You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
News Perception versus News Reality.
As Pink Floyd so eloquently stated “Is there anybody out there?”
In my mind, the news perception is: I’m kicking ass and taking names. The news reality is: nobody gives a damn.
At 4pm I’m on the set with the main anchors. I’m fronting a teaser piece promoting a more in depth story that will air at 6pm.
The story is good. A rising country music performer’s career stalls so he jump starts his aching bank account by growing marijuana in a secret grow room inside his home.
I get exclusive footage of the 21 guns confiscated. I get pictures of the elaborate hydroponic drug operation. I get you tube footage of the suspect sounding like Kid Rock belting out songs all across lower Broad Honky tonks.
“Like many musicians, the man came to Music City with a dream and a guitar”
Man that’s gold!
In one of the songs. the suspect even sings “what’s going on in the world today, has got me mad as hell. The man catches me with a little smoke and throws my ass in jail.”
Damn! That’s awesome.
It’s like he’s writing his own future script.
Go get a powerball ticket slim-shady, your time has come.
The story is interesting and well told. I execute it to perfection.
At the end of the on set piece I say “Tonight at 6pm, find out about a man police say grows pot as well as he plays guitar.”
Again. Funny. A reason to watch. Broadcasting Gold.
Then the reality sets in.
The 4pm show gets a 2.38 rating.
A test pattern might get 2.38 rating.
The other stations get a 4.44 and a 6.26 rating respectively.
We are number 3 with a bullet!
Friday night numbers are often low, but at least the other guys have a pulse.
A 2.38 rating? That’s the television equivalent of dead on arrival.
If we were at the emergency room, the doctors would have called it.
“Time of death? 4:06pm. Died of ???? Who cares.”
2.38 rating?
Grass growing in a vacant lot gets better ratings than that.
I didn’t lead the newscast. I can’t take the full brunt of this televised beat down. But it bothers me.
It bothers me because I’m out there by myself, putting myself in harm’s way to get stories that nobody has ever heard of. I take pride in my craft, in my ability to often find exclusives that only see the light of day when I open the barn door and let the news ponies run.
And for what? How am I rewarded. With a swift ratings kick to the jewels.
A 2.38?
Why even bother.
We could air 40 year old episodes of Mr. Ed and get a 2.38.
It’s frustrating. It’s like doing jumping jacks in outer space. Your making the effort, but are you really getting anything out of it?
I think about what I did to get this story. It started with me walking up to the front door.
As usual, I have no idea who is home, who is watching, is there a long gun trained on my scrawny, camera toting ass as I approach. This guy did have 21 guns in his house. Maybe he made bail. Maybe he’s home. Maybe the cops missed a gun. Maybe he’s pissed.
I bang on the perpetrator’s door. I survey the windows for signs of angry life.
There’s a light on inside a room. That’s an indication that whoever got arrested didn’t have time to tidy up before they got taken to the grey bar hotel. I am little relieved.
I spend an hour in the rain interviewing the Flex officers who return to the crime scene to tell me how they were nowhere near this pot house, and only stumble upon it because the pungent smell of high grade pot was thick in the air.
I spend hours writing and editing and finding you tube footage of the wanna be country music star who turns into an acomplished doctor of pot-o-logy.
I get art department guys to make me graphics. I get producers to OK scripts. I go to my car and throw on an ugly red tie that I have hanging in the back seat.
I spend a news eternity putting this story together only to wake up today to ratings that are lower than a submarine.
So much work for what? It’s like running on a treadmill hoping to get to Hoboken but never getting to the front door.
Perception versus reality? It’s like chewing a filet mingnon and spitting it into your napkin.
“Check Please”
Kicking ass in a vacuum? Putting myself in danger for nothing?
I am the king of futility. It’s a thorny crown, like being Mr. Irrelevant. That’s not exactly the sash I want to wear.
The sad part? I’m going to wake up tomorrow, put on my news blinders, wipe my brain clean like a black board in a one room school house, and do it all over again.
Why?
Because I am a professional; because my perception is I’m kicking ass and taking names, whether the public chooses to realize that or not.
It’s not my fault they can’t remember to turn on my station.
Life’s Crazy.™