MOLLY CODDLING IN THE MOHAWK VALLEY
Part One
Wednesday,
May 10th Teterboro Airport, 2:15 P.M.
I climb aboard I-Force One as our departure is to take place sometime within a one hour
slide between 3 and 4 P.M.. Myluck, I would
be on the tarmac at 3:02, only to watch the G-4 taking off over my head, my hair being
singed on the contrail, the face of a gloating and impatient I-Man pressed against the
window, maniacally laughing at my tardiness. So
I arrive a good forty five minutes early just to be safe, and yet Eric Spitz, our stand in
program director is already on board, seated, and halfway through the New York Times. Eric is taking the place of our beloved Mark
Chernoff, who is out of town for a manager's meeting with our parent broadcasting company. He will be in Las Vegas at the Mandelay Bay, we,
on the other hand, will be chillin' at the Dexter Hotel in Albany. As Mark doesn't drink or gamble, and I do, I have
offered to swap places with him. Unfortunately,
the idea was rejected, as his Clinton impression is not quite as good as mine. Reluctantly, I agree to take a bullet for the
show. Eric appears nervous. It is understandable, as ot only is this his first
remote, he has drawn the inauspicious fortune of being in charge after the 'Incident at
Scranton'. He tries to make cheerful small
talk, innocuous comments about the weather and his anticipation of returning to his old
stomping grounds, as he attended college at SUNY Binghamton. He laughs uneasily when I remind him that Albany,
not Binghamton, is the State Capital.
3:59 P.M.
We are all in our seats waiting for takeoff as Imus finally arrives, and in surprisingly
good humor, considering the temperature in the limo exceeded the 72 degrees called for in
his contract. There is definitely some
tension in the air, and I can't decide if it's because we are apprehensive as to what the
next 48 hours will bring, or the sushi I had for lunch was less than 'Ocean Fresh'. Eric asks if there's anything the I-Man wants or
needs. 'You to die.' Imus replies curtly,
pistol whipping Mr. Spitz briefly before settling into his chair and putting on his
seatbelt.
4:25 P.M. Albany
International Airport
After what feels like the longest flight I've ever taken, we finally touch down in Albany. Thankfully, the trip to the hotel is brief,
although not short enough for Imus, who takes out his frustration and impatience with the
local limo drivers. He says it's because both
cars are white, effectively making the 3 and a half minute trip akin to 'Going to the
Senior Prom'. He gets behind the wheel and
backs over both chauffeur's heads. They are
taken to a local hospital where, we are informed later, they are 'resting comfortably'.
4:29 P.M. Dexter Hotel
The Dexter is a lovely hotel, designed like an Early American Village, with faux shoppe
facades surrounding the center courtyard, giving it a 'Colonial Williamsburg' feel. A schoolchild confuses the I-Man for an actor
playing the part of 'Ethan Allen'. Imus
holds the young whippersnapper's head beneath the previously still and serene pool water. He lets the little boy up just before the little
tyke loses consciousness. He must be in a
good mood.
6:37 P.M Scrimshaw's Restaurant
After being VERY disappointed by the quality of the Pay Per View Porn in the Room,
(They're edited so severely, they're virtually all seven minutes worth of grainy footage
of the backs of heads) I go downstairs to meet the boys for dinner. I find Eric Spitz in the bar, having an Amstel,
and davening. He is praying for deliverance
from another Scranton type disaster under his watch.
It's realize he's nervous as he bites through his beer glass. The fact that it's a pint-sized mug shows me just
how nervous he is. Although I'm sympathetic
to his plight, I can't resist the temptation to excuse myself to 'go to the bathroom' and
then call from the house phone in the lobby to have him paged. He comes to the phone, and in my best Imus voice,
I inform him that I am in the limo on my way back to the airport. I'm refusing to do the remote as the temperature
of the coffee sent up by room service is below the required temperature of 160 degrees
Farenheit. Moments later, paramedics arrive. It seems Eric has tried to slit his wrists with a
clam knife from the raw bar.
Thursday, May 11th, Dexter Hotel
Ballroom- 5:03 A.M.
Despite the early hour, there are at least three hundred people waiting in the audience
for the radio magic to begin. Everyone looks
to the doorway, anticipating the arrival of the I-Man.
Even though he hasn't indicated otherwise, there is still some doubt that he will
actually show up. Eric doesn't appear to be
all that concerned, probably the result of the sedatives given to him in the emergency
room last night. I ask him if he's got any
left. He smiles at me, with a vacant look in
his eyes. "Hi, I'm Eric Spitz" he
says to me, extending his hand. "And
you would be...?" I don't take this as a
good sign.
5:32 A.M.
Imus arrives, bellowing for coffee. Suspects
we have a problem as Eric introduces himself. I
inform the I-man that Eric's just tired, having stayed up all night to insure the
smoothness of the remote. When he asks what
the bandages are on his hands, I come up with some lame story that Spitz cut himself
shaving...that apparently, all those old wive's tales about hair growing on your palms
really are true. Imus is satisfied with the
explanation. The rest of the remote goes off
without a hitch. In fact, there is a
wonderful hour in which Bernadette Castro, the New York State Parks Comissioner, is
treated much as Groucho Marx did Margaret DuMont. She's
a good sport, and takes the good natured banter well.
Not even when her rap about the importance of 'Wildlife Preservation' is
interrupted by Imus slaughtering a Spotted Owl, does she get her feathers ruffled. I give her a particularly hard time, but she takes
it well. I think it's because she's hot for
me. My suspicions are confirmed when she asks
if during the local news break I'd like to go back to my room so she can show me some
'Brochures of New York State Campgrounds'. I
decline, thanking her for the offer. She
presses her phone number into my hand and exits, winking at me. "You might want to reconsider. You'll never have to pay for a convertible sofa
again." I smile, but take that wild look
in her eye to be somewhat troubling.