Sean Hannity sat in one of two matching dark wood chair with green leather seats in the office at the end of the hall on the third floor of 1211 Avenue of the Americas in New York City. The office formed the southeast corner of the building facing the traffic driving north on Sixth Avenue. The digital clock on the desk that faced Sean Hannity read 5:32. It was January, and there was a light snow falling outside the floor to ceiling windows of the corner office. The sun was setting and the car headlights danced on the snowflakes.
Sean Hannity had his right leg crossed over his left leg. His right foot was air tapping, and his back hurt. Hannity rubbed his hands on the armrests and could feel the sweat in his palms. He had been sitting for ten minutes, waiting for a meeting that was called by Roger Ailes. He looked to his right and out the open door of Mr. Ailes’s office; the well-lit office corridor was trafficked with earnest young interns and other administrative staff. No sign of Mr. Ailes.
The door to the left of the Mr. Ailes’s desk opened. Roger Ailes emerged. Sean Hannity did not know that Mr Ailes’s had his own private bathroom installed. Sean stood.
“Been here long?” asked Ailes.
“No. Just arrived,” said Sean. Sean was not certain why he lied. It was a sign of weakness. He knew that. But he felt compelled.
Roger Ailes sat in his large chair. Sean was waiting for Ailes to give him a sign to sit. But Ailes did not do so. So after an awkward moment watching Ailes shuffle some papers around, Sean took his seat.
“You wanted to see me?” asked Sean.
“That is why you are here,” said Ailes without looking up from his papers.
“Is everything OK?” asked Sean.
“We have some interesting information,” said Ailes. “Did you ever hear of the amygdala?” asked Ailes.
“The what?” said Sean.
“They are two almond-size parts of the brain. Deep inside,” said Ailes.
“Ah hah. OK. No, I never heard of them,” said Sean.
“They are interesting little suckers. They respond emotionally to stimuli. When the amygdala is not responding, the brain is not really interested,” said Ailes.
Sean had no idea where this was going. “OK. Cool,” said Sean.
“And the amygdala of people watching you on TV are not responding, Sean. That is a problem, ” said Ailes.
“I don’t get what you are saying,” said Sean.
“We commissioned a study to monitor the amygdala of people viewing our programs. It is very interesting,” said Ailes.
“How do they do that?” said Sean.
“Never mind how they do it. But the results have made us take a second look at our programming,” said Ailes.
“So you are saying that these things did not respond to my show?” asked Sean.
“I am saying that they did not light up to you, Sean. You are not making any emotional connection to our viewers,” said Ailes.
“I have to disagree, Mr. Ailes. I get emails everyday…”
“Fuck the emails,” said Ailes, cutting off Sean. “Emails mean nothing. This study goes much deeper than emails and anecdotal evidence. And it tells us that you are a dud, Sean,” said Ailes.
Sean knew that he had recently re-negotiated his contract, so this could not be some kind of tactic to pay him less money. “But sir, the Nielson ratings show that I am very popular in my time slot,” said Sean.
“We do not rely just on the unreliable Nielsons, anymore, Sean. We are going for the core of what touches our viewers. Let’s take your show with Sarah Palin, for example,” said Ailes.
Sean felt good about talking about his interview with Palin. It won that time slot hands down, one of the most watched shows of the week. Sean smiled.
“Yeah, that was a hit,” said Sean.
“Sarah Palin was a hit. The amygdala lit up like halogen bulbs when Palin was on screen and talking. They went dark when you were o screen talking. I could have had a dog sitting in your chair and we would have had a hit show with Sarah Palin,” said Ailes.
Sean tried not to take offense. “You are overstating it. A bit, don’t you think,” said Sean. “How did O’Reilly do on these tests?” asked sean.
“O’Reilly lights up the amygdala just fine. Here’s the problem, we think. You are an ass-kisser. You ass kiss everyone you agree with. The viewers know this. There is no drama when it comes to you, Sean. They know what you are going to say. And you say it. You are predictable. In fact, you are ass kissing me right now. You are fundamentally, a bore. And we never would have known this without those little amygdala telling us the truth,” said Ailes.
