It is that day at the end of the week that causes much fantastic frolicking across this great land of ours, and I have a sneaking suspicion I should have a post here consisting of various whatnot I like.
Maybe you'll like it too.
Acme Cocktail Company
My friend Marty is back from his summer hiatus and the Acme Cocktail Company is now in full swing. Check back often to see what he's got to say on everything from health care reform to mint juleps.
Still wondering what he thinks of who Legal Seafoods hired to shake out drinks at the Harborside location that may be built by 2020. Marty?
Island Creek Oysterfest
I will be attending this event tomorrow afternoon and will update you on the food and fun.
Taxidermy
Because sometimes a stuffed squirrel says it all.
Drunk Man Throws Jellyfish at Teenagers
Without a doubt the best news story I have found. You have no idea how pissed I am I didn't think this one up.
Boston Book Festival
It's the first. Hopefully the first annual. John Hodgman and Tom Perrotta are MCing this shindig. I'm glad I have a month and a half to figure out my guerrilla marketing tactics for Rubes, Rakes, Rogues & Roustabouts. There is a possibility that it will have a juggling monkey, so be sure not to miss it.
If you are interested and will be in Boston on October 24th, the event is free, so contact me and we can storm the gates in proper fashion.
Writing
You know - that thing I should do more of. Well...looks like I have no immediate plans for Sunday, so I will finally site down after too long and make time to make up stuff.
Final Word
As always, if you are looking for a project to collaborate on, or have an idea you feel is pretty kickass and want to pursue it further, shoot me a line.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sep 11, 2009
Aug 31, 2009
Bits and More Bits
Rubes, Rakes, Roges & Roustabouts available for purchase. Several copies sold so far - working on wholesale marketing.
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Working on rereading McSweeney's 16. I really love Mudder Tongue by Brian Evenson and There Is No Real Name for Where We Live by Hannah Pitard. Two stories with (for entirely different reasons) fabulous words woven together.
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Just tonight I have signed up to collaborate with ACME Cocktail on a new project that will, for now, be untitled. Once we flesh the little bugger out, that may change.
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Even though I made fun of it at first, I must admit I have consumed more than one Budlight Lime this evening.
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I'm excited about a new publisher in Brookline launching in October. Madras Press. Can't wait to see what they have to bring to the party.
*Working on rereading McSweeney's 16. I really love Mudder Tongue by Brian Evenson and There Is No Real Name for Where We Live by Hannah Pitard. Two stories with (for entirely different reasons) fabulous words woven together.
*
Just tonight I have signed up to collaborate with ACME Cocktail on a new project that will, for now, be untitled. Once we flesh the little bugger out, that may change.
*
Even though I made fun of it at first, I must admit I have consumed more than one Budlight Lime this evening.
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I'm excited about a new publisher in Brookline launching in October. Madras Press. Can't wait to see what they have to bring to the party.
Aug 23, 2009
The Tale of the Doughnut and the Éclair
Taped to my bedroom door is an aerial photo of Vernon, ME. It’s one of Taff’s flyers from the Society of Concerned Citizens to Thwart Evil. In black marker over the tree line, it reads, “We need to talk, Albert.” She must have been watching those anti-drug commercials like that time she kept frying all those eggs and made the house smell like farts for two weeks. That was when Michael and I decided that our folks were cracked.
So I try to track her down so I can get whatever this is going to be over with. It took several years, but I had finally mastered the art of talking with Taff and Dow. The key was to pay close attention to tone. The words themselves were usually trivial and confusing – even awkward – watching them trip over the easy subjects and plow through the rough ones. When the tone of the conversation goes up, you start nodding, with your head tilted just so. When the tone gets low, drop your head to the table and stare at the grain of the wood until the voices stop altogether. Then say, “I know. You’re right. I’ll try to work on that.
God knows what Taff wanted to talk about this time. Let it be something simple, like she finally wants to tell me she and Dow really are going to pay for college and I shouldn’t worry anymore. Then a pat on the head, or a hug or something and I can go to Chip’s party and get messed up.
