Gaffer Tape Calisthenics

S-K-R-I-I-I-T-C-H! Fwop. Fwop. Fwop. S-K-R-I-I-I-T-C-H! Fwop. Fwop. Fwop. By the time the strange cadence began a third time, I was up and out of my seat - curious to see who was disembowling a woodchuck behind my live van. Imagine my delight when instead I found a lovely TV reporter I'd yet to meet. S-K-R-I-I-I-T-C-H! With a practiced flip of the wrist, she unrolled a length of purloined gaffer's tape and dabbed (Fwop. Fwop. Fwop.) at the all but invisible lint on her black slacks. I stood there in admiration as the reporter do what it took to feel comfortable on-air. I was thinking of a similar vista when she looked up, saw the digital camera cradled in my hand and begged for mercy. "Don't take a picture of THIS!" she said - never breaking away from her unauthorized fuzz hunt ... She should know better than to to say THAT that to a photog.

Spies on the Riser

With all the real news crews covering the Democratic Primary, what schlub do you think got stuck covering the Republican shindig down the road? Here's a hint: It rhymes with "hymn-singer". Yep, I got to lay all four eyes on John McCain and all I had to do was rise hours before dawn, drive a live truck to Wake Forest, slather our traffic guy (turned political correspondent)'s live visage across the land, pull 400 feet of heavy cable deep into Wait Chapel, pass through the same metal detectors a half dozen times, chit-chat while the bomb dogs sniff my gear, fight for a spot on a riser full of lifers, stream McCain's speech live(!) to the web, interview departing audience members before they got to the cars, roll up 400 feet of heavy cable, breakdown the live truck, drive back to the station, review my footage, transcribe the soundbites, write a script around them, find someone to voice it, edit a minute-twenty report and write a few wise words for the anchors to say once the damn thing was over! And it's only Tuesday.

But enough about my life; let's talk about John McCain. He seems like a nice enough fellow. Entering Wait Chapel, he alternated between emitting gravitas and making goofy faces. One gets the feeling John McCain might like his own late night talk show one day. Maybe that's why he read his speech from a teleprompter; he's practicing his delivery for an 11:30 timeslot. Dude just needs to be careful, for all those scrolling words can throw you off - especially when your handlers don't update the script. Why else would McCain have thanked the good people of West Virginia for all their support - here in central North Carolina... Hello, Cleveland!

No bother, for the capacity crowd soaked up every syllable of McCain's dissertation on judicial nominations. That's dedication, for I fazed out shortly after the Arizona senator stopped poking fun at special guest Fred Thompson. A word on Fred Thompson. After the speech I was man-humping a thick clot of that heavy cable through a doorway when who pops out but the politician/film star. Immediately two co-eds moved in and asked to pose with him for a picture. Thompson obliged and the girls got their shot - which almost inspired me to ask the same favor. I didn't, and in the process, preserved my tenuous grasp on photog credibility. See, we professional camera handlers don't ask for photos...

Or at least that used to be the case. With the advent of digital photography and the onslaught of social media, it's increasingly acceptable to whip out a camera just about anywhere. That includes Tripod Row, I guess - a place once reserved for journeyman lensers with official press passes and aviator shades. These days the elevated scrum is alot more diverse. Bloggers, vloggers and even a few lost joggers now dot the landscape - er, platform. While it's not uncommon to see newspaper folks with videocameras the size of baked potatoes, it's still a little odd to see a TV news photographer break out a small digital and start taking snapshots of his competitors, the ceiling and anything else that passes his way.

But how else am I gonna stay alert during all this political posturing? The security guard took my Red Bull...

Serenity Then

Don't bother looking for me at Falls Lake, 'cause I ain't there. See, during a Sweeps Month like May the photog time-space continuum gets all twisted. News crews used to churning out stories for the very next broadcast suddenly find themselves working on epics that may gestate for weeks. That's an awful lot of clock in TV News - where the passage of time is measured in ten second teases and every day comes with a half dozen deadlines. Me: I just show up and exceed expectations, which usually earns me little more than added expectations. That's no news flash, I know - but there was considerable static earlier when I got my Primary Plan. Holy Fuster-Cluck! Just when I thought I'd escaped the perils of election day, the News Gods sucked me back in! Oh well, I'll save you the particulars once I got visual proof. In the meantime, just envision me in my happy place - which is far, far away from any polling place. As for Falls Lake, I can't precisely why I was there - though I'm sure it will come back to me as soon as that nice smiley lady hands me a script. For now though, repeat after me: O-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M...

