness of the human heart. Love. Hate..."

"That's great, Tod. Thanks so much for coming to visit."

"Thank you, Bob. Thank you ever so much."