The Meanest Mom

So, you have a Ph.D. from Duke in Medieval Literature and four kids climbing up your back, whadaya do? Reinvent yourself! That's what Jana Mathews did, using her polished synapses and knack for narrative to emerge on-line as The Meanest Mom! Of course, that's mostly hype. When Bob Buckley and I visited Jana and her blonde-headed brood the other week, she seemed no more maniacal than any other highly educated woman held hostage by fidgety midgets. Hell, I'd yammer on the computer too! In fact, I do - something I divulged to Jana as we banished her kids to the backroom just long enough for a sit down interview. Halfway through, the little crumb-snatchers broke free from their cartoons and surrounded our little production, which was fine since we were doing a story on a blogging mom swamped in offspring.

Only one teensy problem, I was in such a hurry to capture the ensuing madness, I neglected to re-white balance after shooting the computer screen, a rookie move that turned the lionshare of my footage a sickly, jaundiced yellow. Oopsie! Oh well, nothing a few more drops and drags in the non-linear suite won't (almost) fix. Anyhoo, from the sound of the comments on her site, her legion of Fanmoms didn't notice; they were just stoked to see their hero on the tee-vee. Ya know, when we shine a spotlight on a lowly blogger, I almost feel like we're using our powers for good and not evil - a warm and fuzzy I'll no doubt cling to until the next time I'm knocking on some widow's door and asking for a photo of the recently deceased. Is that harsh? Maybe - but just like Jana Mathews I write what I know. So far, no news crews have knocked on my door to discuss it, but when they do I hope I'll be as gracious - and widely-read - as The Meanest Mom.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go conjur up a cool, on-line nickname...

Class of One

Nearly 600 pages about a man hunched over his drawing table may not be your cup of tea, but I for one willingly ingested Schulz and Peanuts. In it, David Michaelis' traces one man's rise from a weak and wobbly tot to the undisputed King of syndicated cartooning. Unsure of everything but the pictures in his head, the kid called 'Sparky' knew he could draw from the start. So he did, suffering the wrath of schoolyard brutes as he pondered, jotted and pndered some more. It took World War II to make him a man. When he returned, the modicum of confidence he'd earned overseas helped hone his single-minded pursuit. Soon he was working at Art Instruction by day and on big-headed children by night. You probably know the rest: Midwestern minimalist re-draws the comic strip, imbuing his charming doodles with all the pathos and bathos of the baby-boomers around him. By sketching his interior monologue across the newspapers of America, this Minnesota scribbler found himself lauded as visionary, an exciting new existentialist who seeded doubt where 0nly gags used to go, who dropped philosophy in thought bubbles, who hooked the planet on the thoughts of a dog. Sure, he licensed the crap out of his characters and made a gajillion bones, but besides the damage that turbo Snoopy toothbrush did to my eight year old palette, what's the harm? None that I spot, but it's easy to see why this exhaustive look at the lonesome soul behind Lucy and Linus has its detractors. Schulz's own son has slammed it for painting his father as petulant and depressed. They'd know better than I but, hey, the dude who never let Charlie Brown kick that football won't be remembered for his eternal optimism. He'll be forever renowned as the sadsack who dreamed up that round headed kid, the self-proclaimed 'nobody' whose relentless wit and drive turned a knack for daydreaming into the enrichment of the Twentieth Century.

Not bad for a blockhead...

Leah's Last Stand

Brad Ingram was snapping photos of a favorite coworker the other night, when he caught the essence of the late shift live shot... a swath of blacktop and a lens, a brackish mix of street lamp and moonlight. Anyone who (still) thinks their local news reporter has a glamorous job never babysat a parking lot in a dodgy part of town. Leah Beno has. For two years she and an El Ocho photog have crisscrossed the Piedmont, pixelating intrigue long after I've locked myself in my upper lair. Any general assignment shift can wear you down, but nights - with its morass of meetings and sprees of inner city subterfuge - can erode your social skills and eff with your head. Which is why I've (and others) have always been so impressed with Leah. Capable, poised and striking, this Michigan native has maintained her decorum while dealing with city politicians, fresh felons, and - UGH - TV news shooters. Through it all, she's brandished the manners of a delightful garden party guest - albeit one who'd grill you if the punch tasted funny. After tonight however, Leah Beno will no longer be with us. Instead, she'll address viewers closer to home, a big city move that leaves some of her more ardent in-house fans seeking therapy. Me - I'll remember the day in Durham during the Eve Carson case, when we jumped into Unit 4 and I backed into that telephone pole. Your reaction was priceless, Leah and unlike mine, obscenity-free. Good on ya!

