by Nic Tatano
"I was going to say," said the reporter (whose face matched his shirt, by the way), "that you seem to have a lot of men who have less… experience than the women."
Madison shook her head and put her palms up. "Then I guess we're gonna have to teach them, just like in the bedroom," she said. She got applause and a lot of hoots with that one. When it died down she turned serious. "Now I'd like to ask you something, Sir. If we'd brought out twelve older, distinguished men with twelve gorgeous women right out of college, would you have even asked the question?"
The man slumped into his seat and folded like a pricked balloon.
"Hey Brad, when your IQ hits eighty, sell," said the female reporter.
When the roar of laughter died down, Madison continued. "Tradition has it, at least in broadcasting, that the man must be older, stronger, taller. That he must be in control. That he wears the pants in the household. We women know those are just ridiculous stereotypes. We are simply presenting America with anchor teams that mirror life the way it might be if we stopped taking those stereotypes seriously. No limitations on age or anything else."
Another middle-aged male reporter raised his hand while flipping through his press kit, which held information on all the anchors. "I see from the bios that some of your male anchors have no television experience. Care to comment on that?"
"Again," said Madison, "would you ask that question of a woman who goes directly from a beauty pageant to the anchor desk? We've all seen that a thousand times and nobody bats an eye. It's not about experience, but being able to communicate. Some of our male anchors don't have any broadcast experience, but they communicate quite well."
"Only when she lets me," said Shawn, pointing to his much taller co-anchor. Madison smiled, obviously appreciating the ad-lib, as Shawn's co-anchor reached her arm around his shoulder and gave him a pat.
God bless Jillian's little snack.
The middle-aged female ad exec sitting behind me leaned forward. "He's absolutely adorable," she said. "Does he come in a six-pack?"
"No, but he's got one," whispered Jillian.
A female reporter raised her hand. "I've noticed from the bios that a lot of the women have been out of the business for a while. Any particular reason?"
"Yeah, honey, we'd been put out to pasture by the old boys club that runs broadcasting and thinks your odometer turns over at thirty-five," said Kristin West, a spunky, flame-haired anchor in her late thirties who was paired with Denton Hale. "I honestly thought my career was over, and when high-def came in I was sure of it. So it was nice to hear that CGR values my experience and doesn't see my age as a negative. I hope this opens doors for other women to get back into the business."
"You know what people are going to call you girls," said the reporter. "I mean, all anchoring with such good-looking younger men."
"Yeah," said Kristin, hooking her arm inside Denton's. "Damn lucky."
Kristin beamed as the audience roared. Madison waited for the laughter to die down before wrapping things up. "One more question, and then it's time for lunch."
"Why didn't you hire any men over thirty?"
The question was shouted from the back of the room. I turned and caught a glimpse of a bald man with a moustache standing behind the last row.
"They were all tied up chasing young beauty queens," said Madison, to more laughter. "Now, let's do lunch everybody."
But I knew at least one question about age wasn't going away.
* * *
Four hours later, we were scattered across the first two rows of the now empty theater. "I think we'll have a pool," said Amanda, who sat in the second row and had her feet propped up on the back of a chair in the first row, "as to how many times the word cougar is used in a headline tomorrow. The print people love that term."
"I think we're a hit," said Rica, stretching out her legs as she looked out at the stage where men were busy removing the podium and monitor. "And The Snack had a great line."
"The snack?" asked Amanda.
"The nickname for Shawn," said Jillian. "A waitress hung it on him."
"He did well today," said Madison. "Really worked the room after lunch. The guy's a natural." She then turned to me. "Syd, you've been awfully quiet."
"Well, I'm concerned about the guy who asked the last question," I said. "The man who looks like he belongs on a Monopoly card? That's the one who called me yesterday."
"You sure?" she asked.
I nodded.
"What are youse guys talkin' about?" asked Rica.
"Syd and I both got calls yesterday asking about our hiring practices," said Madison.
