Some years ago two interesting pieces of mail crossed my desk in a one-week period.
It took me awhile to figure out who "Simon Edita" was; but after a little cogitating it dawned on me that the letter-writer must have called the station to find out where to send a news release and was told, "Assignment Editor."
The second was easier to figure out. It was addressed to "Paul Stud." Obviously, word had gotten out.
Monday, November 19
Sunday, October 28
Single-Handed
It's been a long time since I posted here. Too long.
That makes three people I worked with, liked and respected gone this year: Joel Siegel, Tom Snyder, and now Jim. Must be something about passing age 60--for me, and for them.
When Jim first got to town I was on the assignment desk. First week-or-so, he'd take whatever story I gave him. Then he started meeting my suggestions with, “Y’know, I’ve got something I’d rather do, whaddaya think?” Hell, yes! And about two weeks in he started coming up with stories that led the news two or three nights a week—then three or four—then pretty miuch every night.
I didn’t realize then what I came to realize later: WOOD may have had the highest ratings in America, but it was also the most complacent newroom in America (yeah, a 50+ share will do that to you). But pretty soon all the reporters in the shop were standing around in the hallways saying, “Who does he think HE is????” Next thing you know, they were hustling after their own stories and fighting it out to get the lead.
It only took Jim Cummins about two months to raise the standars for broadcast journalism in that station—and that town—to a whole new level! He did it single-handed!
And I certainly don't want to be posting only with bad news; but Jim Cummins died the other night, and that's worthy of note.
That makes three people I worked with, liked and respected gone this year: Joel Siegel, Tom Snyder, and now Jim. Must be something about passing age 60--for me, and for them.Jim was the long-time NBC News Dallas bureau chief and correspondent . He retired earlier this year. He and wife Connie were going to slow down at last and enjoy their children (six) and grandkids, but cancer cut his plans short.
I met Jim in 1970 at WOOD-TV in Grand Rapids. I was a year out of college and in my first job, he was two years older and came to work at Channel 8 after starting his career in Mason City, Iowa.
When Jim first got to town I was on the assignment desk. First week-or-so, he'd take whatever story I gave him. Then he started meeting my suggestions with, “Y’know, I’ve got something I’d rather do, whaddaya think?” Hell, yes! And about two weeks in he started coming up with stories that led the news two or three nights a week—then three or four—then pretty miuch every night.
I didn’t realize then what I came to realize later: WOOD may have had the highest ratings in America, but it was also the most complacent newroom in America (yeah, a 50+ share will do that to you). But pretty soon all the reporters in the shop were standing around in the hallways saying, “Who does he think HE is????” Next thing you know, they were hustling after their own stories and fighting it out to get the lead.
It only took Jim Cummins about two months to raise the standars for broadcast journalism in that station—and that town—to a whole new level! He did it single-handed!
Not much later I was producing the 11:00 p.m. news--the highest-rated 11PM in America, thank you; and it wasn't easy. News Director Dick Cheverton (you've read about him here, before) had made the 6:00 p.m. one of the first sixty minute newscasts in the country. Stories ran--whatever the reporters wanted them to run --four minutes, five, longer!
It fell to me, months out of college, to bust them down into VOs or VOSOT’s …OR…jigger with the script, edit the film and get an engineer to re-cut the audio cart (a line here butted to a line there, and that "bridge" might make a decent close). That way I could get reporter packages on at 11:00. My goal was to capture the essence of the story--and make it fit into a 14-minute news hole.
One morning Jim came in, walked up to my desk and said, “I told Connie last night—my package runs 4:35 and I don’t think anyone could get it under 3:00 without gutting it. You got it to 1:45, and Connie said, ‘That was cleaner than your 6PM piece.’ And it was. Thanks.” A reporter thanking a producer? Yikes!
It meant so much to me that I’ve carried that kind word around in a secret place in my heart ever since. I was 22…and trying SO…DAMN…HARD! Kind words and confidence were tough to come by back then. Jim--the best reporter in town--let me know that he respected my work, that he trusted me with his work. I was dying for a kind word, and he provided it.
One morning Jim came in, walked up to my desk and said, “I told Connie last night—my package runs 4:35 and I don’t think anyone could get it under 3:00 without gutting it. You got it to 1:45, and Connie said, ‘That was cleaner than your 6PM piece.’ And it was. Thanks.” A reporter thanking a producer? Yikes!
It meant so much to me that I’ve carried that kind word around in a secret place in my heart ever since. I was 22…and trying SO…DAMN…HARD! Kind words and confidence were tough to come by back then. Jim--the best reporter in town--let me know that he respected my work, that he trusted me with his work. I was dying for a kind word, and he provided it.
Jim and I went out for a drink one night (a rare occasion--Jim and Connie already had at least two kids, and he was a real homebody). On a cocktail napkin we started listing the stations we hoped to go to in our next move. Back then the big three networks each were limited--by law--to owning seven stations. So a network O-and-O (owned-and-operated) station--any O-and-O--made the list. Also any "Capitol Cities" station, any "Westinghouse" station--a handful of independents.
Jim--a Midwestern boy who played basketball for Northwestern--had his dream game plan: he wanted to work for WMAQ in Chicago, then for the NBC network. But he knew he needed one more stop between Grand Rapids and the Windy City, and he picked WTMJ in Mikwaukee, a solid station. And--it happened, JUST THE WAY HE WANTED: to WTMJ, WMAQ and the network. I wish I still had that napkin to prove my story.
When Jim retired Brian Williams, in a Nightly News farewell, called Jim Cummins the definition of a field correspondent who seemingly covered every story more than once. From U.S. political coverage, to plane crashes; from the civil war in El Salvador to countless hurricanes, floods and tornadoes. He even reported from Iran on the hostage crisis of the early 80s. But his bread and butter was covering major news out of the heartland, from datelines such as Waco,Oklahoma City and Galveston. He earned an Emmy in 1993 for his reporting on the Midwest floods.
NBC News President Steve Capus wrote the staff this weekend, "The NBC News family has lost a gentle giant of a man...It’s fitting that Jim had a big family. After all, he spent decades making Americans feel right at home, with his down to earth, warm reporting style, delivery and presence."
His long-time preoducer and Dallas colleague at NBC, Al Henkel, wrote a wonderful tribute to Jim for the NBC web site. He included what he called "One of the finest pieces of writing I have ever seen, and will probably ever see...a long piece we did for the Today Show on the fourth anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing."
Hard to disagree with his assessment. Hard not to mourn the passing of a reporter who could work with such skill and compassion. Please ignore the commercial.
Tuesday, September 4
A Touching Story
Not too many years ago my general manager called me into her office and with a sly smile pushed a memo across her desk.
It was written by one of the station's lead anchors, accusing me of something called "inappropriate touching." The GM (still smiling for some unknown reason) asked me to explain.
OK. The night before, a few minutes before the 6:00 o'clock news, I was standing next to the anchor's newsroom cubicle going over show details when she rose to put on her red blazer. When the jacket was on she had a half-inch of white cuff showing from under one red sleeve, and no cuff showing under the other. I casually remarked that she needed to "shoot" her cuffs. She said she didn't know what that meant. I explained that she needed to have the same amount of white shirt cuff showing from under each coat sleeve. She still didn't seem to get it, so I reached out with a thumb and forefinger, pinched her shirt cuff and pulled it forward so a half-inch was showing under her sleeve. "See," I said, "shoot your cuffs! That's all there is to it" And that's all there was to it.
The memo's version was that other members of the news staff who witnessed the "incident" (that's what it was now, an "incident") were shocked ("SHOCKED!") by my inappropriate behavior!
By now my blood was starting to boil, when I looked up to see the GM laughing! I told her it was no laughing matter—and she said I shouldn't worry, it had been handled. She said she had called the anchor in to go over the complaint and that the anchor had back-tracked completely. According to the GM the anchor said she was just in a bad mood; she took an innocent moment out of context; she didn't want to pursue the matter any further; and she'd appreciate it if the GM tore up the memo as if it had never been written.
"That's the end of that," the GM said, smiling.
That's when I brought her up short. "No, it's not" I said, "you cannot destroy that memo. You must forward it to corporate, and a copy must go in my file. Now, I have to be given a chance to respond--in writing--but you need to draft a detailed note for my personnel file, for corporate and for your own files explaining your conversations with the anchor and with me. Then the whole thing needs to be run by corporate attorneys for their advice on how to proceed. They might want you to interview everyone who was in the newsroom at the time for their recollections."
The GM, nonplussed, asked me to explain my reasoning.
I told her to draw her own conclusions, but that in my personal opinion this was part of a scheme to file a lawsuit and seek damages. My thinking then—and now—was that at some future date some other "incident" would be trumped up and I would be accused by this employee of sexual harassment. At that point the anchor would say, basically—Oh, yes, this has been going on for a long time. I wrote a detailed complaint to the GM (Why, I just happen to have a copy--actually several copies--notarized--right here!), but nothing was ever done about it. I even have reason to believe my original memo was DESTROYED as part of a station-wide coverup.
And that, I explained, is how employees with good lawyers get to retire to Aruba and spend all day in cabanas sipping frozen drinks from frosted glasses with little paper umbrellas in them.
The GM immediately saw my reasoning and agreed.
But that's when I modified my methods.