Sean re-adjusted himself in the chair. “You want me to challenge people more, is that it,” said Sean.
“This is a warning. You better do something. Because I ain’t going to keep paying what I am paying to have you just sit there and be predictable,” said Ailes as he picked up the telephone in response to a ring.
“Yes. OK, I will take it,” said Ailes into the receiver. Ailes covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. “I have to take this, so…”
Sean stood, Ailes returned to his phone call. Sean walked out of the corner office into the brightly lit corridor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hannity,” said a young intern with long blond hair as she passed Sean heading for the corner office. Sean nodded, put his hands in his pockets and walked back to his office.
President George W. Bush sat in one of the two three-cushioned couches in the Oval Office on the morning of Wednesday, November 8th. There were several newspapers lying on the plush rug, unopened, unread, but with banner headlines in large black letters. Newspapers were routinely delivered to President Bush, and Bush routinely ignored them. Afterall, why read newspapers. They were written by journalists who went to college and through osmosis became soaked in a liberal view of the world. Bush did not need to read that. And the banner headlines, which Bush saw at the corner of his eye, had exclamation points, or if they didn’t, they sure as hell should have. The editors could not help but have erections at the election last night. The Democrats were back, and the media was peeing on themselves with glee. But you see, this is where they have it all wrong, thought George W. Bush. Because it was George who was happy. If the Democrats think President Bush was going to crawl under a rock and let them control things, they were as thin and liberal as he always suspected. Bush already had a plan. In Bush’s view, he would rather nuke an American city and make it look like an attack by Islamic terrorists than suddenly go soft. Sometimes you had to do crazy things to save the world. More importantly, sometimes you had to do crazy things to save America. Americans can be idiots, thought Bush. Just because a few Americans die in Iraq, a sandy shithole, they all start to get scared or so soft. Soft. That’s what Demorcats are: soft. Nope. Not George. Now was the true test of his character. God was testing him. Now George W. Bush was really going to show them who was boss. Bush smiled. This was a message from God. It was time to get tough. He had just two more years. He was going to make the most of it. George Bush stood and stepped on the newspapers and walked to the Oval Office bathroom to take a dump. He always liked taking a dump when he felt pumped for a fight. Yeah.
The sun stated to rise over the eastern hills of Beirut, the beams cutting through the clouds of dust that hung in the air from the Israeli bombs that fell several buildings. Most of the automobiles on the streets in this southern neighborhood of Beirut were crushed under rubble. There were even fee appliances on the street, like refrigerators and stoves as well as furniture. On this strip, the center of the Beirut Shia community, there were sofas and upholstered chairs. An odd collection of pancake cars, kitchenware, living room furniture and an occasional bed. And everything was covered in light grey dust, the product of blown concrete and wallboard. In the center of this street were the remains of what was once a very large building, formerly fourteen stories tall and a block. It had been the offices of Hezbollah, as well as the Hezbollah health clinic and various charities. A pyramid of rubble, maybe four stories in height, formed a symbolic citadel in the center of the Hezbollah neighborhood.
Several armed Hezbollah officers were picking through the rubble, removing cinderblocks and twisted metal. When they created a large enough hole in the bottom of the pyramid, it became apparent that they were revealing a steel door that was unscathed by the pounding received by the building. The door opened, and the Hezbollah officers immediately snapped to attention and saluted with their right hands, a ritual that seems to have been adopted by all the military cultures around the world.
Sheik Hassan Nasrallah emerged from the steel door. Nasrallah was covered with dust, his hair was filthy from the lack of bathing in the last two weeks, and as he collected himself, adjusting his shirt and torn pants, he spit out a large wad of wet wallboard dust that he had sucked into his lungs as he hoisted himself up the six flights of stairs from the deep basement bunker below the building. Nasrallah rubbed his eyes and saw the Hezbollah officer holding the Hezbollah flag. There was another officer holding the Lebanese flag. The officers awaited instructions.
