Apprentice Diary

(Diary of my experience covering the April 2004 season finale of "The Apprentice," season 1.)

I arrived in Newark Wednesday night, ready for a full day Thursday
covering the finale of "The Apprentice" and hometown contender Kwame
Jackson in NYC.

I made plans to have breakfast with Kwame’s godparents and persuaded the NBC publicist to give me cellphone numbers for the two contestants I most wanted to interview about Kwame: Troy and Omarosa.

Troy was great, and returned my call enthusiastically. His "aw shucks" country boy schtick wasn’t nearly as thick as it is when he’s on TV, but a little of it was still there – he threw in a few expressions like "whoop their butts" and "don’t bet on the wrong horse."

Omarosa answered her phone, causing me to grow nervous because I thought I would actually have to have a conversation with her, but as soon as I gave my spiel she handed the phone to her publicist, who hemmed and hawed and ultimately blew me off. Big surprise.

Kwame’s godparents were staying at the Trump International Hotel & Towers, and I was early when I went there to meet them. As I pulled up in a cab, Carolyn from the show was waiting and jumped in as I was getting out. I leaned back in and chit-chatted with her a few seconds – she was very warm and, of course, looks great in person.

Then I was able to nab contestants Bowie and Katrina, who were outside the hotel signing autographs. Bill jogged by in his sweats, but wouldn’t talk once I ID’d myself as a reporter – like Kwame, he was under a media block until after the final show aired.

Katrina followed me into the lobby to finish answering one of my questions, which alerted the security staff that a papparazo was in their midst. They came over and questioned me about whether I really had an appointment in the hotel. Kwame’s godparents at that moment were dropping off their bags in Kwame’s room and on their way back down to meet me, but a security guy was trying to get me to prove it by calling up to the room. Of course Kwame wasn’t registered under his real name (I
later found out he was using Homer Simpson), but luckily the Dawkinses
rescued me by coming back down just as I was about to be kicked out. We
had a lovely breakfast.

I headed back to my friend Leslie’s in New Jersey to write two stories: One entitled "Kwame won" and one entitled "Kwame lost." They were to be edited and ready in our system so that an editor could hit the "send" button on the correct version the moment the results were announced, for our first edition. I could send in updates for our latest edition.

To get back into the city that evening, I decided to drive because
I knew I would be finishing super-late and might not make the last train
back. However, this proved to be an extremely stressful decision. The
backup at the Lincoln Tunnel was so bad that it took 90 minutes for a
drive that should have been 30 (although I had actually allowed this
much time so I was still on time, thank heavens). Worse, though, was the
fact that once I crossed into Manhattan I couldn’t find the Port
Authority parking garage I’d been directed to and spent several scary
minutes circling blocks in full-blown rush hour traffic.

I was so panicked at one point I rolled down my window and said to a guy on a
corner, "I’m from North Carolina. Can you help me?" Luckily he did –
turns out he was standing in front of the garage for the Javits
Convention Center and he somehow knew that the sign in front that said
"Garage Full" was a lie and that they did in fact have available spaces.
Whew. Even New Yorkers don’t drive in this city and now I can see why.

After slight difficulty hailing a cab (apparently it was during a
shift change so even those that appeared to have their lights on kept
whizzing past – finally another guy took pity on me and offered me his
cab), I arrived at the NBC studios. The press room was a disappointment
– the dozen or so reporters there were told we would be overlooking the
live set, but in fact the back of the boardroom wall was right in front
of our windows and all we could see was one side of the studio audience.

I was distracted from this during a full hour of technical difficulties
with my computer during which I was afraid I would not be able to file
any updates. Finally I got it straightened out and was able to watch the
broadcast on a big loud TV – the live part was on a few seconds’ delay,
so it was weird to hear the audience below us cheering before we saw on
the screen what they were cheering about.

Immediately after the show, Kwame came up to our room. He
recognized me right away and gave me a hug, and then answered a barrage
of questions from the group quite smoothly. Bill was next, and I just
left my tape recorder running in front of him so I could continue typing
my updates. Then came Trump, standing right beside me so that I got a
really close-up view of his shellacked hair. Finally the story was filed
and I could pack up and head over to the after-party at Trump Tower.

Outside was a red carpet where the contestants, who had quickly
changed into very fancy evening attire, were arriving in limos. A huge,
cheering crowd – audible from many blocks away – was gathered out front,
as though it was the Oscars or something. A media gauntlet was lined up
inside filming interviews with everyone as they entered. It turns out
that my only shot for a one-on-one with Kwame was during this gauntlet,
but he was very gracious and spent a lot of extra time with me.

Then I took the opportunity to ask Omarosa what she had to say for herself – and she continued showing her stunning lack of self-awareness. In her mind, if
Kwame had been a better manager, she wouldn’t have lied. Mmmm hmmm,
whatever. (Her dress was made of white leather and trimmed in fur – so
fitting that she killed as many animals as possible).

The party itself was very crowded but actually pretty cool – every single person from the Apprentice show was there, including The Donald and his viceroys like the big mustache guy from the Taj Mahal. And they were all really mingling so you could walk right up to them and chat, unlike the "American Idol" after-party where everyone spent 2 minutes surrounded by bodyguards and then split, leaving just press and PR flacks standing around the hors d'oeuvres.

After chit-chatting with a couple of contenders, I ended up parked beside contestant Tammy, whose pregnancy is visible, and we talked for a good while. (She tried out for
the show because she’d been thinking of becoming an actress, but when I
asked her if what we saw was her playing a character, she said ‘No, that
was the real me.’ Um, okay.)

Shortly before 2 a.m., I extricated myself from a conversation
with a guy from Mayor Bloomberg’s office who was invading my personal
space and made the uneventful, blessedly traffic-free journey back to
Jersey.