Working in and around journalism for more than 30 years, I’ve learned a few things.
One is that there is no substitute for having a “nose for news.” Another is that I don’t have one.
Of course, I didn’t know either of these crucial facts when I took one of my first jobs after college, writing news for a local TV station’s Sunday night broadcast.
The toughest part of my day was watching all the weekend talk shows and choosing a newsworthy excerpt for the evening news — a soundbite.
You might think it would be simple — “You’re just watching TV, Judy!” — but every week I would watch all the network programs all the way through, taking voluminous notes, then going over them, trying desperately to decide which tiny bit to tell the producer to use.
There was only one time I found it easy. That was when one of the other news writers, walking by, glanced at the show I was watching and blurted out “Wait! He actually said that?”
A little startled, I responded, “Oh, so that’s important, then? Thanks for the tip!”
Thinking back, there may have been some earlier hints of trouble, when I was a kid.
For instance, I was the only kid I knew who was reading a book instead of watching TV when Apollo 11 made its historic moon landing.
Oh, I meant to watch it, that night; I’d even settled myself down in front of the television set, with the rest of my family, prepared to watch history in the making.
But after what felt like hours of squinting at shifting fields of black and white static, I finally gave up and went back to my room, to read.
So of course, that’s when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin finally touched down.
Even when I think I’m relaxing, my guardian devil turns out to be hard at work. Take the time I watched some musician perform on “Saturday Night Live.”
At least, I tried to watch, but whatever she was doing didn’t sound very musical to me, so I left the room.
When I came back, there seemed to be some kind of litter all over the stage. But I still didn’t think anything of it. Not until the next day, when all anybody could talk about was how Sinead O’Connor had ranted about Pope John Paul II being “evil” and torn up his picture, live, on national TV.
I had missed it all.
Indeed, if I have one gift, I’d have to say it’s for being in the ladies’ room when anything of importance is going on.
Take the time a friend of mine, a jazz musician, took my roommate and me to New York City, to a Greenwich Village club where he was playing.
I listened to the first few numbers, taking care to applaud in all the right places (which in jazz turns out to be during, as well as after, each song). But I soon realized I was no big fan of jazz, so after the first two pieces, or maybe it was three, I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room.
I slipped back into my seat just as the applause was dying down. I was even congratulating myself on timing my absence rather well, until my roommate turned to me and said, “I’m so jealous! Did you know he was going to do that?”
“Um, do what?”
“Judy, he just dedicated the whole last set to you! Don’t tell me you weren’t even in the room?”
So I didn’t tell her.
Clearly, the only way I’ll ever spot a breaking news story is if it breaks out in the ladies’ room. Even then, with my luck, I will no doubt have blundered into the men’s room instead.
But I do have something good to report. I may, at last, be learning to live with my “disability.”
Last weekend, my husband and I went with friends to a movie.
Just as the film was building to its thrilling conclusion, the room went dark. We sat there, waiting for the projectionist to fix whatever had broken, so the picture could resume.
But nothing happened.
“This is outrageous!” I cried, leaping to my feet and storming out. I meant to find that projectionist and give him or her a piece of my mind. But first … I had to go to the bathroom.
By the time I got back, the film had resumed, and finished, and credits were rolling.
My friends were impressed.
“What did you do?” they wanted to know.
“Oh, nothing much,” I replied, humbly. “It’s a gift.”
