KBTV::Broken Camera; Powerless Mic
It all started last Friday when both cameras broke. It went something like this…
I dash out from the back room all dressed up in an olive green chemise, black Yoga pants and flip flops … big pink curlers still perched on top of my now head-ache plagued head. I whirl into the office to find Barry sitting in his usual chair slumped over the big camera. He’s swearing. Barry hardly ever swears.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I can’t get the tape to feed. I can’t even get the thing to shut. What did you do?”
“Nothing!” For some reason, I start to laugh – guffaw even.
“Barry if you wanted the day off, all you had to do is call in sick. You didn’t have to break the camera.”
“Kate. I’m serious.” He’s serious. He’s not laughing. He’s not happy. “What happened? It was working when I left.”
I wrack my brain to try to remember what I could have done to break the camera. Anna (my housekeeper) hadn’t been at the house. I hadn’t even touched the camera.
“I don’t know, Bar. I don’t think I broke the camera. Let’s just shoot with the little one.”
Barry grabs the little cam, and I wire up for sound with the dreaded Bluetooth mic. We head out to our location overlooking the Intracoastal. I mic up for audio, Barry crouches, focuses the camera and … Wham!
Hello I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline … welcome to the third, and final episode of our three-part series MISSION TO MARS … ....Space experts have for years been saying we wouldn't have a man on Mars until at least 2050 ... well not if a group of researchers from the University of Washington have anything to do with it ... they plan to have a US astronaut planting an American flag on the red planet within the next five to ten years!“I’m not getting any audio.” Barry sounds really frustrated. He throws his headphones on the grass.
Maybe that’s why the camera is broken?The batteries were out on the big, fat Bluetooth mic. I hate that mic. It’s enormous! It’s the size of a deck of cards. Barry runs back to the house to get new batteries. Ok. He’s back. I mic up; Barry says: “Hit it!”
Hello, I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline. On Monday, I broadcast part one … how the European Space Agency is seeking a dozen volunteers to take part in a “simulated Mars Trip” … now dubbed MARS500. Participants will spend 520 days in an isolation tank, so scientists can study – among other things – human behavior and the group dynamics of deep-space travel. Yesterday, I broadcast Part II … discussing the potentials pitfalls of a mixed-sex crew for lengthy, deep space travel … more specifically about the issue of astronauts having sex in space ... and the other ethical dilemmas facing NASA and the ESA. Barry chuckles and gives me the thumbs up! “One Take Kate!”
To be continued …
KBTV::Speaking of Trauma
I just got home from a busy but wonderful night. I ran out the door for my for my usual pick-up at the halfway house. Then I dropped the girls at St. Gregory’s, as per usual. Then I had to hustle down to The Trauma Clinic – a private facility associated with Lifeskills of Boca Raton, where I completed my year of trauma therapy.
Dr. Huttman, my former trauma therapist, asked me to speak to a night group of about 30 people. Speaking basically means just telling them my story, my experience, strength and hope and how I give back today, etc.
I spoke for about 45 minutes – and the time just flew. I don’t know how to explain it. I just was in some kind of a groove and whoa! Wow! The response was incredible. I must have had a some kind of an impact, as the Q & A went on until 10 p.m. (I started speaking around 7:30 p.m.)
When I walked in to the house just now, I caught my own image in the mirror. I stepped forward to take a closer look and saw all these black smudges on the right shoulder of my blouse. I now recognize that it was mascara that had run off the eyes of a woman who hugged me at the end of my talk. Her husband and two sons were killed last year down here in a boating accident. She came to the TC because, as she says, she’s got all the money in the world but before tonight had nothing to live for.
Another 19-year-old kid was there because he was told he had a terminal illness, was given two months to live and was then told they had made a mistake. He’s fine. He had had a rare bacterial infection. He’s going to live for as long as he was supposed to, but he just can’t quite get his life back on track.
It must be the language of the heart, which makes it so difficult to communicate now with writing. But there is that moment – I can’t really explain it – when I’m standing and speaking and staring out at an audience of dull, grey, sad, sagging eyes, and I say something. It doesn’t even have to be about my experience in downtown Manhattan on 9/11. It can be anything. It doesn’t really matter what part of my story it is. But immediately I see a light bulb go on, and the person makes eye contact. I see the brightness, the shine and the sparkle light up their eyes. I know what the light is – it’s hope.
I saw that tonight. And it made me feel that familiar grip in my chest like my heart protecting itself. It made me cry because of my own hope, but also because I know I touched that person tonight, and I might have actually helped save their life – like someone had touched me and helped save mine.
KBTV::Kate’s Trip to Mars!
OK. I know it’s Monday – and Mondays are tough. But they’re a whole lot better when I really like the story I’m broadcasting. And this morning…let’s just say I was happy. I have always wanted to be an astronaut – and today, I thought, I can live a little vicariously!
Welcome to KBTVonline. I’m Kate Bohner. This morning … Let’s talk about OuterSpace! Astronauts have guestimated for years that the first trip to Mars would not likely happen until about 2040. But for a crew of six volunteers, a “Mars Trip” could come a whole lot sooner. The European Space Agency … known as the ESA … announced that it’s looking for six people to spend 17 months in an isolation tank as part of a “simulated Mars trip.” The aim of the 520-day simulation is to study human behavior and the group dynamics of deep-space travel.
The six crew members will live and work in a network of interlocked modules at a research institute in Moscow. The “space ship” is nearly 20,000 cubic feet long, about the size of nine truck containers. Once the volunteers are shut inside, their only contact with the outside world will be radio with a realistic time-delay of several minutes.
The volunteers will be put through a number of simulations – takeoff, a 250-day journey, excursions on the “Martian surface,” and a return flight home. The ESA has already received about 150 applicants (19 of which are women) for this Mars simulation that will start sometime in late 2008 or early 2009. And this is where it gets exciting. The results of this test will help ESA set criteria to choose astronauts for a real trip to space
Are you claustrophobic? Don’t apply! With the current technology it would take about nine months just to get to Mars. Then astronauts would spend three months on the surface, followed by the nine-month return trip. One problem? Food! Apparently, a two-year supply of food would take up way too much space in space (!), so … the astronauts will have to GROW their own food. Russian space officials have completed experiments breeding quail and growing wheat in “space-like” conditions, but they’ll have to come up with a lot more than that to survive.
Also there are some pretty serious health considerations … such as high levels of radiation exposure and atrophying muscles and bones. Because your muscles have to work much, much less in a weightless environment, they become weakened and begin to deteriorate … this is particularly worrisome because remember … your heart is a muscle, too!
