OVER TO YOU, TAMARA.
The most demanding job on television is reporting the morning news. That’s because there’s seldom any news to report. Let’s face it, people who work nights are not the most newsworthy individuals. When’s the last time you heard the grave yard shift issue a declaration of war, announce bold new changes to the national pension plan, or even say anything more dramatic than, “has anyone seen the forklift?”
Graveyard workers simply can’t be relied on when it comes to news. The only exception is the drug dealers, young industrious individuals, diligent to a fault, who gun down fellow business associates rain or shine, always in the wee hours. Other than that, the only newsworthy overnight event is the occasional house fire, all started by ‘desperate for morning news’ anchors on the way to work
More items of passing interest can result overnight at our house than in the whole province. This report just in from the Horrock’s family morning news desk.
Me: You’ll never guess what I dreamed last night.
My wife: (rolling her eyes) that’s right, I won’t.
Me: Don’t worry, no women’s clothing this time. Just a little makeup.
My wife: (Trying to change topic.) Was that you I heard going to the
bathroom around two-thirty?”
Me: No, that was the cat. (Dramatic pause) Wait a minute, we don’t have a
cat.
Not that the morning news desk doesn’t have help. There’s Tamara in traffic who is responsible for 25% of the allotted time. This is accomplished by repeating again and again there’s an over turned milk truck on the Mary Hill Bypass until you’re ready to tow it away yourself just to shut her up.
Also responsible for 25% is the long -suffering weatherman, a guy in a funny shirt who prays for snow even in august. Some stations liven this up by using attractive weather girls like the nifty little unit on our local channel. This has allowed men of my generation to finally put the mouse ears away, break free of our Annette Funicello obsession and move on to new, updated objects of desire.
It is incumbent upon any top-notch newsperson to massage what little news there is into something long enough to fill the gap between the dog food commercial and the tenth Maryhill Bypass report.
A simple fire becomes, “Overnight a house fire in Surrey claimed several walls, a roof and a stuffed cat named fluffy. When interviewed, Captain Bob (big belly) Wilson of the fire department said they would have rescued Fluffy, had not an errant gust of wind, caused by the ever flatulent Wilson, resulted in a massive back draft. Minor damage to the Captain’s shorts was reported. And now back to Tamara with our Eyes in the Sky traffic report.”
“Thanks Bob. This is Tamara Sandusky, high in the skies over… wait a minute! Some bastard just towed my over turned tanker away. Heh! Put that truck back, it’s mine!”
Believing like most Canadians, that ours is a boring nation, we changed to the Seattle morning news in search of more action. As usual, the Americans are ahead of us. Realizing no news is generated at night, they combine what little news there is with entertainment news to keep us apprised of matters of national security like the secret location of Lindsay Lohan’s latest rehab facility.
Meanwhile, 50 miles up, the entertainment satellite searches for Angelina’s exposed leg to pop out of a slinky black dress or for any globule of fat to appear on her anorexic arms.
Or maybe it’s a segment on a celebrity chef teaching America how to scramble eggs, (let me see now chef, should I crack the egg on the bowl or with a knife?). Regardless of what the chef does, the crowd goes wild. No one is entirely sure why, but it might have something to do with the two assistant producers madly waving those “Applauso!” cue cards.
But I say, why complain, be proactive. Don’t leave your morning news to the graveyard shift; take matters into you own hands. Get out there after midnight and help the morning desk out. Do something newsworthy. A peeping Tom in a Mickey Mouse costume always draws crowds. Kidnappings play well, especially if you can talk the weather girl into it.
If I was the morning news guy, I’d use my dreams. That cat who visited us last night could be bulked up to 500 pounds with a developed taste of the more corpulent villagers. And that other dream, the one my wife didn’t hear, that would make great news.
There I was on a deserted tropical island. Ten years go by, I begin talking like Tom Hanks to his basketball. Finally the carrier pigeon with sealed orders from Ottawa arrives. I break open the letter, “Nation destroyed by virulent batch of Tim Horton doughnuts. Repopulate planet as best you can.”
The basket ball will have nothing to do with me. Nine months go by, suddenly, something starts to rise out of the water. It’s the weathergir… oh no! it’s… Captain Wilson.
slightlycorkedandmore 