“Today we plant the Hezbollah flag on top of this building to show the world we have not only survived, but that we declare victory,” said Nasrallah.
“Yes, sir,” said the officer holding the Hezbollah flag.
“And when do we hoist the Lebanese flag?” asked the officer standing next to the soldier holding the Lebanon flag at an angle, letting the tip of the flag drag on the dust pavement.
“When the time is right. But that time is not now. Get the cameras and let the CNN reporters into the area so they can show the world that we declare victory. But get to the top of the this mess with the Hezbollah flag before CNN gets here, and put away the Lebanon flag. When CNN arrives, we shall plant the flag,” said Nasrallah.
The soldier holding the Lebanon flag ran down the street to hide it. And the officer with the Hezbollah flag started to climb the pyramid of rubble to get ready to plant the flag at the top.
“And get me cleaned up for CNN. I can’t claim victory looking like this,” said Nasrallah.
One of the Hezbollah officers thought that Sheik Hassan Nasrallah was a genius. Nasrallah always made it a point to appear filthy and bedraggled for his army, showing them that he was in the fight along with them. But for the world, he would clean up and show them that he came out of battle unscathed. The Sheik was a master of leadership. They had fought hard, thought the officer. And though his Shia neighborhood lied in ruins, though Lebanon’s ecopnomy was destroyed, though hundreds of civilians’ lives were killed and thousands misplaced, Hezbollah was declaring victory. As the officer stood among the Shia ghost village in southern Beirut, he felt pride . He was not sure what the victory was, but it did not matter, because he felt pride as he watched his fellow officer stumble up the rubble to plant the Hezbollah flag. Afterall, a flag is more important that food, running water, hospitals and schools. A flag meant you were a survivor. And to survive means pride. And to feel pride is really what it was all about.
Katie Couric swung the door open to the penthouse suite at the Ritz Carlton Huntington Hotel in Pasadena, California. The door slammed on the wall making a very loud boom and bounced back almost hitting Sean McManus as he entered from behind. It was 7:34 PM, but the early evening sun hung over the distant Pasadena hills, cutting through the smog and the 106 degree heat. Katie through her bag down on the couch and walked up to the window looking at the palm trees that were drooping in the oven-like air. Sean McManus closed the door to the hotel room gently.
“I told you I didn’t want questions,” said Katie.
‘Of course you were going to get questions, Katie. That’s what happens when you appear at these functions,” said Sean.
“This was my idea, this Eye on America tour, not yours. I am in control of this, and I told you this would happen if we came here,” said Katie, without turning, still standing at the hotel window.
‘You have to face the media at some point, Katie,” said Sean.
“I am the fucking media. Do you get that? I don’t have to face anything,” said Katie.
“You’re pissed they asked you about what you were going to wear at your debut?” asked Sean.
“My debut? My debut? You think I am a debutante? It is not my goddamn debut. It is merely my first night in the fucking chair, OK,” said Katie.
“OK. OK,” said Sean.
“And I am going to get tired real fast if all anyone gives a shit about is what I am wearing or what makeup stylist I am using. I am becoming, in fact I am the CBS News Anchor with a capital ‘A,’ and I dictate what is news and what is not news. And my goddamn wardrobe is not news,” said Katie.
“OK. OK,” said Sean.
“And this fucking Television Critics Association whatever meeting, who the fuck are these people? Television critics? Don’t they have anything better to do? The world is blowing up and they are asking me about Dan Rather, like he matters anymore, for chrissake,” said Katie.
“You handled everything well. You didn’t lose your cool,” said Sean.
