It’s not impressive. Forget Redford in “All the President’s Men,” Hunter in “Broadcast News,” Hatcher in “Lois and Clark.” Scrap all those visions of Hollywood newsrooms—print, broadcast and otherwise. The mosh pit of the “New York Post”—where gossip, high-crime, high jinx and politics collide— is institutional, antiseptic and full of pot-bellied, horny, myopic, middle-aged men. There’s a brainy female thrown in, here and there, but they’re few and far between.

And then, of course, there’s Richard Johnson. I still question why he didn’t beat a path to Hollywood instead of settling for the “Post.” He’s as tall, strong and silent as they come. Unfortunately, he’s not delivering the lines of Cary Grant, but, instead, asking me who my connections are, who I can scoop, how I can find out who is bedding whom. My God, was I supposed to have brought a list?

Uncomfortably seated in his glass cube of an office, cursing the narrow proportions of my black pencil skirt that seems to ride up my thighs with each awkward pause, I take in my surroundings: the plaques and certificates on the walls, the parade of clowns ambling past Richard’s open office door (is it possible to subtly leer?), the Midtown castles looming just outside the windows. More importantly, I try to avoid the disturbing gaze of Steve Cuozzo, the executive editor of the entire “New York Post,” seated to my left.

“I’m young and hungry—those are my qualifications,” I say with remarkable honesty, considering the circumstances. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, now can you?

“We’re a little worried about your prior obligations,” Cuozzo says, staring down at his yellow notebook. “You’re a blogger and you have a book deal, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” I say a bit too quickly, reverting back to a Southern formality that is completely lost on present company.

“What house are you with and what’s the book about?” Steve pauses and then thoughtfully turns to Richard, “You know, Paula wrote a book and she still—”

“—And, what about your past journalism qualifications?” Richard interjects as an afterthought, perusing his email Inbox.

“My first journalism job in the city was right here,” I say slowly, thoughtfully, “downstairs in the basement newsroom.”

With the heave of his chest and a good long snort, Steve finally adds, “That’s more like indentured servitude…”

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