Guess what ladies? History might just repeat itself. According to the BBC news, the Russians have said women probably won’t be allowed. Anatoly Grigoryev, Director of the Institute of Medical and Biological Problems for the Russian space program, said that a same-sex crew is likely to be more "serene" with a “lower probability of conflicts.”
But the real reason could actually be a little more complex. Tune in tomorrow to find out where the NASA folk come out on the issue of astronauts having sex in space … I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline. Thanks for joining!Question: Will you tune in tomorrow?
KBTV::A Plan For More ‘Fun!’
I’ve just returned from 22 hours of bliss.
A friend of mine tells me on Wednesday that he plans to buy a slice of an island, and did I want to accompany him over the weekend to check out his “plot?” I hungrily accept. I need a little joy in my life, I thought. I need some nourishment to feed my dreams. So off I went for only 22 hours, but it was well worth it. It gave me time think about my life.
After walking on the glistening white, sleek, soft sand and swimming in light green waters, I decided I need to re-prioritize my life. Evidence by the e-mail I wrote upon my return:
Dear Miss X and Mr. Y,
I write to tell you how lovely it was to meet you this weekend!
Miss X, you have such fervor for life! You certainly made me query the level of passion at which I attack my own life today – in a very positive way! You’re such a delight ;-)
And Mr, Y, it was a pleasure meeting you, as well. The entire experience – even though across a mere 22 hours – made me reflect and believe I should re-prioritize, placing healthy, good fun and relaxing higher on my list!
I wish you both the best of luck and hope to see you again. I expect to be in San Francisco in mid to late July meeting with
{Dreaded Company}. Perhaps we can get together for a coffee while I’m out there, although the experience of working with that crowd often leaves me seeking something much, much stronger … like an IV of Xanax ;-(
Fly safe and perchance we’ll e-speak, soon!
Cheers,
Kate Bohner
Kate Russell Bohner
Creator/Anchor
www.kbtvonline.com
www.katebohnerproductions.com
Kate Bohner Productions, LLC
And this is how I plan to begin my week! I plan to focus on fun!
To be continued via “fun” progress reports …
KBTV::The Human Double Whopper - Part I
I have super high arches. I used to have to get my feet taped every day during the field hockey and lacrosse seasons – for 12 years – because of my overly-arcing soles. You see that was way before Orthotics. Today kids just go to the podiatrist, stick their feet in white gooey stuff and – poof! – two weeks later a set of soft to semi-flexible to rigid footwear inserts arrive in the UPS. Voila! No more Heel Spurs, Fasciitis, Tendonitis, Metatarsalgia, or Bunions!
Today my left arch feels like it’s about to collapse. I’m limping through Newark Airport when I decide that I’ve just had it. The pain is too severe … …
I surrender. At the security checkpoint, I remove my four-inch Christian LeBoutain taupe leather pumps and never put ‘em back on. Comfort: 1, Vanity: 0. I continue my long waddle to the gate undeterred by the awkward stares of the other harried travelers passing by.
I nearly miss the plane. After finally slipping through the mouth of the plane, I turn to scan coach class.
Oh my God. It looks like a Third World country.
I begin to carefully slither up (or is it down?) the aisle.
Waddle waddle. Shove bang. Waddle slide. Pad pad. I finally look up at the overhead compartments.
Aha…25-C.
My eyes begin to adjust to the glare. My eyes fall on the contents of seat assignment 25-A – a ruddy-faced, mid-fifty-ish, bloated man drinking Jack Daniels and coke.
Wait … we hadn’t taken off yet? My eyes slide left to seat 25-B – housing a chubby, fat, portly blond with immense pink lips, who – I later found out – spoke no English. Next to her, in 25-C (my assigned seat) was what appeared to be a little Catholic schoolgirl set to enter the first grade – uniform and all.
I begin to explain to her and her mother (I assume?) that we have the same seat. I show my boarding pass to Mama Blondie with the Big Pink Lips. She simply shakes her head and shrugs. My left foot is throbbing. I am not in the mood. A flight attendant senses my agitation and approaches us. He’s rattling off paragraph upon paragraph of Spanish to Mama Blondie, Catholic School Girl and me. I quickly explain that I don’t understand; I don’t speak Spanish.
I’m not sure what happened next – it all went down so quickly. But suddenly the flight attendant – who more and more appeared to morph into Blondie’s accomplice of sorts – grabbed their massive carry-on bag, threw it in the overhead, unbuckled Catholic School Girl’s seatbelt and instructed her in this loud rat-tat-tat Spanish to move over.
She stands up. Then Over-ly Effete Flight Attendant points at the seat and in a faux-friendly tone asks me to “take my seat and settle in.” In the meantime, Blondie has, quite literally, pulled Catholic School Girl down on to her lap, and they’re now
both belted into 25-B. The bells begin to ring in the cabin; the pilot comes over the PA system instructing everyone to sit down. We’re preparing for takeoff.
There I sit speechless – catatonic. The folks around me start to sympathize with my plight – traveling for three hours in coach belted in next to roughly 400 lbs of human flesh.
No way. Not today. I shout out “Yo! Mr. Steward … this,” I point to the Human Double Whopper seated in front of me, “it ain’t happening.”
To be continued …
KBTV::Very Sticky
It’s 5 a.m. and I’m very, very sticky. The top sheet is stuck to my face, and I forgot to take off my make up again. There’s mascara all over my stuffed Panda Bear. My sliding glass door to the master bedroom balcony is cloudy with steam.
I hit the remote to turn on the Weather Channel. It’s already 82 degrees in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Storms expected in the afternoon.
Hmmm. Weird. It’s hotter in my house, I think.
I stumble out of bed over to the thermostat, and, yes, my air conditioner is not purring and humming as it should. It’s official; my AC is on the fritz. I slump down onto the floor like a damp dishrag.
Help. I have to shoot three, back-to-back pieces today in the real heat outside. Oh no. This could get really, really sweaty and sticky and smelly and…hello Rasta-hair!
I plop down at the computer to tweak my script.
I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline. Thanks for joining. Amid all the controversy last week swirling around President George Bush’s nomination of Dr. James W. Holsinger to become US Surgeon General … I was thinking back on how that position … surgeon general … was described to me by my father was I was a little kid. OK. Jimmy Carter was president … I’m dating myself … Carter had just tapped Dr. Julius Richmond to become the next surgeon general … I said … dad, what is that job? What’s he going to do? Well … My father said hey Kate … you know Dr. Thomas? My pediatrician … he’s our family physician. The surgeon general is the family physician but not just for us … but for the whole country. Ok. I understood that.I call the service tech to get the scoop on the frozen air conditioner unit. Apparently, I don’t have something called a “service contract.” What’s that? I don’t have the patience to even listen to “Denise” on the other line. Dammit! Ha, I’ll take it out on Holsinger!