"The guy who called me wanted feedback on his resume tape," I said.
"We've all gotten those," said Rica. "I just blow 'em off."
"Well," I said, "this guy said he was forty-five and bald with a moustache, so I'd probably remember him."
"We tossed all the tapes of men over thirty without looking at them," said Neely.
"I know," I said. "That's the problem. We never looked at them."
"If you're worried about an age discrimination suit, don't be," said Amanda.
"Okay, why not?" I asked.
"Well, we just hired twelve women no one else wanted because they were too old," she said. "You guys just worry about the product, which judging from today's reaction, won't be a problem."
Yeah, we just turned the tables on the men. I just hope ol' Rogaine Boy doesn't turn them on us.
* * *
Well, we're officially "IT" as far as the New York papers and the entertainment mags are concerned. In capital letters. The nice thing is that the buzz should continue for a while, since we're not even on the air yet. Anticipation is a great American tradition in the media. And if you can deliver the goods, you're golden. If not, there will be another flavor of the month just around the corner. So for now, I'm enjoying our "IT" status.
Some of the clips I'm putting in my scrapbook:
From a New York Tabloid:
CGR doesn't need to buy any vowels to get the meaning of its acronym across. Staffed by a dozen very attractive middle-aged female anchors, all paired with much younger men who stepped out of a GQ ad, the agenda is clear.
The cougars are on the prowl.
From a television magazine (written by a female columnist):
If CGR is trying for a subliminal message, then subtlety got lost in the process. The pairing of beautiful thirty-something anchors with much younger men virtually slaps you in the face with the concept that the women are in charge at this network… and the female viewers at home can set the rules as well.
It's about damn time.
From a more highbrow publication:
If you're one of those people who likes to figure out the meanings of vanity license plates, then CGR won't pose much of a challenge. While the older-woman-younger-man co-anchor teams send a message that is blatantly obvious, the network needs to be commended for turning the rules of television news upside down and putting competent women who haven't just stepped off a pageant runway on the anchor desk.
But this is my absolute favorite, from another tabloid:
CGR Offers Prrrr-fect Mix on Anchor Desk
The promotional video for CGR that features its female anchors shows the very attractive women in typical newsroom situations. The sultry female voice coos that CGR's anchors are "more experienced" and you get the idea they're not talking about journalism when you see a long-legged, thirtyish beauty sitting on the corner of a much younger man's desk. Hair up, horn-rimmed glasses surrounding spectacular blue eyes, while her slit skirt rides up her thigh.
She's teaching him. She points to the computer screen, he nods. She hands him a sheet of paper, he nods.
C'mon, boy. Fetch!
He doesn't have any lines in the promo, but his nod screams, "Yes, Ma'am."
And you just know when her hair comes down and the glasses come off, class will still be in session.
"Not too shabby," said Amanda, as we all sl
id newspapers back and forth across the conference room table.
"I'm surprised some of the male reporters didn't take some shots," said Jillian.
"I think they were afraid to," said Madison.
“Men afraid of women,” I said. “Has a nice ring to it.”
CHAPTER SIX
Random thoughts and other observations one week from the premiere of CGR:
—Jillian and The Snack are a really cute couple. I mean, at first I thought they looked odd standing next to each other, but now they seem like the kind of pair that can stay together forever. He really won her over on their first "date" after the Broadway show. (Left early 'cause of bad choreography, my ass.) He comes by her townhouse to pick her up, notices she's wearing flats with a short skirt, and says, "Killer legs like that should never be without heels." The girl just melted. Down the road it wouldn't surprise me to see the two of them play house for a while, or at least go exclusive, and I'm not talking about a breaking news story.
—The cougar thing has taken on a life of its own in the tabloids, which seem to have daily stories on older women and younger men. They apparently know a good trend when they see one. One paper even started a column called "On the Prowl After 30" and every single entry focuses on getting a younger man. Meanwhile, a supermarket rag took the shot of all twenty-four anchors and put little cat ears on each of the women under the headline, "Clawing their way to the top."
