And the Winner Ain't...

There's a simply delicious brouhaha currently swirling in some newspaper circles and frankly, it's none of my business. But doggone it, it's an issue that I plan to address during my ConvergeSouth session in the Fall. Since that's still a good seven or so months away, I hereby offer the following heartfelt retort. First though, let me break it all down for those of you not playing at home...


For some time now forward-thinking newspapers have sought to include video in the ever important on-line presentations. Some of those encapsulated efforts have been downright groundbreaking, but much of it remains abysmal. Why shouldn't it? Advanced video skills aren't as easy to score as that discount handycam down at Best Buy. Just ask your local TV news photog - the one who's worked for years to master a craft most folk wisely take for granted. They'll tell you it takes time to hone the many disciplines required; from shot selection to microphone placement to the art of harboring found light. Grasp those fundamentals and the palette is yours. Eschew these principals and you'll find yourself scribbling on-screen.

All of which explains the mind-set of a group of television news shooters who recently sat down to judge a new category of NPPA Photojournalism contest: Web Video. Despite the many entries from newspapers far and wide, the judges decided not to name a first prize winner - blaming subpar work that failed to meet their criteria. Yes, they called the newspaper's video baby 'Ug-LEE'. One of the judges, KING-TV's Mark Morache, details why:

We saw some good journalism -- journalism with a big 'J.'But what caught me was that so many of these stories had an emotional disconnect. When you are watching a great story, you see it, you know it, you feel it in your gut. It sticks with you, and when it is over, you say, 'Re-rack it and play it again.'

The reasons they cited seem simple enough: jittery camerawork, poor lighting, endings that were way too oblique. It was all too much for an organization that's not above taking itself too seriously. (Full disclosure: I've been an intinerant critic of NPPA contests for years. Something about posturing for trinkets always left me feeling a little cheap.) Still, I applaud their latest stance - and not just because it hacks off the smuggest of the ink-stained set. No, I support their decision because it seeks to establish a standard of visual storytelling that transcends outlet, medium or format. Today's consumers want their news now, and their getting it on a staggering arrays of new gadgets. But whether they're nodding in front of their living room plasma or leaning over their laptop out by the pool, they don't want to struggle to understand anything - not in a 500 channel, infinite website world.

None of this of course, is what newspaper folk wanted to hear. Leery of merely reproducing what they see as a deeply flawed TV product, the Print Contingent know they're on the precipice of a new video age. By continuing to feed the ambitions of their more than able photography staffs, they'll no doubt forge new methods in visual storytelling. But before they can conquer new frontiers, they must come to grips with the basics. And a little humility wouldn't hurt. Having long held broadcasters in low regard, many inkslingers are now telling us they can do our medium better. To that I issue a hearty 'Up Yours'. Were I to saunter into your Editor's office, slam my midnight prose down on his desk and pronounce it far superior to anything in-house, you'd rightfully laugh me out of the room. Just ask Howard Owens, who simply cannot fathom how the current crop of newspaper video failed to measure up:

It’s hard to believe that all the entries in a national contest were so fatally flawed by basic shooting and editing mistakes that they weren’t worthy of honor. I suspect, more to the point, is that the judges were unwilling or unable to come to terms with the changing face of video news. The flaws were not necessarily in frames of the video, but in the eyes of the judges.

Not so, Howie. Most TV news photogs are rabid fans of all storytelling and are more than ready to be bowled over by something new and different. But like the audience we now share, our standards are too well-placed to endure shoddy work for very long. With fewer time restrictions and a ubiquitous delivery method, the newspaper industry can indeed rewrite the book on video news. No one's demanding your fare be as slick (and vapid) as what we churn out on the evening news, but it must be clear, clean and easy to follow. Otherwise, no number of grand proclamations about new frontiers will make up for garbled audio, distracting backlight and meandering narration. Just ask your news consumer, the one nodding off at the family computer.

Antarctica XD

A camera, a tripod and a horizon - sounds like the perfect gig ... but at the bottom of the world? That's exactly what a photog known on-line as Xcylox did during a recent two months stint on the Antarctic plateau. There to shoot re-enactments for a British production about polar explorer Douglas Mawson, the Australian crew schlepped a High-Def XDCAM through the sastrugi and spindrift of the open tundra. (Beats stalking the milk and bread aisle when the first fat flake begins to fall.) This being 2007, no expedition is complete without a behind-the-scenes blog - in this case a picture-rich testimonial of the Sony's robust performance. While I haven't slogged my XD across any ice floes lately, I have slung it from Hollywood to Hurricanes to Hair-Net Conventions. But this ain't about me (PFFT!), it's about Xcylox and the gang. Who knows what their footage looked like, but if it's anything like the images on their site, I'm setting my Tivo NOW.

Secret Garden Tips

7 Things I Learned (but already knew) at today’s Grow-Room Bust

The effort, energy and technical prowess required to set up an illegal grow room in your basement could easily bring you a fine salary in any number of electrical, botany or engineering fields - with no fear of prison sex.