I touch no one—except for an occasional atta-boy handshake. No pats on the back, no arm around the shoulder, NO HUGS! No contact! A few years later a producer (female) started to give me a friendly shoulder rub as I sat in the newsroom and I jumped as if I'd been jabbed with a cattle prod! My reaction actually startled and offended her, and damaged our relationship. She didn't think what she was doing was over the line, but I knew someone else could: and if they could they would! She thought I was making too much out of nothing. I did too, but these days you can't take chances. I've received Red Cross CPR training, but if someone suffers a heart attack and stops breathing in front of me he or she better be conscious enough to sign a permission/release form (in triplicate) and have it notarized before I'll start the chest pounding!
(Just kidding about the CPR. But by the way—honestly now—what was YOUR reaction to the back rub anecdote? What would it have been ten years ago? Twenty years ago? How have your attitudes towards touching in the workplace changed? When I worked for the old Storer Broadcasting Company many years ago managers were given a class that included tips on how to touch people! To show sincerity, grasp someone's upper arm with your left hand as you shake hands, that sort of thing. But that was then.)
I'm never alone in private with a female staffer—I always have someone with me—preferably another manager--and I leave the office door open whenever possible or have the conversation in a public place.
I never close the blinds to my office—no sense inviting trouble.
I make written notes of all meetings where job performance is discussed—and ask the other manager(s) present to independently do the same, then file them.
I copy corporate Human Resources--on almost EVERYTHING!
I tell ya, friends, it's not the way I grew up! When I started in this business there was a certain camaraderie among news staffers. In newsrooms in the old days the air was blue with cigarette smoke and bluer still from some of the language we used. We were a rough-and-tumble bunch: women, too. Ever see Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant in His Girl Friday? That's what I'm talkin' about. We were friends, and we always knew where to draw the line for each co-worker. There were things you did and didn't do, did and didn't say. But we made allowances for each other because we all counted on the good-heartedness of our brothers and sisters.
I got out of college in the late sixties. I've done my best to keep up with the changing consciousness of the times. Ive learned to be politically correct. In terms of race, over the years the word "colored" gave way to "Negro"—then to "black"—then to "African-American" and now (when appropriate) "People of Color." I've done my best to follow along, to follow The Golden Rule: you know, "Do Unto Others."
I've never called a woman a "broad" in my life. Never whistled at a "dame." Never commented on a woman's figure. Only twice in my life have I asked a co-worker for a date (mistakes both times, and lessons learned).
Hey, I understand the need to protect employees from despotic management. Who's going to protect management from despotic employees?
If I knew then what I know now, I'd have gotten into Human Resources. I don't know if there's much of a future in broadcasting anymore, but there will always be big-bucks jobs for people who get their wisdom out of handbooks and rule books and manuals, who teach Newspeak, Doublethink, and serve much like the Thought Police in Orwell's 1984.
I'd have either gotten into HR, or I'd have filed a lawsuit against someone, sometime for something. I like those drinks with the little umbrellas in them.
Saturday, September 1
Something About Mary
It's 2007. Can you tell a job applicant she's "perky" in 2007? Don't know, sounds like a lawsuit to me. How about cute? A little more acceptable, maybe, but you'd probably best run the word by Platoon A, Company B of your TV station's legal staff before you say it, and make sure your insurance is up to date and that you know a good bail bondsman. Telling a job seeker she's "perky" or "cute" can get you in more trouble than tapping your foot in a Minneapolis airport men's room.And omigod, what if you used the word "spunky"?
That's pretty much what hard-boiled news director "Lou Grant" (Ed Asner) called "Mary Richards" (Mary Tyler Moore) when she applied for an associate producer's job at WJM-TV in Minneapolis: "You know what? YOU'VE…GOT…SPUNK! I HATE spunk!"
I was already working in TV news when The Mary Tyler Moore Show was first broadcast on CBS in 1970. Everyone in the business—at least everyone I knew—loved the show. It didn't have much in common with the workings of a real newsroom (but hey, was the old west populated by gun-slinging gamblers like Maverick, was your doctor like Marcus Welby, M.D., did Starsky and Hutch solve crimes in your town? It was entertainment, dammit!).
The larger-than-life characters, while broadly played, did ring true. In those days most TV stations in America had courtly, white-haired, avuncular, slightly pompous stuffed-shirt anchors like MTM's fictional "Ted Baxter." I'll bet staffers in a quarter of the newsrooms in America said, conspiratorially, "You know, Ted Baxter is actually based on the guy in our shop."
Some people thought Lou Grant was based on their news directors. I don't make that claim for my first news director, the late Dick Cheverton (see Man and Mentor, 04/12/07), even though Chev was Lou Grant BEFORE Lou Grant.
My favorite Lou Grant hard-bitten, hard-drinking, seen-it-all, world-weary line? "Bartender, a drink for everyone in the house. And bring them all to me."
When I tried to grow my first beard and got a scraggly patch of peach fuzz for my efforts, Chev didn't want to order me to shave it. Strike that. He desperately wanted me to shave it, but it was the late 60s; protesters were fighting their own Vietnam War in the streets, authority was being questioned at every turn, and Chev knew I'd resist. I'd comply if he ordered me, he knew, but I'd resent the hell out of it.
So. One day he passed me in the hallway and said, gruffly, "You're looking uncommonly seedy today." End of beard.
As for the character of Mary Richards: did she merely reflect the times, or did American women respond to her example--was she a pioneer? Before Mary, women on TV were housewives like Donna Reed or The Beaver's mother, June Cleaver, or Ozzie's wife Harriet (with maybe an occasional "Aunt Bea" thrown in). Now, for the first time, we saw a career woman featured. She didn't need a man to support her or to complete her. She may have had regrets about the twists and turns her life had taken, maybe even doubts about the future, but her chin was up and she was moving forward.
And watching her led a lot of smart young college-aged women to decide on careers in television news. I wanted to be Dick Cheverton (and by extension Lou Grant). The Jane Pauleys of the world wanted to be Mary Richards. They were singing along with the show's opening…
Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Who can take a nothing day,
and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?
Well it's you, girl, and you
should know it
With each glance and every little movement you show it
Love is all around, no need to waste it
You can have the town, why don't
you take it?
You're gonna make it after all
You're gonna make it after all
So we watched, and we laughed, and we cared about those people. And the show was just real 
enough that maybe we learned some life lessons along the way. Mary and the gang had it right—right up until the end. In the final episode the entire WJM news staff is fired—all but, of course, the semi-competent Ted Baxter. And in the end, in the newsroom, Mary gets to tell her co-workers how much they have meant to her:
"I just wanted you to know that sometimes I get concerned about being a career woman. I get to thinking my job is too important to me, and I tell myself that the people I work with are just the people I work with, and not my family. And last night, I thought, 'What is a family, anyway? They're just people who make you feel less alone...and really loved.’ And that's what you've done for me. Thank you for being my family."
Nope. Sorry. Not even close. You had it right the first time: the people you work with ARE…just…the…people…you…work…with. Get over yourself, woman! If you hit 65 and have three people from the business you can honestly call friends, you’re doing very, very well. It’s 2007: ask Katie Couric about the people she works with.
Of course, most of my last 30+ years have been spent as a news director. Hard to build close relationships, hard to be “one of the guys” when you’re the boss. Hard when you’re moving around the country. Hard when you have to fire people. Even the best news directors don’t have fan clubs.
(Did you see that Bill O’Reilly took a shot at his old Dallas news director the other day? He called the late Marty Haag—one of the giants of broadcast journalism—an “idiot.” If Bill O’Reilly can pee on Marty Haag’s grave, no one is immune.)
Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t no Marty Haag. Truth is, I’m a bit of a plodder. That’s why I always worked 60-plus-hour workweeks: I spend a lot of time mulling things over, trying to do what’s right, agonizing over decisions, second-guessing myself.
I’m also not political. I’m not a good judge of people’s motives. I tend to take people at face value. I tend to believe them and to believe in them. So I have, at times, been tricked, been fooled, been bamboozled. I naively have always assumed that my coworkers share my conviction that it’s good for all of us if the newsroom keeps doing its best—that striving for excellence every day and working as a team benefits all of us. Go hard or go home!
Guess I’ve seen too many episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
A news director is plagued by the “If Onlys.” IF ONLY the ND would give me a raise. I work nights, IF ONLY the ND would put me on dayside. I’m a reporter, IF ONLY the ND would make me an anchor. I’m an anchor, IF ONLY the ND would take me off the 11:00. I’m a photographer, IF ONLY the ND would get me a better camera—buy Lexus SUVs as news cars—switch to a 20-hour workweek. And on, and on, and on. The news director stands between the entire staff and happiness.
Maybe I’m a little bitter right now. I won’t name names, but there’s a man I worked with and for thirty years ago (I was a producer, he was assistant news director). He and I got along well. We never hung out together (he was married, I was not), but I don’t recall ever having a cross word with him. I supported him. We haven’t had any contact in 25 years, but I’ve always thought of him warmly and with respect. He went on to considerable achievement (if I were to mention his name you’d probably recognize it). I’ve been happy for him, felt he had earned his success, and never begrudged him his position.
But the other day, in an e-mail to a mutual friend, he demeaned and insulted me. That friend forwarded it to me. Now I’m hurt—hurt and puzzled. Did I do something to this man 30 years ago that he carries around to this day? What could it be?