Action Jackson

We stateside shooters who complain when the ribbon-cuttings run long aren't fit to polish the lens-cap of those far-flung photogs who carry glass into battle. Case in point: Chris Jackson. Last August the young freelancer was traveling the backroads of Afghanistan with none other than Colonel Oliver North and a caravan of U.S. Marines - when 50 pounds of homemade explosives ripped open the Humvee he was riding in. The blast sprayed Jackson's leg with shrapnel, but he and his Marines were able to escape the burning vehicle. Except one. Sgt. Courtney Rauch remained inside, injured and unconscious. Chris Jackson could have shouldered his camera and captured some dramatic footage, but instead he chose a higher assignment. Rushing back into the flames, Jackson pulled Sgt. Rauch from the wreckage, saving his life and earning the adoration of a fierce and elite fraternity. These days Chris Jackson slings a lens for CNN and didn't think much of a briefing he had to attend a before leaving for all of places, India. That's when Marine Major General Paul Lefebvre pinned the Distinguished Public Service Award on the photog's chest, thus awarding him the the second highest award given to civilians by the Navy.

"This was not an everyday action." said the General. "It came from somewhere deep inside and shows such a level of courage and commitment."

Jackson, who's accompanied servicemembers into combat zones since 2001, said he didn’t think twice about risking his own life to save someone else’s - just like, uh, we would, should the next artichoke festival erupt in combustibles. Until then, we ain't worthy...

As Seen on TV

YOU THERE, lounging in that office chair, how'd you like to work off those winter pounds without ever stepping foot in a smelly health club? Care to crisscross the globe - or at least the six closest counties? Wanna be a first responder, but not really help anybody? Have I got a job for you! TV News - that fleeting discipline known to millions and loved by dozens could be your ticket out of that comfortable cubicle farm! Who needs coffee breaks when you could dine daily on fresh tragedy, an endless buffet of broadcast clichés and enough live truck generator fumes to fool you into thinking you're making a difference in the community. Not only that, you'll fatten your closet with garish logowear, build up those apathy callouses and slim down that pesky wallet! But wait - THERE'S MORE!

Take advantage of this special offer within the next ninety seconds and we'll whisk you away in an authentic TV news live truck that smells of flopsweat and cheesy poofs! Once onboard, you'll enjoy the latest in yesterday's technology! Lights! Cameras! Laptops! Grizzled specialists are standing by to school you in every aspect of 21st century rumour-mongering! You'll learn firsthand from hollow-eyed pros how to simplify complex issues into cheeky bromides, how to fillet footage 'til it's relevance-free, how to stuff a minute-fifteen of nearly free airtime with the kind of sights and sounds that illustrate, distort yet say nothing at all! But don't take our word for it - ASK ONE OF OUR SATISFIED CUSTOMERS!

On second thought, shut yer piehole! That way you'll be sure to soak up every syllable of available copspeak - all while reveling in the joy of working holidays and learning to chain-smoke! Soon you'll be the hit of the cocktail party circuit with your true-life tales of crime-tape flatulence! But that's not all! Call within the next commercial break and we'll throw in the handy-dandy fast food identifier kit! Before you know it you'll be reciting dollar-menu items from the safety of the interstate! No more drab salads - you'll gnosh on the latest drive-thru sensations before their tested on the general public! If that's not enough, we'll throw in a year's supply of visits to your favorite economy chiropractor! Flash 'em your press pass and they'll drop everything to help plan that knee replacement procedure you'll be needing in a couple of years! ORDER NOW and get the Soul Erosion Travel Pack FREE!

(Lenslinger Industries is NOT responsible for chronic disillusionment, nuclear family breakdown, increased barbitute usage or crying jags lasting more than four hours. See your physician should bridge abutments start looking attractive. All claims, images and delusions the sole property of that skeevy guy who sleeps in his news car out back. Any reproduction of the above - whether written, electronic or via smoke signal - expressly forbidden without the written permission and paid kickback to a licensed schmuckologist. Show up at our office with an affidavit and we'll surround your loved one's home with logo'd news units and lisping entertainment reporters. No photogs were praised in the making of this ad.)

Afflicting the Pickle

There’s an old maxim in journalism: Comfort the afflicted, hassle the cat in the cucumber suit. Okay, so that’s really more of a personal mantra, but the fact of the matter is I wasn’t born with this outlook. No, I learned it from a few key elders; masters of street corner cinema who took this bleary-eyed doofus and made a one-man-band out of him. Chief among those tutors was the great Andy Cordan, whose balls-out approach to newsgathering left deep imprints on my neophyte psyche. I never really considered A.C. a mentor until I took over the bureau job he vacated so many moons ago. What followed was a difficult time for your somewhat humble lenslinger who alienated Andy’s contacts by aping his every other move. Too bad I could never fully emulate his chutzpah. But then again, few could. I have a fond, distant memory of him shoving a lens in a freshly shackled bank robber’s face and ’suggesting’ he show more emotion. Good. Times. These days, Cordan’s still at it, exposing all That's Messed Up for the oft-maligned WKRN. Say what you will about theVJ schtick; nobody’s got the stones to pull it off like Andy ‘The Man’ Cordan, even when he’s simply - AHEM - jerkin' a gherkin.

Glass of the Past?

