Archive for April, 2009
For years I would never wear sunglasses. I thought people would think I was trying too hard to be cool. I felt the same way about blogs when they came along. Despite telling clients to blog, no way I was going to publish my personal diary. But yesterday, I found a report card for a summer internship I did at the pre-Maria Bartiromo CNBC.
Eighteen years later, that ugly C on my report card is my inspiration for getting back in to the media (albeit new media) game through my lowly little blog.
In ’91 I desperately wanted to be in the news media. The first Asian male on NBC News, I thought. Really, any role would do so long as my name scrolled down the credits. I elbowed my way into two separate internships — one at NBC News and the other at CNBC. Three days a week I took the train into midtown; the other three I puttered along the Cross Bronx Expressway to Fort Lee.
My role at NBC couldn’t have been more insignificant. I archived video footage for use by the news and production teams. My title should’ve been ‘assistant intern to the should-be-retired video librarian.’ I watched hours of footage a day with the occasional shot of running a tape to the news team. It wasn’t so bad, though. Phil Donahue was on my floor and I did have the opportunity to run by him and smile. Phil remembers. The worst part was having to watch footage of Greg Louganis hitting his noggin on a diving board — not once, but 4 times.
Over in the Garden State, I was a bit more on the front lines. I worked with a production team on some cool shows. My boss was Steve Livingstone. For the sake of credibility, that’s his real name. He busted his hump to cut a package, book a guest or make the talent happy. He was a machine and I did everything I could to be just like him. Except…
…for the day when he whited-out the A and gave me the most expensive C I’ve ever paid for.
Steve asked me to sneak a tape out of the NBC News archives that he couldn’t seem to get through the proper channels. He asked me several times and I blew it off till finally I said it wasn’t going to happen. And looking back now, the only thing I wish I had the chutzpah to say then was ‘go pound sand.’
I made a left turn from the news media from there and blew my shot at being Maria Bartiromo’s key grip without even knowing it! Well, at least I don’t have to get up early to wash both faces.
Now, where are my sunglasses?
- Jose Mallabo
450 + 150 + 40 = 640
That’s the combined weight of a Kawasaki Ninja 650R with me and 3 days of gear strapped to the top of it. You can imagine just how strong the crosswinds were to be blowing that kind of weight left and right across an 8-foot wide lane like it were a ball bearing in a Pachinko machine.
During the last 19 miles of what was otherwise a spectacular 675 mile ride up and down the California coast through Mendocino, the great redwoods, the land of Big Foot and up to Eureka, I all of a sudden was in a blender of 50 mph wind. A blender that Moses himself may have plugged in.
My speedometer said 55 mph. I could hear the motor running and exhaust blaring. And I clearly was pointed west, but I felt like my tires were stapled to the asphalt while taking vicious southbound left hooks of wind to the right side of my head and rib cage.
During normal conditions, you ride vertically to go straight. Leaning left to turn left and right to turn right. But on a stretch of road no more than 20 minutes from home I was leaning hard right to go straight while dancing precariously on the left yellow line of the road. If you’ve ever looked at the shrapnel of debris just left of that line, you know it’s not a good place to be driving anything short of an Abrams tank or a water buffalo.
As I looked down at that yellow paint directly under my left foot there were no words, but only that “oh fuck” feeling that under these circumstances aren’t words but is in fact a state of being. Like happiness. Or anger.
About 2-3 minutes into this ridiculousness, the thought of pulling over crossed my mind. I quickly dismissed that option because waiting on the side of the road for the wind to die down would guarantee on thing and only one thing for when I decided to restart my motor: darkness.
Head down. Maintain white knuckle grip. Lean hard right and keep front tire pointed west.
The problem was there were 15 more miles of this hell to deal with. I tried to psyche myself up for the challenge like I was a character in a Steinbeck man vs. nature novel.
“King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on me!” I shouted in my already very noisy helmet.
“King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on me!”
Looking back now, it sounded very little like Denzel and a lot more like “Gingko’s main God almonds on knee!” Whatever. It got me through the first few miles of this last leg of my trip.
But like any motivational speech, I got bored with it quickly and had to find something else. For some reason Lieutenant Dan jumped into my head. I couldn’t get the image of him shouting at the heavens on Forrest’s boat out of my mind. As I continued to take shots to the head and chest from the wind I thought “why the hell am I challenging God to knock me off my bike?!”
Stupid is as stupid does.
It took me about 30 minutes to ride through those 19 miles. I got home and immediately felt good about myself. Not just because I got through that windstorm. But I completed my first real motorcycle adventure. 675 miles. I survived retirees driving RV’s that were pulling SUV’s up narrow, winding roads. I survived a plate of bad tuna on the first night of my trip. I survived stoned neo-hippies walking aimlessly across my path. I survived soccer mom’s driving while text messaging.
15 minutes after pulling my bike gear off while folding laundry, I actually thought maybe King Kong had nothing on me…
That giant sucking sound isn’t the wind. It’s the air of my ego leaking out of the ball-bearing sized hole in it. While I may have cheated a severe limp and some road rash, I couldn’t escape the one universal truth in life: No one — not King Kong, not Lieutenant Dan — has the constitution to lie in wet sheets.
- Jose Mallabo