As Mary Richards would day, “Thank you for being my family.”
I wrote a letter of reference for a man who says he considers himself my protégé, and he jumped several dozen markets for his latest news director’s job. He wrote me, “I wouldn’t be here today if not for [you].” He wrote, “You have always been [my] mentor!” He wrote, “I hope you know I would do anything in the world for you…” And he concluded by writing, “Simply put, you are one of the most talented News Directors in this crazy business!”
Scanning the trades I saw that he had three openings on his news management team. Now, this retirement/consulting thing is going OK, but I still think about getting back into the business, and I thought maybe I could help. He turned me down saying, “I would be embarrassed to offer someone with your experience anything here.” Now, I don’t mind that I wasn’t hired: he knows his new station and his needs better than I. But why blow all that smoke my way? Why the inflated, unnecessary flattery?
As Mary Richards would say, “Thank you for being my family.”
Maybe I lack gratitude. So I'd like to publicly thank the four people who visited me in the hospital or at the rehab center after my bypass surgery. The other two--you were on assignment in the hospital and merely stopped by, but I'm grateful anyway.
Thank you for being my family.
The co-worker whose son had major drug problems and got arrested? I broke the law, but he and I worked out a deal where he could take time off anytime to handle his boy's problems and it wouldn't be charged against his vacation time. Last time I saw him was in a supermarket. OK, I saw him but he didn't see me. When he caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye he ducked his head and scurried the other way.
Thank you for being my family.
Maybe my old GM at KWTV in Oklahoma City, Duane Harm, had it right: maybe people will always try to screw you (In Harm’s Way, 05/10/07). His rule of thumb was, Always expect the worst. That way the only surprises you get will be pleasant ones when people surpass your (low) expectations.
Maybe Duane was right and Mary was wrong.
But hey—she was on a TV show! WJM was no more real than Mayberry or Metropolis. The last episode aired thirty years ago. Time to get my head out of the clouds. Time to stop believing in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and that coworkers will support and nurture you and are rooting for you.
To everyone reading this, “Thank you for being my family.” Yeah, sure.
By the way, it’s a long clip—but here’s a link to a YouTube replay of the closing minutes of the final episode.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=SDOp-VZJgAc
Wednesday, August 15
The King is DEAD?????
It was August 16, 1977. I was news director for WEEK-TV in Peoria. Late that morning one of the station clerical workers—an older woman—came into the newsroom and nervously asked me if it was true Elvis had died. The woman was really shaken. She said she had heard it from a friend. I told her I hadn't heard of any such thing, and offered to check the wires.
I should stop here and tell you that this woman was an Elvis 
Presley fanatic! She had a Betamax tape of Elvis' comeback TV special from 1968—called the "Singer" special because it was sponsored by the Singer Sewing Machine people. A little history. Home video recording—first Betamax, than VHS—was only two years old. A home Beta recorder cost $1,600-$2,000 (a good month's pay for a lot of people in those days when a brand-new Volkswagen Beetle could still be had for under $2,500). There were no pre-recorded tapes for sale yet, no “Blockbuster,” no cable in most places. You could record off a local channel—you could play back—and that was it: all for only a month's pay!
Presley fanatic! She had a Betamax tape of Elvis' comeback TV special from 1968—called the "Singer" special because it was sponsored by the Singer Sewing Machine people. A little history. Home video recording—first Betamax, than VHS—was only two years old. A home Beta recorder cost $1,600-$2,000 (a good month's pay for a lot of people in those days when a brand-new Volkswagen Beetle could still be had for under $2,500). There were no pre-recorded tapes for sale yet, no “Blockbuster,” no cable in most places. You could record off a local channel—you could play back—and that was it: all for only a month's pay!Somehow, someplace, sometime, someone had recorded a replay of the Elvis comeback special and given it to her (commercials and all). No one in her group of friends could afford a Betamax machine, so their idea of a great time was to pop up some popcorn and—two or three Saturdays a month—adjourn as a group to a local appliance store that was very accommodating and let them watch Elvis Presley for an hour!
Now, don't get me wrong, I liked Elvis just fine: but three Saturday nights a month in an appliance store? I thought she was nuts!
But I also saw she was troubled, so together we went to the wire machines. Nope: nothing there. Three TVs on in the newsroom, tuned to the three networks: nothing there. To be on the safe side I told her I'd make a point to listen to radio news for the next few hours. Nope, nothing.
Nothing until mid afternoon when the wire bells chimed and the printer spit out the news a line-at-a-time: Elvis Presley Dead!
I had to break the news to that poor woman. She took it well. She already knew, she told me: her friends had told her.
I've thought about that a lot in the thirty years since.
No cell phones—only land lines. No cable news (CNN was still roughly two years away, MSNBC and Fox not even dreamed of). No Internet, or instant messaging, or e-mail. Yet somehow word of Elvis Presley's death had made it the 450 miles up I-55 from Memphis to Peoria faster than it had made it to New York and the rest of the world—four or five hours faster!
Telegraph, telephone, television—and yet “tell an Elvis fan” turned out to be the fastest form of communicating that day thirty years ago.
Sunday, August 12
My Dinner with “Deep Throat”
The 33rd anniversary of Richard Nixon's resignation as President brings to mind my dinner with "Deep Throat."
It's a seminal "Tying My Shoes" moment—one of those times when I brushed up against the famous (infamous?) yet, in my own way, remained clueless.
"Deep Throat" is the nickname Washington Post insiders gave to reporter Bob Woodward's well-placed administration source—the man who kept steering Woodward and Carl Bernstein back on track when their investigation into political subterfuge and illegal acts in the White House and in the 1972 presidential campaign threatened to derail. The pseudonym (lifted from a famous porn film of that era) was bestowed because Deep Throat always operated on "deep background." That is, he couldn't be quoted, even anonymously. His information was to be used only for guidance and for confirmation of what had been learned elsewhere. Woodward and Bernstein, kept on track by Deep Throat, uncovered wrongdoing that would eventually lead to the resignation of President Nixon as well as prison terms for former Attorney General John Mitchell, White House Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman, presidential adviser John Ehrlichman, lawyer G. Gordon Liddy and Chief White House Counsel Charles "Chuck" Colson.
After the Watergate expose All the President's Men came out, guessing Deep Throat's identity became a popular parlor game among journalists. For his part, Woodward was sworn to secrecy. Even his higher-ups at the Post professed ignorance of the source's identity.
One candidate frequently named was W. Mark Felt, the Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Which brings me to my dinner with Deep Throat. I caution you: don't expect much. This is, after all, a "Tying My Shoes" moment.
In August 1975, a year after the Nixon resignation and more than a year after the "Woodstein" (Woodward and Bernstein) book appeared, my younger brother got married. His fiancé was the daughter of a retired naval officer—known to everyone, family and friends, as "The Captain"—who lived in one of the tonier neighborhoods in Fairfax, Virginia. His neighbor (and good friend) was W. Mark Felt.
At the rehearsal dinner I sat next to Mark Felt.
I made the most of the opportunity—by asking for seconds on the prime rib!
What, you thought I'd start pumping the former deputy director of the FBI at a social occasion on the eve of my brother's wedding? What was I supposed to say: "Hey, I hear Hal Holbrook is going to play you in the movie?"
So my opportunity, such as it was, passed.
Felt himself was swept up in the Watergate-era whirlwind: he was indicted for authorizing a series of FBI break-ins aimed at pursuing violent radicals in the U.S. In 1978, with the Carter administration newly in power, a federal grand jury charged Felt and two others with conspiracy to violate the constitutional rights of American citizens by searching their homes without warrants. Former President Nixon appeared as a defense witness, but in the end W. Mark Felt was found guilty and fined $5,000.
In 1981 President Ronald Reagan pardoned Felt.
And that would have been the last we heard of Mark Felt if he hadn't admitted—in a Vanity Fair article in 2005—that he was/is Deep Throat. Once he had "outed" himself Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein stepped forward to confirm the claim. In failing health, W. Mark Felt now lives with his daughter in California.
Thursday, August 9
Shuttle Coverage
The U.S. has another space shuttle mission underway. The Endeavour took off last night from the Cape. I don't know about you, but since the Challenger blew up 73 seconds after launch in January 1986, and the Columbia disintegrated during re-entry in February 2003, I've been something of a white-knuckle observer of the space program. I keep my white-knuckled fingers crossed until the astronauts are safely back on Earth.
The Columbia disaster lingers in my memory for more personal reasons. The Columbia was passing over the western United States at about 9:00 a.m. that Saturday morning when it started breaking apart. I was home at the time, watching CNN, so I quickly learned of the tragedy: seven crew members presumed killed.
I was still EP at my station at the time—hadn't yet been made News Director—so I rushed to
the station to see what we could do to advance the story locally. I remembered seeing a newspaper piece about a local college student who actually had a science experiment on the Columbia. Thanks to the hard work of the weekend assignment editor we were able to roust someone on the college PR staff, track down the student and get him to agree to an interview.
Turned out the story was even better than I had remembered. The young student had actually been on hand to witness the Columbia launch.
The reporter wrote that the student, a "sophmore," "stood in ahh" watching the liftoff from "Cape Cavernal."
What made the experiment even more remarkable was that the local student was a "Palistilian" while his "collegue" was an "Israli."
For those of you scoring at home that's [sic], [sic], [sic], [sic], [sic] and [sic].