Today families come in all different shapes and sizes … I don’t know exactly who Dr. Holsinger represents … but I know who he doesn’t!! … Holsinger, as a lay leader at his church, has repeatedly demonstrated narrow-mindedness, prejudice – bordering on fanaticism – toward gays and lesbians.Denise from Simple Air calls back. They’re going to send out a technician anyway – I’m still under warranty. Ok, that’s good. Now I’m in a better mood. Hmmm … Maybe I’ll be a little nicer to Dr. Holsinger. I’ll throw him a bone.
I must say, professionally, Dr. Holsinger is no slouch – he’s a cardiologist who served as administrator of the Kentucky state health system. In 1992, he was named undersecretary for health in the US Department of Veterans Affairs. But it is not his professional record that has raised the concern of several senators -- including Edward M. Kennedy, chairman of the Senate health committee that will hold confirmation hearings on Holsinger in the coming weeks.Denise calls back. The tech from Simple Air won’t be at KBTVonline HQ until 3 p.m. Dammit! Now I’m pissed again! Screw Holsinger!
Honestly, I really don’t know where Bush FINDS these people. But … here goes! In 1991, Dr. Holsinger wrote a paper titled “The Pathophysiology of Male Homosexuality” … by even non-partisan accounts … this paper uses “at best” very questionable research to condemn homosexuality and portrays gay men as these petrie dishes of sexually transmitted disease. But listen to his methods of quote on quote research. For instance, Holsinger’s study purposefully excludes lesbians, a population with the lowest rates of STDs. It also uses percentages of gay men visiting an STD clinic to extrapolate STD rates for the entire population of gay men. This is akin to determining rates of obesity at a weight loss support group. Barry arrives. “Did you break the air conditioner?”
“Why do you say that – immediately – like it’s my fault or something?” I whine and pout.
“I don’t know Kate … but let’s just say I feel sorry for the poor soul on the other side of that script …”
To be continued …
KBTV::Google and Its Je Ne Said Quoi
I arrived from New York last night around 10 p.m. and am just now – ten hours later –trying to get back into the swing of things.
It’s really hot, and YouTube is kicking back my videos – again. Harrumph. The company is launching in France today, so my hope for the Parisians is that YouTube.fr will have that
Je ne said quoi! and actually load every now and then.
What a whirlwind weekend! I flew to Philadelphia on Friday for a wedding on Saturday in Horse Country, PA (hence, why I have not written my blog!). My favorite cousin, Johnny, married a beautiful girl named Jen at their farm 28 miles from Boeing, where they are both engineers.
On Sunday I traveled to New York, and on Monday I walked over to the Meatpacking District in lower Chelsea to have lunch at the Google offices. What struck me first and struck me hard is that Google, perhaps the best-branded company in the world, has no sign out front. There are no logos on or near the building. In a world where Google has become increasingly omnipresent – not only Google, but now YouTube is a verb – this corporate satellite headquarters, that looked to me like a small city, was virtually incognito.
Until I walked inside. Then it’s all Google, all the time. All seemingly punctuated with the blue, yellow and red “prime” colorful beanbag chairs. The campus-like workspace is antithetical to the office culture of most New York businesses. It’s a vision of an office-quarters, to invent a moniker, that is an implicit utopia as conjured up by prosperous, infantile, free spirits in Silicon Valley, yet now transplanted to Manhattan.
There is the much-touted free food, and plenty of it, including a sushi bar and espresso stations. There are private phone booths for personal calls and showers and lockers for anyone running or biking to work. All of these Go-Google! perks have been described in great detail umpteen times in the press. So all of that came as no surprise (except the “free” part; I had forgotten that Google is a cash-free workplace; no wonder all new employees gain 15 pounds!).
At one point, I glanced outside a wall of floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows to see what looked like a café on the water at a prestigious University somewhere on the coast of Connecticut. Employees donning sunglasses – not the students as I would have expected – munching on spa food and chatting amiably while pushing their windswept bangs into place, readying themselves for that next big slurp of chocolate frozen yogurt.
What really struck me was that it
felt like no one ever leaves. The infamous Manhattan work vibe of ducking out of the office to network over lunch or an evening cocktail party wasn’t expressed in how people looked, what they wore and mostly in their laid back, I-don’t-have-anywhere-to-go attitudes.
I’m not saying that the employees appeared somehow forced or even encouraged not to break out – that there is some sinister “indentured servitude” mindset at work (no pun intended) – it just seemed that no one had that Manhattan-frenzied-I’ve-got-to-get-out-of-here-or-else-I’ll-lose-that-account pulse attitude.
Not only did I not once see anyone checking their watch or frantically glancing up at a clock (as a matter of fact, I didn’t even see a clock), no one seemed to have anywhere to go. It felt a little like a casino without toxicity. No sense of time, but also no sense of loss. Everyone – and I mean everyone – appeared to be very, very content. And for me, that felt a little weird.
To be continued …
KBTV::Brandy and Ballerinas - the Early Years Continued
Last Friday, I wrote a little about my early years spent traveling around Europe with my family. It got a good response, so I decided to start a periodic series on my life as a child. My brother Russ and I ran wild, scampering around town placing paper bags full of dog poop on neighbors’ stoops and setting them on fire. We constructed stone forts on the beach, hid Dad's slippers, and tied up the cook when she refused to give us snacks.
My poor sister: Christine – The Martyr. She was responsible for trying to control us. I'd often shout to her: "Get off the cross; we need the wood." Russ would crack up. We made her cry. We were such loving siblings. Despite our hideous behavior, Christine would dutifully read aloud from the Narnia Tales, C.S. Lewis, sometimes two to three hours a day – anything to get us to stay still.
Nothing worked.
In those 10 years between 6 and 17, I lived in more than 60 villages, towns, cities, islands – different country, different language, different alphabet, different kids.
Right, the kids. My brother and I discovered that the local kids didn't like us much. We wore brand new Levi's and red converse high-tops.
The Rich Americans.
We were different. It became too painful for us to hang around and wait to see if the kids liked us or not. That's when we decided we would categorically hate them first. We made a pact, a bond: The Don't Fuck With Us Bond. That pact solidified in Corfu when some punk made fun of my brother's haircut and I chased him down the street, whipping the Greek kid's back with a rubber hose. I arrived home with a black eye and a broken pinkie. It was then that the nanny began calling us the Evil Twins. The moniker stuck. We'd become urchins, darkly-tanned hellions roaming the countryside with no chance of becoming civilized.
Until that day, just after my seventh birthday.