Taff was in the dining room, heels up on the table, finishing up a call. “Sounds good to me. Great, great. Okay, Thomas, I’ve got to go. We’ll speak soon.” Her legs swing down to the floor. She smiles when she looks at me, only it’s the same way she smiles at a prospective client. “Okay, Thomas,” she says into the phone. “Have a nice day.” She hangs up. On the table she has her laptop and folders and flyers and pamphlets and a box of pastries for her next rally. I had nabbed the only jelly earlier. She pulled me down here because I stole a donut?
“Albert. Good morning.” Her palm makes a slow turn off to the side.
“Morning.”
And she smiles again, this one a little too forced. In the other room you can hear the host of a fake talk show talk about a book that shows how to make compost in fourteen days, guaranteed or your money back. Dow must be asleep or otherwise sedated.
“I know this may be a little late, but your dad and I talked about it. We want to do it. We –“ Taff turns and yells into the other room, “Dow! I said we need to do this together. As a family.” Her words are tight and clipped, then soft again. “I scheduled some time today to talk to you about something…something important. Since you’re going on with your life, leaving everything you’ve known so far, you’re going to need some information about sex.”
Oh, God. “Sex?”
“Yes. Intercourse. Conception. Contraception. Overpopulation.”
“Yeah, um, I know it all. They teach it in school. I’m all set. They do the whole guy stuff and girl stuff and how they fit together and all that”
“You don’t say?” Taff turns to face the living room. “Dow! In here now, please!” She turns. “I swear your father has selective hearing.” Taff is an expert about judging tone.
Dow slumps into the room, remote still in his hand. He moves it to the breast pocket of his pajamas and sits down, hands in his lap. “Yeah? We’re doing this now?” His eyes are still glazed over from staring at the screen. Toll-free numbers are written in different colors on his right hand up to the wrist.
Taff takes a deep breath. “Now, I know you guys, you teenagers, are running around, excited,” Dow laughs, “and I want you to know that if you have anything you ever need to talk about, I’m here. Your father is here. We will listen.”
“Thanks,” I say, about to get up.
She opens the box of pastries, and takes out a powdered donut and an éclair. “For our purposes, today, the éclair represents a man’s penis, and the donut represents a woman’s vagina. Ok?”
My eyes close. This can’t really be happening. At least they aren’t doing it in public. Jesus. At some fundraiser or down at the diner, that’s when I would have prayed for execution.
“Now,” Dow clears his throat and jabbers on. “When a man and a woman are in love and get married and have been married for many, many years, they are allowed to have sexual intercourse.”
“Many years?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t Michael already born when you two got married?”
Taff ignores me. “Now, the éclair is placed inside of the donut repeatedly, in a thrusting motion.” She’s trying to fit the éclair into the tiny hole of the donut, but she’s only succeeding in getting powdered sugar all over the business end of it.
“Please don’t say thrusting,” I beg.
“Sorry, dear,” she says. “Okay, now, when stimulation has reached its desired effect, called climax or orgasm, the éclair will shoot its vanilla cream into the middle of the donut and this is how babies are made.”
From where I can’t see, Dow pulls out a condom and starts opening it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s going on here?” I ask. More blood rushes to my head than during my last kegstand.
“We just wanted to be sure you understood how safe sex can help to extend your life,” Dow says. “Remember, Albert, safe sex isn’t just up to the girl. Whether your chosen partner is on the pill, the patch or trusting the day-after thing, it’s still your responsibility to wear a condom.”
Dow’s hands are covered in chocolate and the vanilla filling of the éclair, none of it fitting into the condom. He gives up and starts to knock the smashed pastry against the too-small hole of the doughnut, sprinkling powdered sugar all over Taff’s literature. “This is how-“
“Please. Stop,” I said. “I’ll clean. I’ll re-shingle the roof. Anything.” My eyes were nailed shut so that when the nightmares of this embarrassment came, there would only be audio. But they pop open anyway.
“Now, there are many options for birth control. I think it’s important you know all the options. Getting a sexually transmitted disease is like having your neighborhood taken from you. If you do the proper research and take precautions, the odds are drastically decreased.” Taff pulls a list from her pocket. “There’s abstinence, of course. Most effective. A woman can use the shot or patch or pill or diaphragm. Think about sterilization. The ways your father and I used,” she looks across the table, “Dow, do you remember how naïve we were? We used the big three before having – well, children. There was the rhythm method, coitus interruptus, and we even tried non-vaginal sex.”