A Message from the Media...

I think I can speak for every North Carolina news gatherer when I say, "LET'S DO THIS THING!" One more fluid intinerary, fake motorcade or security sweep and I'm goin' mental! Look I'm all for Democracy but you people are blowin' this thing w-a-y out of proportion. How long we been doing this? Since March? That's when a mob of hopped-up Obama-cons first bum-rushed the Coliseum Complex. Since then it's been a blur - a flickering reel of endorsement orgies, hectic pressers and a thrumming number of potential constituents. What all this simulated momentum has to do with governing our great land I ain't so sure, but if I wanted to manufacture this kind of clamor I'd go back to pimpin' American Idol. They got w-a-y cuter interns.

Not that The Road to the White House is just another reality show past its prime. Hey it was good enough for Abe Lincoln - and he wore a funny hat! Come to think of it, he didn't have an army of TV lenses wherever he went: you know, electronic interlopers in roving logos, ready to parse his every high-def syllable to a land of plasma-fatties. Sure, his wife was a little nuts, but Mary Todd Lincoln got nuthin' on Paula Abdul. That woman can traipse across a hotel lobby with a tranquilizer dart hanging from one shimmering buttock and still make the back pages of People magazine. Think what a pair of sequined jeans and some hair-gel could have done for Honest Abe: leader of the free world or a development deal with Fox. IS THIS THING EVEN ON!?!

I don't even know anymore. Each time I plug in my headphones, some John Mellencamp dirge takes over my brain and I find myself wanting to pull a Gillooly on the nearest Republican or buy a pick-up truck, I'm never sure. What I do know is all this primary hype is gonna leave a mark on the Old North State. From Murphy to Middlesex to Manteo, local news-yokels are thrusting their logos toward a global showdown, the first real American Presidential election in The YouTube Era. How lucky we country bumpkins should feel that it passsed through our state, I suppose. Maybe I'll feel that way in a couplel of weeks when I'm back to stalking strawberries or some such. For now I can only hope for a smooth Tuesday with nary a hanging chad in sight. Otherwise me and every photog I know are driving you excitable types straight to Indiana. Buckle up!

Turd, Interrupted

I’m still grappling with the fact that Rick Portier dismantled his blog. For over two years the Baton Rouge TV news photog has praised the righteous and excoriated the lame under the rank pseudonym, Turdpolisher. In that time he’s shown no quarter, skewering all that have passed through his Gulf Coast lens with equal venom - be they pimps, producers or any other form of poseur. That propensity for bluntness is common among our breed; while I tend to couch my derision in twenty dollar words, Rick will call a spade a $#&% shovel. It’s made for delightfully pungent reading and I considered myself a fan l-o-n-g before I struck up a friendship with the man. Which is why it pains me to report that Turdpolisher is on extended leave. The details why don’t matter as much; just know that it was of Rick’s own volition. That doesn't mean it was an easy decision, so while he concentrates on an off-line project and assesses his alter-ego, drop him a thought in the comments section below, would ya? Dude needs to know ALL those visitor clicks weren't just from me...

Dung Clusters on the Campaign Trail

The North Carolina Primary is two days away and every news crew I know is exhausted. You would be too if you spent the last few weeks chasing Presidential candidates from every corner of your homeland. For weeks Obama and Hillary have crisscrossed the state, popping up at lofty universities and small town fire departments alike as both camps laid claim to our nation’s destiny, one carefully crafted talking point at a time. Mostly, each candidate electrified their choir. I watched aides hyperventilating over Hillary’ s stance on healthcare, an agnostic woman genuflect at the sight of Obama’s motorcade and Bill Clinton himself hypnotize a mosh-pit’s worth of college freshman. I don’t know if either side won the hearts of the electorate, but together they played more North Carolina venues this year than Nantucket.

