I look at my face in the mirror and there is no doubt I am a "woman of a certain age." How did the time pass so quickly? Gone are the days when I was mistaken for my children's sister and got carded at the clubs. When will I become invisible in today's youth-oriented society?
I have done all the right things. Slathering my face with every moisturizer from LaMer to Crisco. I own or have owned almost every excercizing apparatus known to man. Mysteriously, my weight has been the same for five years - give or take a few pounds.
What's that you say? Exercise equipment must be used daily to get noticeable results.
OK. The pity party is over and I do what I always do. Focus on the positive circumstances of my life. I think of vibrant mature women who appear to be in the prime of their lives and eagerly embracing life's challenges.
There is Annette Benning, who won a Golden Globe best actress award for "The Kids Are All Right."
There is Helen Mirren, an award winning actress, who at age 65, rocked a bikini on the front pages of the tabloids.
There is Katie Couric and Diane Sawyer, both female anchors of national evening news shows.
There is Oprah Winfrey, who now owns a cable TV network.
Now a new woman is poised to join their ranks. A woman who moved from an expensive apartment in New York City's Meatpacking District to a trailer park in a Detroit-area suburb to portray an aging porn star.
I cannot relate to the porn star who took her clothes off for a living. The closest I came to disrobing for "art" was when a renowned Detroit-area artist begged me to pose for a nude oil painting. Of course, I declined.
I can relate to the porn star who is a "woman of a certain age." And Kim Cattrall lived in Monica Velour's skin, willing to grow and willing to take chances to make her film career more viable.
And I realize now, that I must take more chances. At my age, I feel life is fleeting. There is so much more I want to accomplish. I am running a race as my life's desires ferociously nip at my heels like a Pitbull.
Kim Cattrall fearlessly grabbed the plum role of an aging porn star in "Meet Monica Velour" and literally squeezed all the creative juices out of it.
Gilbert Films is establishing a track record of producing films with generous roles for women. Meaty roles that have gleaned stellar performances. Last year, Annette Benning won the Golden Globe best actress award for "The Kids Are All Right." Julianne Moore was also nominated.
It is amazing that this 49-year-old woman is allowed to believably celebrate new nuances of her sexuality. Tobe Hulbert(played by Dustin Ingram),her teenaged lover shows her honor and respect. While planning his first elaborate symbolic seduction of Monica, he is more attuned to a woman's feelings than a man twice his age. The roles were reversed as Tobe's sophisticated lover guided him to unexplored explosive heights.
The camera close-ups of Monica Velour unforgivingly show every imperfection. The camera also follows her as she searches for dignity and attempts to move beyond the porn star years. With minimum skills and finances, she hopes to find work and gain custody of the young daughter, who is curretnly living with her ex-husband. A man, whose sole purpose in life is gaining evidence against her to support the fact she would not be a stable parent.
Kim Cattrall sent two messages: Women of a certain age are not invisible and they are a force to be reckoned with.
I dedicate this song to us:
The little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. Let it shine.......Let it shine.......let it shine.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
DEADLINE MURDER-CHAPTER ONE (PART FOUR)
Maria had walked into the locker room with her press credentials minutes after the game with the Minnesota Vikings. Was she bold or just naive? Most women reporters either waited until they thought the players had showered to invade their domain or they waited patiently outside in the interview area. The players, in various stages of undress, hastily scrambled to cover themselves. Even the ones just stepping out of the shower. Everyone except Damon Duquesne, who had made the game-winning touchdown in the last thirty seconds of the fourth quarter. As the reporters and camera crews converged upon him, he continued toweling off his almost perfectly sculpted body.
"I'm so sick of all the post-game questions," he thought. "Maybe, I'll just be rude today." His full frontal nudity was ignored by the other all-male reporters and camera crews.
"OK, you ignorant jackass, I'll play your game," Maria thought as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "I'll be damned if I'll miss another of their gutsy and spontaneous remarks these jocks give immediately after a game. I'm tired of the sanitized, well thought-out replies I get when I wait outside the dressing room until I get the "all clear."