Though not nearly as jumpy as when taking down meth labs, certain rural deputies will don bunny suit, gas mask and even hip waders before entering a smelly basement full of half-grown weed.

No matter the education, ethnicity or income level - two out of ten motorists cannot physically restrain themselves from yelling “WHOO-HOO!” when passing live truck encampments. Waving is optional.

No amount of incense will mask the smell of 134 reefer trees in your cellar. Try Stick-Ups.

Electrical linemen aren’t as macho as they look and, even while disassembling a dope grower’s elaborate power system, will still stop Fox affiliated news crews to ask about American Idol.

Undercover cops will repeatedly warn news crews not to film them, then saunter, strut and preen through every possible camera shot in a three mile radius.

Law enforcement officials notoriously overestimate the street value of confiscated pot plants, employing the exact same kind of fuzzy math that stoner behind the counter at the local Stop-N-Rob uses to count back change.

No matter how many pot pulls, round-ups and drug busts you’ve collectively covered before, someone in the electronic media will always, always jokingly ask if they can take home a sample...Tee-Hee!

'In It to the Hilt'

It's not so politically correct to admire Ernie Pyle's journalism anymore - his frontline columns from the hedgerows of World War II were brimming with sanitized action and a pervasive pro-American bent. But as a lover of troubled men who live through their words, I can't help but place Pyle high in the pantheon of torn epistlers. Consider his career: An accomplished travel writer before the war, Pyle added his powers of description to the nation's arsenal - first earning distinguishing himself in London where he issued street-level dispatches as the Luftwaffe's bombs pounded down around him. From there he rarely looked back, traveling with little more than a bedroll (and a bottle) as he slogged through the foxholes of North Africa, Normandy and beyond, always choosing the company of dogface grunts over spitshine Generals. Blind to high politics, this bedraggled little figure focused his sniper's eye for deadly detail on the young men dropping like flies around him. The resulting onslaught of newspaper columns held a worried nation spellbound. Long before television took viewers to the frontlines, Ernie Pyle's damaged genius transported his readers half a world away - where their sons and uncles were busy perfecting mechanized slaughter, when not dying in the process. Ernie eventually died too, caught in the temple by a Japanese bullet in a ditch in Okinawa. News of his passing caused Presidents to pause, housewives to collapse and combat veterans to cry, all distraught over the senseless demise of the G.I.'s humble, battle-hardened chronicler. We should all be so conflicted...

Newsgathering Givens

With the February book mercifully over, it’s strictly general assignment work for your humble lenslinger. That means I’ll be at the mercy of the News Gods, those schizophrenic deities who hurl whim and happenstance my way in the most incovenient order. That’s not to say I don’t know what I‘ll be doing...

For I’m fairly certain I’ll soon be in pursuit of the freshly upturned. Not that we chase a lot of bent sheet metal ( as I assured a photog candidate last week), but with a couple of high-speed interstates and a dozen or so police entities around these parts, it’s a safe bet I’ll be schlepping electronics up someone‘s asphalt pretty soon. If the prospect of that won’t get you out of bed every morning, perhaps you should look into selling Amway.

Or you could just stick to the press conference beat. There’s never a shortage of those. Whether it’s the Governor chortling through a series of shout-outs or a city councilwoman calling for the head of another, there’s always fun to be had when the podium is manned. Okay, that’s a lie. Most pressers suck. Ninety-nine percent of the sound recorded at them never makes air - a fact that always seem to escape the attention of all those choked-up orators.

When I’m not asleep on my feet in front of a crowd, I’m usually driving around like a madman without a road-map. But daze spent behind the wheel are just a part of the photog life, for all those news items don’t exactly come to us. Instead we have to go pick it up on a moments notice and get it to the viewers before it crystallizes into tomorrow’s headline. All that last minute delivery doesn’t happen without some truly stupid parking, something I’ve been working years at to perfect.

But no matter where the gig takes me, you can damn sure bet I’ll take my sticks. That’s because nothing shores up your shot like a set of artificial shoulders. Trouble is, ‘shouldering’ is about all they’re good for. They don’t walk, stand up by themselves or make for very good conversationalists, but you won’t find a self-respecting photog on the planet who doesn’t cherish his ’pod. Well, there was that one guy, but who needs stability when all you shoot are spiraling footballs and locker room philosophy?

Tools aside, there is another element of newsgathering I can be assured of encountering. Label it by-product, excrement or straight up shee-yite, they’ll be more than enough fecal matter to go around, both underfoot and theoretic. How I handle said daily crap-fest is more a matter of my mood than anything else. Sometimes handle it with aplomb, I most often bitch a little as I pick it out of my teeth. You would too, I bet.