—I wish I had some of Rica's DNA. The woman can communicate so much with that one all-purpose New York word and her incredible array of facial expressions, the scariest of which is the barroom death stare that can stun a man like a Star Trek phaser. I'm convinced that if she landed on another planet, she'd be able to converse with aliens using just "fuhgeddaboudit" and the movements of her eyebrows. The Italian hand signals get the message across as well. I often wonder if Joe Pesci has a sister he doesn't know about.
—The Monopoly Guy worries me. I mean, after the Upfront I was really expecting some sort of legal action regarding age discrimination. Every time Madison drops by my office my heart skips a beat. But so far, nothing. Still, I feel like he's lurking out there, ready to strike. (By the way, you're not paranoid if they really are out to get you.)
—When Neely turns on that Southern belle thing of hers (not that she needs it with that body and that face), no other woman stands a chance. No man either. But what's interesting is that Vance's co-anchor, a stunning strawberry blonde named Alana Stephens, is also a down home sweetie from Tennessee. Vance always looks like the happiest guy in the office bouncing between those two.
—I still cannot believe this is about to become reality. I'll either be the Helen Gurley Brown of television or the laughing stock. Either way, it's been a great ride.
But I desperately want it to continue.
* * *
So we're doing some dress rehearsals, fine-tuning the lighting on the set, and taking care of all sorts of last-minute tweaking. I'm standing in front of the set, warming my cold hands under the hot lights, watching the dream take shape, feeling like I'm outside my own body looking at the scene. Everything's going smoothly and then our giant fly (Scott Harry) has to buzz like a friggin' kamikaze into the ointment again.
"So, I was really considered for the network, huh?"
I looked over my shoulder to see Scott standing right behind me, hands in his back pockets, the wounded doe looking like someone had run over his dog. I turned back toward the set. "You were, Scott. We feel you're just as valuable with local. We're all part of the same team, you know."
"I have more experience than most of the people you hired." He moved next to me and cocked his head at Denton and Shawn, who were sitting on the set taking turns practicing reading the prompter. "Hell, half of them haven't paid any dues at all."
(Dammit, he's never gonna let this die. How many shopping days are left till the end of his contract?) "We can't play musical anchors with local, Scott. You've built a solid audience and we might lose that if we make a change so soon after you started."
"Well, I don't think you ever had any intention of considering me. I think you were just blowing smoke up my ass."
I finally turned to face him and folded my arms. "Anytime you wanna go back to Indianapolis, Scott, just let me know. I'm sure LaGuardia has several non-stop flights a day."
(There are several ways to prick the ego balloon in this business. Reminding people where they came from is the best one.)
His head dropped and he started to turn away, but got in one final shot. "I'm surprised no one has sued you for discrimination."
And just like that, I think I found my leak.
* * *
For a while we were a bit torn about the scheduling. Couldn't decide if we should start the broadcast day with a hot damn and have an exponentially cute do the evenings, or vice versa. Jillian and I thought it was better that viewers wake up with a hot damn, while Neely and Rica argued that they're better off going to sleep with them.
Deadlocked like a hung jury (did the fact that we have twelve hot men in the stable cross your minds when you read that term?) we asked Madison to cast the deciding vote. She, instead, made the decision easy for us. "We start our first broadcast day at five in the morning. Just put your best guy there. First impressions mean everything."
That's why Madison is running this network. Stuff that drives me nuts is so simple for her.
So Vance is the face that will watch you getting dressed every morning. (Don't laugh, when the guy anchors it seems as though he's looking right through the screen.) And if you're the man of the house (the actual one) you can drool in your corn flakes over his co-anchor, Alana Stephens, who has incredible chemistry with Vance, both on and off the set.
