Good Morning America was ABC's morning news program. As a commercial TV station driven by profits, to chase ratings, its content wasn't all dry news reports—instead, it was highly flexible.
Beyond hot-button public news, the show featured plenty of anecdotes, celebrity interviews, even variety-style games, and occasionally invited big-name singers for street-side live performances.
The weekend edition of Good Morning America ran just an hour, airing live at 7 a.m. in each time zone.
In an apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
As seven o'clock neared, Jennifer Rebould tiptoed out of her room, creeping downstairs—only to find her father, James Rebould, already seated in the living room, reading the paper.
Shrinking back, Jennifer tried to slip away quietly, but James had noticed his daughter. Without looking up, he pointed straight to the sofa opposite: "Jenny, come here."
"Dad, morning."
Giving up on escape, she greeted him and obediently walked over, sitting across from her father. After a brief hesitation, Jennifer picked up the remote from the coffee table, turned on the living room TV, and tuned to ABC.
James Rebould watched her actions, raising an eyebrow slightly.
But suddenly thinking of something, James eyed his now fully grown daughter and held back any scolding, just asking, "Why'd you come back so suddenly yesterday—and so late?"
Jennifer glanced at the TV screen before turning to her father. "Something came up last minute. I got to New York at five-thirty and came home after handling it."
James Rebould waited a moment, but seeing no further explanation, he didn't press.
The little girl had grown up after all.
From Jennifer insisting on working in Los Angeles instead of joining her parents' New York firm, James Rebould had realized his strict parenting over the years might have been overdone. Though he didn't regret it, with his daughter now an adult, the Reboulds knew it was time to let her forge her own path.
With that in mind, James changed the subject, his tone gentle. "I spoke with Professor Robertson last week—he thinks your thesis is outstanding. Tell me about it."
Jennifer's attention drifted back to the TV. Distracted, she replied, "Dad, it's Saturday—can we not talk about that?"
James Rebould looked at his daughter, suddenly gaining some insight—and a certain instinctive paternal discomfort. Probing, he asked, "Jenny, are you seeing someone?"
Jennifer froze, her face inexplicably flushing a bit, but she shook her head, avoiding her father's gaze. "Dad, no. I'm just, um, a bit tired—can we watch TV instead?"
James Rebould smiled and set his paper aside. "Sure, let's watch TV."
On the screen, Good Morning America had started. After a few mainstream news segments, it cut to a studio.
Jennifer perked up at the large Run Lola Run poster in the studio.
This was the result of her insistent demands yesterday—for which she'd even signed a formal contract.
Though the tape featured that guy, the copyright was hers. For anyone else, owning such a tape could easily fetch a $100,000 asking price from a network—no exaggeration. So her sole condition to Robert Iger and ABC had been that it air on this morning's Good Morning America—or she'd shop it to other stations.
James Rebould noted the screen's content and his daughter's reaction, his mood lifting considerably.
So not dating—star-chasing.
Still, he said, "This is that Simon Westeros's work? Quite the controversy lately."
Jennifer couldn't help retorting, "Dad, can't you see those stories are manipulated? They just don't want Run Lola Run to make too much at the box office."
James Rebould smiled without arguing, turning his attention to the screen too.
In the studio, host Charles Gibson sat on one side of the sofa, smiling as he gestured behind him to the audience. "Seeing this poster, I'm sure you've guessed today's topic. But I have to say—you've all guessed wrong."
Amid the crowd's confusion, Charles Gibson explained briefly, "As everyone knows, young Hollywood director Simon Westeros's Run Lola Run has sparked a wave of controversy and doubt lately, with many questioning if an 18-year-old could really have the skills to make such an outstanding film. We'll hold off on commenting for now. Yesterday, our team received a videotape. After watching it in amazement, we started frantically calling singers: Hey, buddy, need a guitarist? Finally, one replied: Sure, let me see how he plays first. And then, she joined us in the studio today."
After this even more curiosity-stoking spiel, Charles Gibson stood. "Welcome, Madonna."
Amid applause, Madonna emerged from backstage in a jacket, tight leather pants, and heels. She hugged Charles Gibson lightly before sitting on the other sofa, glancing curiously at the Run Lola Run posters behind her.
In front of the TV, Jennifer frowned slightly at Madonna's appearance. She wasn't fond of the singer's often provocative public image and disliked ABC's arrangement.
But she knew she couldn't demand more.
On-screen, after brief pleasantries, Charles Gibson asked Madonna, "Madonna, before recommending this guitarist, I have to ask—have you seen Run Lola Run?"
Madonna nodded decisively. "Of course—it's so cool. Too bad I've been swamped; haven't met the kid who supposedly directed it himself yet."
Charles Gibson smiled at her response. "So, Madonna, you're doubting Run Lola Run isn't Simon Westeros's work?"
"I just think it's unbelievable—he's only eighteen," Madonna said, then seemed to realize. "Charles, the guitarist you're recommending—isn't it Simon Westeros?"
Charles Gibson smiled without answering, just gesturing behind him. "Let's watch a video first."
Most studio lights dimmed as a projector beam hit the large screen at the back. It started with the casual shot of the trinket stall, but ABC had added subtitles for off-screen voices, clearly showing lines like "little boy..." and "Flight of the Bumblebee, for Jenny."
Then, the cascading guitar notes created an instant image of diving bumblebees for everyone.
The camera turned next. Due to enlargement, clarity suffered a bit—but with the topic setup, everyone recognized the guitarist immediately: Simon Westeros.
In the studio speakers, the increasingly frantic and rapid notes continued; even non-musicians could sense the guy's master-level guitar prowess.
Meanwhile, cameras panned the audience—nearly everyone gaping in shock.
Madonna, who'd just turned to watch, soon knelt on the sofa, a hand propping her chin—barely keeping it from her mouth. As Simon's playing grew wilder on-screen, her lips silently repeated "Unbelievable, unbelievable."
Five minutes later, as the video ended, the studio erupted in unified applause. Madonna clapped wildly, heedless of image, shouting, "What-a-crazy-boy!!!"
At the same time.
In front of countless TVs, seeing Simon's astonishing guitar solo, many couldn't help voicing various exclamations.
"That was so cool."
"Is that even humanly possible?"
"No wonder this kid's so talented—media's been full of crap lately."
"Dad, I wanna learn guitar."
"I knew those attacks on Simon were smears—gonna rewatch Run Lola Run today."
"Maybe check out that Run Lola Run today—not a bad idea."
"Oh my God."
"What a maniac—a cool maniac."
"..."
"..."
Though a rest day when most slept in, ABC's nationwide viewership was still massive. Plus, with the flood of Run Lola Run-related news lately, the show's Simon segment spread like wildfire.
Seeing is believing.
Witnessing Simon Westeros's near-maniacal guitar performance, many immediately doubted the recent media narratives: You say this kid lacks musical foundation, couldn't score Run Lola Run himself? Now, who dares say that—play Flight of the Bumblebee yourself if you can.
If the accusations about his music were false—then what about the rest?
Though an era without internet, interpersonal ties were tighter; in just hours, many flipped fully to Simon's side due to the video.
Los Angeles.
ABC hadn't tipped Simon off about today's content, but as Good Morning America aired, he and his circle got word immediately.
Before seven a.m. on the West Coast, everyone gathered again at the Palisades mansion.
But what left Simon most bemused was a faxed handwritten note from New York, passed by arriving Jonathan Friedman: Little boy, you owe me one.
Signed, Madonna.
Talk about opportunism. Queen, have we met?
[GodOfReader: Queen, please step on my face.]
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