Standing in front of Damon, notepad in hand; she tried hard to ignore his male member which seemed to be on the verge of flowering to its full glory. "With thirty seconds left in the game, what were your thoughts as you sprinted to the end zone with the Viking's best defensive player Carl Joseph breathing down your neck?" Did you think you would make it?" She knew he was enjoying her discomfort as he refused the dry towel offered by Jeff Samuels, the team quarterback.
The wide receiver's gray eyes sparkled, no twinkled. Deliberately playing with her, he pretended to ponder her question. After what seemed like a light year, he finally responded: "I had a good momentum going and I also knew I had the moves to fake Joseph out of position. He's a great linebacker, but I can still outrun him." Damon grinned and stepped closer to Maria. The distance between him and her was now almost politically unacceptable. The other reporters shouted questions, but he had focused on her. Damn him. She had fought too hard for the right to be in this locker room. And she wanted his respect. Again, Jeff Samuels offered the towel. Damon brushed it away.
"Dynamite, I have one more question," Maria shouted, being careful not to get any closer.
"OK," Damon chuckled, thinking this chick must have some rather large cojones.
"Your momma said that you could go 10 and long anytime." Maria stated, looking directly in his eyes. "Your momma lied. It looks more like six to me." Laughter erupted around the room. Damon's cockiness disappeared along with the rigidity of his male member. With a white towel now covering his body, he ended his interview in a surly mood. The reporters moved on to the other players. Jeff's eyes were moist with laughter, but he thought he saw Maria Hamilton, the female reporter, shoot him a grateful look.
"I'm so sick of all the post-game questions," he thought. "Maybe, I'll just be rude today." His full frontal nudity was ignored by the other all-male reporters and camera crews.
"OK, you ignorant jackass, I'll play your game," Maria thought as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "I'll be damned if I'll miss another of their gutsy and spontaneous remarks these jocks give immediately after a game. I'm tired of the sanitized, well thought-out replies I get when I wait outside the dressing room until I get the "all clear."
Standing in front of Damon, notepad in hand; she tried hard to ignore his male member which seemed to be on the verge of flowering to its full glory. "With thirty seconds left in the game, what were your thoughts as you sprinted to the end zone with the Viking's best defensive player Carl Joseph breathing down your neck?" Did you think you would make it?" She knew he was enjoying her discomfort as he refused the dry towel offered by Jeff Samuels, the team quarterback.
The wide receiver's gray eyes sparkled, no twinkled. Deliberately playing with her, he pretended to ponder her question. After what seemed like a light year, he finally responded: "I had a good momentum going and I also knew I had the moves to fake Joseph out of position. He's a great linebacker, but I can still outrun him." Damon grinned and stepped closer to Maria. The distance between him and her was now almost politically unacceptable. The other reporters shouted questions, but he had focused on her. Damn him. She had fought too hard for the right to be in this locker room. And she wanted his respect. Again, Jeff Samuels offered the towel. Damon brushed it away.
"Dynamite, I have one more question," Maria shouted, being careful not to get any closer.
"OK," Damon chuckled, thinking this chick must have some rather large cojones.
"Your momma said that you could go 10 and long anytime." Maria stated, looking directly in his eyes. "Your momma lied. It looks more like six to me." Laughter erupted around the room. Damon's cockiness disappeared along with the rigidity of his male member. With a white towel now covering his body, he ended his interview in a surly mood. The reporters moved on to the other players. Jeff's eyes were moist with laughter, but he thought he saw Maria Hamilton, the female reporter, shoot him a grateful look.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
I DANCED FOR BEADS ON BOURBON STREET
Just when I think this is all there is to my life, I am sent a special moment. One that lifts me up, makes me feel youthful and full of possibilities.
New Orleans is approximately one and half hours from Gulfport, MS where I attended my family reunion this summer. One of the planned highlights of the event was a side trip to NOLA. Eight years ago, the family reunion was in Gulfport, MS and the same event was planned. I didn't make the trip with other family members because I was tired and thought a visit to New Orleans was too much to fit into my schedule. Through the years I have wanted to kick myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity to see this unique city before Katrina wreaked her havoc.
Now I sat excitely perched on the car seat on my way to post-Katrina New Orleans. I didn't know what to expect. But hadn't the media promised me that Bourbon Street had experienced a revival?
