Suggested Reading

Memoir and Intrigue...

Ever since I could add letters together to form words, I've been plowing through books. As a result I have a home bursting with tomes of every description. If I live long enough, I plan to be a dottering old man, wandering from bookshelf to bookshelf in a ratty robe and slippers. Hopefully my children (book lovers themselves) will make sure I'm fed and cared for.

I used to consume innumerable novels, and Stephen King was an early hero. But the older I've gotten, the less I've wanted to read anything that wasn't true. Maybe it's the newsman in me, maybe I'm subconciously trying to make up for my glaring lack of edumacation. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Whatever the case, I've devoured a strict diet of NON-fiction for about ten years now. I'm a sucker for all those repackaged tales of the past that swell your local bookstore's history section. And being an ex-sailor I have a special place in my heart for tales of the sea. Which brings me to my first selection:

IN THE HEART OF THE SEA by Nathaniel Philbrick
Everyone's heard of Moby Dick (a few of us have actually read it) but that famous work of fiction was based on true events. In 1820 a rogue sperm whale attacked a Nantucket whaler, setting off circumstances that would end in death, treachery and cannabilism.

NEWJACK by Ted Conover
Conover wanted to shadow a recruit at the New York State Corrections Academy but was refused by the state. So he took a job as a rookie prison guard at Sing Sing. What he found inside those esteemed prison walls is enough to make you drop all plans for that tri-state crime spree. I know I did.

INTO AFRICA by Martin Dugard
"Doctor Livingstone, I presume"...if those words sound familiar but you don't know why, then you need to read this book. In the mid 1860's the age of exploration turned it's eye toward the heart of Africa. After a famous expedition goes awry, a journalist steps in, saves the day and exploits everyone around him. Sound familiar?

THE LAST DIVE by Bernie Chowdbury
Not since JAWS has a book made me so re-think the sea. This harrowing tale of a father and son pushing the limits of deep sea diving is enough to make you strap on floaties the next time you hit the pool. A freaky peek at a whole different world.

THE CIRCUS FIRE by Stewart O'Nan
This one is grisly. In 1944, while the men were away at war, a circus tent filled with women and children caught fire and went up in mere minutes. The unfolding tragedy can be hard to stomach at times, but it includes an excellent look at journalists responding to spot news in 1944.

BLUE BLOOD by Edward Conlon
New York City cop Conlon redefines the cop memoir genre. A Harvard grad who follows families ties back to the thin blue line that is daily law enforcement. Once on the beat, Conlon takes note, and delivers a beast of a book in the process, detailing the insanity and righteousness of being a cop.

KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL by Anthony Bourdain
A Journeyman Gourmet Chef takes you through the incredibly seedy world of Big City Five Star Restaurants. Though I didn't understand much of the french food being discussed in these pages, this hilarous and frightening account of a Big City's chef's misadventures convinced me I could do the same with the role of the local TV News Photographer. Wish me luck!

VIEWFINDER BLUES by Stewart Pittman
A veteran local TV news photographer puts the lens aside for a moment and scribbles madly in his worn notebook. The resulting manifesto skewers the righteous and the absurd in this all-out indictment of an increasingly silly business. Currently Under Construction...

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Punching the Subconscious Clock

Light Static and Heavy Southern Accents Filled the Air...

It's a dream I've had a couple of times - a particularly frustrating episode that’s more distorted memory than random delusion...

The first sensation is overwhelming heat - sweat pouring down my brow as I realize I'm running down a railroad track. Ahead is a dusky tree line with angry black smoke pouring forth. Blue and red lights dance seductively on the horizon and I am literally hauling ass to get there.

Trouble is I'm packing old-time heat - the kind of three-quarter-inch-tape television gear that documented the early 70's. An old orange and oversized Ikegami camera bounces off one shoulder with every jarring step -- a heavy strap cuts into my other shoulder as the low-slung VCR-in-a-bag threatens to take out my knees - an overly long cable connecting the two devices dances between my feet.

As I struggle to stay upright I sense I'm not alone, and looking around me I see a swarm of fellow news crews from my past catching up. Digging in, I almost lose balance, loping along on uneven railroad ties are not quite finding my rhythm. The sun beats down on my future bald spot, as a corded lapel microphone bounces out of a pocket and trails behind me.

Up ahead, the tree line horizon doesn't seem any closer despite the fact my chest is about to explode from running so hard. Emergency strobe lights pierce the smoke up ahead, flashing angry silhouettes. Radio chatter and southern-fried voices fill the air but I can't make out what they're shouting about.

There's no time to wonder though, since the loosey-goosey recording equipment jostling all around me is about to bounce away. Worse yet, the other news crews are catching up with me - the sounds of their footfalls outpacing mine.

One of them brushes by and is soon followed by a crowd of photogs, each one with smaller, lighter, newer gear. As they blow by me, I hear a few snort about my outdated equipment. Soon the last of them is ahead of me and pullin away, the sound of an out-of-market news chopper echoing my defeat.