I met a grand man called Colonel Stevenson. My world changed in what seemed like a kaleidoscope. He taught me about the impressionists and revolution, abstract expressionists and alcoholism, politics and taxes, methadone and Mozart. We'd walk the steps up the big cliff on the south side of town to his villa and play piano for hours. Mrs. Stevenson – his wife, whom he adored – taught me to take tea. I learned about watercress and clotted cream. For Christmas that year, she gave me a black watch kilt. I remember her elegant laugh, as she looked me over in my brother's hand-me-down blue jeans with flannel patches on the knees. She and The Colonel took it upon themselves to make me a lady. Despite my decent pedigree, there became a Pygmalion aspect to it all. I suddenly no longer wanted to be a pirate, like my brother, but, instead, the prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet.
It began one afternoon in July. It must have been 100 degrees out. My mother sent me to town to pick up a kilo of lemons. As I bargained furiously with a woman-in-mourning at the market, a friendly old man with a knobby cane stopped me and asked me why a little girl with such aristocratic cheekbones would speak such peasant Spanish. I stood still, absolutely stunned. Indignant.
He asked me if I was American.
I said yes.
He told me I was giving Americans a bad name.
I called him a plebeian, in English by the way.
He insisted we share a lemon soda at the cafe, to hash it out. I told him he had aristocratic cheekbones, too. So, what was he doing in a peasant, fishing town? He explained that villages like La Herradura were havens for the Brit Dodgers – a term he graciously defined: over sixty-fivers who spent exactly six months and one day out of England in order to avoid what he explained to be the unforgivably cruel and unfair British tax structure. More importantly, he explained, the climate improved his arthritis.
We became fast friends.
Everyday at noon, I'd slip on my red-patent-leather clogs and clunk down the stone steps from our villa, onto the beach and into town. The Colonel and I would meet at Cafe Pinata and sip expensive brandy. He taught me to play poker. And I was good.
At 9, I could whip his ass at five-card draw. We played for pesetas. He'd front me twenty, and rarely win them back.
The Colonel's wife would occasionally walk down the cliff and join us. I was told she was the best ballerina who ever lived. Sometimes The Colonel would ask her to prove it: she'd extend her arm straight out, horizontal to the floor, for more than ten minutes at a time. Stone still, not even a shudder, no shakes, at age 71. “She's still got the old touch," the Colonel would proudly pronounce. Once she brought me a photo of a bronze statue outside of the Ballet Conservatory in London. It looked like a bronzed Degas. The ballerina in the statue; it was her.
So the two of us – The Colonel and The Kid – everyday, like old comrades, would take over Cafe Pinata. The proprietor once commented that we looked like two soldiers, plotting to overthrow the government. We'd shout for more brandy and lemonades. We'd battle about cheating and laugh until we got cramps.
I started washing my face and wearing dresses. His arthritis slowly went away.
(To be continued … )
KBTV::The Rage-Over
I spent all weekend being so pissed off at YouTube that I woke up Sunday morning with what felt like horrific hangover, which is impossible – because I don’t even drink. I guess it must have been a rage-over or something because what is usually a reasonably pleasant process – the act of getting out the door to go to church looking like an adult – became excruciatingly painful. Swallowing that precious pair of Advil gels felt Herculean. I was in a bad mood and the octogenarian motorists on I-95 were going to suffer.
Sixteen hours later, I finally climbed into bed – sometime around midnight – slated for a 4:30 a.m. wakeup call to hit my sunrise shoot. That night before, I remembered I had set my Blackberry, but I must have forgotten to set the “sleep timer” on my television. I surf around the TV guide and finally settle on
Comedy Central. It’s a standup comedian from Philly, and he’s riffing about Yoga.
Snuggle snuggle. Punch punch pillow. Burrow, burrow beneath the down comforter. OK. I’m ready. Snore. I must have fallen asleep in minutes because I never heard what happened after the comedian from Philly had sex in the Ashram and got kicked out.
Dee dee dee dee dee dah dee dah dah.
Beethoven is once again wailing out of my Blackberry. It’s 4:30 a.m. I hear girls gigging and shrieking and wait…they sound drunk. They’re definitely partying. Somewhere in my townhouse – in my bedroom even – teenage girls on spring break with long blond hair and exposed breasts are making out and…what? Is that whipped cream? Yuck.
I throw on my glasses. What the hell is going on? It’s dark out. I focus in on my plasma 54-inch flat screen television that my boyfriend gave me for Valentine’s Day that arrived 67 days late – just in time for my Birthday. (I’m an Aries; do the math.)
Comedy Central? Still? What was I watching?
Oh … Girls Gone Wild! To be continued…
KBTV::Girls Gone Wild!
It’s dark out. It’s freezing (forgot to turn down the AC again), and my hands are stiff and sore from my new keyboard. Ouch.
Girls Gone Wild! pours out of my television. It’s 4:30 a.m., and I’ve simply got to get in the shower.
Mute? St. Anthony, St. Anthony… where is the remote? I look up at the 54-inch flat screen.
Why isn’t that guy in jail? I’m shooting at sunrise. Barry will be walking in the door in 90 minutes, and I have to be OUT of hair and makeup, dressed, fed, alert, and I have yet to edit two scripts.
Please Kate, you don’t have time this morning to take apart Girls Gone Wild! I fumble around with the remotes in an attempt to shut off the noise – more evidence that American culture has become an oxymoron – but instead I find myself slowly sitting back down onto the space-foam pillow top mattress.
Girls Gone Wild! It streams like an MTV music video cum late at night, infomercial, showing bleeped-out snippets of utterly plotless videos, composed entirely from footage of sorority-type teenage girls flashing their breasts, their booty and often much more.
The formula is simple: bring hand-held video cameras to hard-partying, sex-charged, notorious “Spring Break” locales and – by offering the wildly popular brand’s T-shirts, baseball caps and short shorts to clearly inebriated girls seeking a answer to issues of low-self esteem – assemble the ultimate Traveling Titty Bar.
I continue to sit, transfixed by this extreme example of the disintegration of American culture. It’s demoralizing, humiliating, insidious, persistent and enveloping. If you need hard evidence of how Britney Spears has changed the way teenage girls think (or don’t), take a look at the ubiquity of thongs. According to NPD Group, a market research firm, the tiny garment’s sales rose to $780 million in 2005, up from $570 in the same period in 2001.
Meet Joe Francis, the creative mind behind this depressing debauchery. Eight days ago, Francis was granted bail in a federal tax evasion case in Nevada, but he decided to remain in jail to avoid the possibility of being sent to Florida and arrested on another charge.
Francis, a sleazy yet handsome Benjamin Bratt look-alike, is now 34. He earns an estimated $29 million a year from the videos he personally choreographs. The charge in Florida sums it up nicely: “Using minors in sexual performances, conspiring to use minors in sexual performances and prostitution.”