How long before a gathering of glass like this look as old-fashioned as a fedora with a press pass stuck in the hatband? Don’t ask me; I’m just a photog. But even a lowly lenslinger like myself knows the media landscape is changing -- and quickly. The reasons are myriad: quantum leap equipment, a faltering economy and that series of tubes known as the internet. Together, they’re about to reconfigure the way we collect and disseminate information. Whether that’s a good thing or bad depends on just what part of the Fourth Estate you call home. Me, I tend to straddle the line between shooter, writer and editor. Occasionally I get ‘em all right, but most often I make up for a lack of acumen in one department by upping the ante in another. That of course offends some purists in my field, who believe excellence lies in the separation of TV stevedore and glossy correspondent. Mayhaps, but if you’re a young person itching to get into the biz, you’d better take a long look at the above photo and know it ain’t gonna be like this much longer.

Sure, cameras will always collect at the scene of breaking news, but the full-bodied heavy glass rigs of today are soon to be replaced by visual recording devices the size of baked potatoes, operated by folks who have more in common with ordinary fry cooks than highly specialized technicians. Does this make me happy? Not really; I’ve spent nearly twenty years whittling away at my craft only to see its very value plummet. Was a time a TV news photographer could draw oohs and ahhs simply by shouldering his brightly logo’d axe. No more … not when teenagers slice and dice video on family laptops, not when cell phones and music players record sight and sound on the side, not when the very idea of waiting for a newscast strikes my daughter as laughable as Daddy’s 80’s era mullet (Wait ‘til she sees my collection of Members Only jackets).

Anyway, what’s my point? I don’t know that I have one, but one thing IS for certain. The future is nearly upon us, for those of us who still have a future in this silly business. Think the move from film cameras to videotape caused a rift in the TV station time-space continuum? You ain’t seen nuthin yet! Large market reporters schlepping their own gear, photogs doubling as talent, producers learning to edit, CATS AND DOGS LIVING TOGETHER! If you think I’m full of shit, you better wake up and smell the dung heap - or better yet, go ask your old ex-coworker … you know the one who’d gladly learn a new skill if only to get back in the game. Don’t get me wrong: if you’re certain you’re safe doing only what you do, more power to you. But of you’re like a lot of us, you’re not quite as cocky as you once were, for the thinning of the herd is upon us. Will this blazing new paradigm result in some uglee Tee-Vee ? You betcha!

But maybe, just maybe this inevitable schism will lead to a better place, where station strewn across the land don’t so closely resemble each other. I mean, have you seen a newscast outside your immediate area lately? Dispatches from the Great Northwest shouldn’t look just like Southeastern broadcasts, but they do. Much like the homogenization of local radio, television news has grown fat, dumb and way too happy with itself. Once upon a time neighborhood newscasts were as unique as the areas they so claimed to love and cover. These days, it’s all so much cookie-cutter, shallow pap. Ever wonder why snooty newspaper people look down on their broadcast brethren? It ain’t ALL jealousy.

Much of it has to do with the dumbing-down of the form, the consultant-driven delirium, the profit-driven cannibalization of a once potent platform. But hey, who gives a hoot what a bunch of ink-stained wretches think? Their medium is dying! Here’s a clue: So is yours. There’s still time to revive it, of course but vital signs won’t be regained by the status-quo. Rather, it’s going to take a revolutionary procedure to revive this beast; if you want to be a part of the cure, you better scrub up and be prepared to leave that caveman medicine at the door. Me, I’ll be working on my bedside manner.

(Dip of the lens to beFrank, whose (above) picture got my noggin throbbin’.}

Check Your Local Listings...

I don’t know what’s more disturbing: the fact that Jamison Forst cranks out photoshop masterpieces like this on a daily basis OR the fact that I look so damn good in red tights and blonde curly locks. Whatever the case, one fact is clear: I gotta get Jamo a new headshot of me. I look like a clown molester on holiday. Still, he who lives by the web is sometimes embarrassed by it, so as long as my fellow photog sees fit to include me in his delusional doodling, I’m gonna share them with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go look for my dignity. I last saw it in that phone booth I changed clothes in…

A Hobo's Soul

I didn't know Ben Cutshall, but after watching the tribute his station put together upon his passing, I really wish I had. He was the chief photojournalist for KFMB; a diminutive man who cast a large shadow across the San Diego area. Starting in March of 1964, the Vietnam combat veteran strapped a camera to his back and waged a different type of warfare: TV News, that blithering, banal form of communication that robs so many people of their optimism and dignity. Not Ben Cutshall. For more than four decades he made a habit of being at the right place at the right time, recording images both heartwarming and horrific. But he was also a gifted writer, a gentle comic and an ambassador of class and dignityin a business sorely lacking either of those traits. Those younger photogs lucky enough to learn under him can't say enough good things about this wizardly lenslinger, which, if you know photogs, is high praise indeed. Rest In Peace.