Toss me into a lava bath and burn it all away.
Taff takes the smashed éclair penis from Dow and bites the head off, chewing and smiling. “So. I know that’s a lot of information to toss at you all at once, but I’m sure it will sink in. Any questions?”
Can’t move. Can’t speak. Praying for blindness so I never again have to see anything like that. Dow has retreated back to the glow of the television, and Taff’s back on the phone, talking to Mr. Detmer about speaking at the rally as a local merchant. What she calls ‘voice of the community.’ Trying to save this hell we call life.
Making a mental note of what I need for tonight, I get up from the table. Taff smiles and waves and smiles again and my stomach twists a little and I duck around the corner fast in case some doughnut comes up.
Apr 19, 2009
The Literary Internet, Typography, Lists and What Inspiration Smells Like
How do I begin? How can I just jump into something as messed up as the way my brain is running right now? A long day of learning about...everything. Everything I can. Today was one of those times where you sit back and realize just how massive the Internet is. Perhaps more introspection because I'm at the point in Malcom Gladwell's Outliers which describes the 10,000 hour rule and how Bill Gates and Steve Jobs are both prime examples of the right person being in the right place at the right time.
In short: if you want something and the opportunity to get that something arrives, all you have to do is be willing to put in 10,000 to master it. Easier said than done. But if you really want that something, you will take the time needed to understand each and every aspect of it.
Today was one of those days when I hit the pause button on my 10,000 hour countdown. I have several book ideas swimming through my noggin currently -- one that (so far as my imagination is concerned) is complete and perfect so far as it can be. Instead of expanding on that particular project, or any other, I went surfing today. Below is just a sampling of what I found that I have the sudden need to share with you.
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Three TED talks I found particularly engaging. If you have not experienced what this site is, let me break your cherry here.
The Future of Sound
Why Typography Fucking Rocks
A Story In Few Words
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Lists of a Random and Not-So Nature:
13 Most Baffling Book Titles
6 Writers Who Accidentally Crapped Out Masterpieces
List of Banned Books and History Thereof
Top Ten Songs -- Vagabond Charlie Edition
*
Haven't read Junot Diaz yet? What the hell are you waiting for?
New to social media and want to learn not just what it is, but how in the hell it can help your business? This is the book for you.
In short: if you want something and the opportunity to get that something arrives, all you have to do is be willing to put in 10,000 to master it. Easier said than done. But if you really want that something, you will take the time needed to understand each and every aspect of it.
Today was one of those days when I hit the pause button on my 10,000 hour countdown. I have several book ideas swimming through my noggin currently -- one that (so far as my imagination is concerned) is complete and perfect so far as it can be. Instead of expanding on that particular project, or any other, I went surfing today. Below is just a sampling of what I found that I have the sudden need to share with you.
*
Three TED talks I found particularly engaging. If you have not experienced what this site is, let me break your cherry here.
The Future of Sound
Why Typography Fucking Rocks
A Story In Few Words
*
Lists of a Random and Not-So Nature:
13 Most Baffling Book Titles
6 Writers Who Accidentally Crapped Out Masterpieces
List of Banned Books and History Thereof
Top Ten Songs -- Vagabond Charlie Edition
*
Haven't read Junot Diaz yet? What the hell are you waiting for?
New to social media and want to learn not just what it is, but how in the hell it can help your business? This is the book for you.
*
Finally I would like to talk about inspiration. Perhaps today didn't turn out to be such a write off when I look back at it. I exposed myself to several thousands of thoughts and ideas, some new and some revisted. I may very well have added several hours to my 'research master' total.
A question that popped into my head recently is, "What does inspiration smell like?" Very much an abstract thought, but on the fly I created a quick list of what does it for me today. Egg rolls, new shoes, the creased spine of an old book, bacon, paint, lawnmower exhaust, beach breeze, and 3 o'clock in the morning.
