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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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."
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Deadline Murder - Chapter One (Part One)
"Please answer." Damon Duquesne gripped his cell phone so hard his knuckles seemed to turn white as he turned his silver Jeep Cherokee into the employees' parking area of Ford Field, Detroit's state-of-the-art football stadium. Parking, he tried the number once more. His stomach grumbled again with nervousness.
"Maria, please be there," he begged out loud. No answer. After three more futile attempts to reach her, he had to face the fact that she wasn't available.
The Lions, for the first time in 50 years, were in the division playoffs against the San Francisco 49ers. Kickoff was only six hours away. A win would send them to the Super Bowl in January. Damon Duquesne alias Double Dynamite, the Lions' star wide receiver, felt nothing like his nickname. The caramel color skin of his face had drained to an ashen gray. Once inside the stadium complex, he made his way to the exercise room. Not only did he need to quiet his usual pre-game jitters, he had to decide what to do about the alarming conversation he had overheard earlier that morning by the directors of one of the largest oil companies in the country.
That Sunday morning, he had stopped by his off-season employer, the Planet Oil Corporation of America (POCA), to deliver coveted tickets to that afternoon's game. It felt good to be able to help out his co-workers in the public relations department with some free tickets to the game. Using his photo-identification card, he had quietly gained access to the empty reception area next to the Board of Director's conference room and heard loud irritated voices. He recognized several of them as key executives of the company.
"How much longer do you think you can fool our investors? We are nowhere near discovering an authentic formula for synthetic oil," said the chairman, irritably. "We can't keep the lid on this much longer."
Then there was the sound of an additional chilly voice, which he immediately recognized as belonging to Raymond Shoemaker the CEO. "Let me worry about our stockholders. Our next quarterly report won't reflect anything negative. And who knows, by next year this time, that formula could become a reality. We want our stock to hit a new high this quarter. I'll do everything in my power to make it happen. Now just relax boys!"
Another voice stated flatly with a laugh. "Oh yeah. How about 15 or 20 points worth? That would make our stock options worth a pretty penny." There was general laughter around the table with some more discussions about the stock market.
Then the voices moved down the hall in Damon's direction. Horrified, yet mesmerized by their conversation, Damon hastily left the building thinking, the very thing that had attracted Wall Street, a synthetic oil formula, was nonexistent.
Driving away from the company parking lot, he called his best friend and all-pro Lions' quarterback Jeff Samuels. Shocked, Jeff suggested Damon call Maria Hamilton, their mutual friend and sportswriter for the Detroit Free Press. The three of them could meet on Monday, their day off, and decide what to do. And also think about if they should advise Damon's girlfriend, Liberty Johnson, of this information. She was a lieutenant detective with the Detroit Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. They were pretty sure that corporate fraud was still a local crime, but then again, she could tell them if it was a federal offense rather than a local crime. They'd just have to wait and see. Now they had a game to win and that's all they could think about.
"Maria, please be there," he begged out loud. No answer. After three more futile attempts to reach her, he had to face the fact that she wasn't available.
The Lions, for the first time in 50 years, were in the division playoffs against the San Francisco 49ers. Kickoff was only six hours away. A win would send them to the Super Bowl in January. Damon Duquesne alias Double Dynamite, the Lions' star wide receiver, felt nothing like his nickname. The caramel color skin of his face had drained to an ashen gray. Once inside the stadium complex, he made his way to the exercise room. Not only did he need to quiet his usual pre-game jitters, he had to decide what to do about the alarming conversation he had overheard earlier that morning by the directors of one of the largest oil companies in the country.
That Sunday morning, he had stopped by his off-season employer, the Planet Oil Corporation of America (POCA), to deliver coveted tickets to that afternoon's game. It felt good to be able to help out his co-workers in the public relations department with some free tickets to the game. Using his photo-identification card, he had quietly gained access to the empty reception area next to the Board of Director's conference room and heard loud irritated voices. He recognized several of them as key executives of the company.
"How much longer do you think you can fool our investors? We are nowhere near discovering an authentic formula for synthetic oil," said the chairman, irritably. "We can't keep the lid on this much longer."
Then there was the sound of an additional chilly voice, which he immediately recognized as belonging to Raymond Shoemaker the CEO. "Let me worry about our stockholders. Our next quarterly report won't reflect anything negative. And who knows, by next year this time, that formula could become a reality. We want our stock to hit a new high this quarter. I'll do everything in my power to make it happen. Now just relax boys!"
Another voice stated flatly with a laugh. "Oh yeah. How about 15 or 20 points worth? That would make our stock options worth a pretty penny." There was general laughter around the table with some more discussions about the stock market.
Then the voices moved down the hall in Damon's direction. Horrified, yet mesmerized by their conversation, Damon hastily left the building thinking, the very thing that had attracted Wall Street, a synthetic oil formula, was nonexistent.
Driving away from the company parking lot, he called his best friend and all-pro Lions' quarterback Jeff Samuels. Shocked, Jeff suggested Damon call Maria Hamilton, their mutual friend and sportswriter for the Detroit Free Press. The three of them could meet on Monday, their day off, and decide what to do. And also think about if they should advise Damon's girlfriend, Liberty Johnson, of this information. She was a lieutenant detective with the Detroit Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. They were pretty sure that corporate fraud was still a local crime, but then again, she could tell them if it was a federal offense rather than a local crime. They'd just have to wait and see. Now they had a game to win and that's all they could think about.
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