For The Today Show, the dating game began and ended with the executive producer, Steve Friedman. Steve of course knew who I was. Everyone in daytime television knows about everyone who works in daytime television—it’s a small world when it comes to players. I had been on The Today Show several times with my first book, Quickstyle, and I was captivated by the energy at Today. The early morning mood in their studios vibrated with electricity. As I set up my tabletop display, this time on shoes, along with their talented set designer, music blared from a rehearsing band and everyone in the studio, even though in a sleepy haze of the dark morning, would find their feet tapping to the beat as they went about their work. The Today Show was used to being number one in the early hours, and the daily pressure of remaining there made everyone work at the top of his or her game. They had been pleased with my previous segments, but now I wanted to try for a regular gig. I loved the high-stakes television The Today Show played.
Now I had to pursue Steve Friedman. I met him on the set the first time I did the show and kept in touch. He knew I was ambitious and wanted to do more on his show, and he didn’t say no, it just took him a long time to say yes. Steve is an interesting character. Meeting in his office is like a test. He talked to you while corresponding on the computer, taking phone calls, and swinging his beloved Chicago Cubs baseball bat. It’s almost as if he was trying to see if you could keep your pitch focus while he obviously ignored you, letting you know that on his priority list you were not even close to the top. In hindsight I think his goal was to see how much you wanted to be on the show. How deep your passion was. He often made people feel like they were in the way, making it even harder to stay focused and motivated unless you were totally passionate. And I was.
It took ten calls to get through to him, and when you did he wanted to know in twenty seconds—if you were lucky enough to get that much time—why you were taking his time. I wanted an appointment. I wanted to pitch him. I wanted to be a regular on his show. I knew I was right for the show and I think he did as well, but he wanted to see how badly I wanted it and to some crazy extent, I enjoyed playing his game. After many, many calls to his patient and friendly assistant Tami, Steve finally got on the phone.
“You really like it there at Live with Regis and Kathie Lee?” he asked, baiting me.
“I love it, but I want to do more extensive stories, more fashion reporting.”
“And Gelman’s okay with you being on our show?”
“He’s fine, our agreement is I can do any show that is not on opposite him, and because Live is syndicated, that’s not always easy, but you’re on earlier. He actually likes the idea,” I pitched. You had to talk fast and to the point with Steve; he didn’t have time for chitchat.
“So, what do you want from me?” he asked me in his gruff, you’re-bothering-me voice.
“I want to be a correspondent on your show. I have an idea to do segments where I make house calls on people needing style advice. I go in, address their problems, and fix them, like a style doctor.” I talked quickly before he got lost in his computer. Steve has a short attention span, but I had his attention. I wondered if some other talent was sitting in his office being ignored while he talked to me.
“Example?”
“A young couple with small children both work. Their mornings are hectic and disorganized. I go in and organize them, everything from setting up the coffee the night before to cleaning out closets and putting outfits together a week ahead,” I said, thinking I could hear his mind clicking.
“We need to do a screen test with you and the talent. Give me a list of ideas, make some about fashion trends,” and the phone clicked. Steve had just hung up on me, but it didn’t matter, I was ecstatic, I had an assignment.
The next day, sitting at my desk with swollen, puffy fingers that ached as I pressed on the computer keys, I put my list together and sent it to Steve. Arthritis flares when it wants to, sometimes for no apparent reason. It doesn’t care if you are in the dating game or not. It doesn’t care if you need your fingers to type or your feet to walk; arthritis does exactly what it wants, and if you want a life you have to adapt as best you can. So, one finger at a time, I painfully typed ten strong fashion/style segments. I was just glad I was in the privacy of my condo and not in public view.
After another dozen phone calls during which Tami said he was in a meeting, he was out of the office, or could I call him back tomorrow, he finally, through Tami, approved the story on long johns as outerwear, a new trend that was just hitting the New York runways that was not on my list, but rather in some magazine Steve was looking at them while talking to me on the phone.
“I’m assigning you a young, talented producer in the LA office, Audrey Kolina. She will call you and set up the shoot,” Steve said when he finally took my call. Most people would have given up. Steve can be gruff, but under that stern exterior is a teddy bear. He always left me with just enough hope to keep me pursuing. By the time he gave me the assignment he knew I was serious, I wanted the job, and he was willing to give me a try.
Because the trend was so new, all I could locate on it was runway footage and the article Steve had read. I needed more. After researching I found that Seattle was the town where the trend had started. I shared this information with Audrey, who I had only met by phone so far, and she replied, “Then we’re going to Seattle.”
The following week, Audrey, a soundman, a cameraman, and I were on the plane. I had located a Northern Exposure type of bar where the locals were starting to wear thermal tops or thermal pants mixed in with their traditional flannels and denim. We had permission to shoot. I sat next to Audrey on the plane. For whatever reason we clicked right off the bat, or at least I did. And she, being a reporter, asked me a lot of questions. By the time we landed she knew most of the details of my life. And I’m sure the cameraman and soundman in back of me heard, too. What had I done? I was always so good at keeping my personal and professional life separate. Somehow Audrey’s easy manner made me a motormouth, and I went to sleep in the Seattle hotel that night wondering why did she need the details of my divorce, or really, why did I feel free enough to tell her? The only thing about my life I didn’t tell her was my arthritis, thank goodness. What had she done to open the floodgates when I was usually so guarded? And with a major producer at The Today Show? I couldn’t sleep for fear of the consequences my soap opera tirade might cause.