I stand in "ahh" of writing like that.
There are some people who think you don't have to know how to spell to be in TV news. I'm not one of them. But if you don't know how to spell, please at least tell me you know how to use the spell-check function on your computer! Please show me that you're interested in communicating well, not just in looking good. (And along the way, show me you know how to properly use "good" and "well.")
We may be in a visual medium, but the words count. Need proof? Watch the first five minutes of your favorite newscast tonight with the sound off. Then watch the next five minutes with the sound on but with your back to the screen. No peeking! Be honest. Which way delivered more information?
I don't blame the reporter: she doesn't know any better, doesn't care to, and these days probably doesn't have to. She's good looking. Too bad she's not flat-out drop-dead gorgeous; then she could work for a network and a field producer would do all her spelling and most of her writing for her. Sexist? Darn right. But not me. I think the system is sexist for encouraging her to think she can get by on her looks. I blame the people who taught her in high school and college and the people who gave her jobs and told her she could report. Who am I to point out that if you spotted her three letters she probably still couldn't spell her own name?
You know the old joke: I demanded to know if she was ignorant or just apathetic and she answered, "I don't know and I don't care." Just kidding. I think. Aren't I?
Over the years I've often administered a writing test and current events quiz to job seekers. Here's a question no one answers correctly: What does "OPEC" stand for? (Hint: everyone figures the "O" stands for "Oil," and it doesn't!)
You know what I say? Ahh…aw…awe, TA-HELL-WIDDIT!
The Columbia disaster lingers in my memory for more personal reasons. The Columbia was passing over the western United States at about 9:00 a.m. that Saturday morning when it started breaking apart. I was home at the time, watching CNN, so I quickly learned of the tragedy: seven crew members presumed killed.
I was still EP at my station at the time—hadn't yet been made News Director—so I rushed to
the station to see what we could do to advance the story locally. I remembered seeing a newspaper piece about a local college student who actually had a science experiment on the Columbia. Thanks to the hard work of the weekend assignment editor we were able to roust someone on the college PR staff, track down the student and get him to agree to an interview.Turned out the story was even better than I had remembered. The young student had actually been on hand to witness the Columbia launch.
The reporter wrote that the student, a "sophmore," "stood in ahh" watching the liftoff from "Cape Cavernal."
What made the experiment even more remarkable was that the local student was a "Palistilian" while his "collegue" was an "Israli."
For those of you scoring at home that's [sic], [sic], [sic], [sic], [sic] and [sic].
I stand in "ahh" of writing like that.
There are some people who think you don't have to know how to spell to be in TV news. I'm not one of them. But if you don't know how to spell, please at least tell me you know how to use the spell-check function on your computer! Please show me that you're interested in communicating well, not just in looking good. (And along the way, show me you know how to properly use "good" and "well.")
We may be in a visual medium, but the words count. Need proof? Watch the first five minutes of your favorite newscast tonight with the sound off. Then watch the next five minutes with the sound on but with your back to the screen. No peeking! Be honest. Which way delivered more information?
I don't blame the reporter: she doesn't know any better, doesn't care to, and these days probably doesn't have to. She's good looking. Too bad she's not flat-out drop-dead gorgeous; then she could work for a network and a field producer would do all her spelling and most of her writing for her. Sexist? Darn right. But not me. I think the system is sexist for encouraging her to think she can get by on her looks. I blame the people who taught her in high school and college and the people who gave her jobs and told her she could report. Who am I to point out that if you spotted her three letters she probably still couldn't spell her own name?
You know the old joke: I demanded to know if she was ignorant or just apathetic and she answered, "I don't know and I don't care." Just kidding. I think. Aren't I?
Over the years I've often administered a writing test and current events quiz to job seekers. Here's a question no one answers correctly: What does "OPEC" stand for? (Hint: everyone figures the "O" stands for "Oil," and it doesn't!)
You know what I say? Ahh…aw…awe, TA-HELL-WIDDIT!
Wednesday, August 8
In Search of Leslie King
Cute kid, right? That's Leslie Lynch King, Jr. Despite the ambiguous first name and the dress, that's a boy! Back when this picture was taken in 1916, that was the way 3-year-old boys were dressed for formal photographs. Leslie was born on July 14, 1913 in Omaha, but he was raised in Grand Rapids, Michigan. By all accounts he led one of those perfect Midwestern boyhoods. He was an Eagle Scout and a star athlete, captain of his high school football team. He went to the University of Michigan and was an All-American football player. He played center on the U of M's national championship teams in 1932 and 1933. He was offered a contract to play pro football, but turned it down to go to law school. And he was so good looking that for a time he was a male model. The All-American boy!
He had more serious ambitions. After serving on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific during World War II, he set his sights on a political career. He ran for Congress in 1948, defeated an incumbent and began a stellar career that led him to more than eight years as House Minority Leader. He was a prominent Congressional Republican until he became Vice President in 1973 and President of the United States on August 9, 1974—33 years ago tomorrow.
WHAT?
PRESIDENT LESLIE LYNCH KING, JR.?
Yeah...but...you probably know him better as Jerry Ford—Gerald Rudolph Ford, Jr.
Little Leslie's parents split two weeks after he was born: there are reports that King Senior was abusive, that he was violent, that he had threatened his wife (the former Dorothy Ayer Gardner) and their baby boy. She left, moved in with a sister in Illinois for a time, got a divorce and moved with her little son to live with her parents in Grand Rapids.
There she met Gerald Rudolff Ford and married him—about the time this picture was taken.
The Ford family ran a successful paint and varnish business in Grand Rapids, and by all accounts Gerald Rudolff Ford was a perfect father and had a perfect family. Before too long young Leslie King was no more: replaced by Gerald Rudolff Ford, Jr.—although he was never formally adopted; he didn't make the name change official until 1935; and he always spelled his new middle name the more traditional way, "Rudolph." Young Jerry had three half brothers: Thomas Gardner Ford (1918–1995), Richard Addison Ford (born 1924), and James Francis Ford (1927–2001). Jerry, Jr. didn't know he had been born Leslie, Jr. until his mother told him when he was 17. He had a brief meeting with his biological father that same year, but nothing came of it. He never established much of a relationship with his birth father, or with his three other half-siblings, children of King's later marriage.
Which brings us to August 8, 1974. I had been head producer for WWJ-TV (Channel 4) in Detroit for just a few weeks, responsible for the 6:00 and 11:00 p.m. newscasts. I was home that Thursday morning when I got a call from my boss, Lou Prato, ordering me to the station ASAP. When I got there he told me that it was official: disgraced President Richard Nixon would resign that night—and Jerry Ford was going to become the 38th President of the United States the next morning. Since I had just come to Detroit after five years working for WOOD AM-FM-TV in Grand Rapids, Lou said he was sending me, reporter Bob Vito (you may know him from CNN) and a two-man film crew to Grand Rapids to cover the Michigan angle. A chartered plane was waiting for us at Detroit City Airport.
Grumbling that Lou didn't even give us a chance to pack a bag, the four of us hopped on a single-engine Piper and headed west, arriving in Grand Rapids about 5:00 p.m.
It's important to remember that those were the days when local TV stations still shot news on film—that live coverage was almost unheard of for a local station—and that satellite coverage was rarer still. There was no chance to get anything on the air for 11:00 that night, so we concentrated on covering the story for the Noon and 6:00 the next day—the day Jerry Ford would be sworn in as President. Remember, too, that those were the days before morning newscasts. WWJ had only what other NBC affiliates had in the morning: the Today Show cut-ins.
So the four of us went crazy, tear-assing all around Grand Rapids looking for Ford family, friends and side-bars. I think we watched the Nixon resignation speech in a bar in Jerry's old neighborhood. We got high school classmates and teachers. I remember our coup was catching all three Ford brothers together at about 2:00 a.m. Great guys: down to earth, smart. The paint and varnish business had been very good to Tom, Dick and Jim Ford, and they were obviously proud of their brother, but he was still "just Jerry" to them.
OK. Next—get the film back on the plane at 6:00 a.m.to make the Noon news. So we zonked out in a motel. Don't know where or how, but I managed to come up with a toothbrush and some deodorant. The crew slept longer, but I got about 90 minutes of sleep, then it was off to the airport to put the film in the hands of the charter pilot. The plan was for him to fly it to Detroit and drop it off for the Noon show, then turn around while we stayed in GR to film reaction to Jerry Ford's swear-in as President. Then we were to hop on the plane, get back to Detroit about 3:00 p.m. and put together our final package for the dinner-hour news.
The plan went perfectly.
Tired, sweaty, bedraggled, we staggered into the WWJ newsroom and got what we expected, high praise from all around.
I also got a surprise: Lou Prato told me that there was no one else to producer the 6:00, that I'd have to do it. He promised to pitch in, and he did. Together we produced a terrific local newscast that drew heavily on Jerry's hometown background, his days as a star football player at Michigan, and his legacy as a Congressman.
Hearty handshakes all around.
When it was all over, Lou came up to me and said, "You did a great job. The 11:00 should be easy. I'm going home."
And he did. So I produced the 11:00.
When I finally got home it was around 1:00 a.m. Saturday morning—I was still hot and sweaty and tired—I had put probably 250 miles on a rental car—eaten nothing but cheap hamburgers and fries—swilled about three dozen Cokes—and squeezed in ninety minutes of sleep in the previous 36 hours.