Apparently, Francis did not behave so well during the resolution talks with one of his accusers. A federal judge ordered Francis to settle the case or go to jail and sentenced him to 35 days after lawyers for one of the women said he became abusive during settlement talks. Finally, Francis is also charged with misdemeanor sexual battery in Southern California for allegedly groping an 18-year-old woman at a birthday party in Hollywood.
It’s now nearly 5 a.m. Kate, c’mon on! My internal voice, my conscience – the voice of the Protestant work ethic pounded into me by my father – tells me to get in the shower and go to work. This was not the time to dissect the evils in America today – the thinly-veiled pornography, the sexism, the glorification of alcohol and drugs, and why people like Joe Francis make $29 million dollars a year when the public school teachers in Florida woke up last month to read in the local newspapers that their bonuses had just been nixed from the 2008 State budget.
KBTV::Kate's Early Years in an Hour
It’s Friday, “Cleanup Day.” This is the day I do all the crap that slips through the cracks amid the insanity of the Sunday-through-Thursday, rapid-fire schedule of reporting, writing, producing, hair and makeup, memorizing scripts, shooting, editing, e-mails, responses to viewer comments, boxing, food and sleep – in that order.
It’s raining today, on this humid, hot, dark, dank “Cleanup Day.” So, you see, the tendency is to laze and loll about in bed enveloped by the chilly air-conditioning. Hmmm.
I have a nice little bag of chocolate truffles in the fridge, a six-pack of Peach Fresca and the four-DVD set of Spike Lee’s HBO documentary, “When the Levees Broke,” still nicely, nestled in the Amazon.com corrugated, brown cardboard packaging – waiting to be viewed. No, no, no! I slip on my magenta fuzzy, terry-clothe robe, Ugg navy suede clogs and clump downstairs. Earl gray tea with lemon and sugar. OK. Clump, clump – back up the stairs to check my e-mails. (I’ve already looked at most of them from my Blackberry while still lying in bed – a brand new favorite pastime.)
Ping! Here’s comes another one (I love e-mail). It’s from a journalism student at Columbia University (my alma mater). Are we still on for our 1 o’clock interview today? She assures me, “we’ll stick to several seminal experiences in your childhood and how they impact the type, style and subject matter of your writing today.” Also, she adds, if I would “please focus on your education in the early years” and it won’t take more than an hour. My education and the early years…an hour? Try 25-to-life.
* * * * *
I've never known quite how to answer that ubiquitous question: Where are you from? I guess I could say I'm from Delaware – that's where I was born – but I didn't spend much time there as a kid because we traveled so much. Our first odyssey around Europe began when I was six. Dad moved the family to the continent for a few years while he finished a novel that was never published. Twenty-six rejections.
He had a passion for travel, fueled, in some part, by his contempt for American culture. Both he and my mother were English literature professors. My parents had developed a weird but admirable arrogance for the way Americans educate children. I remember the glee they shared when yanking us out of school – and lying to the government – to cart us off for years at a time. I guess you could say we were educated at home, well before it was cool to be home-educated.
My father took slides. He loved that ancient Nikon camera, invariably heckling us into posing for carousal upon carousal of slides. The documentary of sorts began when I was six, southern Spain, the Costa Del Sol. Our family moved to a little fishing village called La Herradura (the horseshoe).
I remember we arrived at our new home – a villa about to slide off a cliff – to find the cook, Encarna, had prepared American hamburgers. My older sister Christine, my brother Russ, and I were thrilled, my mother defeated. (She’s a foodie; she takes these things personally.) My father was – the usual – oblivious.
We were told that we wouldn't be attending the local school because Dad had seen the girls in the village. They didn't wear shoes. "The kids will turn into peasants," he told my mother.
I didn't even know what a peasant was. So as kids, we'd sit on the floor of the villa diagramming sentences and solving equations in yellowing workbooks. Until that day we realized our parents didn't check up on us anymore. The following morning, Russ and I packed our knapsacks – stuffed full of workbooks – snagged a pack of Mom's cigarettes, a couple of Cokes and sped up the cliff to an abandoned lighthouse. There we had the ceremonial burning. The workbooks went unmissed.
To be continued…
KBTV::The Meditation
Suddenly an ear-piercing sound of shattering glass sears into my consciousness, waking me from a sound sleep. Holy shit. I sit up in bed. It’s pitch black out. What time is it? I grab my Blackberry off the bedside table. 4:37 a.m. Ouch. My arm hurts from holding the umbrella yesterday during my shoot in the rain.
I swing my legs out of bed, throw on a robe and pad over in the direction from where I thought the breakage had originated. I peer outside. It looks like it’s going to storm, again. I cautiously slide open the glass door to the balcony. There in the left corner of the terrace lay a puddle of water and oddly shaped, freshly-shattered glass, dried stems and mud-tipped thorns, surrounded by a heap of decaying yellow rose petals.
Oh, that’s right. I’d put the vase out yesterday while we were shooting because it had begun to smell like a dead body. Ug, I can’t deal with this right now. I carefully slide the door shut, strip down and climb back into bed. Well, I’m up now – I might as well stay up. I open the drawer to my bedside table and pull out one of my morning meditation books:
JUNE 7: “If we believe our relationship or jobs are finite situations, then it becomes easy to feel stressed if things don’t go the way we planned in the time frame that we expected. The promotion doesn’t come in time, and now our careful career plan is off track. And relationship problems become huge, dramatic monsters – a series of issues – that eat away every space minute.
But if we believe that we are living in an intimate time frame, stress begins to dissipate. If I don’t get the promotion this week, maybe it will come next month and who knows, I may not even want it by then. Some of those big, monstrous relationship issues just sort themselves out if they’re not constantly held under a magnifying glass. And the moments spent with our loved ones become more enjoyable because we’re not continually
working on the relationship.
When we behave on a finite scale, we can get so wrapped up in the details of a few moments that we cannot free ourselves to enjoy the next moment. When we start living on an infinite plane, it is easier to relax and let the universe carry us down the river, bringing us to all the lessons and joy that we need.”
God, help me relax and know that if a situation doesn’t come to pass today, eventually it will work itself out. And I’ve got all the time I needIt’s a wonderful life, I thought. What an amazing way to begin the day.
To be continued …
KBTV::Rain. Again.
My Blackberry is singing Für Elise again, reminding me that it is 5:30 a.m. Again. It’s another three episode, back-to-back shooting day today. Again.
I shuffle out of bed and switch from Beethoven on the Blackberry to Maroon 5 on the iPod Hi-Fi in my bathroom. I grope around and finally find the high-tech gadgetry that used to be called a shower knob. I turn to face the sink and stare directly into a rapidly fogging mirror. Ooops. Yuck. I had forgotten to take off my makeup last night. Again.