Cruising along the road bordering the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico, we see BP workers sitting under a white tent clad in green neon vests. One hundred feet further down, a couple frolicks on the same beach.
Next we pass the former site of the White Cap restaurant where our family enjoyed a delightful and tasty meal eight years ago. There is nothing on the site now and I cannot erase the memory of our happy faces as we enjoyed family comraderie and gazed out the rear window onto the lanquid lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Today, the restaurant has re-located further inland.
Up ahead are the fishing vesssels. Mostly white, they lie dormant, jumbled haphazardly together. Their proud livelihood has been cruelly snatched from them. No one is going fishing or booking charter tours in the oil-tainted waters.
Traveling inland, trees flanking the highway have a battered appearance. Though they have continued to blossom year after year, the foilage pattern is unique. Some of the trunks are splintered and leaves only grow at the top. Other trees are completely barren and will never bloom again.
The New Orleans skyline looms ahead. From the highway it is not remarkable and is reminiscent of most American cities. The real damage doesn't become evident until we reach the inner city. I wonder. Could this be St. Bernard Parish? After all these years, some of the houses are still terribly scarred with disfigured structures. Grass grows on rooftops with missing shingles. Blown out windows and damaged siding add to the despair.
The stark horror of the media images return. Frightened people on rooftops holding signs begging to be rescued. People wading through diseased waters frantically clutching the few possessions they have been able to save. The dead bodies lying unattended by the roadside. And who can ever forget the inhuman over-crowded chaos of the Superdome?
Then Bam!!! We are in the French Quarter. Row upon row of neatly painted facades boasting black coach lamps, white bordered windows and intricately designed black wrought-iron balconies. Horse drawn carriages resembling something out of the Cinderella fairy tale clip-clop up and down the streets. They are filled with tourists eager to explore the French Quarter.
Finally we are on Bourbon Street. What it lacks in width is made up in excitement. There are shops, bars, music, restaurants, street dancers and real life characters: a man completely covered in silver body paint, a confederate soldier, a pirate, a bird man and woman and a leprechaun to name a few.
After filling my belly with catfish and gumbo, I come out the restaurant. It is now dark and Bourbon Street is at the height of her vibrancy. I am inspired to dance. My male cousin has just completed his dance which included a couple swings around the street lamp pole in front of us. Beads rain down from above.
I do the dance my granddaughter had just taught me last night at the family reunion Mardi Gras banquet and dance. It is called "The Flex." I bend and twist, flexing my upper arm muscles. When I am done, I look up expectantly at the balcony. Sure enough, a necklace of shiny gold beads falls from above. Excitedly, I scoop them up.
Now I can't wait until the real Mardi Gras observance. By then I'll have enough nerve to dance for beads in the true Mardi Gras tradition.
New Orleans is approximately one and half hours from Gulfport, MS where I attended my family reunion this summer. One of the planned highlights of the event was a side trip to NOLA. Eight years ago, the family reunion was in Gulfport, MS and the same event was planned. I didn't make the trip with other family members because I was tired and thought a visit to New Orleans was too much to fit into my schedule. Through the years I have wanted to kick myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity to see this unique city before Katrina wreaked her havoc.
Now I sat excitely perched on the car seat on my way to post-Katrina New Orleans. I didn't know what to expect. But hadn't the media promised me that Bourbon Street had experienced a revival?
Cruising along the road bordering the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico, we see BP workers sitting under a white tent clad in green neon vests. One hundred feet further down, a couple frolicks on the same beach.
Next we pass the former site of the White Cap restaurant where our family enjoyed a delightful and tasty meal eight years ago. There is nothing on the site now and I cannot erase the memory of our happy faces as we enjoyed family comraderie and gazed out the rear window onto the lanquid lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Today, the restaurant has re-located further inland.
Up ahead are the fishing vesssels. Mostly white, they lie dormant, jumbled haphazardly together. Their proud livelihood has been cruelly snatched from them. No one is going fishing or booking charter tours in the oil-tainted waters.
Traveling inland, trees flanking the highway have a battered appearance. Though they have continued to blossom year after year, the foilage pattern is unique. Some of the trunks are splintered and leaves only grow at the top. Other trees are completely barren and will never bloom again.
