The Ann Curry in all of us

Watching Ann Curry's heartwrenching goodbye Thursday on "The Today Show," I wept like a school girl. Who didn't? When was the last time viewers were treated to such honest, gripping emotion?

First, kudos to the NBC executives who allowed her to have her five minutes. As critical as I am of her ousting, it could have been far worse -- we might have awakened to her simply being gone, like an anchor-cum-Sopranos victim. She could have been 86'd like the first Darren on "Bewitched" or the superiority of network programming over cable (oops - did I say that out loud?)

Yet, we all know that what happened to her was merely what happens to all of us women of a certain age who are no longer desirable in the eyes of our male bosses - or in her case, the imaginary viewers these male bosses felt had lost interest. Their golden boy, after all, has to fight the drool coming out of his mouth whenever Savannah Guthrie or Natalie Morales are at his side.

Is this a cynical view? Perhaps. Maybe it's all in my imagination that I've been reading about illicit affairs on the show, or that Ann, once voted a MILF by some men's group, has lately looked more like a concerned Mother Teresa.

It's as if looking smarter, looking more concerned and actually being those things were a detriment in television journalism.

Think about it.

Years ago I interviewed many former broadcast journalists for Mediabistro. The subject was how these journos had jumped over to PR. I'll pick up that story at some point and publish it, but until then let me share the gist: I was told repeatedly that these news programs are becoming increasingly infotainment driven.

And this was 2002. Back when "The Today Show" still looked like a news program.

So while watching Ann Curry's passionate and at times pathetic goodbye, not only did I want to hug her, but I wanted to slap her. She is far too smart, too gifted, too worldly and wise to be diminished by this episode.

I am sure her family has been reassuring her of that this pre-Fourth of July weekend.

I only hope that the Ann Curry that rests in all of us - especially we female journalists of a certain age - will kick it into overdrive the next time a smarmy white middle-aged male executive no longer wants to flirt us up. Give him the heave-ho and just run the reel of our work in Darfur or tsunami-ravaged Thailand.

Who knows, but maybe one of these days some testosterone-driven network may just hire us for our brains.