Not a record, not by a long shot. Certainly not hazardous duty like war coverage. Actually, it was fun. I thought would make a good story for my grandchildren: What Grandpa did the night Jerry Ford became President.
I've never been married, never had kids, and I don't think there's much chance of me bouncing grandkids on my knee—so I'm telling you the story of the night I went tear-assing around Jerry Ford's hometown.
Got a second for just one more Jerry Ford anecdote? I wrote (in Man and Mentor on April 12th) about my first boss, Dick Cheverton, and his battle with cancer. "Chev" had, of course, covered and known Jerry Ford for years. The two men liked and respected each other. So it was no surprise that Congressman Ford would hand Chev his last (and biggest) assignment.
Remember Richard Nixon's visit to China? To the "People's Republic of China?" To "RED CHINA????????" After years of distrust and a decades-long break in all relations, diplomatic and trade, Nixon used China's deteriorating relationship with the U.S.S.R. to try what was dubbed "Ping Pong Diplomacy" (the U.S. table tennis team was invited to visit China in 1971). In '72 Nixon himself went for meetings with Chairman Mao Zedong. It was the high point of the Nixon presidency. And for the first time in decades Western journalists—newspapers and the networks—were allowed into China.
Not long after, the House Minority and Majority leaders (Jerry Ford of Michigan and Hale Boggs of Louisiana) made a trip of their own to China. Each was told he could bring a TV crew from his home district. Congressman Ford invited Chev to send a crew—and Chev grabbed the assignment for himself. Chev and a reporter from New Orleans and their photographers became the first non-network TV journalists in China since the 1940s!
For Chev, it was tough going. He was on crutches, still healing after breaking his hip (could that have been a foreshadowing of the cancer to come?). But Chev wasn't about to let a little broken hip stand in the way of the big story. So he and Chief Photographer Tom O'Rourke dogged the Congressional delegation every step of the way—producing memorable coverage.
O'Rourke even got the attention of communist leader Zhou Enlai. Chev and Tom were covering a banquet on their final night in Peking. Tom had his old Auricon Pro 16mm movie camera on a should brace—his sound amplifier strapped around his neck, along with a 35mm camera—a light clipped to the camera and a battery belt on his waist (along with a spare)—and a backpack with batteries, extra film magazines and the like. The whole getup must have weighed eighty pounds.
During a ceremonial dinner Zhou Enlai noticed O'Rourke filming the event and offered a toast to the burly photographer from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Tom said it translated to something like this: "Modern technology is wonderful. It is sad, though, that so much of it still comes down to manual labor."
I wonder if WOOD still has any of that old China footage. It was remarkable, historic and eye-opening.
The next things we knew, in late 1973, good 'ol Jerry Ford 
became Vice President Gerald Ford. Spiro Agnew was forced to resign as part of a deal that allowed him to plead nolo contendere (no contest) to criminal charges of tax evasion and money laundering. Seems he had accepted bribes during his tenure as governor of Maryland.
I was still at WOOD at that time. Chev was in the hospital. I remember well the new VP's first visit back to his hometown. We were determined to make Chev proud. We were the dominant news station in the market, the only one with an hour-long dinner-hour newscast, and the largest staff in town: seven full-time reporters and seven full-time photographers. Huge for the middle markets in those days.
And go figure: Vice President Ford had seven events on his schedule, from breakfast with his brothers to a tour of the old family home, lunch with invited big-wigs. You know the drill. Seven stops, then back to Washington.
But there was a 90-minute gap in his schedule. An hour-and-a-half unaccounted for. Oh, yeah? We'll just see about that! Our entire staff spent days trying to find out what Jerry Ford was up to.
We never did find out where he was going—but after he left we found out where he'd been. He went to the hospital and spent the time with Dick Cheverton. A nurse later told me that the Secret Service was stationed outside the open door, so no one knew exactly what was said inside.
"But," she told me, "They laughed a lot."
Sunday, August 5
Sounds of Summer
I like air conditioning. I love air conditioning. Can’t live without it. But it robs us of the sounds of summer.
For me, a summer day is sounds coming through the screen door when I was 12. A lawn mower three or four houses down (maybe Mr. Luttermoser has my pal Gary working on the front yard). Somewhere, closer, a transistor radio is on and I can hear, faintly, the gentle southern lilt of Jimmy Dudley calling an Indians game (“So long and lots of good luck, ya heah?"). Plenty of time between pitches to listen to the vendors in the background (“Beer here! Ice cold beer here!”). Makes me want to lie down on the sofa for a quick nap just thinking about it.
I delivered Jimmy Dudley’s newspaper, although I met him only once. He was always on the road. The one time I collected for the paper from him he gave me 75 cents. The Cleveland Press was 55 cents a week then: a 20-cent tip wasn’t half bad. I can still walk my old paper route in my mind, up Lincoln and down West Oviatt in Bay Village. I can still remember who the good tippers were. And I remember the folks who wouldn’t answer the door when I came to collect every Saturday, who tried to pretend they weren't home. Can you imagine that? Who’d try to stiff a 12-year-old kid out of 55 cents? Some did it for weeks at a time, then challenged my reckoning when I finally did catch up with them. I was a shy kid and hated to stand up to adults, so I sometimes got bullied out of my 55 cents. For that reason I didn’t make much money, but I learned a valuable lesson: no matter how nice the home, not everyone inside is a nice person.
If I have a point here—a point relating to the media—I guess it’s that we’re still trying to collect for the service we provide. The Cleveland Press (an afternoon paper) folded long ago. Radio has pretty much gotten out of the news business. These days radio, to paraphrase Garrison Keillor, is mostly people yelling at you and computers playing music. TV owners are scared. Even the New York Times recently sold all its TV stations to try to give itself more cash to plow into Internet news publishing, even though reports are the Times isn't making a dime yet.
If anyone has figured out a way to make money—real money—off the Internet, I haven’t seen it. But it’s coming, and we have to go with it. It's a lot easier to ride the horse in the direction he's already headed. Would you want to be a TV station owner waiting for black and white to come back?
I’m convinced that whatever direction news delivery takes next we’ll still need professionals gathering it and editing it and presenting it (in some form or another). This idea that all blogs are created equal—that all voices carry equal weight—that facts matter less than opinion--that anyone can say anything he or she wants about anyone else at any time and have "Because I SAID SO" credibility is something that we’ll work out on the fly. We always have.
But damn—it was an easier business when all I had to do was stick Jimmy Dudley’s paper in behind the screen door on the side stoop and collect my 55 cents on Saturday.
For me, a summer day is sounds coming through the screen door when I was 12. A lawn mower three or four houses down (maybe Mr. Luttermoser has my pal Gary working on the front yard). Somewhere, closer, a transistor radio is on and I can hear, faintly, the gentle southern lilt of Jimmy Dudley calling an Indians game (“So long and lots of good luck, ya heah?"). Plenty of time between pitches to listen to the vendors in the background (“Beer here! Ice cold beer here!”). Makes me want to lie down on the sofa for a quick nap just thinking about it.
I delivered Jimmy Dudley’s newspaper, although I met him only once. He was always on the road. The one time I collected for the paper from him he gave me 75 cents. The Cleveland Press was 55 cents a week then: a 20-cent tip wasn’t half bad. I can still walk my old paper route in my mind, up Lincoln and down West Oviatt in Bay Village. I can still remember who the good tippers were. And I remember the folks who wouldn’t answer the door when I came to collect every Saturday, who tried to pretend they weren't home. Can you imagine that? Who’d try to stiff a 12-year-old kid out of 55 cents? Some did it for weeks at a time, then challenged my reckoning when I finally did catch up with them. I was a shy kid and hated to stand up to adults, so I sometimes got bullied out of my 55 cents. For that reason I didn’t make much money, but I learned a valuable lesson: no matter how nice the home, not everyone inside is a nice person.
If I have a point here—a point relating to the media—I guess it’s that we’re still trying to collect for the service we provide. The Cleveland Press (an afternoon paper) folded long ago. Radio has pretty much gotten out of the news business. These days radio, to paraphrase Garrison Keillor, is mostly people yelling at you and computers playing music. TV owners are scared. Even the New York Times recently sold all its TV stations to try to give itself more cash to plow into Internet news publishing, even though reports are the Times isn't making a dime yet.
If anyone has figured out a way to make money—real money—off the Internet, I haven’t seen it. But it’s coming, and we have to go with it. It's a lot easier to ride the horse in the direction he's already headed. Would you want to be a TV station owner waiting for black and white to come back?
I’m convinced that whatever direction news delivery takes next we’ll still need professionals gathering it and editing it and presenting it (in some form or another). This idea that all blogs are created equal—that all voices carry equal weight—that facts matter less than opinion--that anyone can say anything he or she wants about anyone else at any time and have "Because I SAID SO" credibility is something that we’ll work out on the fly. We always have.
But damn—it was an easier business when all I had to do was stick Jimmy Dudley’s paper in behind the screen door on the side stoop and collect my 55 cents on Saturday.
Monday, July 30
Remembering Tom Snyder (1936-2007)
Did I ever tell you about the time I was a guest on Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow show (or TOMorrow, as it apeared in the logo)?