The New Orleans skyline looms ahead. From the highway it is not remarkable and is reminiscent of most American cities. The real damage doesn't become evident until we reach the inner city. I wonder. Could this be St. Bernard Parish? After all these years, some of the houses are still terribly scarred with disfigured structures. Grass grows on rooftops with missing shingles. Blown out windows and damaged siding add to the despair.
The stark horror of the media images return. Frightened people on rooftops holding signs begging to be rescued. People wading through diseased waters frantically clutching the few possessions they have been able to save. The dead bodies lying unattended by the roadside. And who can ever forget the inhuman over-crowded chaos of the Superdome?
Then Bam!!! We are in the French Quarter. Row upon row of neatly painted facades boasting black coach lamps, white bordered windows and intricately designed black wrought-iron balconies. Horse drawn carriages resembling something out of the Cinderella fairy tale clip-clop up and down the streets. They are filled with tourists eager to explore the French Quarter.
Finally we are on Bourbon Street. What it lacks in width is made up in excitement. There are shops, bars, music, restaurants, street dancers and real life characters: a man completely covered in silver body paint, a confederate soldier, a pirate, a bird man and woman and a leprechaun to name a few.
After filling my belly with catfish and gumbo, I come out the restaurant. It is now dark and Bourbon Street is at the height of her vibrancy. I am inspired to dance. My male cousin has just completed his dance which included a couple swings around the street lamp pole in front of us. Beads rain down from above.
I do the dance my granddaughter had just taught me last night at the family reunion Mardi Gras banquet and dance. It is called "The Flex." I bend and twist, flexing my upper arm muscles. When I am done, I look up expectantly at the balcony. Sure enough, a necklace of shiny gold beads falls from above. Excitedly, I scoop them up.
Now I can't wait until the real Mardi Gras observance. By then I'll have enough nerve to dance for beads in the true Mardi Gras tradition.
Monday, September 6, 2010
DEADLINE MURDER CHAPTER ONE (PART THREE)
After parking his car in the players' lot, he walked into the stadium and once again marveled at the modern architecture of the 500-million dollar facility, the same way he had done at every home game since the team had moved in the fall. At first, he was skeptical. But their new home had been good to them. For the first time in 50 years, the Lions were only one game away from the Super Bowl. Turning left, he went down the stairs, speaking to one of the grounds crew as he passed. He hadn't seen Damon come into the stadium yet, but told him that several members of the team were already in the locker room.
The exercise room was eerily quiet. He had expected to see Damon doing some easy strength training. Or maybe even lying on the massage table pondering the weight of the world. Soon this area would be filled with voices full of courage, hope and laughter, not to mention raunchy name-calling and horseplay. Some of the guys would be getting rubdowns, taped up for the game or taking 20-minute snoozes.
It was apparent Damon wasn't around. He needed to find his friend soon, so he could enter this afternoon's game with a positive outlook. Flipping a football in the air, Jeff mulled over his next move. He'd take a quick snooze. They'd talk as soon as his buddy arrived. To relax himself, he needed pleasant thoughts. As he lay on a massage table with a light blanket over him. he thought of the first time he saw Maria.
I
The exercise room was eerily quiet. He had expected to see Damon doing some easy strength training. Or maybe even lying on the massage table pondering the weight of the world. Soon this area would be filled with voices full of courage, hope and laughter, not to mention raunchy name-calling and horseplay. Some of the guys would be getting rubdowns, taped up for the game or taking 20-minute snoozes.
It was apparent Damon wasn't around. He needed to find his friend soon, so he could enter this afternoon's game with a positive outlook. Flipping a football in the air, Jeff mulled over his next move. He'd take a quick snooze. They'd talk as soon as his buddy arrived. To relax himself, he needed pleasant thoughts. As he lay on a massage table with a light blanket over him. he thought of the first time he saw Maria.
I
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Greening of Detroit
It was a simple act. It was a magnificent act. To paraphrase Charles Dickens from his novel "A Tale of Two Cities," 'It was the worse of times, it was the best of times.'