Still, I run like a madman, hauling at least 100 pounds of the very finest in 1970's newsgathering technology with me. As the hazy figures of my competitors fade into the distance I curse my bosses and reach deep down inside for one last resolve of strength.

And it works! I pick up speed, begin catching up with the others, closing in on the scene. I see the other crews gather together for the first interview. But there's still time! I kick in all I have, my heels and knees threatening to shatter with every loping misstep along the jagged railroad ties. Just as I'm sure I'm finally going to make it...the microphone cable trailing behind me snags on an upturned nail and SNAP! - yanks me backwards off my feet.

That's when I awaken with a jolt, and wonder why in the heck I'm wasting valuable dream energy on something as mundane as work.

Chasing Strangers

The Jug-Eared Driver Zigged When I Was Sure He'd Zag...

I was pursuing a freshly-convicted NASCAR rookie down a darkened Courthouse stairwell the other day and it just wasn't going well. For starters, the jug-eared driver zigged when I thought sure he'd zag - ducking into a side stairwell exit the moment he left the courtroom. Of course I dashed after him, but only to give him a chance to talk about his brand new DUI - and maybe give him one of our nifty station fridge magnets.

But it seems the freshly-scrubbed race car driver didn't want to talk shop (or anything else) and he fled down the stairs with great haste. Before I could get to the doorway, his posse of litigators and hangers-on drafted in behind him and blocked my path. As we jostled in unison down the winding stairs, the driver's entourage spread out into an impenetrable flank. The young racer pulled away and the only thing I caught on tape was a jarring series of well-tailored elbows.

Quickly we descended, four steps and to the left, four steps and to the left. Which each step my frustration mounted. By the time we'd made it past the second floor landing, I'd given up on any interior shots and was trying to recall the layout of the parking lot I would soon be bounding across. Below me, the race car driver within inches of the outside exit...

That's when I heard the sweet sound of a heavy metal door NOT giving way, followed by muffled cursing of a southern variety. Trouble in Turn Two, I thought as I rounded the final four stairs.

On the ground floor, the lanky NASCAR driver in his Sunday best stood rather meekly, surrounded by his lawyers, trophy girl, and gas man. They all looked up at me sourly as I paused on the landing. Slowly reaching up and turning on my camera‘s top light, I could barely suppress a smug grin. I rolled tape, slow-motion back-pedaled up the stairwell and bathed the reluctant racer and his crew in bright spotlight. Two flights up, I let them brush past. After all, rubbin's racin'...

Becoming Me

His Main Concern Was That His Cheek-Bone Implants Be In Focus...

I began my TV career cranking out commercials for fat lady dress shops and used car lots, until fate placed me on scene at a hostage situation with a betacam and a bad hangover. After that, I was hooked on Electronic News Gathering and soon found myself accompanying reporters to events both scintillating and dull. That went on for awhile and I learned alot. It was the dawning of the age of 'COPS' and I followed more drawn pistols into more drug-infested hovels than I could keep track of. But the most hazardous duty I ever pulled was babysitting a certain reporter we'll call 'Blayne'.

Blayne was a pretty boy wannabe from the monied enclaves of the Old South. Never one to be bothered with natural sound and sequenced video, he was only concerned with making sure I got his cheek-bone impants in focus. Here I was learning to be a spot-news lenslinger and day after day all this gentrified pansy cared about was where his overstuffed make-up case was.

So, in an effort to rid myself of this life-sized Ken doll, I made a deal with the devil and became a one-man-band. I bought a few suitcoats, a few ties and trimmed my mullet into something more suitable for broadcast. More importantly, I learned to shoot in the can, frame my own stand-ups and write under deadline. Everything I put on air wasn't perfect but I learned lessons during my time as a solo artist that pay off to this very day.

But after jumping ship to a rival station and becoming a 'one-man-band bureau chief' (ugh!), I started getting a little crispy. Though my newsgathering skills were honed to a razor sharp edge, I still cringed whenever I saw myself on-air. Truth be told, my on-camera schtick was the weakest part of my skill set, and while my bosses never complained, they didn't exactly shower me with the cushiest of gigs. Instead, they relied on me to fill their newscasts with enough crime and grime to choke a vice cop. So when an unlikely chance to take over my station's promotions department came up, I jumped on it - even though I knew I'd soon regret it.

Boy, did I. Two years of cranking out schlock for the world's most unsavory GM left me thinking about climbing the tower out back and picking off co-workers with my paint-ball gun. Instead, I thought long and hard about what it was I wanted to do in TV. I wasn't dying to get back on air, having never felt entirely comfortable with it in the first place. No, what I wanted to do was take pictures, capture sound, and mold it all into a cohesive story by each day's end. So I slapped together an escape tape, scored a photog gig in a larger market and told the GM where to stuff his promos.

Career-wise, it was the best thing I ever did. Free of small-market limitations and with the help of some truly kick-ass shooters, I took my skills to a whole new level. Whatsmore, I used what I'd learned as a one-man-band to perfect my own brand of the anchor package. Now, whenever staffing shortages don't tie me to a reporter, I operate solo - shooting writing and editing packages that our anchors voice. For me, it's great: I get to put the stories together the way I want to, never having to worry about reporter two-shots, unwatched shoot tapes, or being written into a hole.

