Watch the networks and the competition. Despite what they say, you can’t copyright news. If it’s an investigative piece, start with public records. Most people would have a heart attack if they knew how much of their private life was available to the general public.” “Okay.”
“These computers also access our public libraries, and the libraries of some of the leading newspapers and magazines in the country. When I worked at the Star Tribune I could write a lengthy feature without leaving my desk. Just a telephone and a computer. But this is television and we need pretty pictures, so follow me.”
Rick Beanblossom led the new intern to the front of a hustling, bustling television news-gathering operation in which Clancy Communications had recently invested a great deal of money. The silver carpeting was new and plush. The frosty paint on the walls was fresh. Big round clocks showing different time zones around the world had been fastened to an overhead beam, and nobody in the newsroom had the faintest idea if they were accurate-but boy, did they look good. New computers had been installed. Television monitors on every desk were top-of-the-line Sonys. Second-rate wages; first-rate hardware.
It was noisy. He talked into her ear. “These desks in front of the assignment desk are for the show producers. The directors work in that cube station next to them. The reporters and field producers are scattered along the walls. Management offices are back in that glassy comer that looks like a funeral parlor-and often is.” “Is that Andrea Labore over there?” “No. That’s Andrea the Bore. Every time she anchors we have to lose a story because she reads so damn slow.” An old man came their way, a sturdy old man with a proud gait and a bald head. His suit was crumpled and worn. In his arm was a file filled with papers. He had a friendly face, red and puffy. He stopped to chat, wheezing a little. “Hi, Rick-new friend?”
“Andy Mack,” Rick said, “this is Stephanie. She’s a new intern from some place called Des Moines.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that place. Welcome to America.”
“Hi, Andy. Thank you.”
“Andy is the Arthur Godfrey of local television,” Rick told her.
“Who’s Arthur Godfrey?” she asked.
“Sorry, Andy. Speech comm major.”
“Say, Rick, I pulled this off the wire.” The old man rifled through his papers, softly huffing and puffing, early signs of a breathing problem. “Here it is. Police in Racine, Wisconsin, arrested a man for attempted child abduction. He’s heavyset and had a gun. The FBI is running a check on the gun to see if it could have fired the Wakefield bullet.”
Rick examined the report. “Thanks, Andy.” They moved along.
“He’s a nice man.”
“Yes, he is … until he gets a few drinks in him.”
“What does he do here?”
“Everything and nothing. He used to be the weatherman.”
“Are you still working on the Wakefield case?”
“Until he’s found. I don’t know what you read in Iowa, but in this state that boy’s kidnapping is as big as the Lindbergh kidnapping.” He moved her over to the wall. “This printer here is the script feed from the network. The network sends our tape room two ninety-minute feeds every day-stories from around the world complete with pictures and words. At the same time all the network affiliates are feeding stories to them in New York. That’s why it’s called a network. Understand?”
“I think so.”
They moved in front of a long desk high on a platform. An open box of Oreos lay atop the counter. “Have a cookie.” Rick handed one to Stephanie and popped another into his mouth. “Good morning, Gayle. Any white trash from overnight?”
Gayle had a telephone to her ear, a cookie to her mouth. She was on hold. “Just a fire and a stabbing.” “Did we get tape?”
“Nothing we can use. No flames, and the stabbing victim lived. You know me-no carnage, no coverage.”
“This is the assignment
“These computers also access our public libraries, and the libraries of some of the leading newspapers and magazines in the country. When I worked at the Star Tribune I could write a lengthy feature without leaving my desk. Just a telephone and a computer. But this is television and we need pretty pictures, so follow me.”
Rick Beanblossom led the new intern to the front of a hustling, bustling television news-gathering operation in which Clancy Communications had recently invested a great deal of money. The silver carpeting was new and plush. The frosty paint on the walls was fresh. Big round clocks showing different time zones around the world had been fastened to an overhead beam, and nobody in the newsroom had the faintest idea if they were accurate-but boy, did they look good. New computers had been installed. Television monitors on every desk were top-of-the-line Sonys. Second-rate wages; first-rate hardware.
It was noisy. He talked into her ear. “These desks in front of the assignment desk are for the show producers. The directors work in that cube station next to them. The reporters and field producers are scattered along the walls. Management offices are back in that glassy comer that looks like a funeral parlor-and often is.” “Is that Andrea Labore over there?” “No. That’s Andrea the Bore. Every time she anchors we have to lose a story because she reads so damn slow.” An old man came their way, a sturdy old man with a proud gait and a bald head. His suit was crumpled and worn. In his arm was a file filled with papers. He had a friendly face, red and puffy. He stopped to chat, wheezing a little. “Hi, Rick-new friend?”
“Andy Mack,” Rick said, “this is Stephanie. She’s a new intern from some place called Des Moines.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that place. Welcome to America.”
“Hi, Andy. Thank you.”
“Andy is the Arthur Godfrey of local television,” Rick told her.
“Who’s Arthur Godfrey?” she asked.
“Sorry, Andy. Speech comm major.”
“Say, Rick, I pulled this off the wire.” The old man rifled through his papers, softly huffing and puffing, early signs of a breathing problem. “Here it is. Police in Racine, Wisconsin, arrested a man for attempted child abduction. He’s heavyset and had a gun. The FBI is running a check on the gun to see if it could have fired the Wakefield bullet.”
Rick examined the report. “Thanks, Andy.” They moved along.
“He’s a nice man.”
“Yes, he is … until he gets a few drinks in him.”
“What does he do here?”
“Everything and nothing. He used to be the weatherman.”
“Are you still working on the Wakefield case?”
“Until he’s found. I don’t know what you read in Iowa, but in this state that boy’s kidnapping is as big as the Lindbergh kidnapping.” He moved her over to the wall. “This printer here is the script feed from the network. The network sends our tape room two ninety-minute feeds every day-stories from around the world complete with pictures and words. At the same time all the network affiliates are feeding stories to them in New York. That’s why it’s called a network. Understand?”
“I think so.”
They moved in front of a long desk high on a platform. An open box of Oreos lay atop the counter. “Have a cookie.” Rick handed one to Stephanie and popped another into his mouth. “Good morning, Gayle. Any white trash from overnight?”
Gayle had a telephone to her ear, a cookie to her mouth. She was on hold. “Just a fire and a stabbing.” “Did we get tape?”
“Nothing we can use. No flames, and the stabbing victim lived. You know me-no carnage, no coverage.”
“This is the assignment
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