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Two weeks ago, I thought I had what was a slam dunk interview: Celebrity wants ink to promote book; journalist wants interview to fill space. An even exchange. Everybody happy. But noooooooooo.
Burt Reynolds, who has written an autobiography called My Life, had a hissy fit in his suite during our interview. He grabbed my questions, crumpled them up in a little ball and then ripped up my reporter's notebook and ground the shreds into th e carpet and virtually booted me out of his room. I wonder what he thought: That I didn't have a memory. . . or a mouth?
I do the Ronn Owens show on KGO Radio the next morning -- comparing notes with Owens, who had experienced some of the same diva-like meltdown when Reynolds took exception to just about everything Owens said and made threatening gestures to him off-mike .
"What did YOU say to make him so mad?" Owens asked.
"Hello."
Meanwhile, Jeannie Williams of USA Today got wind of it, and that is when this reporter became the story as much as the tabloid-vaccinated Mr. Reynolds. Of course, early Thursday morning, tab editors read USA Today along with everyone els e, including news directors and every D.J. in the country.
That morning, my phone began to ring. By Friday it was white hot. By the time I left town in a rented car on Sunday, I had done 22 interviews, including the Associated Press, Los Angeles Times, A Current Affair, cut-ins for channels 4 an d 5, a lengthy interview with a columnist for Burt's home paper, the Palm Beach Post, three national tabloids, one from London, and a smattering of radio stations, including one in Palm Beach.
I ignored requests from stations in Portland, Phoenix, Sacramento, Chicago and points east. I also agreed to have my picture taken for an image bank and fell for the oldest ruse in the world. The guy was on assignment for the Midnight Globe an d lied to me. Meanwhile, another tab, the National Star, was offering me money for my picture. The calls escalated so that by Saturday, the guy on the Star photo desk in New York was up to six calls a day. "Just tell us where you'll be and w hat you look like, we'll just grab a shot," he said. Then, changing his tack, "Tell us the name of a friend and we'll get a party photo of you from them. Nobody will have to know. We'll pay you."
I am fast fraying at the edges. I have devoted all of Friday to the media maw, telling my story. My own work is languishing. My deadlines have been blown. And the San Francisco Examiner publicist, who jumped into this thing when it was already o ut of control, was stoking the fire. Film crews from American Journal and Hard Copy trek through the newsroom. I hide in the bathroom. Sharon Rosenhause, the managing editor, is incensed. "Why aren't you doing these shows?" I tell her that < i>A Current Affair was enough.
Anent to that: My son-the-lawyer in Ohio calls me up and says: "I saw my mother on national TV. Waaaaaaay f------ cooooooool."
Anent to that anent: An old boyfriend hears me on Ronn Owens, calls and asks me out. Volunteers his place at Stinson Beach if the spotlight gets to hot. By Sunday, it is. I was ready to bail and I did. Just left the story lying there, breathing and mut ating like some Beast.
There are people, I understand, who would give their right arm to be in Herb Caen. They even hire publicists to get them there. There are others who spill their guts to Geraldo or Montel or Phil or Oprah. They tell their inmost secrets. They reveal thi ngs I wouldn't t want to know about my best friend. And I am finding myself caught up in this same slipstream, unable to do my legitimate work.
When the reporter becomes the story, it may be good PR, but it sure isn't t conducive to work. And unlike the other 99.999 percent of those who feel legitimized by being in print or on TV, I really only want to do my job. Being on the other side of t he pen -- the interviewee -- is not at all where I feel comfortable.
I've been trying to figure that out. I think it's the loss of control. They don't spell your name right. Sometimes, as was the case with the L.A. Times, they don't even ask. Just for the record: It's one B, folks. Robins with one B. Then they do n't quote you right. Like: Burt. . . I am NOT going to sue you. The thought never entered my mind.
My 15 minutes of fame took three days. And it started me thinking about what I do. Are we really on the side of the angels? Or are we so-called "Legitimate Journalists" just part of this same hungry, insatiable media maw?
Being a reporter on a story is a lot like starting a new love affair. The adrenalin is high. The romance factor, huge. And it's all over before boredom has a chance to set in.
In the case of Mr. Reynolds and his ongoing personal woes, the story hasn't t had a chance to get cold, old or boring. The public never gets enough, and the media mouth keeps chewing. This time it's caught a journalist in its slavering jowls. I have th is ongoing nightmare, see. That for my 25-year career, I will always be "The Babe Who Bested Burt."
Meanwhile, as much as I'd like to stab this sucker with my own "steely knife, " I'm gonna, as RuPaul would say, "work it, girl." What I'm going to do is Geraldo. Yeah, I'm going tab TV. Stoke the fire a little more. I figured, why the hell not . I might get work.
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