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Issue link: https://loumag.epubxp.com/i/453014
LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.15 45 quest. I didn't approach WAVE. I worked there from 2005 to 2006. Some of my old colleagues are still there. I feared it would layer awkward onto an already strange idea: trying to authentically experience a world I've felt, lived, outgrown and packaged for memory. WDRB's president and general manager, Bill Lamb, agreed immediately. He loves talking about WDRB. Lamb has invested in the station heavily since 2008. He's hired six former Courier-Journal writ- ers to bulk up sports and news coverage. ("How interesting," one of the former newspaper reporters jokes on my frst day at WDRB. "A former TV reporter who now works for a magazine back at a TV sta- tion talking to former newspaper reporters now writing for a website at a TV station.") It's just before 9 in the morning. Micro- waves beep, warm cofee. Te day is begin- ning for some, ending for others. Activity in TV newsrooms slows but never stops. WDRB's morning anchors — Candyce Clift and Sterling Riggs — hear a cue in their ears to wrap with seconds left in their show. Smiles, one last check of the weather. A switch will dim some of the studio's 55 lights. In the newsroom, reporters check email, scan Twitter and Facebook, jot down story ideas for the day. At 9, a female voice announces over a loud speaker: "Morning news meeting." E very newsroom has a team. Top decision-makers include a news director, assistant news director and executive producer. Next, workhorses: producers who write, organize and agonize over shows; reporters and photographers who gather interviews and video, write and edit a piece. Te assignment editor is tradi- tionally a sarcastic, overworked individual who listens to emergency scanners all day, keeps tabs on court dates, news tips and press releases, and, fnally, is the frst line in defense when sometimes pleasant but often ridiculous calls come from viewers. Here's one from a station I worked at in Nashville, Tennessee: "(Blank) still looks pregnant. When is she going to lose the baby weight?" Te dreadfully long calls usually begin with, "You want to hear a real news story?" of punny, whacky news bits plugged into local newscasts everywhere. I've blocked the rest of the memory. We may have gone to commercial. Stop. Hands of the Internet. You'll never locate this particular humiliation. YouTube was years away. N early eight years in television news. I've got stories. I formed a giant crush on the guy I'd marry on the way to tornado destruction. I fumed the day a Seattle assistant news director told me he loved my writing, but: Had I thought about blond highlights? More vibrant clothing? Work on my look, then maybe. On my frst day as a TV reporter, I covered a police training session that had volunteers as car-accident victims done up in fake blood. I thought it a good idea to shoot a standup (when a reporter talks to the camera in the middle of a taped story) with fake blood caked on my limbs. Holy shit. I guess I'm ready to admit that. Tat guy I married — a former news photographer — and a reporter knocked on the door of a man who may or may not have been involved in a murder and defnitely didn't feel like talking about it on TV. He pulled out a gun. When the news duo hastily retreated and called the station, a producer asked, "Well, could you go back and shoot a standup outside his house?" So that's some of the baggage I carry as I walk up the steps to WDRB on a cool au- tumn day — leaves crunchy and messy, sun shining down on the brown, bulky build- ing in downtown Louisville. An aqua-blue fountain sprays in a courtyard. Te front door displays three "Best Place To Work" stickers. I lose count of all the monitors playing diferent morning-news programs. I've never been in WDRB, but it all feels familiar. I am not the next Katie Couric, despite what my mother tells people. But I'm still fascinated by television news, a colorful, speedy organism with middle-child ten- dencies — eager to please, desperate for attention. So I'm about to spend fve days at WDRB during November "sweeps," one of four months throughout the year when ratings assume hyper-importance. Ratings points earned during these sweeps periods determine how much local stations can charge advertisers for airtime. Better ratings equals more money. I originally asked WLKY — the station that's dominated ratings in Louisville for about a decade — if I could visit for a few days in November. Tey said not during sweeps. WHAS politely declined the re- REC "A former TV reporter who now works for a magazine back at a TV station talking to former newspaper reporters now writing for a website at a TV station." was barely 22. If memory serves, I was wearing a beige polyester zip-up blazer with matching Capri pants (a Ross under-$20 special, I think). All my paycheck as a television reporter in Medford, Oregon — a little bowl of a city surrounded by exquisite mountains that nature or God or whatever gave one swift fst to, fattening it out for pear orchards — could muster as far as suits go. I had probably applied powder-blue eye shadow with the care of a Post-it note. I knew I had to wear makeup on TV but had zero interest in the matter. I'm fairly certain it was 2001. I had been called into the general manager's ofce, a window-lined spacious room still working a late-'70s vibe: blinds mostly drawn, brown carpet, brown desk, cigarette smoke cling- ing to fabric and shadows. She had one can of Ensure on her desk, probably a smudge of lipstick on the straw. Tat's all I ever saw her consume. No solid food. It may have been due to a medical condition. She was quite thin, all meatless limbs and parch- ment skin. Tere was a pep talk: Morning anchor spot. I think you've got what it takes. You could be the next Katie Couric. I had recently discovered PBS's Frontline and decided that was my ultimate career goal. Medford would serve as a quick stop, a way to fgure out reporting and news pro- duction. But sunny morning banter? No thanks. I did end up flling in one weekend as an anchor. Te GM probably rejoiced that I passed on her ofer. When the teleprompter froze, I looked down at the scripts and back up. Down, back up. Every story I read, the accompanying video failed. I totally malfunctioned. I had nothing — no words to say, no edited tape to hide my reddening cheeks. With that blue eye shadow, my face must have looked like a balloon release at a political convention. At some point, I think I fipped through more scripts and just feebly mumbled the name — Jeannie Moos — CNN's patron saint I A former television reporter's dispatch from the most competitive, live, strategically tease-y place — a TV newsroom in the thick of a ratings period.