My daughter and I had come to Detroit's Pallister Park this early May morning to plant a commemorative tree for my stepmother. Rain was expected, but the forecast hadn't deterred the crowd of smiling eager volunteers.
I was quite surprised. Fresh from reading the morning headlines of what had been a particularly violent and depressing week. Three children killed for reasons that would never make any sense. It was enough to make you want to numb your mind, cutting off your emotions. And the national media and late-night talk show hosts continued to paint a dire image of the city or making it the butt of their tasteless jokes.
The city is like a punch drunk fighter staggering around the ring. Assailed on all sides by violence, poverty and corrupt members of city government. Like a boxer, Detroit is continually knocked down again and again. But our city is a fighter. One day the blows will be fewer and far between and Detroit will gain strength and stand tall.
But here we were standing in Pallister Park and slowly my senses began to awaken again. I was aware of the urban green space touched with morning dew. I raised my eyes and looked over the trees to the incredibly beautiful Fisher Building. Surely this park with its backdrop of tall buildings is Detroit's miniature version of New York's Central Park. Then I study the other people gathered in the park. The faces were young, old and representative of many races.
A member of The Greening of Detroit began speaking and gave a brief history of the organization that has planted over 60,000 trees, removed and cleaned debris from almost 1,400 vacant lots and has established 800 family community and school gardens providing approximately 130 tons of food. The organization was honored by the Detroit Free Press as one of the recipients of its Michigan Green Leaders Award.
Then the speaker reminded us of why we were there today. To plant a tree in memory of our loved ones or to celebrate a special event. A forester gave us step-by-step directions as she and her assistant actually planted a tree. I looked on with interest, twinged with trepidation. Could I possibly plant a tree? The most industrious thing I had ever planted were Geraniums in flower pots which adorn the front of my house. But basically I am willing to try most anything if I sense a modicum of success.
Finally we are actually ready to plant our tree. My daughter and I collect gardening gloves and shovels supplied by "The Greening of Detroit." We have noticed the people who are seasoned volunteers have bought their own.
It is soon discovered that there is a set number of trees to be planted so we must partner with someone. After looking around, we chose the couple we had briefly spoken to earlier that morning when we parked behind them. They are a young couple who volunteer regularly for Detroit tree plantings through an organization of their Birmingham, MI church.
We began digging the hole and their young daughter delights in saving the worms we have unearthed. She shows the many specimens to me before depositing them on the ground beside the hole. I am also delighted. The hole in progress not only reveals worms. There are chunks of bricks from the foundations of the homes that once occupied this urban green space. As the work continues, we are glad we have chosen this seasoned male volunteer. There are immovable chunks of stone which have to be broken up with a pick axe.
Finally the hole is dug and we measure it to ensure the proportions are correct. This is done by using the shovel handle. Now the Sweetgum tree is lowered into the hole. The burlap around its roots is unfurled and we began to pack dirt around the roots to achieve the proper upright position.
I imagine my stepmother in her time-worn black straw gardening hat assisting us. "More to the left," she instructs. "OK. Now just a little more to the right. There. That's perfect."
It has started to rain as we refill the hole with dirt and worms. We stand back and admire our work. I feel fresh air and raindrops cleansing my body. This was a healing experience for me. Planting a tree that will live long after me.
Did I do one small act to help heal the City of Detroit?
Did I do one small act to help heal the eco-system of this planet?
My daughter and I had come to Detroit's Pallister Park this early May morning to plant a commemorative tree for my stepmother. Rain was expected, but the forecast hadn't deterred the crowd of smiling eager volunteers.
I was quite surprised. Fresh from reading the morning headlines of what had been a particularly violent and depressing week. Three children killed for reasons that would never make any sense. It was enough to make you want to numb your mind, cutting off your emotions. And the national media and late-night talk show hosts continued to paint a dire image of the city or making it the butt of their tasteless jokes.
The city is like a punch drunk fighter staggering around the ring. Assailed on all sides by violence, poverty and corrupt members of city government. Like a boxer, Detroit is continually knocked down again and again. But our city is a fighter. One day the blows will be fewer and far between and Detroit will gain strength and stand tall.