Darn right I didn’t! One doesn’t speak of rope in the house of the hanged, and the only positive thing I can say about my guest shot on nationwide TV is that I didn’t faint or soil myself. More later.
First, some thoughts about Tom Snyder, who died yesterday at the age of 71 after battling leukemia. Tom was the greatest one-on-one communicator I ever worked with—the best I ever saw. Not just brilliant, not just forceful and dynamic, he was made for TV. He was bigger than life. He was boisterous. And unfortunately, most people today remember him only as a late-night talk show host. From 1973 (well before Nightline) until 1982, Tomorrow with Tom Snyder (more commonly known as The Tomorrow Show), followed Johnny Carson on NBC. Remember, for most of those years The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson ran ninety minutes. Then, at 1:00 a.m. (Eastern) Tom Snyder took over for an hour of topical, insightful, opinionated, controversial talk. TV hadn’t seen anything like it since Mike Wallace’s old Night Beat program from the 1950s. Most nights, one guest—tough but fair questions—real information being exchanged. Here’s a YouTube link to a nice retrospective introduced by Conan O’Brien.
I let him buy a round before I told him, and we had a laugh. I don't remember what he was drinking that night, so I can't say for sure of it was one of the "colortinis" he often talked about on the air.
Here’s a Tom Snyder/Roger Grimsby story. I’ve mentioned that Roger was the straw that stirred the Eyewitness News drink. Absolutely! Remember that third grade science experiment with metal shavings when you were a kid? The teacher puts iron filings on a plate, runs a magnet underneath, and all the particles line up? That was Roger Grimsby at Channel 7. When he walked into the newsroom the energy level in the place shifted and he became the center of attention.
Roger had long since given up the 11:00 by the time Snyder came on board to do only the 11:00. They knew each other. Still, there was lots of hallway buzz about how Grimsby would ride Snyder like a 17-year-old Shetland pony in a Coney Island petting zoo. Roger was famous for driving out potential rivals he thought were pompous gas-bags.
Snyder’s first day, he’s in early for the obligatory picture taking and promotion. Then he adjourns to his office. He’s not incommunicado—far from it—lots of people go in to shake his hand—he’s just not out wandering up and down the halls.
3:00 p.m., Grimsby shows up and goes into his office. Snyder follows him and shuts the door for a half-hour—obviously paying his respects.
Now Snyder was, as I’ve said, larger than life. He knew how to work a room. His voice (and his laugh) carried for blocks. But from that day forward whenever Grimsby was in the station Snyder was in his office, not out playing to the cheap seats. He came out if necessary, but only if necessary. At night, once Roger was gone, Snyder had free reign over the place. But he was sensitive enough (and smart enough) to know whose turf he was on.
WABC ANCHOR TEAM--1982
Roger Grimsby is long gone now...and Bill Beutel. Just a month ago I wrote about the passing of Joel Siegel. Now Tom Snyder. The broadcast princes I had the great good fortune to work with are leaving us. Today's cookie-cutter anchors and their let's-see-what-the-research-says-and-THEN-we'll lead-with-Lindsay-Lohan-anyway managers are trying to read from the old playbooks. Cheap imitators? Hell, even well-funded imitators are just knock-offs of the originals. I'm looking for communicators and not seeing them. Are they out there?
Katie Couric aired a radio tribute to Tom Snyder, calling him a "broadcasting pioneer." I don't think that's quite accurate. There were anchors before him--and talk show hosts--and interviewers. It's just that none brought the energy, the dedication, the intelligence, the life, the humor, the verve that he brought to broadcasting. No one ever did TV better than Tom Snyder. When he shut down his web site, colortini.com without warning in August of 2005 he left a white screen and the words, "Colortini is gone. Thanks for the Memories."
No, Tom; thank you.
Darn right I didn’t! One doesn’t speak of rope in the house of the hanged, and the only positive thing I can say about my guest shot on nationwide TV is that I didn’t faint or soil myself. More later.
First, some thoughts about Tom Snyder, who died yesterday at the age of 71 after battling leukemia. Tom was the greatest one-on-one communicator I ever worked with—the best I ever saw. Not just brilliant, not just forceful and dynamic, he was made for TV. He was bigger than life. He was boisterous. And unfortunately, most people today remember him only as a late-night talk show host. From 1973 (well before Nightline) until 1982, Tomorrow with Tom Snyder (more commonly known as The Tomorrow Show), followed Johnny Carson on NBC. Remember, for most of those years The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson ran ninety minutes. Then, at 1:00 a.m. (Eastern) Tom Snyder took over for an hour of topical, insightful, opinionated, controversial talk. TV hadn’t seen anything like it since Mike Wallace’s old Night Beat program from the 1950s. Most nights, one guest—tough but fair questions—real information being exchanged. Here’s a YouTube link to a nice retrospective introduced by Conan O’Brien.Forget Rush: THAT was “Talent on Loan from God.”
But…BUT…if you only new Tom Snyder as a larger-than-life interviewer and host, I can make a case you missed his best work. How many remember Tom as an anchor? I think he engineered what a current cliché would call a “tipping point” in broadcast news. Before Tom Snyder, anchors had forceful, punchy deliveries: “Good EVE-ning, I’m DAY-vid BRINK-ley.” I’m convinced that a lot of it had to do with the technology. If you were David Brinkley, the camera was fifteen feet away and the microphone didn’t pick up your voice unless you pro-JECT-ed. Tom Snyder was among the first to understand that the camera was at arm’s length—or closer—and you could have a conversation with a single viewer.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw him: April, 1970. I had been out of college for less than year, and went to Los Angeles to visit my old college roommate. I had heard about this terrific anchor on KNBC-TV, so I made it a point to tune in, not knowing of the Apollo 13 disaster playing out in deep space.
And there he was…leaning forward across the desk…looking me in the eye. And he spoke, one-on-one, directly to me, when he said in this low voice, “Good-evening-I’m-Tom-Snyder…three-American-astronauts-are-fighting-for-their-lives-tonight-as-they-head-for-the-far-side-of-the-moon.”
And I thought, “Omigod, I want it ALL…tell me EVERYTHING and TELL ME NOW!”
Tom had done TV talk while at KYW in Philadelphia. NBC started Tomorrow while he was anchoring at KNBC—and moved it to New York when he anchored at WNBC. Also in the Big Apple, he anchored weekend network newscasts for NBC. How many of you remember that there was talk he would succeed John Chancellor as NBC Nightly News anchor when Chancellor retired in 1981? How serious was the talk? It caused a huge schism in the ranks at NBC between the old guard that had grown up in print and switched to broadcast (like Chancellor) and the new generation, children of TV who believed in the power of the moving picture.
In the end, Chancellor did everything in his power to scuttle Tom’s chances—and NBC’s top anchor job went to a young contemporary of Snyder’s (and his former KNBC colleague), Tom Brokaw.
Tom Snyder, odd man out, left NBC and jumped back to full-time anchoring at WABC in 1981. That’s where I worked with him.
But that’s not where I met him, and here are the embarrassing details.
Back in 1978 I was working at WDIV in Detroit. I had just returned from a trip to Boston as field producer on a series of reports on a huge gathering of automakers being held there. Remember, in those days the conventional wisdom was “If Detroit (the auto industry) sneezes, the American economy catches a cold.” An important meeting, worthy of big-time coverage, and News Four Detroit was there.
When I got back I found out that Snyder was bringing his late-night show to our studios for a couple of nights of interviews with the auto industry’s movers and shakers. Great! I was at loose ends for a couple of days. Even though it was a closed set, I figured I could find a way to hang around until the doors were sealed, hide in the shadows and watch the taping.
What I didn’t know was that Snyder and his New York crew—practical jokers all—were looking for someone for their constant game of “gotcha” and that my WDIV co-workers had fingered me as a prime suspect. What I didn’t know was that they were all under orders to keep me in the studio at all costs! So about a half-hour before taping I was slinking behind the set when a WDIV director came up to me and said he needed my help: “You’re 6'3", Snyder’s 6'4", we need someone to sit in his chair so we can light the set.”
OK by me (heh-heh-heh!). Always happy to be of service (heh-heh-heh!).
Just before show time I left the set and tried to blend in as best I could, hoping no one would spot me.
The theme rolled, and I figured I was home free! Not so fast!
“Good evening, we’re coming to you tonight from Detroit, a city like many industrial cities in this country, and from WDIV-TV, a television station like most others in this country, with ONE NOTABLE EXCEPTION. Tonight, for the first time in my career, I have a stand-in. I’d like you to meet my personal stunt double…” and he called me out onto the set, sat me down, mic'd me up and started asking questions about my assignment to Boston.
I wasn't nervous. Not me. Why, then, did I answer his first question in a Vienna-Boys’-Choir soprano voice, “Well, Tom…” Not nervous, just petrified. My high-pitched voice cracked glass, had cats howling in several midwestern states, and activated certain brands of electronic garage door openers! Afterwards I called my parents to tell them to look for their sonny-boy on TV, and DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE! I taped the segment--and never watched it!
I don’t think I’ve told more than 25 people in the 25 years since! Would you? "Hey, want to see the night I lost 35 pounds in flop sweat in ten minutes?"