Whaaaa????? Suddenly the white-bread soul poppers known as Maroon 5 suspiciously begin to sound like … Madonna? Harrumph. I guess my iPod was in “shuffle” mode, too. Kate, you are not alone.
I step out of the shower and still hear the shower. I reach back into the glass stall to find the elusive Kohler stainless steel lever positioned at three o’clock – which is the “off” spot. That I know. I look out the window. Oh, now I get it. It’s seething rain.
* * * * *
It’s noon. Barry and I are at my old house up in Hillsboro Beach. It’s pouring here too, of course. Barry is downstairs surveying the courtyard. I am standing on the porch on the second floor. The place is a complete pigsty. At some point, I think, I’ve got to actually move out of here.
“Over there.” It’s Barry. He’s outside, underneath the porch with his arm raised, pointing east. “I’ll stand under the awning. You’ll stand under an umbrella.”
A few minutes later Barry is traipsing across the courtyard with the Sony Pro camera draped in a lime-green fraying towel – the three little legs of the tripod peaking out from underneath. Five minutes after that, I am darting under a series of loosely-connected awnings clutching a four-paneled (red, white, blue, yellow) oversized umbrella.
We finally got it together, and about an hour later – we’re midway through the shoot – I hear an earsplitting … deafening, in fact … snap-crack. I shriek and very comfortably morph into “high drama mode.”
“Baaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrryyyyyy!!!!!!! What was that?????”
Barry shrugs.
Oooooohhh, I hate that! I wish he’d say something.
“Was it lighting????”His eyes narrow into a mildly amused squint. He shrugs again.
“If I get electrocuted right now – standing here precisely in the middle of this stupid courtyard shooting this crazy videoblog – and I die a charred, horrible death, what will you tell them to write on my tombstone?”Barry finally breaks into a wide grin. “She always wanted to go out on camera.”
To be continued…
KBTV::The 'Hot' Shoot
I knew I was in trouble when Barry quietly suggested: “Kate, do you want to run downstairs and grab a towel?”
I was like, “A towel? You mean a paper towel?”
“No,” he replied. “A towel, towel.”
Oh no. Help!
At that very moment, I knew it. I looked like a big sweaty mess with Rasta-like, humid hair. I had a choice. If I went downstairs – I’m so OCD – I was certain I’d dart right in to “manic touch-up mode.” If I didn’t, I would just get stickier and frizzier.
Then I saw the drop of water hit my clipboard. It might have been a bead of sweat; it might have been a tear. At that point it was 109 degrees on the roof, and to me it just didn’t matter a whole heck of a lot which type of saline body byproduct had landed on my notes with a splat. It was time to go downstairs.
Twenty minutes later, I resurfaced on the roof – nice and coiffed and ready to shoot.
“It’s now about 120, kid.” This comment was not from Barry but from one of the three contractors – the roofer to be exact – who had apparently joined us on the roof to survey the water damage caused by the monsoon on Friday night.
“Kate, let’s go.” Barry was beginning to look like a damp wash clothe.
I took a deep breath and let it fly:
“Welcome to KBTVonline … Thanks for joining … today I’m broadcasting the first part of a two-part series exploring an idea that will turn the absolutely NO SUGAR diet mantra completely on its head. Think about all those different diet strategies and food plans over the years … the Zone Diet, the Atkins Diet, and even the South Beach Diet (just down the road) …HEY … I’m sure their spokespeople would argue this … but they all basically offer the same advice on how to get the perfect body: Less sugar, more protein! Then ta da…suddenly … you’re 30 pounds lighter!”
Barry sighed – deeply – looked up at the sky (read God) and barked: “And that’s a wrap!”
To be continued…
KBTV::Experiential Journalism
I hate barbeques so much. I also despise “long-weekends” – particularly “Memorial Day,” “Labor Day,” and “The 4th of July.” Much to my irritation, these two annoying concepts often morph into one.
Yuk. BBQs. Sweaty, sweltering, forced socializing. Mushy-bacteria-ridden guacamole rotting in the sun, soggy chips in onion dip that looks like discharge from a dead man’s ear, Heineken Lite in cans that slurping bankers dotingly dub “Heinies,” shrieking children nearly splitting their heads open on concrete corners of in-ground pools, and always some poor soul – “the neighbor from across the street” – lounging in a tattered lawn chair in the shade by himself. Undoubtedly, he has just lost his job. For some reason, I always end up with the out-of-work neighbor making painfully obvious suggestions in an attempt to fit in – to blend. (“Have you checked out Monster.com?”)
Happily for the hostess, and much to my chagrin, this year was different. I found no one whom I could unleash my customary dose of Memorial-Day-Weekend-BBQ wrath. Instead, I found myself having a wonderful conversation with Ned the neighbor who told me in great detail how he’d been on his own now for nearly 27 years. Together we decided he might buy a computer in order to have pictures of his great-grandsons – who live in Detroit – sent to him over the e-mail. Just as I began to extol the benefits of AOL 9.0 for the elderly, I saw the golden retriever. He was hovering next to a picnic table. I focused my eyes to witness his long pink tongue slobber all over a freshly-grilled platter of Hebrew Nationals. That was it. I had to go.
I quickly extended my apologies, condolences and best wishes to Ned and headed for the gate. As I turned the corner of the house, I saw a beat-up yellow, tan and black striped pick-up truck. Upon closer inspection, the motor vehicle became an object d’art of sorts, a giant Bee Hive – “WillieTheBeeMan – Removal Services” – emblazoned in orange on the door.
“Are you Willy?” I asked an amused, refined African American man with a gigantic brown suede glove on his left arm, extending past his elbow.
“I am,” he replied. “And who are you?”
“Hi, I’m Kate.”
We immediately bonded over hating Barbeques. Finally I just came out with it. “I’m a video blogger and I was wondering if I could accompany you for one of your more dramatic Bee Removal House Calls?”
He shrugged. “I think I can get you a pretty nice-sized hive.”
I got his card, jumped in my new “pre-owned” BMW and zoomed off. I got it! The first story in what will be a multi-part series of what I’ll call the KBTV Experiential Episodes.
To be continued…
“
KBTV::Shooting, Shouting and Sleeping
There I stood – teetering on a wrought-iron chair in my Ugg clogs, desperately attempting to secure my bubblegum-pink dress in place and shouting over the wind. I took a deep breath…and exhaled. Okay, Kate, here goes. I looked straight into the camera and began to bellow:
“CLICK AROUND THE KBTVONLINE SITE AND MEET THE KBTV TEAM…READ BIOS AND SEE PHOTOS OF OUR SEGMENTS PRODUCERS, VIDEOGRAPHER, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER AND CREATIVE DIRECTOR…YOU CAN ALSO VIEW SEVERAL OF THE SERIES WE’VE AIRED…ON SAY THE U.S. COAST GUARD AND, OF COURSE, THE PANDA PORN SAGA.”