But here we were standing in Pallister Park and slowly my senses began to awaken again. I was aware of the urban green space touched with morning dew. I raised my eyes and looked over the trees to the incredibly beautiful Fisher Building. Surely this park with its backdrop of tall buildings is Detroit's miniature version of New York's Central Park. Then I study the other people gathered in the park. The faces were young, old and representative of many races.
A member of The Greening of Detroit began speaking and gave a brief history of the organization that has planted over 60,000 trees, removed and cleaned debris from almost 1,400 vacant lots and has established 800 family community and school gardens providing approximately 130 tons of food. The organization was honored by the Detroit Free Press as one of the recipients of its Michigan Green Leaders Award.
Then the speaker reminded us of why we were there today. To plant a tree in memory of our loved ones or to celebrate a special event. A forester gave us step-by-step directions as she and her assistant actually planted a tree. I looked on with interest, twinged with trepidation. Could I possibly plant a tree? The most industrious thing I had ever planted were Geraniums in flower pots which adorn the front of my house. But basically I am willing to try most anything if I sense a modicum of success.
Finally we are actually ready to plant our tree. My daughter and I collect gardening gloves and shovels supplied by "The Greening of Detroit." We have noticed the people who are seasoned volunteers have bought their own.
It is soon discovered that there is a set number of trees to be planted so we must partner with someone. After looking around, we chose the couple we had briefly spoken to earlier that morning when we parked behind them. They are a young couple who volunteer regularly for Detroit tree plantings through an organization of their Birmingham, MI church.
We began digging the hole and their young daughter delights in saving the worms we have unearthed. She shows the many specimens to me before depositing them on the ground beside the hole. I am also delighted. The hole in progress not only reveals worms. There are chunks of bricks from the foundations of the homes that once occupied this urban green space. As the work continues, we are glad we have chosen this seasoned male volunteer. There are immovable chunks of stone which have to be broken up with a pick axe.
Finally the hole is dug and we measure it to ensure the proportions are correct. This is done by using the shovel handle. Now the Sweetgum tree is lowered into the hole. The burlap around its roots is unfurled and we began to pack dirt around the roots to achieve the proper upright position.
I imagine my stepmother in her time-worn black straw gardening hat assisting us. "More to the left," she instructs. "OK. Now just a little more to the right. There. That's perfect."
It has started to rain as we refill the hole with dirt and worms. We stand back and admire our work. I feel fresh air and raindrops cleansing my body. This was a healing experience for me. Planting a tree that will live long after me.
Did I do one small act to help heal the City of Detroit?
Did I do one small act to help heal the eco-system of this planet?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Why I Love Me Some Anderson Cooper
This is my first installment on people I admire. I cannot and would not like to emulate every aspect of their lives. So I hope I am astute and intelligent enough to chose the ones that will help me lead a better life.
Rod Hairston, in his book "Are You Up For The Challenge?" states: "We all have a different cast of roles for our own life, so we need to emulate different people. Figure out everything in your life that you want and the roles you have to play in order to bring those elements into your life."
OK. When you look at Anderson, you are immediately aware of his patrician good looks. The silver hair and the icy blue eyes that can transfix you as they thoughtfully focus. And being from the Vanderbilt lineage, he's practically American royalty, and his globe trotting adventures routinely land him in still yet another country experiencing a fresh crisis.
"What most people are running away from, I am running towards." Surely this is one of Anderson's most remarkable statements.
And yes, I would like an equivalent of Anderson's job. He has a smorgasbord of program content and is equally adept at each one. Whether he is broadcasting from a far-flung country suffering a disaster where he skillfully guides his audience to also experience the suffering of the people involved. Or extolling the pros and cons of the political arena, interviewing a celebrity or covering world news. He also does thought provoking pieces, such as the study of Children's Racial Biases. Something that has been around for years, but rarely has had such a big platform and in-depth look.
The CNN news anchor asks pointed questions and seems fearless as he verbally jousts with his guests.
I am on the outside looking in, but what I want to see is a person who has a job that is never boring and no constraints are placed on his creativity.
While Anderson's demeanor is no-nonsense as he reports serious news, he is a man of many colors. A virtual kaleidoscope. When the situation is appropriate, he can go from staid to downright goofy. Always able to poke fun at himself, he is a true wit and mimic with a great sense of humor, as evidenced from his co-hosting duties on Regis and Kathy and appearances on Jeopardy.(What happened??)