ConvergeSouth 2007: Be There

Consider this the first of many items on ConvergeSouth 2007 - the third incarnation of Greensboro's annual summit of geeks, thinkers and on-line vagabonds. Why here? Because the not so stretchy metroplex in which I dwell boasts the cyber-nightlife of a far bigger 'burg. In L.A., it's said every waiter has a screenplay. In Greensboro, every milkman's got a blog. Okay, so not many dairy drivers actually hammer out manifestos every night, but we have every other breed of insatiable communicator ... office-seekers and laptop addicts, Classics geeks and Nascar fans, tattooed anarchists and self-described millionaires. It's a fun bunch - especially when we get together nose-ring to goatee, sweater vest to Carhartt.

In years past, we've even managed to attract a rogue's gallery of cyber-icons, from blogging's true rock stars to hopped-up roadies of The Fifth Estate. Speaking of that new sphere of participatory media, it's exactly what we're focusing on this year at ConvergeSouth. Far more than journalism currently in flux, the very way we interact with others is forever skewed by the onslaught of personal technology. We'll delve into the how's and why's of all that for two whole days in late October, which is a spectacular time of year to savor the Piedmont. So save the date (OCT. 19-20) and know that this is the year ConvergeSouth grows up. Video. Film. Live Music. Interactivity. This guy's even gonna say a few words...

Arc of a Diver

Since May of 2004 I’ve juggled a Fuji digital camera with my one free hand, shoving into an over-stuffed runbag, whipping it out at crime scenes, thrusting it into the hands of strangers. The other day I dropped the damn thing. Hard. It landed on the fragile battery door, tiny screws blowing out at the point of impact. I could only collapse on the sun-baked carcass and weep for my fallen friend, despite the fact I been cussin’ it for the better part of two years. See, it sucks in low light and it has a trigger delay that makes action shots near impossible - all inherent limitations of a digital point and shoot. But all those faults were forgotten the moment it slipped from my hairy fingers, only seconds before it made that awful bounce.

When no more tears would come, I gathered up the small metal shards in my trembling palms and lovingly packed the parts away in a spare camera bag. For days, I rode around it with in the back of Unit Four, avoiding rearview mirror glances as I worked my way through the seven stages of grief. Shock (Doh!). Denial (That did NOT just happen). Bargaining (Bring her back Lord and I‘ll stop tossing her in the floorboard!). Guilt (My hands were slippery with chicken grease) . Anger. (Why do I suck?). Depression (I‘ll just lay down behind this Back Yard Burger dumpster) until finally, Acceptance. Eventually I got hungry and wandered inside, where I swaddled my loss in a most delicious Barbeque Bacon Burger.

Today I pulled Weaver aside and broke the news to him. He was his usual stoic self, though he seemed more intrigued with my lunch selection than my tale of woe. After he swung by the snack machine, he met me out by our motley fleet. With a heavy tug at the case’s zipper, I splayed the remains atop the hood of the nearest news unit. It was I realized the elaborate funeral plans I’d sketched out in dashboard dust was a tad premature. My Fuji lay broken, but not dead. A thorough exam uncovered the facts: hefty abrasions, a few missing screws, an unattached battery door. After conferring with Weaver, I decided to operate - summoning every bit of technical expertise I’ve developed over 17 years of electronic field maintenance. That’s right, I wrapped tape around it.

It powered back up, but it ain’t right. Here’s hoping I can convince the fiduciary arm of Lenslinger Incorporated to authorize an upgrade expenditure. (I think she’s downstairs, playing her piano.)

Rats at Eleven

You think the photog who recorded video of those restaurant rats knew he was capturing history? Freelance cameraman Rafael Garcia Jr. is credited with shining his light (and lens) through the Taco Bell/KFC’s window, after local stations received phone tips about rodents doing the hokey-pokey in the fast food joint’s dining room. This, my friends, is why the space aliens who crash-landed in Roswell gifted us with all this new technology. I mean, covering global politics is good, I suppose - but nothing titillates the denizens of our twisted orb like something real, something important, something, well…skeevy. Taco Bell’s mouse club is a textbook example. Within hours of Garcia’s landmark ‘get’, his footage ricocheted from satellite to living room, holding a nation no less than enthralled with the scampering health code violations. For a few minutes the cable nets even stopped ripping flesh off Anna Nicole’s corpse to dish on the fast food rats. By midnight, the whiskered little fellas were reading the Top Ten list as Letterman pretended to chortle off-screen.

It just goes to show you how easily we in the Fourth (and Fifth Estate) are distracted by something stupid. Is this what Gutenburg had in mind when he invented the printing press? What Al Gore was thinking about when he created the internet out of PVC pipe and elbow noodles? I think not. I remember what my journalism professor said - you know, the one whose classes I never once attended… I’m told he spoke at length about using our journalistic powers for the greater good - and not be sidetracked by the slippery and the salacious. It’s one reason I’ve dedicated my entire career to covering nothing but substantial issues, eschewing the prurient and the silly in a lifelong quest to serve --- Hey look! Is that a squirrel in a top hat??? Roll the sat truck, I‘ve got a job to do!!!