***Please Note: I wrote this way back when I first started this blog but never posted it for various reasons. Taking a second look at it recently, it seemed worth tossing out there, especially for TV types.***That's what she said. Looking over the tops of her half-lens readers, while not looking up her from her laptop and in my eye, that's what she said.
She said, "It's not all about you, Vince."
Her trace drippy Texas twang made "Vince" come out more like "Vayyyhhhnce." I didn't like this woman. It wasn't the Texas twang, either.
This was our second meeting - I didn't like her from our first. Why? She was a boob, that's why. She was a fashion consultant masquerading as a talent coach. They're not one and the same. Somehow, she'd fooled others into believing they were. Maybe it was that Texas twang, maybe it made her sort of a "swait thaing," know what I mean?
She was very organized, probably over-organized.
Organization Is The Sign of A Weak Mind. I saw it on a sign one time - I've witnessed it firsthand countless times along the streets and avenues of life. She was organized, proper, a bit haughty. She was all that and a bag of BBQ Fritos.
I'd been coached by talent consultants several times over my TV years. A few times in radio, too.
Here's how it works; someone who thinks they know more than you steps into your life and tells how to get better than you are. It's pretty standard stuff.
Never mind that near none of them ever worked eight minutes in front of a camera. I guess they'd read all the books, consumed every shred of research, and found that dream job of showing guys like me a better way to do things. Maybe they were all blessed, gifted.
Or maybe they were latter day snakeoil sales consultants whose major skill was knowing how to manipulate the system. I'm going with that.
My suspicions began when I realized that everything she was suggesting I do was the polar opposite of what every other coach/consultant before her had told me. But, I held my tongue, kept my counsel, shut the pie-hole. It was a struggle.
My instincts were to stop her cold and say,
"You're a goddammed fraud, and you know it, don't you?"I didn't. I listened. But sometimes people just don't know when to stop. They force the issue. The pick, they poke, then they keep poking at that beehive until the swarm takes their face.
"And I really need to talk to you about that outfit. The shirt, tie, and suit are completely mismatched.
My fuse had been smoldering some, now it was sizzling, speeding, heading towards detonation.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Hey, how's that for a show-stopper?
"I said they do not match." Now her eyebrows were arched a bit, as was that Texas twang.
"They match perfectly! In fact, when I picked up the suit, the mens' shop owner tossed in the shirt and tie for free. Of course they match, they match like they came out of GQ."
I could see her hands twitch. The Yellow Rose of Texas was not accustomed to a challenge. She was taking a second to compose herself. I fired another round before she could take aim.
"Look, my wife has exquisite taste. Do you think for a second that she'd let me wear an outfit that looked bad. Besides, I know how to dress myself quite well."
It was the mention of
my wife that did it. I knew it immediately. I'd called her on her fashion sense, told her my wife's was equally as good, maybe even better. I awaited a Texas Stampede.
Instead, things got really weird. She went into what I can only describe as a sort of semi-trance in which she began repeating affirmations in a somewhat unsettling, at least to me, mantra-like state.
Tex here had apparently been through some sort of self-help program and paid big bucks to learn this exercise. She wasn't going to let me get the best of her. No sir, especially not a Yankee like me.
Spooky as it was, it was short-lived. In under a minute she was back into her laptop, this time criticizing my performance in front of the camera, telling me that I moved around too much, that I was too animated.
(It's television, you're supposed to move. Otherwise, you might as well be part of an oil painting. Like the one of Lincoln on his death bed, the one with seventeen dozen people in the room. If they'd all really been in that one room, the building would have collapsed.)
"Well, of course I move around. I've been doing that for years, it's how I work."
That one went unanswered. Now, it was my hair she didn't like.
"You need to freshen up your hair style, it's too long. I'd like you to get out today and have it cut much, much shorter."
"Yeah, well I'd like you to suck my shorts, sister." That one went unspoken. No words were really necessary.
We were clearly at war.
She was subduing her human instincts with some sludge she'd picked up at a three-day "You Can Turn Your Life Around" seminar that likely cost her five or six grand. I was climbing back into the trees, looking for a hard banana to lob at her.
"Look, you really need to understand something: It's not all about you, Vayyyhhhnce."
You wanna bet? Her comes that hard banana.
"You look," I snarl through gritted teeth, "it is all about me, all of it is about me. It is all about me, and each and every one of us who work in front of the camera."
And I ain't near done yet. That was only my warm-up banana...
"You've got no idea what the hell you're talking about, do you? People out there can get weather anywhere. But they don't get it anywhere. They get it here. Why? Because I'm here, that's why. That makes it all about me, now doesn't it? TV is a popularity contest, whether you like it or not. The more people that like you, the more that watch you. Have you bothered to take a look at the research on me? You couldn't have. If you had, you'd know it was all about me."With that, I was done, spent, and in full realization that I had just lost control, which was really stupid. I've long been my own worst enemy. Damn, I was angry, mostly with myself for launching on Tex, who was now mumbling, sputtering, and generally looking like she was going to come apart at any instant. I was even more POed at myself for saying such idiotic, immodest, boastful crud. True as it all was, I was ashamed of myself.
The meeting was over. I walked away. I don't know what she did. Maybe she sent out for a Xanax hoagie. She wasn't happy. Tough dog turds, neither was I.
As I often say, all good stories need a beginning, a middle, and an end. Here comes the end.
It took awhile before the realization fell upon me that she'd been encouraged to rough me up, to whack at me like a pinata. My immediate superior(which he was not in any sense of the word)wanted me gone, wanted to fire me...he couldn't. He need some ammo to convince corporate that I was a liability. I was not. I was one of the best things they had, and that's not a lack of modesty, that's verifiable, certifiable truth.
But it was inevitable. He got me. First, a demotion. Five years later, I was fired. All in all, it took five years, by which time he was gone, he'd been fired. So, who won?
Tex and me had one more encounter...a very pleasant one at that.
We were at a station sponsored cocktail hour. She sat next to me. She smiled. I smiled back. She said something nice about the suit I was wearing. I thanked her properly. We had a bit of a chat, all small-talk and nothing more.
Yet sure as I sit here writing this, I sat right next to Tex that night and knew, just knew, that she'd felt very guilty about attacking me on orders from him, the guy who wanted me gone. All was well between me and Tex after all.