Anderson I believe your journalistic skills are unrivaled. That's why I'm not only posting this locally and globally, but interplanetary as well.
Rod Hairston, in his book "Are You Up For The Challenge?" states: "We all have a different cast of roles for our own life, so we need to emulate different people. Figure out everything in your life that you want and the roles you have to play in order to bring those elements into your life."
OK. When you look at Anderson, you are immediately aware of his patrician good looks. The silver hair and the icy blue eyes that can transfix you as they thoughtfully focus. And being from the Vanderbilt lineage, he's practically American royalty, and his globe trotting adventures routinely land him in still yet another country experiencing a fresh crisis.
"What most people are running away from, I am running towards." Surely this is one of Anderson's most remarkable statements.
And yes, I would like an equivalent of Anderson's job. He has a smorgasbord of program content and is equally adept at each one. Whether he is broadcasting from a far-flung country suffering a disaster where he skillfully guides his audience to also experience the suffering of the people involved. Or extolling the pros and cons of the political arena, interviewing a celebrity or covering world news. He also does thought provoking pieces, such as the study of Children's Racial Biases. Something that has been around for years, but rarely has had such a big platform and in-depth look.
The CNN news anchor asks pointed questions and seems fearless as he verbally jousts with his guests.
I am on the outside looking in, but what I want to see is a person who has a job that is never boring and no constraints are placed on his creativity.
While Anderson's demeanor is no-nonsense as he reports serious news, he is a man of many colors. A virtual kaleidoscope. When the situation is appropriate, he can go from staid to downright goofy. Always able to poke fun at himself, he is a true wit and mimic with a great sense of humor, as evidenced from his co-hosting duties on Regis and Kathy and appearances on Jeopardy.(What happened??)
Anderson I believe your journalistic skills are unrivaled. That's why I'm not only posting this locally and globally, but interplanetary as well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Deadline Murder Chapter One (Part Two)
Damon eased himself to a sitting position in the steam room. He planned to stay there for twenty minutes or so, loosen up some, and let the tension drain from his body. Leaning his head back, the intense heat and the sweat pouring out of his body felt good. His troubles drifted away and he began to think about the game. Twenty-five minutes later as he prepared to leave the steam room and step into a lukewarm shower, reality set in. It was time to focus on game strategies. He gathered his towel and gripped the door handle to let himself out. It didn't move. It was locked from the outside.
Half an hour later, Jeff turned the ignition in his black Ford Explorer, eased out of the driveway of his Blooomfield Hills condo and headed south to Ford Field. At the first traffic light, he popped two painkillers into his mouth and channel-surfed on the radio until Barry White's booming romantic bass voice filled the SUV. He was singing that old Billy Joel standby "I Love You Just the Way You are." Proud of his ear-shattering state-of-the-art sound system, he began to sing along to the oldies music that he and Maria loved. Grabbing his Detroit Lions Hawaiian Blue baseball cap, Jeff pulled it low over his dark sunglasses. Soon he approached the first of the tailgaters near Eastern Market, the open-air venue where farmers sold their fresh produce. The market also housed specialty shops selling worldwide meats, foods and delicacies. He always liked to take this route, even though it was a little out of the way.
Braving the chilly air outside their SUV's, the fun-loving fans sat on lawn chairs, cooked meat on their grills and swigged beers. It was the Fourth of July in January as each one tried to outdo the other with their barbeque pits, chairs, tables and decor. As he passed them, he wanted to roll down the Explorer's window and inhale the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs, bratwurst and steak. Smacking his lips, he thought better of it. That's all he needed, to be recognized by some overzealous fans. Vigorously pulling at his arthritic right knee, he tried to rub the pain away. The pills had already reduced the pain to a dull throbbing. If he didn't have additional surgery, next year he'd be a tailgater too, he mused as Ford Field loomed ahead. The constant bumping and grinding of football sometimes elevated the pain to toothache level. And the cold weather was an additional aggravation. While the idea of retirement was scary, it also fulfilled an exciting fantasy. As a professional tailgater, he could follow his favorite teams all around the country. He already was a frequent visitor to the tailgating websites. Hell, maybe he could start one of his own.