What does inspirations smell like to you? @nickseagers nick@nickseagers.com
A question that popped into my head recently is, "What does inspiration smell like?" Very much an abstract thought, but on the fly I created a quick list of what does it for me today. Egg rolls, new shoes, the creased spine of an old book, bacon, paint, lawnmower exhaust, beach breeze, and 3 o'clock in the morning.
What does inspirations smell like to you? @nickseagers nick@nickseagers.com
Apr 8, 2009
Project: Untitled
A sneak preview of my new book project.
These people have stories and I have an uneasy desire to tell them. The tales they tell me are not what necessarily happened, it is what they may have had a drunken wish to tell the stranger next to them halfway down the parade route.
One thing they do not have is a collective title. I have had several thoughts on the topic, but I want to hear yours. Throw your best concept at me, and anything else you've got while you're at it.
nick@nickseagers.com
Apr 7, 2009
Making News Preview: Chapter Two
You live in Maine. Portland, Maine. According to our weather expert today will be partly cloudy with a chance of showers. You turn on the TV one day, wondering what sorts of things have been going on. You see the usual; lobster stuff and lighthouse stuff and the ever-present threat of snow. You see all this and you hear every word pass from the teleprompter to me to the camera to the cables to the satellite dish to the cable company to the wires in your TV.
And then you change the channel, because it’s the same thing everyday. This isn’t Chicago. This isn’t D.C. or L.A. or Houston. Portland’s cobblestone streets don’t have a million people living above them stacked one on top of another. Portland doesn’t have a professional sports team or a subway system. You won’t find anything like Girls Gone Wild in Portland.
You will find me. My name is Apex O’Neil and I’ll be back after the break. I’m the anchorman for Channel 3 Action News. We came second in the last ratings poll. We’re almost number one. I don’t want to sound conceited, but it’s because of me.
My name isn’t really Apex O’Neil.
When I changed my name, it wasn’t to hide, to become someone else so I didn’t have to be the person I once was. It wasn’t to separate this life from the old one. Not at first. It’s just that the name sounded better and showed up on screen brighter and I really wanted to work my way out of the editing room. A new name could help me with that.
It all snowballed from there.
Maine’s initials can make everything so easy. You can do a story about caring for ME. A story about the best of ME. Loving you, loving ME.
You’re just another talking head in a pile of other well-groomed talking heads, channel after channel, and you have to show the audience you’re worth their time. You know you’re the best, but now you have to show them.
The trick is to make the story as important to the viewer as possible. Adding one line can spice up even an innocent story about rising heating oil prices. “This could happen to you.”
I once had a loving daughter and wife, both of whom adored me, and the feeling was mutual. Then I got this new job, sitting behind a news desk, after months of being a crappy correspondent and the next thing you know days and weeks and years go by. Now my wife is my ex-wife. My daughter might as well be my ex-daughter since the only time I see her is when I’m driving to a store to buy her things.
I’m not deaf. I know people talk behind my back because the only music I listen to is The Police, Phil Collins, Wham!, ZZ Top and Blondie. When people tell you that the eighties died along with My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake and Teddy Ruxpin, don’t believe them. When I’m comparing current events to the fall of the Berlin Wall or Black Monday and people roll their eyes and walk away, they are only jealous because I am so smart.
To be a news anchor: You want to major in mass communications and journalism. You want to be well versed in political science, sociology, psychology and anthropology. You need to have the ability to show grace under pressure, all the while showcasing the human experience. It helps to volunteer at the scene of a natural disaster.
Add an eyewitness statement to your news item and some official sounding jargon from any law enforcement professional, or anyone in a uniform or white coat, and you’ve hit it. If you can’t find an authority figure to talk about what happened, create a montage of clips from stories you have covered in the past and make sure your voice-over mentions that this is a growing trend.
Trust me, the video archive will be your best friend.
I remember the day my daughter Julia was born. A soft little white mass wriggling in my arms, looking all around at everything but me, tiny hands clenched in fists. I’d wanted to name her Punky or Tron, but Shelly would have none of it. Not much has changed in fourteen years. Julia’s hands were still clenched in fists. Her eyes still refused to meet mine.
Shelly, my wife, my ex-wife, she might be the same, I didn’t really know. I hadn’t been able to reach her for the past four years due to the fact that I didn’t call her or return any of her emails.