Fast forward to 1981: I’m at WABC and so, now, is Tom Snyder. Several of us, Tom included, are having drinks across Columbus Avenue at Chip’s Pub when somehow the topic of embarrassing moments comes up. A “friend” nods in my direction and says, “Yeah, but then there’s the night he appeared on the Tomorrow show.” And Snyder hits me with his laser beam stare out from under those bushy eyebrows. “I know every guest I ever interviewed, and I don’t remember you!”
But…BUT…if you only new Tom Snyder as a larger-than-life interviewer and host, I can make a case you missed his best work. How many remember Tom as an anchor? I think he engineered what a current cliché would call a “tipping point” in broadcast news. Before Tom Snyder, anchors had forceful, punchy deliveries: “Good EVE-ning, I’m DAY-vid BRINK-ley.” I’m convinced that a lot of it had to do with the technology. If you were David Brinkley, the camera was fifteen feet away and the microphone didn’t pick up your voice unless you pro-JECT-ed. Tom Snyder was among the first to understand that the camera was at arm’s length—or closer—and you could have a conversation with a single viewer.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw him: April, 1970. I had been out of college for less than year, and went to Los Angeles to visit my old college roommate. I had heard about this terrific anchor on KNBC-TV, so I made it a point to tune in, not knowing of the Apollo 13 disaster playing out in deep space.
And there he was…leaning forward across the desk…looking me in the eye. And he spoke, one-on-one, directly to me, when he said in this low voice, “Good-evening-I’m-Tom-Snyder…three-American-astronauts-are-fighting-for-their-lives-tonight-as-they-head-for-the-far-side-of-the-moon.”
And I thought, “Omigod, I want it ALL…tell me EVERYTHING and TELL ME NOW!”
Tom had done TV talk while at KYW in Philadelphia. NBC started Tomorrow while he was anchoring at KNBC—and moved it to New York when he anchored at WNBC. Also in the Big Apple, he anchored weekend network newscasts for NBC. How many of you remember that there was talk he would succeed John Chancellor as NBC Nightly News anchor when Chancellor retired in 1981? How serious was the talk? It caused a huge schism in the ranks at NBC between the old guard that had grown up in print and switched to broadcast (like Chancellor) and the new generation, children of TV who believed in the power of the moving picture.
In the end, Chancellor did everything in his power to scuttle Tom’s chances—and NBC’s top anchor job went to a young contemporary of Snyder’s (and his former KNBC colleague), Tom Brokaw.
Tom Snyder, odd man out, left NBC and jumped back to full-time anchoring at WABC in 1981. That’s where I worked with him.
But that’s not where I met him, and here are the embarrassing details.
Back in 1978 I was working at WDIV in Detroit. I had just returned from a trip to Boston as field producer on a series of reports on a huge gathering of automakers being held there. Remember, in those days the conventional wisdom was “If Detroit (the auto industry) sneezes, the American economy catches a cold.” An important meeting, worthy of big-time coverage, and News Four Detroit was there.
When I got back I found out that Snyder was bringing his late-night show to our studios for a couple of nights of interviews with the auto industry’s movers and shakers. Great! I was at loose ends for a couple of days. Even though it was a closed set, I figured I could find a way to hang around until the doors were sealed, hide in the shadows and watch the taping.
What I didn’t know was that Snyder and his New York crew—practical jokers all—were looking for someone for their constant game of “gotcha” and that my WDIV co-workers had fingered me as a prime suspect. What I didn’t know was that they were all under orders to keep me in the studio at all costs! So about a half-hour before taping I was slinking behind the set when a WDIV director came up to me and said he needed my help: “You’re 6'3", Snyder’s 6'4", we need someone to sit in his chair so we can light the set.”
OK by me (heh-heh-heh!). Always happy to be of service (heh-heh-heh!).
Just before show time I left the set and tried to blend in as best I could, hoping no one would spot me.
The theme rolled, and I figured I was home free! Not so fast!
“Good evening, we’re coming to you tonight from Detroit, a city like many industrial cities in this country, and from WDIV-TV, a television station like most others in this country, with ONE NOTABLE EXCEPTION. Tonight, for the first time in my career, I have a stand-in. I’d like you to meet my personal stunt double…” and he called me out onto the set, sat me down, mic'd me up and started asking questions about my assignment to Boston.
I wasn't nervous. Not me. Why, then, did I answer his first question in a Vienna-Boys’-Choir soprano voice, “Well, Tom…” Not nervous, just petrified. My high-pitched voice cracked glass, had cats howling in several midwestern states, and activated certain brands of electronic garage door openers! Afterwards I called my parents to tell them to look for their sonny-boy on TV, and DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE! I taped the segment--and never watched it!
I don’t think I’ve told more than 25 people in the 25 years since! Would you? "Hey, want to see the night I lost 35 pounds in flop sweat in ten minutes?"
Fast forward to 1981: I’m at WABC and so, now, is Tom Snyder. Several of us, Tom included, are having drinks across Columbus Avenue at Chip’s Pub when somehow the topic of embarrassing moments comes up. A “friend” nods in my direction and says, “Yeah, but then there’s the night he appeared on the Tomorrow show.” And Snyder hits me with his laser beam stare out from under those bushy eyebrows. “I know every guest I ever interviewed, and I don’t remember you!”
I let him buy a round before I told him, and we had a laugh. I don't remember what he was drinking that night, so I can't say for sure of it was one of the "colortinis" he often talked about on the air.
Here’s a Tom Snyder/Roger Grimsby story. I’ve mentioned that Roger was the straw that stirred the Eyewitness News drink. Absolutely! Remember that third grade science experiment with metal shavings when you were a kid? The teacher puts iron filings on a plate, runs a magnet underneath, and all the particles line up? That was Roger Grimsby at Channel 7. When he walked into the newsroom the energy level in the place shifted and he became the center of attention.
Roger had long since given up the 11:00 by the time Snyder came on board to do only the 11:00. They knew each other. Still, there was lots of hallway buzz about how Grimsby would ride Snyder like a 17-year-old Shetland pony in a Coney Island petting zoo. Roger was famous for driving out potential rivals he thought were pompous gas-bags.
Snyder’s first day, he’s in early for the obligatory picture taking and promotion. Then he adjourns to his office. He’s not incommunicado—far from it—lots of people go in to shake his hand—he’s just not out wandering up and down the halls.
3:00 p.m., Grimsby shows up and goes into his office. Snyder follows him and shuts the door for a half-hour—obviously paying his respects.
Now Snyder was, as I’ve said, larger than life. He knew how to work a room. His voice (and his laugh) carried for blocks. But from that day forward whenever Grimsby was in the station Snyder was in his office, not out playing to the cheap seats. He came out if necessary, but only if necessary. At night, once Roger was gone, Snyder had free reign over the place. But he was sensitive enough (and smart enough) to know whose turf he was on.
WABC ANCHOR TEAM--1982Roseanne Scamardella
Tom Snyder
Bill Beutel
Roger Grimsby
Kaity Tong
Storm Field (weather)
Spencer Christian (sports)
When he started, the station put up bus stop posters all over town: Tom and the “Circle 7” logo with a bunch of adjectives. If I remember, words like: OPINIONATED, CONTROVERSIAL, HARD-HITTING, CHARISMATIC, PERSUASIVE, UNCOMPROMISING, BRASH, PROVOCATIVE.
A couple of weeks later I was at an Emmy luncheon. CBS anchor Dan Rather spoke, then took questions. The first one was, “Mr. Rather, do you think an anchor should be opinionated, controversial, hard-hitting, charismatic, persuasive, uncompromising, brash and provocative?"
And Dan Rather, bless him, said: “Well, down in Texas we got a sayin’, ‘I ain’t got no dog in that fight.””
One last story. It’s said Tom Snyder had a monumental ego. He did. But it was leavened with a terrific sense of humor and a sense of self. No one could laugh at himself longer or harder than Tom Snyder. In an earlier post I referred to the night poor Mara Wolinsky got caught on camera flipping the bird to a floor director who had been giving her confusing hand signals. She was suspended for a week.
NOT TWO WEEKS LATER, Tom Snyder did the same thing under the same circumstances and (what else?) had to face the same penalty. Fair is fair, right? A precedent had been set.
I rant into Tom during his suspension and found him with his middle finger wrapped in a huge bandage, a hunk of gauze bigger than Hulk Hogan’s big toe. “God, Tom,” I said, “What did you do to your finger?”
“I got it caught on a camera.”
Tom left WABC in 1985. He kicked around a bit after that. He didn't have to worry about money, so he could take on only projects that challenged him or tickled his fancy or triggered his insatiable curiosity. For a time he did a nationwide radio talk show. He did a talk show on CNBC. And for a time David Letterman was his boss. Letterman idolized Snyder, and through his company Worldwide Pants hired Tom to do the Late Late Show following his own CBS program. Tom signed off in 1995.
A couple of weeks later I was at an Emmy luncheon. CBS anchor Dan Rather spoke, then took questions. The first one was, “Mr. Rather, do you think an anchor should be opinionated, controversial, hard-hitting, charismatic, persuasive, uncompromising, brash and provocative?"
And Dan Rather, bless him, said: “Well, down in Texas we got a sayin’, ‘I ain’t got no dog in that fight.””
One last story. It’s said Tom Snyder had a monumental ego. He did. But it was leavened with a terrific sense of humor and a sense of self. No one could laugh at himself longer or harder than Tom Snyder. In an earlier post I referred to the night poor Mara Wolinsky got caught on camera flipping the bird to a floor director who had been giving her confusing hand signals. She was suspended for a week.