On the Shoulders of Giants

So how do you make a chronic smart-ass go all stoic? Simple, put a camera on his shoulder, shove a tiny speaker in his ear and start counting backwards. If he's half the photog Bill Welch is, he'll stop smackin' his gum to follow the action. Of course that action is often a carefully coiffed correspondent, an earnest young person trying to ignore the fact that the guy (or gal) beneath the camera is sweating, shivering or listing hard to starboard. I've often thought (as sweat poured down the crack of my tripod) that if the folks at home could see what the reporter sees, they'd realize just how devoid of glamour the act of broadcasting truly is. Trust me, there's nothing sexy about hoping your photog can put off that coronary long enough for you to toss it back to Team Dimples. On the other hand, there's no worse feeling than mentally willing your reporter to wrap up their diatribe NOW - lest that red blinking light in the corner of your viewfinder go solid, bringing you latest dog-lick live shot to a premature, battery-free end. Now, back to you in the studio - before my spleen erupts!

Life, the Universe and Everything

Mention the number 42 to my wife and she'll instinctively roll her eyes. That's because I spent the first five years of our relationship nudging her every time those simple digits crossed our path. Bank statements, billboards, cereal boxes: I never failed to acknowledge the fact that the total sum of six times seven was haunting our every step. Blame Douglas Adams. In his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - a whole series of books I devoured throughout my early teens, he writes of a hyperintelligent race of beings who seek the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Building a supercomputer named Deep Thought, they wait seven and a half million years for the machine to spit out the damn answer. That answer it eventually comes up with, is 42. The Ultimate Question however, remains unclear...

I chuckled when I first read that, then proceeded to live an unenlightened life - until - I fell under the spell of these two jokers; half-mad cerebral hoodlums who more than convinced me 1) the Power of 42 was real, 2) Milwaukee's Best was rotgut suitable for any occasion and that 3) Oingo-Boingo was a band to be taken very seriously. Rick Dennis and Steve Bottoms were (hell, still are) two of the most brilliant guys I've ever pursued truancy with. Under their tutelage I escaped the small-minded shackles of my rural crossroads community, stretched my own burgeoning intellect and partied like it was 1999 - which it wouldn't be for a dozen more years.

In that time, life accelerated. Kids, college, military service, wives and new careers... all conspired to cast our group of brainy bon vivants to the farthest reaches of the contiguous U.S. Though I didn't see my high school gurus even as often as I could have, I wear their influence to this day - most noticeably in my undying affection for the sum of the totient function for the first eleven integers. I'm not saying the number on Jackie Robinson' retired jersey has any mystical qualities, or that it's followed me around all these years, but I can without shame tell you that 42 was, is and always will be my favorite number. What Rick and Steve think I ain't so sure; whenever I see them Rick bangs out endless Beatles tunes on his grand piano and Steve explains how organized religion is really just an opiate of the masses foisted upon mankind by a shadowy cabal of theological underlords - ENOUGH! Can't we talk about the funny numbers again?

Apparently not, for you can never go home again- which, when you're from the pitiable village of Goldsboro, North Carolina, ain't such a bad thing. But the damndest thing happened during my self-imposed exile...life. Like Gary Dean himself once warned, I went from being the youngest guy in the newsroom to one of the oldest. It's not been a wholly unpleasant trip. I still love my job (in theory), am excited about the seismeic shift looming in that chosen field and far more importantly, have a wonderful family that allows me to sleep inside nine out of ten nights. On top of all that, the ladies in my life abide my keyboard compulsion, knowing for whatever reason it keeps me less crabby. That means alot, for 2009 is well underway and I'm already behind on a few of key schemes. I want to be a better Dad and a more thoughtful husband this year, I wanna make potent television all by lonesome and once every couple of weeks, write something semi-important. Too often lately, I've allowed self-doubt to thwart my grander ambitions. If that's ever to stop, this is the year. After all, I just turned 42.

Hope the wife understands...

Backache at Eleven

Sure, your little Namby-PambyCam fits in a purse, but once upon a time videosmithing called for a strong back and a wingman or two. Take Steve Flyte and the ubiquitous David R. Busse. Way back in '80, they roamed the mean streets of San Bernardino as a newsgathering team: a bulky but mobile crew of two bristling with battery-belts and bad moustaches. Just try and outrun them: they'll jump in their souped-up Nova idling just off screen and smoke your disco-ass. But I digress; something I'm wont to do when pressed with so much retro-tech. The hubris, the gadgetry, that totally bitchin' three-quarter sleeve network shirt... those guys were operators.

As for the corduroys - hey, YOU chase pablum and tragedy with half a Radio Shack strapped to your back ... Action-Slacks are out of the question. Just ask Busse...

"Steve Flyte and me on assignment in San Bernardino, Calif., sometime in 1980. He's using a BVU-100 3/4" tape deck rigged with an external battery so he can get double the battery life out of two gel cell batteries on his belt. I'm shooting with an Ikegami HL77 powered by the oddball Cine 60 +/- six volt batteries required to power this camera. I purchased electrical linemen's suspenders and rigged them to clip to the belt, spreading the weight and making the belt easier to wear. We were overjoyed when the newer HL79A came along a few months later."

Right on...