Every season in New England the names change but the story stays the same. The Celts, the Sox, the Pats, the Bruins.
You can add to a boring weather forecast by bringing in a Special Guest Meteorologist once a week. When at all possible, let your co-anchor introduce your next story as something that no concerned citizen would miss. No one wants to admit they aren’t, or might not be, a concerned citizen.
Slow news day? Find something trivial, some near-brush with death and report on that. People, meaning the public, are always looking for the next best thing, or the next thing to scare them. So make sure you say “The accident was luckily avoided, but who knows what mayhem may have ensued had it not been.”
You’re born, you go to school, go to more school, then more school. Then one night you meet a girl at a bar and you’re married. You have a kid and a career. One day you turn around and all that’s left is your career. Turns out your wife took your daughter and ran upstate to Orono.
Before the break at the half-hour mark you’re going to want a feel-good, smiley, happy, warm, cuddly story so that viewers don’t feel as if their lives and their city are being flushed down the same toilet. Even though they are. You do not want them to change the channel. If they are watching you at the break, you have to make certain that when you come back they will still be there.
You have to tease your viewers. It works great for Catholic schoolgirls and strippers, so why not local news?
Through my earpiece I’ll hear something like, “Coming up after the break, a story from Bill Branson. It’s information every caring parent can use. Don’t miss it. Coming to you from the station that brings you more top-of-the-line broadcasting than any other. Channel 3 Action News with Apex O’Neil.”
Then they’ll play a few commercials about upcoming news reports for next week. Then they’ll play spots for whatever lame reality show or cop drama immediately follows us.
My face is symmetrical, so it’s fair to say that I’ll always have a job.
There are a few things I have learned from being in the news business. Never apologize. Never say you’re sorry. Never say thank you. Never, ever. Unless a camera is on you.
Here I am, powder fresh from the makeup room and I’m saying, “The National Council on Health announced that the cholesterol in eggs is bad for you. Especially the egg yolk. Something about too many high-density lipids.” Things like that made my head spin.
I would say that I got paid to know this stuff, but that’s not exactly true. It would be more accurate to say that I got paid to look stuff up and then read stuff from a screen. You’d think that in a city with 320 miles of streets bigger things would happen more often.
It’s the way the world works. When I talk, everyone listens.
“There was a City Council meeting today to discuss the current issues facing Maine voters. A large group of local voters have turned out in support of the Yes on 5 campaign.” Practicing in my dressing room mirror, I was trying to get the emphasis correct by raising an eyebrow at varying times.
I was on the steps of City Hall earlier that day and had asked a few people what the ballot question was in reference to, and what sort of actions they were prepared to take in order to gain more support. No one knew. We ended up getting a shot of the crowd walking in circles, chanting and everyone’s eyes were shining in the camera’s glow. A ring of deer caught in the headlights but still able to move.
“That’s crap,” my boss said. My boss was Mr. Sebring, and since Mr. Sebring was the only person authorized to dish out creative control of anything, I listened to him.
“Not one person knew anything? I thought it was about parking zones. They didn’t tell you anything, O’Neil?” Mr. Sebring rubbed his thick knuckles back and forth over the top of his head, covering and uncovering the birthmark on the center of his blank dome. It was shaped like a famous mouse’s head and there was a pool at the station about whether or not it was really a tattoo gone wrong.
His face was a field of canyon creases. The skin around his eyes rippled like foil and when the light hit right, half of his face would be covered in lines of shadow.
“Sorry sir, what?” I turned and showed him my what could I do look.
“Never mind. This is how it’s going to go tonight. We’ve got a minute-twenty of a motel fire via remote broadcast followed by forty-five seconds of Humane Society dogs barking. You go on at the eleven minute mark with twenty seconds of what’s coming up later, then a minute and a half of Karen’s cancer survivors, then another break, and then we’re cutting to Karen’s coverage of the Potting Soil Festival.” Mr. Sebring looked down the hall, following the trail of Priscilla, the new girl in makeup.
“Another cancer survivor story?” I threw my hands in the air. “That’s the second one this month.”