Speaking of drooling, the billboards featuring Vance have probably created a whole new generation of mouth-breathing women. (This is not counting the ones who used to watch "Kissin' Cousins" or those currently shopping at Wal-Mart.) Amanda's promotional team (all women, natch) has come up with some ads that have become water cooler talk all over the city. My favorite billboard features Vance half dressed, shirt open to the waist, giving you a little peek at his abs. A red necktie is draped around his neck while boxer shorts reveal his tanned, toned legs. He's carrying a tray into the bedroom, which, along with a plate of bacon and eggs, has a single red rose in a crystal vase. His face tells you he's already enjoyed his breakfast, and he's looking at it. The foreground features a bed with one long gorgeous leg sticking out of gold satin sheets and the back of a strawberry blonde head. The haircut and hair color and shapely leg match Alana (probably because that's her in the ad). A nylon stocking hangs precariously off a lampshade on the end table. The copy on the bottom of the billboard simply says, "Have breakfast in bed with Vance on CGR. Weekday mornings from five till eight." Neely has a mock-up of the ad in her office, much to Jillian's dismay.
On the other side of the coin are the billboards promoting the women. One features anchor Kimberly Sands in a living room, shoulder-length brunette tangles dusting the shoulders of her royal blue business suit. She stands next to a recliner, one leg with a four-inch heel on the arm of the chair as she glares at the younger man sitting in it. He is handing over the television remote to her. The ad reads, "CGR. We're in charge. You're not changing the channel."
My favorite is a magazine ad, and I think Amanda bought space in every major publication in America. This one features Kristin West, the redhead who will be co-anchoring with Denton, and this ad truly plays games with your imagination, which, of course, is what it is designed to do. Dressed in an oversized blue pin-striped man's dress shirt she's sitting up in bed, legs folded underneath. We assume she's straddling a man from the look on her face as she glances down. But all you can see are rumpled sheets and the top of a man's head on a pillow. "Mornings on CGR," the ad reads. "Our women are on top of things."
And Amanda wasn’t kidding about Neely having a future in promotions. A television promo running on our broadcast network
features all twelve of our female anchors getting dressed in various men’s outfits, wearing everything from three-piece business suits to a football uniform (complete with eye-black under the anchor’s eyes) to a construction hard hat. All the women wear serious looks while the CGR logo sits in the lower right-hand corner. You don’t hear a single word as the women get dressed for battle. Then, with five seconds left in the commercial, a strong female voice brings the message home. “Women. We’re the new men.” (The phrase, “Men are the new women,” will apparently stay behind closed doors for now, but Amanda says it’s on the back burner at the ad agency.)
CHAPTER SEVEN
We're all at DEFCON ONE today. Tomorrow, in twelve hours, we launch, just like a missile. (Hence, the military reference. Except we hope that nothing blows up.)
I shouldn't be nervous, and I have no reason to be. Rehearsals have been flawless, the product looks spectacular, the sets really pop on high-def, we've got a ton of slick pieces in the can by every member of the staff, and the technical crew is getting along extremely well with the talent, which is no small accomplishment. Usually jealousy creeps into the mix with the behind the scenes people, but the anchors are treating them as equals. Some of the anchor teams act as if they've been working together for years. Chemistry is one of those things you hope for. It's not an exact science, but it's lightning in a bottle if you can catch it. I'm chalking it up to Neely's speed dating dinner.
Still, I'm popping Tums like M&M's. (The bottle says I can only take ten per day and I hit that mark at two this afternoon, so I'm switching to Bailey's. The cream will settle my stomach, though it is doubtful my impromptu antacid regimen will end up in a medical journal.) I won't be able to relax until the ship has left the harbor tomorrow morning at five and is safely out to sea.
But the girls are in a lot worse shape. I can tell by looking at their faces as they file through my office door and plop down on the couch that sits on the side of my desk.
We should have put a revolving door on the loft for all the use it has gotten within the last two days. (I can only imagine the cleaning service printing out its monthly bill and wondering why a television network goes through so many sheets and pillowcases.)