Tying my hair back in the pony tail turned out to be a clever move. It felt like I was in the middle of a tornado, and apparently it looked like it, too. When Barry and I came downstairs to the office to look at the tape, let’s just say the outtakes are so unbelievably hysterical that we saved them on a DVD and hid them for another time.
I sank down in the squishy taupe linen chair in front of my 24-inch brand new Dell flat screen. I began to feel all that nervous (moving!) energy seep out of my pores and to contemplate the overwhelming sleep deprivation I had endured throughout the past week.
I shut my eyes and I simply…prayed. Not a typical fox-hole-type prayer when you’re telling God that you’ll never go 80 mph in a school zone again: “God, please coax the mean police officer into giving me a warning. Please?” It wasn’t that type, but the other kind, the simple sort – a prayer of just plain old gratitude. Thank you God for getting me through it all in one piece.
It’s Sunday today, and I’ve finally finished unpacking the last box. I think it’s time for me to rest.
KBTV::The Welcome Episode
It was sometime around noon on Friday, and the weather was rainy and blustery and drizzling and just plain cruel out. Barry and I stood inside the townhouse – KBTV HQ –peering out through the glass door, wondering whether or not to make a go of it.
“I’ll stand on the chair?” I suggested with a sardonic smirk. Barry gave his all-too-familiar shrug. It’s not really a shrug, more of a definitive nod. I sprinted to the back to put on my armor while Barry hit the office to grab the equipment. We clamored up to the roof. I felt that feeling of illicit anticipation. The first hit from the roof, the first episode of KBTV to hit the new website
KBTVonline.com. Now we were officially on to the next chapter in KBTV’s development.
I climbed up on the chair in my bubblegum pink dress, rose frosted lipstick and Ugg clogs.
“Welcome to the new KBTV. We’re moving up.” I look up at the thundering sky. “We’re headquartered in a three story town house two blocks off the beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale. You may be wondering just how far up? We’re shooting on the roof.” I scanned the peachy-taupe thrice painted concrete patio, turned back to the camera, smiled and proudly avowed: “In our brand new studio!”
Just as Barry peered out from behind the camera and gave me the thumbs up, a burst of wind whipped up from behind me, suddenly giving me Barbara Streissand’s fro in her breakout film with Kris Kristofferson “A Star is Born.” I struggled to find my way out of my now uber-tousled chestnut locks. “My, I’ll throw my hair back in a pony tail,” I yelled over the wind.
To be continued…
KBTV::The First Shoot
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up with a bursting bladder and, upon reflection, had clearly forgotten I was in my “new” home – the townhouse, KBTV Headquarters. Hmm. That’s right; I’d moved … yesterday.
Clearly believing I was in my old habitat, I popped out of bed and toddled over to what used to be the bathroom in my “old” house. Light switch “on.” Why was I standing in a walk-in closet? Oops. That’s right. I’m in the “new” house. Light switch “off.”
Now desperate, I pushed on, zigzagging through stacked packing boxes – at one point landing on a wire hairbrush – finally locating the “new” loo. After a quick pit stop, I forged back into the packing-box maze, winding my way back to where I thought the “new” bed was. Then I stumbled, fell and lay pinned between a mirror and a box of shoes. I closed my eyes and lay perfectly still. Suddenly, all was right with the world. I felt peace.
Two hours later, I awoke to my Blackberry singing Beethoven’s “Fur Elise,” wedged between my reflection and umpteen pairs of so-last-season Jimmy Choos. It was 5:30 a.m.
* * * * *
Four hours later, Barry and I are sitting in the office plotting our shooting schedule for the day. I pop downstairs to grab another Peach Fresca.
“Why are you limping?” he asks.
I elucidate my nighttime adventures to and from the loo, detailing “old” loo and “new” loo issues/confusion. Barry nods his head sympathetically, slumps down a little in his chair and swivels around to face KBTV’s up-to-the-minute 30-inch flat screen attached to a MacBookPro. He leans forward, squints at the desktop icons, and grabs the mouse.
“Why didn’t you just turn on the light?”
* * * * *
We’ve decided to shoot the “Neuticals” piece on the intracoastal up by the “old” house. We walk down to the water. Barry sets up the camera on the tripod and disappears behind the lens. I tip-toe down the hill toward a dock about to collapse due to yet-to-be-fixed-Hurricane-Wilma damage. I gingerly step over the school bus yellow “caution” tape with “DO NOT STEP ON DOCK” printed in big, black, block letters. The wooden planks creak. I think it adds charm and ambience; Barry thinks it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Ok. Ready. Deep breathe. Big smile. Barry gives me the hand signal:
I’m Kate Bohner for KBTV. Neuticles – EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT – testicular implants for dogs that look and feel like the real thing – CAHUNAS … but … in all seriousness … canine experts are touting the wonderful psychological boost dog’s self-esteem by replacing what was lost after being neutered. One dog enthusiast told The New York Daily News that she and husband decided to give the gift of neuticals to their 8-year old bull mastiff. (Barry please insert picture)
His name is Truman. Isn’t he cute?
Neuticles were introduced in 1995 by an inventor from Missouri named Glenn Miller. Though it took several years for veterinarians to accept the product, Miller claims more than 230,000 pets in 49 countries have been “Neuticled” at 17,000 clinics. The procedure is performed mostly on dogs, but owners have had it done for cats, bulls, horses, monkeys — even an elephant.
CUT!And NO (!), I don’t rattle off large parts of scripts in one take. Can we just say that there was a time – very early on – when Barry called me “One Take Kate.” Although, that was when we hadn’t written copy that went further than: “Hello, I’m Kate Bohner for KBTV … Thanks for joining …”
At that point, Barry was still just fiddling with the lighting.
To be continued …
KBTV::The Move
Larry, Harry, Sandy and Russell. I was introduced to my movers one by one, as they sleepily lumbered through the front door. They wore bright blue “PRS Moving and Storage” golf shirts and spoke perfect English. Larry was missing two teeth, Harry was a school teacher (off for the summer), Sandy doesn’t eat red meat and Russell is the boss. I immediately set to bonding with Russell by telling him that his first is my middle name. “It’s Kate
RUSSEL Bohner,” I explained breaking into a big toothy smile while sticking my hand out.
“Your parents put Russell as your middle name and you’re a girl?” Russell muttered in the middle of a revealing yawn – large pink tonsils and what looked like wisdom teeth still in tact.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Kinda weird, huh?” I place my unshaken hand back in the pocket of my hot pink hospital scrubs.