“Well, our audience research report shows that’s what people want. The last cancer broadcast brought up our audience share to even with Channel 11. People want to be scared and hopeful at the same time. It gives them a sense of drama. Besides the fact that Karen’s rating went up two points during that period, and still has yet to decline, while your rating is down three points from last month.”
“How am I supposed to raise my rating with stories about cats and dogs?”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with the news director, whoever it is this week. There have been so many that I’m losing track. I’ve got some people putting together a concept analysis report. Hopefully that will raise our market share and bring the news division of this network toward some respectable numbers.”
“What’s our key demographic?” I could feel my right eye twitching, so this conversation would have to end before I lost it completely.
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about your Q level and how to raise your audience share. You need something big. If your rating doesn’t improve in the next three months, we’re going to have to sit down and have a serious discussion. If your rating starts to drop, we’ll be having that chat sooner. Do you follow me?”
“When you put it that way.”
“Good. I’ve got to go. Sharp tie.”
Shuffling away, jacket flared out like a cape, hands on his hips, he looked like the impossible superhero. As Mr. Sebring turned around the same corner Priscilla had, I wondered why I wasn’t offered the Potting Soil Festival story. Was I not the anchor at the news desk? If there was a big story like that, I wanted to go.
I was shafted on the Kite Festival. They gave that one to Karen too.
Was my hair too shiny? I kept it cut short, but not too short. It had a slight gray highlight, but not too slight and not too gray. It was a little more than a hint but not enough to be called salt-and-pepper. I walked a fine line. I’d have to check the tapes at home to know for sure.
If things had worked out the way my ex-wife had wanted, I would be sitting in a cubicle somewhere, calculating figures and adding the sums of two columns like a good little boy.
To look my best, I relied on Priscilla to make me newsworthy. She took the shine from my face and gave me enough powder to cover the stubble that started to grow two hours after I shaved. Priscilla plucked my eyebrows and straightened my tie and made certain that all of her mistakes ended up on the little paper bib around my neck instead of on my crisp, white, professionally pressed shirt.
Priscilla was new. Sometimes it takes a few weeks for someone to be broken in properly. We’d had seven makeup people in the past year. Some men. Some women. Some professionals. Some were just hoping they one day would be. All of them quit because they realized that the mistakes they make reflect poorly upon themselves, the station, and most importantly – me.
You have to teach these people that life is not a highway. There are rules and regulations and corrective measures and weights and balances connected to the way that makeup brush hit my face. This was not a playground, this was a business, and my image was the only factor that mattered.
Granted, a feature on dirt or kites wasn’t going to win an Edward R. Murrow Award for Overall Excellence, but at least it was something. Until people got their act together, I was going to be the Susan Lucci of Portland.
And then you change the channel, because it’s the same thing everyday. This isn’t Chicago. This isn’t D.C. or L.A. or Houston. Portland’s cobblestone streets don’t have a million people living above them stacked one on top of another. Portland doesn’t have a professional sports team or a subway system. You won’t find anything like Girls Gone Wild in Portland.
You will find me. My name is Apex O’Neil and I’ll be back after the break. I’m the anchorman for Channel 3 Action News. We came second in the last ratings poll. We’re almost number one. I don’t want to sound conceited, but it’s because of me.
My name isn’t really Apex O’Neil.
When I changed my name, it wasn’t to hide, to become someone else so I didn’t have to be the person I once was. It wasn’t to separate this life from the old one. Not at first. It’s just that the name sounded better and showed up on screen brighter and I really wanted to work my way out of the editing room. A new name could help me with that.
It all snowballed from there.
Maine’s initials can make everything so easy. You can do a story about caring for ME. A story about the best of ME. Loving you, loving ME.
You’re just another talking head in a pile of other well-groomed talking heads, channel after channel, and you have to show the audience you’re worth their time. You know you’re the best, but now you have to show them.
The trick is to make the story as important to the viewer as possible. Adding one line can spice up even an innocent story about rising heating oil prices. “This could happen to you.”
I once had a loving daughter and wife, both of whom adored me, and the feeling was mutual. Then I got this new job, sitting behind a news desk, after months of being a crappy correspondent and the next thing you know days and weeks and years go by. Now my wife is my ex-wife. My daughter might as well be my ex-daughter since the only time I see her is when I’m driving to a store to buy her things.