Of course that’s just my perspective, which is dead center on the camera platform if I have anything to say about it. This year that process has been testier than ever, with all sorts of new media goobs showing up to crowd the riser. Hey, I’m all for a plugged-in citizenry, but don’t be surprised when The Traveling Press swoops in just before the hair-do and blocks your shot. They do it to me and I got three different station tattoos on my arse. Maybe that’s how they’ll identify my remains when this camera-stand collapses under the weight of you ... YouTube hooligans. Back in my day you needed a press pass to stand up here, and fancy vests with lots of pockets! Hmm? Whadaya mean “What’s a Mult-Box?” MY EYES!!!


Whew. I’m okay. Just sorta blacked out there when the skater kid didn’t know how to plug in a microphone cord. They still make cords, right? Truth is, I’ve been feeling old lately - and not just because I’ve been working longer shifts. It hit me the other day at Guilford College. Deep within the edifice, a packed house supplicated on-cue as Hillary droned on like a middle school nutritionist for the better part of an hour. I was spared that sensory assault, having stationed myself along the row of TV live trucks parked outside. Nearby, a gruby clutch of trust fund anarchists waved a gnarly looking bed sheet my camera’s way. ‘GET THE U.S. OUT OF THE AMERICAS!’ the dirty banner demanded. I’m still not sure what that means exactly, but judging from their accompanying funk, I’d guess they’re demanding an end to indoor plumbing. What’s so revolutionary ‘bout that?

Suddenly Stephanie

One of the few highlights of last week's Bill Clinton debacle was this fugitive sighting. Stephanie Bourland, once an El Ocho anchor and reporter, left the newsroom years ago to pursue some form of normalcy. At first she did the corporate thing, but after having her first child she got really smart and now passes the time as a full time Mommy. What a far cry from our time together, when we trudged through meetings, murders and mudslides - all in the name of the daily deadline. You know, since Steph left I don't think I've eaten at a single Panera's - or any other House of Estrogen where they want to serve me half a sandwich or soup in a bowl made of soggy bread. Anyhoo, it was good to see her last week - even if she did insist on doing a leisurely victory lap around our antiquated sat truck. As for the little one, she was suitably cute and already smart enough to fear all the furry photogs vying for her attention. I'm guessing her mom clued her in...

Bruises I Accrue...

When I was but a pimply teenager, it would kill me to know I was missing out. A party, a dance, an advertised ass-whupping after Algebra class: I wanted to be there just to drink in the absurdity. So is it any wonder I grew up to do what I do? After all, a press pass is a backstage pass to other peoples' lives, from the preening politician to the badly shackled madman. What better vocation for a fairly gregarious bookworm with a strong back and an eye for irony? I can't think of one - which is why, no matter how I might belly-ache about the Fourth Estate, I go to bed every night knowing I long ago discovered my special purpose...

Trouble is, I wake up sore. An aching back, a throbbing shoulder, knuckles bloodied from scrapes I don't remember. Clearly, one of two things is happening. Either my lovely bride is bludgeoning me in my sleep or all this lenslinging is taking its toll. I'm betting on the latter - as nearly twenty years of bending, stretching, chasing and hefting has done a number on my frame. No, I'm not ready for the Old Photog's Home just yet - as I'd kinda like to shoot in High-Def before I give up the lens. I do however recognize that I'm not quite as spry as I was back when acid-washed denim was still acceptable outerwear. Sure, I been lucky. No major operations or maladies have sidelined me - though there days my knees scream to be taken out back and shot.

Still, I don't regret a single frame - even if I had to assume the shape of a squad car cockpit or hold aloft a microphone until it equaled the weight of a mid-seventies sat truck. See, within those contusions are hardened anecdotes, highly sought life experiences that last a lot longer than than that mysterious tripod hickey on my inner arm. Beats a bevy of paper cuts earned during tax return season, I'm told. But how would I know, anyway? I'm way too busy turning calamity into commodity to keep a running score on normalcy, too consumed with the daily hunt to ponder the pitfalls of a cubicle farm. Guess I'll stick to the open range - where for all the bruises I accrue - there's usually a ballbuster of a tale to act as a salve.

Now if I could do something about this hunchback...