Salt in the Wound

Man, look at the size of that thing... No, not my bald spot! I'm talking about that barnload of rock salt I'm pictured pondering. I must have stood there for a good fifteen minutes, waiting for enlightenment to wash over my lowly photog form... Nope, nuthin'. Still, there must be some kind of elemental magic in this county-owned space - for no sooner does a weather guy uses the 'S-Word' than some doofus in a suit insists we haul ass to the nearest pile of sodium, dirt and rat droppings. Why? To look for meaning, I guess. That and to prove to viewers that their municipalities really do have a plan for inclement weather. Basically, they're gonna season it. Why that's such a news sensation each and every year I don't know, but I have no more control over my assignments than I do over my eleven year old's opinion of the Jonas Brothers. Some things mortal men just ain't supposed to grasp, no matter how long they linger over spilled spices. So, instead of dropping to the floor and busting out a 'salt angel' I'd regret all day, I wandered outside...

...where I found no less than four TV News outlets setting up their electronic encampements:. trucks, tripods and enough logo'd parkas to choke a sasquatch. Speaking of whom, the abominable snowman himself must have been at the bottom of the salt pile, for all the lenses pointed at it - and judging from the breathless voice in my own earpiece, he's got Osama Bin Laden in a headlock under there. Otherwise, there's no way to explain why half the Piedmont's live truck fleet is idling down at the county yard. Sure, every weather bunny from Murphy to Manteo is calling for some kind of wispy precip, but does snow in January really require continuous team smotherage?

Apparently, it do. Early on, the TV vehicles outnumbered the brine trucks. That is until the evening shift rolled in: burly he-men in Carrhart jumpers, carrying heavy lunch pails under their arms and less than delicate words on their lips. I don't want to alarm any well-meaning meteorologists, but there's a whole bunch of county employees who really don't appreciate their MLK Day plans for quiet reflection interrupted by the flagellations of the Fourth Estate. Okay, they didn't put it exactly like that, but this is a family blog. Besides, I'm afraid if I repeat the exact sentiments of the salt crews, I'll awake to find Unit 4 encased in a frozen block of truck driver urine and county-owned brine. That kind of funk won't towel off, ya know...

Still, there only so many lamentations the fellas could muster before they had to load up and get in line for the salt parade. As luck would have it, that's when everyone's live shots started and while all the movement made for a great backdrop, I could have done without all the hairy eyeballs and air horn blasts. Hey, don't blame me, Bandit. I'm just another schlub who drives around with tools in the truck and spreads muck across the greater Piedmont Googoplex. We got a lot in common, you and me. As long as their are AMS certified scientists with raging weather woodies and a general population that can't keep it between the ditches on a good day, you and I got a job. So don't spray me in slop when you pass my tripod spot on the interstate, Love the Cameraman! After all, we're the hardworking lifer of the TV news lot; we'd no sooner sound a false alarm than put our top-heavy logomobiles into an uncontrolled skid. On second thought, everyone should be allowed to sling some nasties once in a while. Look at it as job security...

Or don't - just watch where you spray that stuff, wouldya? These shades are prescription...

Yearning to Burn

I’m not saying there’s a pyrophile in your station house, but some of the firefighters I know pack matches in their turn-out gear. I’m not saying there’s any sickos in the mix; no rain-coated strangers out by the woodpile, clutching their jollies while the abandoned orphanage they’d just poured gasoline on starts to crackle and pop. No Sir, I’m not saying that at all! So get your twisted nose out of my imagination and know that of the first responders I come into contact with, ALL are heroes in waiting. Hell, even the women got bigger grapes than me! I’m just saying there’s an unspoken affinity for incineration among Your City’s Bravest. Why else would they constantly think up news ways to burn old shit down? Yeah, yeah - I know: TRAINING. Whether they’re sticking firecrackers in a mannequin’s mouth, lighting hay bales inside some old barn or weirding out high schoolers with their DUI theater, you’ll not find a gang of grown-ups more apt to torch a crackhouse than those cats with nicknames for their favorite axes.

Thus, it was only by employer mandate that I attended Friday’s Fire Expo at the Lawrence Joel Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum, a trade show of sorts for folks with red lights permanently mounted on their dash. I counted a couple dozen showroom-ready fire engines when I arrived - which incidentally was just after 5 AM! Hey, how did I know I’d end up outside during the coldest dawn in four years when I agreed to work an upcoming morning shift? I didn’t, but as (my lack of) luck would have it, I ended the work-week all a shiver, cursing the distant rising sun as guys with last names stenciled on their helmets threw the switch on an LP tank and created a roiling tower of fire and smoke just so they could have fun putting it out. Did I mention it was less than 11 degrees?

That’s what the thermometer read, though I’m assured by the meteorologists sipping coffee back on the set that it felt much colder. Thanks, fellas! If I could feel my fingers, I’d use one of them to express my appreciation. Instead, I’ll just huddle here in the sub-zero freeze and try to remember just how much I hate the heat. Luckily, I’m not the only camera-schlub out here fighting frostbite. Two of the other stations sent crews too and together we’ve all rued the day we didn’t pursue fields like library science, golf course management or video game design. That way we wouldn’t be out here in the elements, extremities tingling and twenty something show stackers counting backward in our red, raw ears. For God’s sake, just look at me and George Harrison here… If Batman had a cold, camera-handling nemesis named, I dunno, Lenslinger, we’d be his bumbling and clumsy video henchmen. This has been fun and all, Chief, but the next time you want to scare the homeless with your little LP gas-blaster, can we do it a little later in the day?