The bar turned out to be perfect, filled with young, hip Northwesterners. The only problem was Seattle—usually so rainy and cool—was having a heat wave in January and nobody was wearing thermals. Strapless corseted tops, cut-off T-shirts, and bra tops looked more like Hollywood than Seattle. The guys were in short-sleeve plaid shirts and sleeveless T-shirts, not a thermal in sight. In the crowded bar, with our lights blazing, we got interviews about the trend, but we had to shoot above the neck. “Don’t worry, we can lay runway footage over their voices,” Audrey said in her calm, take-control manner. And I worried again that Audrey knew too much. The only thing I had left out of my life was my RA, and had the flight been longer I wondered if I would have even revealed that. Had Audrey been a therapist before she worked in television?
The crowded bar was hot and sweaty, Seattle not being big on air conditioning. Between the camera lights and the dancing bodies there was very little air in the room. I was becoming overheated and light-headed. “Just need some fresh air,” I said to Audrey, heading toward the door. “Wait, I’ll come with you,” Audrey said, pushing through the crowds. “What a scene, but I think we got some good footage,” Audrey said, watching me lean against the stucco building. “Christine, are you okay? You look pale.”
“Fine, I’m fine, just needed to get out of the crowd,” I lied. Tonight, even my stylish sneakers weren’t comfortable.
Back at NBC Burbank studios Audrey and I put the piece together. Between the bar, the runway, and some department-store footage of thermals, I had a story. Tami, Steve’s assistant, called to say the audition se
gment was scheduled for the following week. I would tape it with Bryant Gumbel right after the regular show.
There is an energy in the early hours of the morning at The Today Show that is infectious. Most days there is a band or singer practicing, so the stages are filled with music. The lights from the studio are so bright against the early morning darkness. It’s such a contrast. The streets around the studio are dark and quiet, but when you step inside the big black doors in Rockefeller Center, it’s like the middle of the day, a beehive of activity. Nobody is looking tired and sleepy. They are moving fast, thinking fast, and into their work. Even though my segment would be taped after the nine o’clock hour finished, I had to arrive early for hair and makeup and to be ready to go onstage the minute the show was over and Bryant was ready. You don’t keep talent waiting.
I wore my favorite skirted suit. I wore nylons with my sneakers, my heels packed in my tote for the last-minute change. I had iced my red and swollen feet that morning, praying that they would squeeze into my heels. A fashion reporter can’t wear sneakers on The Today Show. I gulped one pain pill before I left my hotel, a bottle of chocolate milk to coat my stomach, and had another pain pill tucked into my suit jacket pocket, just in case. I didn’t sleep well because I was excited. My future with The Today Show rested on this audition. I had to be great. Adding to the pressure, I had heard that Bryant can be tough if he doesn’t think you’re up to speed.
The stage manager placed me in a club chair with an empty matching one across from me. Pictures of winter trees were hanging in back. My feet were bulging out of my shoes so I tried to place them crossed in a position to hide as much as possible. I gulped the second pain pill, gathering saliva in my mouth rather than asking for water and having someone see me.
And then Bryant walked on the set. So far I had only seen him on TV. That morning Jane Pauley walked by me with her hair wrapped in a towel, freshly washed. Even in a towel she was impressive with a welcoming smile. But Bryant was more serious. He walked on, sat in the seat across from me, and leaned forward with his hand out. “Hi, I’m Bryant.” I put my hand out, trying to hold it steady, hoping he wouldn’t shake it too hard and start the throbbing pain that had dulled somewhat after my second pain pill. “Hi, I’m Christine Kunzelman.” He nodded and looked down at his notes. I had always been impressed by Bryant on television. He is smart, quick, and to the point in an interview. What I wasn’t prepared for was how handsome he was in person. When he looks you in the eyes, he looks you in the eyes. The kind of look that you feel in the pit of your stomach.
“Really, long johns in public?” he asked me, a half smile on his face as if to say, “are you kidding?”
“They’re the hottest thing on the fashion runways. Underwear has been making itself more obvious for a while now, but this type of underwear is practical, it’s also comfortable, and, mixed with other items, now fashionable,” I tried to convince him.
“Okay, let’s roll,” he said, as if to say, show me, I’m not so sure.
He introduced me and went right into the question, “So Christine, you think people are really going to wear long johns to dinner?” And I jumped on the bandwagon and did my thing. Five minutes and one taped piece later, Bryant stood, offered his hand again, and said, “Nice job.” I stayed in my club chair, knowing between my feet and my knees that to get up quickly could put me on the floor, in front of Bryant Gumbel and the crew of The Today Show. And so I sat and shook his hand and said, “Thanks.”