I’m not deaf. I know people talk behind my back because the only music I listen to is The Police, Phil Collins, Wham!, ZZ Top and Blondie. When people tell you that the eighties died along with My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake and Teddy Ruxpin, don’t believe them. When I’m comparing current events to the fall of the Berlin Wall or Black Monday and people roll their eyes and walk away, they are only jealous because I am so smart.
To be a news anchor: You want to major in mass communications and journalism. You want to be well versed in political science, sociology, psychology and anthropology. You need to have the ability to show grace under pressure, all the while showcasing the human experience. It helps to volunteer at the scene of a natural disaster.
Add an eyewitness statement to your news item and some official sounding jargon from any law enforcement professional, or anyone in a uniform or white coat, and you’ve hit it. If you can’t find an authority figure to talk about what happened, create a montage of clips from stories you have covered in the past and make sure your voice-over mentions that this is a growing trend.
Trust me, the video archive will be your best friend.
I remember the day my daughter Julia was born. A soft little white mass wriggling in my arms, looking all around at everything but me, tiny hands clenched in fists. I’d wanted to name her Punky or Tron, but Shelly would have none of it. Not much has changed in fourteen years. Julia’s hands were still clenched in fists. Her eyes still refused to meet mine.
Shelly, my wife, my ex-wife, she might be the same, I didn’t really know. I hadn’t been able to reach her for the past four years due to the fact that I didn’t call her or return any of her emails.
Every season in New England the names change but the story stays the same. The Celts, the Sox, the Pats, the Bruins.
You can add to a boring weather forecast by bringing in a Special Guest Meteorologist once a week. When at all possible, let your co-anchor introduce your next story as something that no concerned citizen would miss. No one wants to admit they aren’t, or might not be, a concerned citizen.
Slow news day? Find something trivial, some near-brush with death and report on that. People, meaning the public, are always looking for the next best thing, or the next thing to scare them. So make sure you say “The accident was luckily avoided, but who knows what mayhem may have ensued had it not been.”
You’re born, you go to school, go to more school, then more school. Then one night you meet a girl at a bar and you’re married. You have a kid and a career. One day you turn around and all that’s left is your career. Turns out your wife took your daughter and ran upstate to Orono.
Before the break at the half-hour mark you’re going to want a feel-good, smiley, happy, warm, cuddly story so that viewers don’t feel as if their lives and their city are being flushed down the same toilet. Even though they are. You do not want them to change the channel. If they are watching you at the break, you have to make certain that when you come back they will still be there.
You have to tease your viewers. It works great for Catholic schoolgirls and strippers, so why not local news?
Through my earpiece I’ll hear something like, “Coming up after the break, a story from Bill Branson. It’s information every caring parent can use. Don’t miss it. Coming to you from the station that brings you more top-of-the-line broadcasting than any other. Channel 3 Action News with Apex O’Neil.”
Then they’ll play a few commercials about upcoming news reports for next week. Then they’ll play spots for whatever lame reality show or cop drama immediately follows us.
My face is symmetrical, so it’s fair to say that I’ll always have a job.
There are a few things I have learned from being in the news business. Never apologize. Never say you’re sorry. Never say thank you. Never, ever. Unless a camera is on you.
Here I am, powder fresh from the makeup room and I’m saying, “The National Council on Health announced that the cholesterol in eggs is bad for you. Especially the egg yolk. Something about too many high-density lipids.” Things like that made my head spin.
I would say that I got paid to know this stuff, but that’s not exactly true. It would be more accurate to say that I got paid to look stuff up and then read stuff from a screen. You’d think that in a city with 320 miles of streets bigger things would happen more often.
It’s the way the world works. When I talk, everyone listens.
“There was a City Council meeting today to discuss the current issues facing Maine voters. A large group of local voters have turned out in support of the Yes on 5 campaign.” Practicing in my dressing room mirror, I was trying to get the emphasis correct by raising an eyebrow at varying times.