NOT TWO WEEKS LATER, Tom Snyder did the same thing under the same circumstances and (what else?) had to face the same penalty. Fair is fair, right? A precedent had been set.
I rant into Tom during his suspension and found him with his middle finger wrapped in a huge bandage, a hunk of gauze bigger than Hulk Hogan’s big toe. “God, Tom,” I said, “What did you do to your finger?”
“I got it caught on a camera.”
Tom left WABC in 1985. He kicked around a bit after that. He didn't have to worry about money, so he could take on only projects that challenged him or tickled his fancy or triggered his insatiable curiosity. For a time he did a nationwide radio talk show. He did a talk show on CNBC. And for a time David Letterman was his boss. Letterman idolized Snyder, and through his company Worldwide Pants hired Tom to do the Late Late Show following his own CBS program. Tom signed off in 1995.
Roger Grimsby is long gone now...and Bill Beutel. Just a month ago I wrote about the passing of Joel Siegel. Now Tom Snyder. The broadcast princes I had the great good fortune to work with are leaving us. Today's cookie-cutter anchors and their let's-see-what-the-research-says-and-THEN-we'll lead-with-Lindsay-Lohan-anyway managers are trying to read from the old playbooks. Cheap imitators? Hell, even well-funded imitators are just knock-offs of the originals. I'm looking for communicators and not seeing them. Are they out there?
Katie Couric aired a radio tribute to Tom Snyder, calling him a "broadcasting pioneer." I don't think that's quite accurate. There were anchors before him--and talk show hosts--and interviewers. It's just that none brought the energy, the dedication, the intelligence, the life, the humor, the verve that he brought to broadcasting. No one ever did TV better than Tom Snyder. When he shut down his web site, colortini.com without warning in August of 2005 he left a white screen and the words, "Colortini is gone. Thanks for the Memories."
No, Tom; thank you.
Thursday, July 26
Crime and (No) Punishment
The good bosses know when to let you off the hook: the good ones know that sometimes "gotcha" is enough.
In the early seventies I worked for KDKA-TV in Pittsburgh. Call it a powerhouse, call it a juggernaut—whatever words you can come up with to describe dominance applied to KDKA. The station was then at the height of its powers, and it was owned by one of America's most powerful ownership groups, Westinghouse Broadcasting or "Group W" as it was then known.
Westinghouse was there at the beginning: heck, before the beginning. The "Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Corporation" made broadcasting history on November 20, 1920, when it signed on KDKA radio in Pittsburgh—to this day the first and oldest licensed commercial radio station in the United States.
Later Westinghouse Broadcasting operated a chain of network radio and TV affiliates all around the country—each dominant in its market: it built WBZ in Boston and bought stations that later became KDKA in Pittsburgh; KYW in Philadelphia; KPIX in San Francisco; WJZ in Baltimore; and a handful of others.
Westinghouse later bought CBS. CBS merged with Viacom. And today you can't tell a player without a scorecard.
But for a time Group W was THE player in top-thirty market local broadcasting and was either #1 or within striking distance in all but one or two of its markets.
They had rules—and the rules seldom changed because the rules always worked! So you didn't…break…the…rules. One of them: a coat and tie for every man, every shift, every day.
I ignored that rule once. ONCE!
I was "Weekend News Manager" in charge of weekend news operations. I was living on the top floor of an old mansion across the Monongahela River from downtown: some steel tycoon's turn-of-the-(20th)-century brick-and-turrets monument long since divided into ten or twelve apartments. Not quite a slum but convenient to work.
One Friday afternoon it started snowing. And it snowed, and snowed, and snowed. By Saturday morning (time to go to work) there were nine inches of the white stuff on the ground, and I had a mile-and-a-half hike through the drifts to get to work. I decided to be practical. I pulled on a pair of ratty jeans, a flannel work shirt, heavy boots, and in my old parka and stocking cap set out for the hike to KDKA.
I hadn't been there fifteen minutes, going over the wires, when I looked up and saw News Director Larry Manne standing in the doorway—in a coat and tie! There were waist-high snow drifts out there and he's not only in the station--early on a Saturday morning--he's in a coat and tie!
He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. I could guess what was coming.
And then…and then…he walked slowly past my desk—stopped just over my right shoulder—bent down—and whispered into my ear, "I think you left your big blue ox double-parked downstairs." He went into his office to push some news director paperwork from the "In" box to the "Out" box and never said another word about it.
Good guy. Anyone know where Larry Manne is today?
In the early seventies I worked for KDKA-TV in Pittsburgh. Call it a powerhouse, call it a juggernaut—whatever words you can come up with to describe dominance applied to KDKA. The station was then at the height of its powers, and it was owned by one of America's most powerful ownership groups, Westinghouse Broadcasting or "Group W" as it was then known.
Westinghouse was there at the beginning: heck, before the beginning. The "Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Corporation" made broadcasting history on November 20, 1920, when it signed on KDKA radio in Pittsburgh—to this day the first and oldest licensed commercial radio station in the United States.Later Westinghouse Broadcasting operated a chain of network radio and TV affiliates all around the country—each dominant in its market: it built WBZ in Boston and bought stations that later became KDKA in Pittsburgh; KYW in Philadelphia; KPIX in San Francisco; WJZ in Baltimore; and a handful of others.
Westinghouse later bought CBS. CBS merged with Viacom. And today you can't tell a player without a scorecard.
But for a time Group W was THE player in top-thirty market local broadcasting and was either #1 or within striking distance in all but one or two of its markets.
Don't worry, I'm getting to my point.One reason Group W was so successful was its strong management philosophy and its reputation for finding, training and quickly promoting young, aggressive managers. Westinghouse was a hothouse for the growing of tough, no-nonsense, by-the-book managers who walked, talked, breathed, ate, slept and worked (80 hours a week) the Westinghouse way.
They had rules—and the rules seldom changed because the rules always worked! So you didn't…break…the…rules. One of them: a coat and tie for every man, every shift, every day.
I ignored that rule once. ONCE!
I was "Weekend News Manager" in charge of weekend news operations. I was living on the top floor of an old mansion across the Monongahela River from downtown: some steel tycoon's turn-of-the-(20th)-century brick-and-turrets monument long since divided into ten or twelve apartments. Not quite a slum but convenient to work.
One Friday afternoon it started snowing. And it snowed, and snowed, and snowed. By Saturday morning (time to go to work) there were nine inches of the white stuff on the ground, and I had a mile-and-a-half hike through the drifts to get to work. I decided to be practical. I pulled on a pair of ratty jeans, a flannel work shirt, heavy boots, and in my old parka and stocking cap set out for the hike to KDKA.
I hadn't been there fifteen minutes, going over the wires, when I looked up and saw News Director Larry Manne standing in the doorway—in a coat and tie! There were waist-high snow drifts out there and he's not only in the station--early on a Saturday morning--he's in a coat and tie!
He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. I could guess what was coming.
And then…and then…he walked slowly past my desk—stopped just over my right shoulder—bent down—and whispered into my ear, "I think you left your big blue ox double-parked downstairs." He went into his office to push some news director paperwork from the "In" box to the "Out" box and never said another word about it.
Good guy. Anyone know where Larry Manne is today?
Wednesday, July 25
Hank the Deuce
In broadcast news we don't have egos. It's just that we're absolutely convinced we're smarter, wittier, more poised, more savvy, more hip, more "with-it", brighter, more quick-witted, better informed, skillful, current, progressive, au courant, perceptive, well-versed, brainier, discerning, sagacious, resourceful, nimble, slick, observant, sensitive, perspicacious, cultivated, cagey, discerning, astute, spirited and intelligent than the mouth-breathing knuckle-dragging philistines we're forced to serve.
And the only people, in my (ahem) humble opinion who might be quicker are on the studio crew.
Those guys (and gals) are fast—and brutal.
This one goes back to the late seventies, to Detroit, to WDIV-TV, and it involves Henry Ford II, head of the Ford Motor Company founded by his grandfather Henry and later run by his father, Edsel.
I'm in the control room. Suddenly, breaking news! The bulletin arrives on the set and is handed to the anchor just as word is relayed to me in the control room. The anchor (identity hidden to protect the guilty) looks up, and says…"This just in to News Four Detroit…Henry Ford the Two has suffered a heart attack!"
And instantly, after less than a heartbeat, the audio man turns to me and says, "You know, he was in the Navy in World War Second."
Rimshot!
Wish I could remember his name. He was good!
By the way, "Hank the Deuce" was pretty quick on his feet as well. He was arrested late one night (or was it early one morning?) for drunk driving with a woman—not his wife—in the car. He spent several hours in jail. When he was released, a small army of reporters and photographers was waiting for him. For Henry Ford, no bodyguards—no limo waiting to rush him to his mansion—no army of publicists. He walked straight down the jailhouse steps, right up to the microphones, held up a hand to signal for quiet, and said, "Boys, boys (in those days the Detroit press corps was 99% male), you know my motto: 'Never Complain, Never Explain.'" And while the Detroit media laughed, he got into his car and drove off.
Was Hank the Deuce the first to utter the "Never Complain" line? There are lots of other nominees. I prefer to think of it as his, though: it fit his lifestyle. By the way, the woman in the car? She later became the latest (and I think the last) "Mrs. Henry Ford II."
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