Like June?

Understanding Idol

The American Idol auditions are back and for once, I'm not obligated to watch 'em. Sure, El Ocho still proudly airs this broadcast juggernaut - but unless local boy Chris Daughtry has a cousin who sings love songs in a lilting Irish brogue, I don't forsee any more free plane rides to Hollywood for me or Mrs. Smith. Still, the Idol shadow looms long; as soon as some caterwauling waitress takes center stage, friends and acquaintances hit me with the same old questions...'Do those people really think they can sing? Do they line up to be humiliated? Is Simon Cowell really that big a dillweed?'...to which I can offer an unequivocal "YES". But I find short answers don't suffice, so here's a few obligatory thoughts from inside the World's Cheesiest Sing-Off - in hopes that nice neighbor lady will stop asking...

Sure, a few of the folks who assemble outside the auditions only want their fifteen seconds of shame, but the vast majority are quite convinced they're on the precipice of global stardom. This belief has little to do with vocal ability, and more to do with unwise parental encouragement and in-car acoustics. Hey, YOU sing along to the radio while driving, right?

Whatever doubts a contestant may have about their singing talent quickly dissolves when herded together with thousands of other delusional crooners. With worldwide adoration seemingly minutes away, gangbanger bonds with sorority chick, metrosexual high-fives redneck. I've often thought if we could only capture the harmony of an America Idol audition crowd, we could bring peace to the Gaza Strip.

Show producers do NOT spike the crowd with weirdos, actors or ringers. Those folk show up on their own with costumes and imaginary friends in tow. Producers DO scan the assembled masses for the freakiest, the geekiest and the super-hot. What they have no use for those singers who are 'pretty good'. Pleasant, sane, adequate? NEXT!!!!

Backstory trumps all. Above all else, Idol is a TV show - not a talent search. A person with a tragic background, inspiring history or cute accent will advance faster than the generic choralist. Example: Long before Kellie Pickler uttered a word, I - and every other heterosexual male - was clocking her every move. When she opened her mouth and delivered a serviceable vocal and sad biography all wrapped in a ditzy Southern drawl, the television Gods took notice too.

By the time, contestants make it to the celebrity judges, they've sung several times for producers, waited d-a-y-s in line, made new best friends, hyperventilated a time or two and ogled Seacrest up close and personal. That any of them maintain a modicum of sanity (let alone talent) when shoved into a room full of lights, lenses, Randy, Paula, Simon and crew is a true testament to the human condition.

Most of course fail miserably. Camera crews from Idol and the occasional FOX affiliate hover around Ryan (a really nice, Southern boy at heart) and family members as they make their egress. Seachrest is the only one (on camera) who knows if said singer triumphed or choked and conceals his hidden knowledge well. Most singers slink out, heart in hand and walk away mumbling. Some emerge apolectic over their dismissal and curse a blue streak - which of course attracts even more cameras - at which point we chase them to their car, their bedroll or their parole officer.

So there you have it, a glimpse into the circus that is early-season Idol. Though it's certainly lost soem of it intial oomph, critics pronounce this phenomenon dead at their own peril. While I would never encourage my own kids to try out for the show, it has proven a successful career path for a scant few and dashed the dreams of thousands more. Love it or loathe it, it is still brilliant television.

Then again, so was Hee-Haw.

A Year of Fear

Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated? It’s more than the coda of an endlessly overrated punk rock band; it’s the mind frame of many a broadcaster these days. Those of you in the business know what I mean. Those of you who aren’t can still play along at home. Mind you, I’m not asking for pity. ’The Media’ - that faceless entity blamed for everything from global warming to Sarah Palin’s shortcomings is not the kind of thing people easily feel sorry for. I get that. But, then again, I’m not talking about the pompous cable news screeching heads with the chauffer and sense of entitlement. No, I’m speaking of the hard-working men and women whose skills and nature make up the very underbelly of the nightly news-beast. Photographers, editors, associate producers; the folks who bust their collective humps not for treasure or glory, but for a humble stipend and a chance at an interesting career. For years on end, it was possible to pay (most of) the bills by mastering a single craft and learning to live without the credit you so richly deserved. Even that now, seems to be coming to an end.