"Hey, that's pure fantasy. Right now I'd settle for a few minutes in the steam room," he thought. "But that would have to wait until after the game." Jeff Samuels pulled his Ford Explorer into the players' parking area at Ford Field. It was noon and so cold, he could see his gray breath as he exhaled deeply after turning off the vehicle's heat. He smiled nervously as he looked around for Damon's Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't there. The POCA situation probably wasn't as bad as Damon thought, as he recalled their earlier conversation.
"Man, I just tore out of POCA headquarters. I was running faster than if a 350-pound linesman from the Minnesota Vikings was chasing me into the end zone," Damon had said excitedly just a few hours ago.
"What'd you mean, man?" Jeff had asked, perplexed by Damon's remarks.
"I had promised some of the guys in public relations that I would get them tickets for this afternoon's game. When I entered the office reception area, I overheard voices in the Board's conference room." Then he related the rest of the conversation and how Raymond Shoemaker seemed to be involved in some kind of bogus report to the stockholders, as well as the investment bankers on Wall Street.
"We'll talk about it after the game," Jeff had assured him. "Right now let's concentrate on winning. This is a big game for us."
Half an hour later, Jeff turned the ignition in his black Ford Explorer, eased out of the driveway of his Blooomfield Hills condo and headed south to Ford Field. At the first traffic light, he popped two painkillers into his mouth and channel-surfed on the radio until Barry White's booming romantic bass voice filled the SUV. He was singing that old Billy Joel standby "I Love You Just the Way You are." Proud of his ear-shattering state-of-the-art sound system, he began to sing along to the oldies music that he and Maria loved. Grabbing his Detroit Lions Hawaiian Blue baseball cap, Jeff pulled it low over his dark sunglasses. Soon he approached the first of the tailgaters near Eastern Market, the open-air venue where farmers sold their fresh produce. The market also housed specialty shops selling worldwide meats, foods and delicacies. He always liked to take this route, even though it was a little out of the way.
Braving the chilly air outside their SUV's, the fun-loving fans sat on lawn chairs, cooked meat on their grills and swigged beers. It was the Fourth of July in January as each one tried to outdo the other with their barbeque pits, chairs, tables and decor. As he passed them, he wanted to roll down the Explorer's window and inhale the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs, bratwurst and steak. Smacking his lips, he thought better of it. That's all he needed, to be recognized by some overzealous fans. Vigorously pulling at his arthritic right knee, he tried to rub the pain away. The pills had already reduced the pain to a dull throbbing. If he didn't have additional surgery, next year he'd be a tailgater too, he mused as Ford Field loomed ahead. The constant bumping and grinding of football sometimes elevated the pain to toothache level. And the cold weather was an additional aggravation. While the idea of retirement was scary, it also fulfilled an exciting fantasy. As a professional tailgater, he could follow his favorite teams all around the country. He already was a frequent visitor to the tailgating websites. Hell, maybe he could start one of his own.
"Hey, that's pure fantasy. Right now I'd settle for a few minutes in the steam room," he thought. "But that would have to wait until after the game." Jeff Samuels pulled his Ford Explorer into the players' parking area at Ford Field. It was noon and so cold, he could see his gray breath as he exhaled deeply after turning off the vehicle's heat. He smiled nervously as he looked around for Damon's Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't there. The POCA situation probably wasn't as bad as Damon thought, as he recalled their earlier conversation.
"Man, I just tore out of POCA headquarters. I was running faster than if a 350-pound linesman from the Minnesota Vikings was chasing me into the end zone," Damon had said excitedly just a few hours ago.
"What'd you mean, man?" Jeff had asked, perplexed by Damon's remarks.
"I had promised some of the guys in public relations that I would get them tickets for this afternoon's game. When I entered the office reception area, I overheard voices in the Board's conference room." Then he related the rest of the conversation and how Raymond Shoemaker seemed to be involved in some kind of bogus report to the stockholders, as well as the investment bankers on Wall Street.
"We'll talk about it after the game," Jeff had assured him. "Right now let's concentrate on winning. This is a big game for us."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)