Guests of the Ayatollah

So what do you do when a favorite journalist pens a hefty tome on you first political rememberance? You drop some coin for the hardback and savor every syllable. That's what I did with Guests of the Ayatollah, Mark Bowden's 637 page chronicle of the Iran Hostage Crisis. As he did in Killing Pablo and Black Hawk Down, Bowden weaves diverging timelines into rapid-fire situation reports, making the reader feel like a fellow operative on whatever dark exploits he examines. Here, Bowden has much to juggle: the clumsy yet effective takeover of a sleepy embassy by idealistic and often bumbling college students, the decaying mental state of the 66 American staffers caught in a surreal slumber party of deprivation and third world fervor, the seeming paralysis of President Carter to do anything about it, and the foolhardy courage of a young Delta Force - training for a daunting rescue mission that would end in confusion and spilled blood at a place called Desert One. Like the humiliating and protracted stalemate it describes, Guests of the Ayatollah bogs down somewhere in the middle. But all is forgiven at book's end, when the epic tale of America vs. Iran comes to a troubling close. It's the all too probable sequel that worries me.

Tonight, on Broadcast Gladiators...

Investigative reporters rarely engender sympathy, but you have to feel sorry for XETV’s John Matte - who suffered a televised beat-down that has to be viewed repeatedly to be fully absorbed. Matte and his photog were following up on a fraud report when the wife of the man they were investigating showed up with accented threats and a volatile bottle of water. What followed is an interlude worthy of an SNL sketch, but the laughter ends abruptly when hubby shows up. Accused con-man Sam Suleiman didn't bring any H20 but he did pack his can of whup-ass. With a sucker punch and an awkward grapple, Suleiman commits wanton on-camera assault, only to be hemmed in by a beefy bystander. From there the footage grows ever more surreal, with good wife Rosa berating the lens while her esteemed husband rolls around in the grass with two other grown men. If it weren't so pathetically stupid, it'd be kinda funny.

But I swear, I'm not laughing. No one deserves to be physically abused, even guys with wireless microphones and good hair. In this case, the reporter-turned punching bag is also an attorney. Methinks he'll fare okay in a court of law. But the resulting footage has sparked quite the debate in newsrooms and message boards. When to 'film' and when to help? The first thing news managers will tell you to do if you're assaulted is to keep rolling. That way there's irrefutable evidence of just what when down before the authorities arrive. It's wise enough advice, but I still think I'd have a hard time stepping back for a wide shot if my partner of the day were suddenly being pummelled. (Well, there was that one guy I wouldn't mind seeing take a punch. Or three.) Hey, I'm no gladiator, but I am a Southern man who grew up with brothers. Staying out of the fray ain't exactly in my DNA.

Luckily, the kind of stories I tend to cover don't feature alot of fisticuffs. Let's just say you won't find too many enraged combatants down at band camp. Until the triangle players show up, that is. Those guys are vicious!

Jonesing for a Manifesto

This Just In: A befuddled Lenslinger has reportedly taken himself hostage in his upstairs lair with an ample supply of Guatamalan coffee, a few tattered notebooks and his beloved Achtung Baby CD. Analysts believe the photog-blogger is staging a desperate attempt to write something worthy. Details of his progress are sketchy, but alarmed neighbors have reported seeing an overly furry figure in wrinkled cabanawear striking Elvis-like Kung Fu poses in front of his second story window. A SWAT team has yet to be called, but Reactionary News 6 has obtained copies of three abandoned diatribes - all fished out of the Pittman family dumpster by our crack squad of I-Team hairspray vultures...

Steve Irwin is dead and no one's happy about it. That includes me; my kids love The Crocodile Hunter and explaining his sudden demise was a lousy was to start the week. My oldest says she wants to be a zoological vet. She may change her mind but I credit the exuberant Australian with kick-starting her interest in the field. I'll miss his Uber-Ossie schtick, his too-tight khaki shorts and most of all the way his proclivity for wrestling wild animals made my friends at the N.C. Zoo go absolutely batshit. As for that video of his underwater death, let's hope it never surfaces. Otherwise the photog (and the ghoul)in me will demand I watch it. Just being honest.

Jury selection has begun in the Rhode Island nightclub tragedy known as the Great White Fire. There are enough victims and survivors of this blaze to fuel a thousand posts, but as always, I think of the shooter. When WPRI photog Brian Butler saw the band's pyrotechnics first ignite the foam covered walls, he wisely retreated, kept his camera focused and reportedly urged others to get out as well. Three minutes later the club was an inferno. Some pundits faulted him for not doing more, but that's an easy call from a cushy confines of an air-conditined news-set. Having cut my own teeth shooting local bands in crowded nightclubs, I wonder if I would have had the state of mind to seek immediate egress - let alone keep rolling.

For better or worse, Katie Couric is now the face of the CBS Evening News. Let's see... overpayed morning mouthpiece lands coveted anchor gig at damaged tiffany network while jealous colleagues recoil and a nation of viewers swoon. Nope, couldn't care less. It's my belief that the protracted brouhaha will eventually be judged as much to do about nothing - as the cult of personality is one the wane now that advanced technology makes it so easy to customize personal news intake. Besides, who still watches evening newscasts anyway? Wait - don't answer that. I gotta show my face in the newsroom tomorrow and pretend I'm enthused about filling ninety more seconds of dead air. Can't we just show an old Bullwinkle episode instead?

Stay tuned to Reactionary News 6 for extensive team smotherage of this unfolding story. Just don't get too excited, this guy hasn't written anything worth a damn since early 2005...

Backstage with Bo Bice

Ran into Bo Bice again today. Okay, so I slithered past a gaggle of hyperventilating female fans outside The N Club in Greensboro for a few closing minutes of the singer’s late afternoon sound check. While Bo and his band ripped through a few Southern Rawk standards, I shot the breeze with a few colleagues - telling them what little I knew about the former American Idol finalist. ‘He’s a righteous dude’, I told them, explaining that, much like Bucky Covington, Bice seems to truly appreciate the die-hard fans that a certain juggernaut of a show left in his care. A few minutes later the laidback longhair proved me right, emerging from a back room to lay some love on Chaz Erwin - a certified Bo Bice enthusiast who just happens to live life in a wheelchair. Pretty standard protocol all right, but the Alabama native works the room with such genuine warmth that I always come away an admirer - even if I can’t name any of his songs.

For a glimpse of said encounter, complete with an ugly shirt cameo by yours truly, click here. But brace yourself - it’s a really ugly shirt.