“Of course I didn’t lose my cool. I smiled through the whole thing. That’s what you are paying me for, to keep this fucking smile on my face even though I am dealing with idiots and morons. Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to keep this smile going? It is worth twenty million dollars this fucking smile, twenty mil a year, and I can turn it off anytime I want. Like right now. See. Am I smiling? Am I smiling? No. But with the camera, with the fucking lights, when it matters, I will smile. And I will keep smiling, Sean, to keep you and CBS happy,” said Katie as she turned to face Sean McManus, the President of CBS News.
“That’s good, Katie,” said Sean.
“So you better fucking do one thing, and that is keep me happy. I don’t need this shit. I have everything I want. So keep me happy, and I will keep smiling. And don’t think the two million dollar monthly paycheck is keeping me happy. That keeps me neutral. Neutral, got that,” said Katie.
“OK. OK. Got it,” said Sean.
“A bottle of champagne. Order room service. We’ll start there,” said Katie as she sat on the couch and removed her high heels.
“Yes. Of course. Of course,” said Sean.
Bill Keller sat in a cherry-wood chair with arms and a dark green cracked leather seat. The chair was by itself near an old window in an old room of the old New York Times building on West 43rd Street in Manhattan. Everything was old in The New York Times Building, and sometimes this comforted Bill Keller, and at other times he hungered to get out of there and move to the new headquarters under construction on Eighth Avenue and 40th Street. Old versus new. His newspaper was under siege because he made the editorial decision to publish an article about the Federal Government’s program of reviewing all, or at least randomly, private financial transactions with the voluntary cooperation of banking institutions. The Federal Government’s examination of private financial transactions was not necessarily illegal. Indeed, it was arguably based on clear legal precedent, not to mention statutory authority. Indeed, when Keller first learned of the program, he was surprised that Federal officials mounted a major effort to convince him not to disclose the existence of the financial monitoring. Their argument was simple. They said that it took months, if not years, to convince the major banking institutions to cooperate in permitting Federal examiners to review all private financial transactions. In essence, the Federal government wanted the ability to sit down with the banks’ computers and look at everything, all transactions, major and minor, with names, addresses, past records, security information, source of funds, anything and everything the bank was privy to, the government wanted to be privy to. The Feds argued that the banks were essentially disclosing information that their customers arguably would consider confidential, and so the banks were obviously skittish. It would be bad public relations for them to admit to their banking clients that their financial lives were an open book to the Federal government. Disclosure of the program, so the Feds argued to Bill Keller, would scare off the banks and terminate their cooperation. The argument was spearheaded by John Negroponte, the National Intelligence Director.
Bill Keller heard the argument. He felt that the argument was not bullshit, that the Feds were being upfront about the reason, which made him inclined to respect their advice. Indeed, it was an ‘Old School’ instinct to balance the various concerns, both public and private, government and journalistic. The old building he was in, with the piles of paper that The New York Times still created in this digital world gave Bill Keller a sense of moving forward with prudence. The ‘New School’ had nothing to do with prudence. The internet had made everything an open book. And no one cared about balancing anything. If it was there, and someone had access to it, it would end up on the internet. The digital age had made Bill Keller’s job more difficult. He now had to keep an eye on the internet, holding back as long he thought it proper, but only when he thought it proper. His governing rule was to try to come up with a reason not to publish, not to disclose. And quite frankly, even with ‘Old School’ thinking, the skittishness of banks was not a good reason to withhold information. If the banks were skittish, they were skittish for a reason. If the banks were compromising people’s financial transactions, then of course they would be skittish. People should know. The government should pass legislation giving the Feds the right to make the banks disclose, taking the burden off the banks and letting the public know that when they transact money, someone will be looking.
So ‘Old School’ Bill Keller decided to go with the story and publish the article. The phone was ringing off the hook. People were calling for his head. People were threatening to punish The New York Times.
Bill Keller thought about the old building he was in. He would miss it. Next year, he would be moving into one of the most high-tech facilities in the world, the most connected, the most digital, the most highly linked up information center on the planet, and he wondered if he would be able to hold onto his ‘Old School’ philosophy. Why should he, he thought. Afterall, look where it got him this morning. But then, this was also news.
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