Yes, my time in front of the lens and behind the pen has made me a better photojournalist. I even dabble in some on-air voodoo once in awhile in the form of the occasional morning live shot substitute gig. Why do I punish myself (and the viewers at large) with visions of my ugly mug over their morning coffee? Ego, perhaps. But more importantly, to slay that dragon I once only wounded - and to show that dry-cleaned blowhard Blayne that even an under-groomed, under-educated photog can make good TV.

Loitering With The Enemy

A Little Company at the Crime Tape Can Be a Good Thing...

Long ago a friend outside the business asked me how I reacted when a competing news crew pulled up on whatever 'news scene' I was covering.

When I told him that nine times out of ten I was grateful for the company, he seemed disappointed. He'd seen too many made-for-TV movies, I'm guessing - the kind where competing news crews treat each other like comic book super villains. I explained to him that when you're the poor schmuck picked to baby-sit the courthouse / train wreck / body search all day, a little company can be a good thing.

In fact, I've had some of the most bizarre and enjoyable field encounters with employees of rival TV stations... be it poker games in the drowning-scene sat truck, practical jokes at the tornado-strewn trailer park or hushed information swaps at the triple-homicide crime tape. Hey, I'm all for eating the other guy's lunch - but in the field, collusion with the enemy is sometimes useful.

That is of course, barring any and all personality disputes. Our business is rife with pompous fools and over-groomed blowhards, and it doesn't take very long for members of the local media to recognize who the righteous jerks are. Some bone-head pulling up late to a gang-bang interview brandishing a microphone flag and an attitude are a natural occurrence in the news gathering wildlife. Natural selection is a wonderful thing.

However, most news people I come into contact with are clever, astute and interesting. We are, as a breed, wary observers of life with a low threshold for bullshit and a penchant for cynicism. I like that. And unless the person at the tripod beside me is a total worm, I'm prone to converse. I've made far more friends than enemies doing so, and I've learned lots in the process.

Is that so wrong?

Dreading the Election

By the Time the Candidate Emerges from Seclusion, I'll No Longer Care...

Ahhh, Election Day! There's no other twelve hour shift I'd rather spend making widgets than the day we put Democracy to the test. No matter where my news camera and I end up, it's usually an exercise in slow-motion.

There's the early morning polling place live shots where the only thing more annoying than the anchor banter in my earpiece are the steely-eyed Election Grannies clocking my every move - fearing I'll knock over one of the booths with my tripod and spill the popular vote all over the gymnasium floor.

A little later there's all the free-for-all stalk-fest of the local Congressman/Dog Catcher candidate casting his vote, when suddenly the guy in all those scathing campaign spots DOESN'T want to talk on camera. Instead, he just wants to look Presidential as he emerges from behind the voting curtain, hoping no cameras caught him fumbling with the 'Vote For Me' thingy seconds earlier.

Don't forget the noon live shot, a totally useless broadcast moment staged outside of the polling place in which well-coiffed reporters judge local turn-out by the number of people they spotted in their three minutes of being on-scene. Minus the ninety seconds they spent checking their look in the camera's lens reflection. Take that, Zogby!

It's much the same scene for the five and six o clock newscast, except by now the production staff back at the station is in full campaign swing, gorging on free pizza while the field crews spread Chap-Stick on a cracker and call it Dinner. Expect the cheesy anchor chick to add to the overall indigestion by recanting a cute story from her own polling place during cross-talk. Hey, it's not an election until the Anchor Queen votes!

Things really start popping when the polls begin closing around 7 pm, and all the live trucks break camp from the local gyms and churches to head straight for the posh ballrooms, where glassy-eyed constituents wear funny hats and huddle around TV screens. If you're lucky they want even notice you scarfing a few rubber chicken plates from the back tables.

Before the internet there was more to shoot at these overdressed gatherings, but the days of dry-erase boards and frantic bag-phone calls are long gone. Now there's little more to accomplish than check out the opposite sex and of course, go alive every fifteen minutes with continuing team smotherage of "Slogan Wars '04".

This being a Presidential Election, most of the focus will be on the ubiquitous wide-screen TV at campaign headquarters. At least try and switch the channel to that of your employer. The suits back at the shop will appreciate it and you may just start a turf war among the reporter-types. That's always good for a few laughs.

If you're unlucky enough to be camped out with a local candidate (as most of my breed will be), you don't even have to check the tally to see how your guy is doing. If all is well the assembled movers and shakers will meet you with warmth and revelry, but if your candidate's falling behind, expect accusatory stares and the occasional rude hand gesture. Before you know it, those who welcomed you in earlier with a hardy backslap will be eyeing you with icy disdain - as you document their last great hope's utter downfall. Not the time to get caught swiping a chicken plate.

Win or lose, it'll be a long evening. By the time the local candidate emerges from seclusion to accept his mandate or merely thank all his supporters, I'll no longer care - knowing only a half dozen more live shots and three morning show re-cuts stand between me and bedtime.

Did I mention I hate Election Day?