Lay-offs, buyouts, unpaid furloughs. 2009 is barely two weeks old and already the business of TV news feels like it’s in freefall. Pundits far more prescient than I have predicted this for years, mostly due to the extrapolation of a dozen newfangled gadgets. Magic laptops and diminutive lenses were the opening salvo, but the keelhauling economy is what’s about to sink this ship. Sure, there will always be television and newscasts aren’t soon to shake their mortal coil. But the methodology behind them is already splintering, because the technology makes it possible, because the lack of money makes it a must. Still, knowing this seismic shift was coming makes it no simpler to stay on your feet. Neither does it make it any easier to watch good people hurt. I have many blogger friends who rue the day ’corporate media’ gained power. They’re often the same ones who hang on their local newscasts’ every breathless syllable - if only to gleefully disparage the messengers. Hope those folk get as much pleasure from watching old Mork and Mindy re-runs…

When I first began slinging lenses in the fall of ’89, I knew I would witness breathtaking upheavals. I had no idea they’d take place within the hallowed halls of broadcasting. No, this ain’t the process. In fact, a job at a TV station ranks somewhere between computer repair and a really good milk route. Unless it’s your face on the billboard, it’s pretty damn thankless. Now however, the crazy pace, oddball hours and total lack of gratitude looks downright fetching. People who have made bellyachin’ about their jobs into performance art are simply grateful for the latest paycheck. Oh, how the surly have fallen. That includes me, of course; I can bitch with the best of them. But what used to set me off now just fills me with dread, for all bets are officially off. Luckily, I’m pretty versatile. If logic should prevail, I’ll be fine. That’s what worries me the most - especially when I see people more talented than I accepting less between gritted teeth. Simply put, dark clouds on every outlet's horizon. Those dire conditions may not last forever, but I'm beginning to wonder who’ll still be standing when - and if - this perfect storm passes.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a shelter to erect.

All About Paul

So, how do you get a bunch of gadget-happy he-men to fawn over an upcoming chick-flick? Simple, wrap it around the life of a photog. Love life, that is. Sandra Bullock - an actress who graduated from the very university I once pretended to attend - has done just that, casting herself as the squirrely girlfriend of a CNN cameraman in the forgettably-titled All About Steve. Here's how the whole thing breaks down:

When quirky crossword puzzle maven Mary Horowitz (Bullock) goes on a blind-date with news cameraman Steve (Bradley Cooper), sparks fly. But as soon as she swoons, he has to bug out for a cross-country assignment. Crushed but spunky, Mary decides to follow her photog wherever the next deadline takes him - in hopes that hilarity, if not decent box-office returns will ensue...

I have to admit, when I first heard the pitch I had high hopes. An A-List Star lending her wattage to a romantic comedy involving a member my own beleaguered breed? An news photog played by an actor who doesn't look like he should be eating cookies on 'To Catch A Predator'? An upgrade in image for a profession universally portrayed as the token skeevy loner? CUE IT UP!

Then I watched the trailer. OOF... Now, to be fair, it's a very serviceable scenario. Cutesy crackpot pursues reluctant cameraman - with a nice turn by Thomas Haden Church as the obligatory asshole reporter. Problem is, I was expecting that chick from Speed... you know, smart-alecky brunette with ravishing dimples and sly retorts? Instead, we get Bullock 2.0: frosty blonde tips, wacky wardrobe, contrived one-liners. Yeah, I know there's an audience for this broad-based dreck - but frankly it's the exact type of forced adorability that makes my forehead hurt. Thus, I'm sitting out All About Steve - until my wife eventually rents it and insists I sit with her while the whole thing unspools across our living room. Who knows, I might even like it.

On the other (upturned) thumb, I'm altogether stoked about Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Though unfamiliar with Kevin James' TV work, I suspect he's found his inner Austin Powers. At the very least, whoever opted to put him in a bad cop moustache and on a Segeway should immediately be presented with the Oscar of their choice. I only hope there's a scene in which the portly security guard chases a photog off the property. We could use some positive exposure...

Lies I Almost Told

When dispatched this week to 'pick up a dub', I didn't ask too many questions. Instead, I drove straight for Winston, where some friends of mine were making TV outside the Forsyth County Hall of Justice. With a name like that I always look for a superhero or two, but the only deluded loners in logos I could find were my fellow news crews going live in the rain. As they did, I stood and watched - knowing copies of the courtroom camera footage wouldn't be available until everyone tended to their Masters' habit. Ducking under a tree I daydreamed a little, remembering how simple pool situations used to be - when all you had to do was toss somebody a small-mouthed beta-tape. These days, with each station using different non-linear formats, a simple courthouse dub can be as protracted and flaccid as the legal maneuverings they document. About that time my stomach growled and I soon found myself wondering if that Chinese place across town still has those shrimp-thingies on the buffet...

That's when the courthouse door flew open and a parade of attorneys, clerks and defendants flowed out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Trouble was a half dozen TV news vehicles blocked their path and as pedestrians both dashing and bedraggled squeeze past our rainy encampment, many wondered aloud, "What the Hell is goin' on?"

By the time the third panicked face invaded my personal space, I stopped pretending I really even knew and - for just a moment - considered sharing a few embellishments...

"Gravity's been repealed!" crossed my mind, but never my lips. I might have tried it out on the skate punks that passed, had I not thought they'd proceed to the nerarest half-pipe.

"Obama instituted reparations," I almost told a guy in a rebel flag hat - but I didn't feel like explaining what 'reparations' were.

"They're bringing sexy back!" I wanted to say to a couple of busty co-eds who asked, until I remembered the El Oco logo riding my own tit.

"O.J. 's doing time for stealing trinkets." sprung to mind, but just seemed too ludicrous to pass off as fact.

