BREAKING: Local News Anchors, They're Just Like Us.
My Unexpected Obsession with Local Broadcast Journalists: A Personal Journey.
Nothing makes me gigglier than running into a local news anchor. And no, it’s not a celebrity thing. I often interview celebrities for magazines, we have intimate conversations, share a laugh even. Those experiences make me feel nothing other than an, “Oh, they were so pleasant…”
An encounter with a local news anchor however… that will have me blushing for weeks.
Many moons ago, when I was 16 years old, I was at Save On Foods milling around after school with my brother. Fidgeting in my kilt, hitching my backpack up on my shoulders, we rounded a corner, when who should we encounter ambling down the dairy aisle? None other than Global News Morning BC host, Steve Darling.
Brett stopped in his tracks. He gasped, he giggled, he pointed.
He snapped a pic and posted it on Instagram.
Steve Darling - formerly of bleary eyed mornings in which we silently ate Eggo waffles drenched in syrup sitting dead eyed in front of the news - had materialized in front of us. Free from the black box that typically encased him, Steve was a bit different. His usual black suit, white button down, and purple tie were missing. Instead he was sporting a grey sweatshirt, black track bottoms, and some dingy sneakers. He was buying bacon. He was in a rush. Steve Darling it seemed was not merely a doomsday prophesier, or news-telling puppet with a serious smile plastered across his white moon of a face. He was a man. A man who lived in the suburbs and bought bacon at our Save On.
From that day forward everything was different. Local news had lost a bit of its patina, sure, but it had simultaneously offered a sense of gritty intrigue. I finally recognized local broadcast journalists for what they were – public figures lacking pretty much every benefit of being a public figure. Someone who commanded respect, and yet, walked among us mere mortals in the dairy aisles, recognized by some, but not all. Buying the same sale bacon as all the other residents of Port Coquitlam, but being the only one to make a couple of teenagers snicker on sight. The glossy illusion of news anchors was shattered. Now I had a new novelty to look forward to though – seeing these public professionals, off the clock, performing chores as mundane as grocery shopping. A new treat to enjoy – getting an illicit look behind the scenes of an onscreen persona. A new moral quandary to rattle around my brain – Should I be looking? Should I even care?
I felt high1.
Years later, when I was a fresh faced 20-year-old working at a shoe store in the mall, who should appear before my eyes to return a pair of wide calf Hunter rain boots, but the man, the myth, the legend himself. Steve Darling.
No longer was he a news anchor. He’d since pivoted into municipal politics after Global News laid him off (caused quite the ruckus. There were Facebook groups collectively sharing their outrage and disappointment with the network’s decision). But, I must say, the sheer sight of him bouncing up to my register with that same familiar smile made me do my Grinchiest smirk2.
The rain boots hadn’t fit his wife. Christmas gift gone wrong. I apologized for the inconvenience. Offered to order in another size. Steve politely refused. He’d already got her a pair of Sorels. I performed the return and then it hit me – I’d have to ask for his signature on the bottom of the receipt. I imagined what Brett would think if he were here, pictured his eyes widening in delight, cocking his head so as to listen more closely. If only my bizarre brother, equally as obsessed with local news and its myriad anchors could see me now. Here, with STEVE DARLING, asking for his autograph by way of signing a return receipt.
The expression on my face must have been INCREDIBLY easy to read. Steve likely could see I was thinking about running to the back room to call my brother and tell him that he was returning rain boots. RAIN! BOOTS! BRETT! Steve offered me a knowing smile before taking his leave.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” I thought, giggling as I watched his back exit the store.
No one can relate to this story. I know that. But do you know how embarrassing it is to be enamoured, wholly and completely by local news anchors? My friends wrinkle their noses and squint at me in disbelief when I wax poetic about emailing back and forth with the CTV News Vancouver Morning Show host, Keri Adams3. “No. You guys don’t get it. She used my name in the email. I love her so much. This is actually a really big deal to me.”
It’s not a crush thing either. It’s something entirely different. Like an asexual hero-worship thing but not weird. Well, kind of weird, but just like, strange-, odd-, quirky-weird. Right?
To me, news anchors are local legends with mysterious airs and an important job working as a modern day town crier. I’m fascinated by them. How they oscillate between grim reapers and sous chefs within minutes. He’s not a celebrity, he’s Steve Darling and I ate breakfast with him almost every morning.
I’m obsessed.
Recently I was walking along the sea wall and who should happen to catch my eye? None other than the new Global News Morning BC host, Jason Pires. He was walking his french bulldog and I stared at him so intently that he gave me a smile. Though we didn’t speak, his expression was as easy to read as mine was when I was performing Mr. Darling’s return all those years ago. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the rest of his face crinkled into an air of, “I must know her. How do I know her? Do I know her…?”
I giggled all the way home.
This would be as close to high as I’d get in my school years. You probably guessed that already though.
**Grinch smirk**
*noun*
1. A biological phenomenon in which one finds themselves unable to smile appropriately, due to finding the mundane or inappropriate, hilarious. Physiologically characterized by the lips being sucked in while the cheeks lift upwards, creating an expression that appears sinister.
Keri actually interviewed one of my PR clients in the morning news. Unironic, thrill of a lifetime for me.