“Whatever,” he continued pulling out his paperwork. “You a nurse?”
“No,” I said with my best
please-like-me beam. “I’m a videoblogger.”
“Huh. Sign here.”
Okay, apparently the game was on – real time – and I was ready to rumble. The next 10 hours were a blur – shouting to anyone who would answer, sucking down Mountain Dews, stomping up and down stairs, munching on Twizzlers, sweatin’ like a jailbird on the chain gang, and all the decisions…decisions, decisions, decisions.
Okay, leave it in garage. No, put it out to go to the other house. Nope, that piece goes to the Kennedys in Boca. Yep, that’s the second delivery. Neither, that’s the entertainment center. The one downstairs. Uh-huh, the printer goes North, I mean South. Yes, the new house…with the computer stuff. Yep, the stuff in the boxes marked “Fragile” (God, I hope so)!
Anyway, you get the picture.
Sometime in the middle of the day, we started talking about lunch. I think it was right after the bed broke. Apparently the movers who had driven my Ralph Lauren bed for 24 hours straight up from New York in an 18-wheeler had broken it first. My movers today – the gentlemen in the blue shirts – apparently just allowed it to fall apart, again, but they explained to me that they didn’t really break it – like break it for the first time. That was already broken, which is why “it came apart like a stack of toothpicks.” You know what? I believe them. The bed was in the guest room. No one had ever slept in the guest room. The one time my mom and Lynn visited, I slept on the couch downstairs in front of the TV.
Anyway, it was time to order lunch. I pull out a menu for Bru’s room, the burger joint just down the road. Sandy looks hesitant – fearful, almost nervous. I ask him what’s wrong? Had he had a bad experience at Bru’s before?
“No ma’am. I was just hoping you could get me seafood or something. You see, I don’t eat red meat.”
I don’t know why I thought that being a mover and being a vegetarian were two mutually exclusive things, but I guess I did.
I sank down on the chair next to the counter and immediately burst into tears. About 20 minutes later, I was up front in the cab of the truck with Sandy and Russell lumbering down to The Whale’s Rib – a crab shack just on the line between Palm Beach and Broward county.
To be continued…
KBTV::Waiting To Move
It’s 7:55 a.m. and I’m waiting for the movers. It’s raining. I over-nuked my oatmeal and it’s mushy, and I’m flat out of dried apricots.
The movers called … they’re almost at A-1-A … do they turn left or right? Right.
Yes, the KBTVonline Headquarters has officially relocated to a townhouse just north of Fort Lauderdale. We’ll now be two blocks from the beach and two blocks from the Intracoastal. Also, and this is where it gets exciting, we’ll be shooting from the 1,000 square-foot roof.
To be continued…
KBTV::The Shooter
Today, I had accepted my mission. I would find a shooter – more than a videographer, a cameraman with an eye, a field producer who understands audio, an editing wiz – and, an adult. That was important. We needed an adult.
I opened up my browser, and Google.com popped up. I entered various iterations of “producer,” “cameraman,” “videographer,” “cinematographer,” and “South Florida,” “Boca Raton,” “Palm Beach” and “Fort Lauderdale.”
My “search” results began to stream onto the screen of my laptop. AAAAaaaaggghhhh. I yelped and slunk down in my perfectly-ergonomically-tilted chair. What appeared before my watering eyes was a vast variety of wedding ceremony and reception ads for shooters, editors, producers – even “full-service Wedding production houses.” There were so many euphemisms! ... e.g. “bridal video clips,” “ceremony montages,” “still-frame nuptial albums.” The wedding web postings kept appearing faster and more furious with each click.
My God clearly has a sense of humor, I hissed. You see I had moved, in part, to exit one of the sickest and most destructive relationships ever (well, sometimes it was fun.) He told me marry me or we’re done. I couldn’t pull the trigger, which led me to seek Plan B – “B” for Boca Raton.
Anyway, six months after I disappeared from New York to flee the insanity and seek peace and serenity in The Tropics, my friend who is a scribe at the
Wall Street Journal, told me there were two popular, persistent rumors circulating the Manhattan cocktail party circuit about me. One, that I had run off to marry an extremely wealthy Saudi Prince (oil money), and I was now living in Dubai. Two, that I had run off to marry an extremely wealthy Saudi Prince who had decided NOT to marry me but to instead hold me captive somewhere in the hills of Afghanistan. Little did they know I would soon be videoblogging on Florida’s Gold Coast. Hmm. That would certainly shut them up.
I’m not exactly sure how it all happened. I think I remember calling a man named Steve Apple, who got me to a man named Barry Adler of Impact Media, Inc. by emailing barry@impactmediainc.com.
After I e-mailed him, I checked out his site:
Impactmedia is a full service production facility that specializes in solutions for your advertising, marketing and communications needs. We have formed a collaboration of the finest talent available in the industry, which enables us to offer limitless creativity and the opportunity to build integrated solutions that maximize our client’s marketing investment to the fullest. Our goal is to establish long term and mutually beneficial relationships with our clients. Our success is measured by the strength of our relationship and the ability to succeed together.“Solutions” … that was the word I seized on Barry’s company’s description –
Solutions. It all sounded very impressive, perhaps a little too impressive. For the first time, I felt intimidated. Before I had felt fear – that was different. I sat down to work out my strategy. Should I pretend to know what I’m doing? Hmm. He might see through that. Should I throw myself on his good mercy? No, that would be unprofessional. Okay, I thought, I’ll play it by ear. We agree to meet at my house at 9 a.m. on Tuesday.
Tuesday morning arrives and I’m feeling marvelous – confident, ready to go. Enter Barry Adler looking very “camerman” – sensible moccasins, faded blue jeans and a pressed-ish, blue flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. He was late-forties-ish, slightly graying cropped hair, friendly smile, with an air of being just a little bit bored by it all. Perfect!
We shot a couple of pieces and they turned out extremely well. Not because of me. I was a complete wreck. Barry, he was terrific. The only thing I did right that day was I kept going – no matter what – take after take after take. Let’s just say they used to call me “One Take Kate” at CNBC – perhaps I was a little rusty. Hmm.
That said, Barry and I seemed to get each other and after a few days shooting, I realized that I had struck gold, yet again. Barry is smart, creative, technically terrific, and he’s been around for two decades – nothing rattles him.
Barry agreed to work twice a week (although I usually eek another day out of him.) We turn six KBTV episodes a week – soup to nuts. He has since become the bolt of the KBTV team. My batty great-aunt used to say: “Katie, every nut needs its bolt!” Except in the case of TEAM KBTV, the nuts certainly outweigh the bolts.
To be continued...
