Brian Williams
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor to answer a few questions . It is impossible to express what Garland means to that City--impossible to express the role he and others took on at the height of the disaster that was Katrina. I spent hours, many of them huddled in a car, listening to Garland and the volunteer on-air staff trying to inform and calm the audience. As we discussed yesterday, radio was a lifeline during those days. Garland means more to that city than any other radio host I can think of...in any other major American city.
Tonight, snow once again approaches. Trouble may be coming in Iran. The misery continues in Haiti. The celebration continues in New Orleans. We have it all covered, and we hope you can join us tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor the voice of the Big 870, WWL Radio in New Orleans . Garland is one of the voices—one of the people—who helped New Orleanians get through Katrina, and all that has followed. He was one of the people I was thinking about last night when the Saints pulled it off. I just have to hear his reaction to this victory. It is impossible to express my emotions for that team or for that City...except to say: I wish I was there, I'm thinking of them, and what a game that was. As a cultural "milestone," it was one thing (the "long suffering men" theme of numerous commercials became comical after a while), and as a football game, it was thrilling. It took a decided turn at the top of the second half. It was all Saints after that.
Here's to the New Orleans Saints and the people of the great City of New Orleans. I'll see you soon. Enjoy this. You earned it. The hard way.
We hope you can join us tonight.
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Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor
Visit msnbc.com for breaking news , world news , and news about the economy
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor Heinz is changing its ketchup packet. For the first time since 1968.
Just think of all the ketchup packets you've done battle with over the years. I'm being a bit tongue-in-cheek here—but this is the kind of minor item we try to find the time to tell each night—because it’s interesting, and because life is full of them. We have a few of them tonight. I'm in the midst of writing the final words of the Cory Booker profile, which will air tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor Booker all day, taping a segment that will air later this week. I think a lot of my fellow New Jerseyans (I was raised 18 miles due south of the City) regard Newark with an odd combination of hope and resignation. Mayor Booker is a maniacal booster of the City.
The Mayor was kind enough to tweet about our lunch afterward . He's an interesting politician, which I hope our segment will make clear. For the record (since he opened the door by tweeting), his lunch consisted of: a huge plate of egg whites scrambled, a salad of lettuce and broccoli topped with fried onions. I had a cheeseburger, fries and cole slaw and two cokes. He's a vegetarian. I, clearly, am not. There you have it. I'm afraid that's all I've got!
We hope you can join us tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor A piece of videotape that just went public brought that event back in our memory—yet from a distance, and through the prism of an eyewitness who on that day was trying out a new video camera.
Jack Moss was an optometrist with a winter home in Winter Haven, Florida. On the day of the launch he was in position, aiming his camera at the horizon where he'd seen previous launches. As something goes wrong, we hear him realize just that. While I apologize for any sensitivities among NASA family and loved ones, this was a searing national event. It’s been 24 years now. This account—these pictures accompanied by narration—make for an ordinary and poignant reminder of that day when our minds fought our eyes, because we didn't want what we were seeing to be true.
For the record: On that day, I was sitting in a television studio full of folding chairs in Washington, DC. John Kluge, the billionaire owner of Metromedia Broadcasting, had just started to speak from the podium at the front of the studio. He was telling us that he was selling the company (and the independent television station where I worked as a correspondent, WTTG) to Fox. He hadn't yet made the official announcement when the anchor at the station, a young (at the time) anchor named Maury Povich, blew in the door and yelled to everyone in the room, "The shuttle just blew up!" We all scattered. Kluge never did finish his statement, but he did sell the company.
Fast-forward to present day, and another apology: My music website, BriTunes , is woefully behind. I have a load of new music, and a boatload of recommendations—I just need the time to compile it, and we'll be up to date. Thanks for your patience.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor
Congratulations to my friend Candy Crowley, who got a new job at CNN . While I'm a rabidly loyal member of the home team here at NBC News/MSNBC, Candy is a press corps favorite because she's a good person and a great writer. While I wouldn't advise anyone to enter into a competition with my pal David Gregory on Sundays, I'm happy for my friend Candy.
We are back for a new week, and we hope you can join us starting tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor
During the State of the Union, I turned to David Gregory and Andrea Mitchell and blurted out the obvious: I could never be president. The specific reason I gave was that I'd bankrupt the nation by re-starting an all-out push into space – back to the moon, to Mars and beyond. I mention this (and we will tonight on the broadcast) because of the report out today (a preview of more on Monday) saying the American "manned space flight era" is about to come to an end, for the foreseeable future. For all of us romantics of a certain age, there has always been a space program. Despite the setbacks and the loss of life, we've still pushed onward. We kept going. Much of the technology in my Chevy SUV is thanks to the space program. That feeling you get at the end of “The Right Stuff”?
When you look at the old pictures of the Mercury Seven in their crew cuts and flat-tops -- and realize the courage it took to fly in the X-1, the X-15, Mercury, Gemini, Apollo and the Shuttle? That feeling, it helped make us great in the post-war era. It gave young boys of the era heroes to look up to. This is a new era, and choices must be made – but what about us old romantics? Anybody out there?