Steve called me a few days later and said you have a job. “We’ll start with the hectic morning family. We’re designing a logo for you. Your segments will be called ‘House Calls.’” I was over the moon. But Steve’s voice also implied, “Don’t let me down.” And Shelly’s voice was filled with worry.
“Why, Christine? Why don’t you slow down instead of accelerate your work schedule? You need to rest more, not work more. I don’t know why you feel you have to do this.”
But I knew why. Because I was still looking for that approval I didn’t get as a child. That acceptance I missed in elementary schools because I moved around so much. I wanted to live in the big houses with the big players, not the “boarded-out” houses in which I spent my early years. I couldn’t stop. And now, with arthritis chasing me around, trying, in my mind, to take me down, I couldn’t, wouldn’t let it win.
Audrey and I taped the first House Calls piece at one of my friend’s homes. She had an eighteen-month-old and a new baby, she had a full-time executive job at IBM, and her husband was an architect. Needless to say, their life was out of control, especially in the mornings trying to get to work in time. I bought a coffeepot that had a timer they could set to go off before they woke, cleaned out their drawers and organized their closets, putting together outfits for her with all the accessories in plastic bags,= tied around the hanger necks. I organized the children’s clothes so it was easy to locate what you needed even with sleep in your eyes. No more early morning decisions to make. On tape I showed them how to be efficient, practical, and stylish. They were so elated to have some solutions—their smiles lit up on camera. I had chosen the perfect appreciative couple.
Audrey and I sat in on editing. The editor added great music, with some scenes speeded up and a clock ticking in the upper screen corner. It was perfect. The logo NBC designed for me was a house with a hair dryer, makeup brushes, and articles of clothing dancing around it. Professionally I was on cloud nine. But physically I was living on chocolate milk, trying to coat my stomach from both the food and the medication. One or the other was always making me feel nauseous.
At The Today Show things were going well. Steve seemed pleased, but still let me know I was in the “prove it to me” stage. By the third segment I was organizing a single man’s closet. His answer to fashion was to only wear black and white. We took the cameras into his closet, interviewed him, and then I took him shopping and added color and style to his wardrobe. “This is my favorite segment so far,” Audrey complimented me as I did the voice-over for the piece. I wasn’t so sure. I had been so sick that I felt I could have given more, done another interview, added something else, but my energy level was at an all-time low. I was pushing to get anything done and my stomach was not cooperating. I was barely making it through the days. Dr. Kalunian was once again changing my meds, trying to find some balance, but so far, my stomach was not liking anything.
“Steve Friedman is out,” Audrey told me the day after we finished putting the men’s style piece together. “Michael Bass, his number two, is taking over. I’m sending the piece to him today, so you’ll probably be on air next week.”
Steve Friedman out? Steve Friedman was a giant in morning television. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It didn’t dawn on me then that this could impact me, I was too concentrated on trying to control my disease and my career.
But next week came and went and no air date. And then the call came.
“Christine, Michael doesn’t like the piece. Said he didn’t learn anything new from it,” Audrey told me. I sat back in my chair, shocked. I thought it was loaded with good fashion tips. “Let’s just let this play out. There is a lot of upheaval around here with Steve gone, once things settle down we can talk to Michael and see what he wants to do. It’s a good piece, don’t worry.”
Over the next few weeks I didn’t hear anything. I had never met Michael Bass. I was one of Steve’s people, one of his very new people. I knew that couldn’t be a good thing with Steve gone. Television is interesting, like most big businesses. Talent is often associated with the team who discovers them, or hires them. When a new team captain comes into play, they often like to clean house, especially with part-time talent or lower-end executives. They want to put their own stamp on things. The stamp that says, “This is my team, I am the captain.”
I tried to get in touch with Michael, thinking if I could talk to him, meet him in person, everything would be okay. But he didn’t respond.
“Just give it some time
,” Audrey counseled me. I knew Audrey was on my side, but she was also pregnant with her second child, her little boy Jay barely two years old. Audrey had her hands full reporting on late-breaking news stories and dealing with other reporter talents covering hard news. Fashion was something Steve Friedman had assigned her because she was good and also in Los Angeles. The healthy me would have fought tooth and nail. Called and re-called. I wouldn’t have sat silently at home, drinking my chocolate milk. But this was a new me—a frustrated, overmedi-cated me, trying to balance it all, and my inner fire was coated in so much chocolate milk, I couldn’t ignite it. And so I let it disappear. Did I have any other options? Yes, I was hired, I had a logo, I was introduced as a Contributing Editor, I could have made new lists of segment ideas specifically for Michael. I could have worked my way through his assistant like I did with Tami and just assumed all was well and moved forward. I could have hounded Audrey. But a chronic disease is a roller coaster ride. Sometimes you’re at the top and sometimes you’re at the bottom. I was at the bottom, I couldn’t get my disease under control, it was running me and not in a good direction. The show I had worked so hard to get was slipping away and all I could do was watch. I was not the Christine Kunzelman who shook Bryant’s hand and played the “I won’t give up” dating game with Steve Friedman. I was Christine Kunzelman with RA. I didn’t like her at all, but at the time I didn’t have the strength or wherewithal to change her.
Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Page 12