The newsman or woman stares at you intently and seemingly without blinking. However you may have fixed yourself up, you look like a jar of paste next to their cosmetically perfect selves. Whatever magic gives their skin its rosy orange-ish glow, it appears flawless and without pores.
They are incredibly into what you have to say–for three to four minutes–and you can see the flicker of panic in their eyes when you go on too long. They turn away and face the camera, giving it a look as warm and cozy as the one they’ve given you. They repeat the words on the screen–where you’re reading and when. Cut to commercial and weather. You are, unseated, un-miked, and hustled offstage. A voice says: “guitar player” and the next guest is hurried on.
It’s so fast you come away a bit dizzy, having no idea if you’ve made sense or sounded like a babbling fool, if you looked okay or had bits of giblets jiggling under your chin.
Radio, now that’s a different matter. On the radio you can be young and radiant. You can hold forth for up to an hour, sounding as wise as Solomon.