On that wistful note: have a good weekend. We sure hope you can join us tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor It plays the same music as an iPod, so there's that. At 1.5 pounds, it weighs slightly more than most books—but they say when it's used as an e-reader, it’s very easy and intuitive to turn the page—almost like, say, turning a page. I wonder if a paper version of their e-reader will become available? That would be so great—something you could carry around and not have to power up—you could go right to the spot in the text where you left off, and instantly start reading. Perhaps that will be the next big thing.
I love technology.
Thanks to those of you who responded so warmly to my post on obituaries . Tonight we have a big challenge on that front, with news of the passing of J.D. Salinger, who the New York Times today called the "Garbo of letters," in a nice turn of phrase. Some of your comments were among the kindest I've ever read—and it was good to hear from my old pal Stephanie Howell from Fort Benning. Stephanie: I'm looking at your husband's photo as I write this–it’s been on my desk in New York since you handed it to me. It gives me strength during the day—and when I have to read the "evil" e-mails to the blog!
We are back from Washington, and we hope you can join us tonight.
Brian Williams, anchor and managing editor
Tim Russert and I always used to joke that the first section of the newspaper that we both read each day was the "Irish Sports Pages," which is the dark and indelicate slang of our shared heritage for the obituaries. It’s true—I've always believed some of the most important "news" in a paper (and on the web) has to do with news of those who have just died. I believe obituaries tell us about who we are and where we've been, as we learn about the others who have shared in our journey. If you're a 50-year-old American, like me, you can say you lived in the time of JFK and Nixon, Mandela and Cronkite, Hepburn, Springsteen and Russert. The giants who walk among us make for the signposts of our life and times. They aren't the most important people in our own everyday personal lives—the prominent, headline obituaries in the paper are usually about the people we aren't lucky enough to know. Instead, the regular folks get what my parents called "paid obituaries," the death notices usually written and submitted by families. They can often contain wonderful details and the flowery, mournful language of families who miss them dearly. We all like to think we'll be missed.
In our newsroom, it’s well known that I write the obituaries. I put as much care into writing them as I do the items at the very top of the broadcast, where wording and tone and facts are absolutely critical. I usually try to mention military service, and find the rare surprising biographical fact. No two of us are alike (thankfully) and all of us have done something worth re-telling.
On Monday night, I learned of the death of former Senator Charles McC. Mathias. He was universally known as "Mac," and was universally considered one of the giants of the U.S. Senate. As a student of politics and American history, I had followed his career since I was old enough to know who he was. I knew his death marked the end of an era, and came to work on Tuesday determined to devote some air time to remembering the Senator.
I wrote a short obituary with great care. I mentioned that Senator Mathias was roundly considered to be the last of a breed: a liberal Republican. I mentioned that President Lyndon Johnson would never have been able to pass the 1964 Civil Rights Act without him, and added that he'd been famously called "the conscience of the Senate" by the Democratic Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield. Mansfield, a proper and upright product of Montana, was never known to throw words around carelessly. When he said that about Mac Mathias, he meant it, and it stuck.
Richard Nixon was deeply suspicious about Senator Mathias, which the Senator later wore as a badge of honor. Mac Mathias said more than once that the Republican Party should be the party of its greats: Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt and Eisenhower -- and his own party sometimes deeply disappointed him. Conservatives considered him a mislabeled Democrat. A political veteran assured me on Tuesday, "Mac Mathias could never be elected as a Republican today."
Because our air time is limited, because we have to find space for such stories alongside a slate of coverage from Haiti, a new NBC poll and a preview of the State of the Union speech, there were details about Senator Mathias I had to leave out. He was born into a prominent Maryland family. He had served in the Navy and was well-educated. He was a handsome man, physically imposing but thoroughly gregarious. He was against the Iraq war and he endorsed Barack Obama. He loved the Chesapeake Bay and fought hard to keep it clean and prosperous. He died of Parkinson's Disease. He was 87 years old.
After the broadcast on Tuesday night, I took the train to Washington. When I arrived at my hotel, I received an email—relayed through my sister-in-law, from a close friend of the Mathias family. It read in part, "I was at the Senator's house when it came on (the air), and you should have seen how happy it made the family and Mrs. Mathias." She went on to thank us—for reminding viewers, "how great Congress could be when men like the Senator were there." Considering my on-air remembrance of the Senator was no more than 30 seconds long, I was surprised and delighted to learn that family members had been watching.
When I write an obituary for the broadcast, I always have the family in mind. It’s not why we do them, but they are an important audience. I try to envision people I don't know, dealing with the raw, initial sadness of loss...and I try to imagine how it must feel to hear of a family member's life and legacy—in the hands of a journalist who didn't know their loved one personally. Hearing from the family this evening re-affirmed my belief that we perform something of a service by choosing to remember those who've left us. After all, it may someday be said that we lived in the time of Mac Mathias.