I was on the steps of City Hall earlier that day and had asked a few people what the ballot question was in reference to, and what sort of actions they were prepared to take in order to gain more support. No one knew. We ended up getting a shot of the crowd walking in circles, chanting and everyone’s eyes were shining in the camera’s glow. A ring of deer caught in the headlights but still able to move.
“That’s crap,” my boss said. My boss was Mr. Sebring, and since Mr. Sebring was the only person authorized to dish out creative control of anything, I listened to him.
“Not one person knew anything? I thought it was about parking zones. They didn’t tell you anything, O’Neil?” Mr. Sebring rubbed his thick knuckles back and forth over the top of his head, covering and uncovering the birthmark on the center of his blank dome. It was shaped like a famous mouse’s head and there was a pool at the station about whether or not it was really a tattoo gone wrong.
His face was a field of canyon creases. The skin around his eyes rippled like foil and when the light hit right, half of his face would be covered in lines of shadow.
“Sorry sir, what?” I turned and showed him my what could I do look.
“Never mind. This is how it’s going to go tonight. We’ve got a minute-twenty of a motel fire via remote broadcast followed by forty-five seconds of Humane Society dogs barking. You go on at the eleven minute mark with twenty seconds of what’s coming up later, then a minute and a half of Karen’s cancer survivors, then another break, and then we’re cutting to Karen’s coverage of the Potting Soil Festival.” Mr. Sebring looked down the hall, following the trail of Priscilla, the new girl in makeup.
“Another cancer survivor story?” I threw my hands in the air. “That’s the second one this month.”
“Well, our audience research report shows that’s what people want. The last cancer broadcast brought up our audience share to even with Channel 11. People want to be scared and hopeful at the same time. It gives them a sense of drama. Besides the fact that Karen’s rating went up two points during that period, and still has yet to decline, while your rating is down three points from last month.”
“How am I supposed to raise my rating with stories about cats and dogs?”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with the news director, whoever it is this week. There have been so many that I’m losing track. I’ve got some people putting together a concept analysis report. Hopefully that will raise our market share and bring the news division of this network toward some respectable numbers.”
“What’s our key demographic?” I could feel my right eye twitching, so this conversation would have to end before I lost it completely.
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about your Q level and how to raise your audience share. You need something big. If your rating doesn’t improve in the next three months, we’re going to have to sit down and have a serious discussion. If your rating starts to drop, we’ll be having that chat sooner. Do you follow me?”
“When you put it that way.”
“Good. I’ve got to go. Sharp tie.”
Shuffling away, jacket flared out like a cape, hands on his hips, he looked like the impossible superhero. As Mr. Sebring turned around the same corner Priscilla had, I wondered why I wasn’t offered the Potting Soil Festival story. Was I not the anchor at the news desk? If there was a big story like that, I wanted to go.
I was shafted on the Kite Festival. They gave that one to Karen too.
Was my hair too shiny? I kept it cut short, but not too short. It had a slight gray highlight, but not too slight and not too gray. It was a little more than a hint but not enough to be called salt-and-pepper. I walked a fine line. I’d have to check the tapes at home to know for sure.
If things had worked out the way my ex-wife had wanted, I would be sitting in a cubicle somewhere, calculating figures and adding the sums of two columns like a good little boy.
To look my best, I relied on Priscilla to make me newsworthy. She took the shine from my face and gave me enough powder to cover the stubble that started to grow two hours after I shaved. Priscilla plucked my eyebrows and straightened my tie and made certain that all of her mistakes ended up on the little paper bib around my neck instead of on my crisp, white, professionally pressed shirt.
Priscilla was new. Sometimes it takes a few weeks for someone to be broken in properly. We’d had seven makeup people in the past year. Some men. Some women. Some professionals. Some were just hoping they one day would be. All of them quit because they realized that the mistakes they make reflect poorly upon themselves, the station, and most importantly – me.
You have to teach these people that life is not a highway. There are rules and regulations and corrective measures and weights and balances connected to the way that makeup brush hit my face. This was not a playground, this was a business, and my image was the only factor that mattered.
Granted, a feature on dirt or kites wasn’t going to win an Edward R. Murrow Award for Overall Excellence, but at least it was something. Until people got their act together, I was going to be the Susan Lucci of Portland.
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