"Some bailiff found Anthrax in his spit cup." I thought about whispering to a particulary nosey traffic cop, but, hey - who wants to be strip-searched on an empty stomach?

And finally, the nine words I nearly blurted out to that jumpy cat in the Tupac garb...

"They caught Bigfoot - with like SIX POUNDS OF WEED!"

Interlopers of Yore

Though I've yet to lay hands on Charles Peden's 1932 memoir, pictures like this have made it a mission. Newsreel Man unspools the early life adventure of a young Fox Movietone photographer; a dashing lad who skips from one continent to the next with a futuristic 'sound camera' by his side. It's heady stuff and the young Peden can't mask his enthusiasm for the burgeoning form and where in the world it takes him.

"The newsreel man may be interviewing a king one day, and the next be on his way to the wilds of an African jungle. He may be photographing an airplane crash in the morning and a fashion show in the afternoon."

Man, that sounds familiar. Who knew the themes I've been exploring here for the past four years were so masterfully mined six decades before my birth? I'll tell you who: Amanda Emily. The KXLY web developer obviously shares my affection for broadcasters past. As chief archivist at the Lenslinger Institute, she's unearthing treasures faster than I can slather them in overbaked prose. Thanks, Amanda - together we could put together one hell of a coffee table book.

"In short, the newsreel man must be prepared for anything, anywhere, any time. He must always expect the unexpected."

As for Newsreel Man, it's on my short list. Soon after he wrote it, Peden left Fox for Hearst Metrotone News, where he remained a vital force until his death in 1973. From the Lindbergh kidnapping trial to the Hindenburg explosion, from flying over wartime Saipan in a B-29 to manning the floor of political conventions during the tumultuous sixties, Charles Peden took life behind the lens and left an engaging account of the way it made him feel. Countless lessons can be gleaned from his text, but I'm buying the book for the following paragraph alone...

"As might be expected, cameramen have their pet aversions. They seem to agree that animal shows, birds, publicity stunts, polo, and people who persist in shifting from one foot to the other while being photographed in close-up, are the main reasons for headaches. Sound men grit their teeth when confronted with lispers, whiners, juice-suckers, and such. Carillons, ten-ton dynamite explosions, traffic noises, and gusty winds add to their woes. In the majority of cases the average man or woman records well, and no one should feel apprehensive about standing up to a microphone. But deliver me from the timid soul who protests that he or she cannot speak a little louder."

Looks like I got a new hero.

Sisterhood of Salsa

Ever stroll into a stranger's workplace and feel every eye upon you? Happens to me all the time. This morning, for example, I pulled open the door of a small chip-dip factory and brought a raucous conversation to a sudden. uncomfortable. halt. I don't what the ladies of Sarah's Salsa were expecting when the boss told them a news crew was stopping by, but as I waded into the estrogen-laden fray, I got the distinct feeling I wasn't it. That's cool, interview subjects often look past me when I arrive, searching for that locally famous face to help them feel better about the idea of being on television. When their hunt comes up empty, they look back at me and wonder if the Gods of Broadcast have somehow cheated them. There are times I'm adept at relieving their unease, but this morning, I really wasn't feeling it. So I struck up a light, slid my wireless microphone across the table and urged everyone to find their happy place.

"We'll get through this ladies. Just act like own my wife and ignore me."

That brought only a chuckle or two, which is a lot more than that tired old line deserved. Within minutes, the women almost relaxed - pretending for the moment a photog wasn't in their midst as they turned their attention back to the not so solemn task of concocting salsa. I wandered around with my tripod in tow, avoiding eye contact and trying not to knock over any huddle tubs of condiment. When the happy chatter resumed, I followed my eye across the room. Those of us who edit what we shoot love repetitive action, as it makes for easy sequencing. Throw in some sharp, natural sound along with a script I pounded out in fifteen minutes and you have a piece of TV that pleases in a way City Council stalemates never do. Sure, no one's ever going to drop my little business profile into a cornerstone time capsule, but as I drove home shortly after it aired this evening, I couldn't help but notice it smelled like victory...

With just a hint of jalapeno.

Pangs of a Stevedore

Hoisting TV glass for twenty years has damaged more than my attention span; it's been hell on my skeleton. Neck aching, lower back sore, right knee throbbing like Studio 54. My moves just aren't as fluid as they used to be - and that's not just because I haven't hit the Disco since 'Celebration' was fresh. No, it's that ball and chain I been holding on my shoulders all these years; the one I schlep from courthouse floor to widow's door, often with tripod, battery bag and chiseled correspondent in tow. Is it any wonder I make old man noises when I take off my shoes at night? Little help, please?

But it's not just me. Ever since the very first fancycam was forged from industrial steel, those tasked with dragging it into battle have paid with their thorax. Throw in a drive-thru diet and a never-ending sense of energy and you have a chiropractor's dream. Me - I've avoided the quacks, pills and sawbones for longer than most. I credit my DNA - that and a habit of working smarter, not harder. See it's not just my penchant for solitude that forces me to work alone. Carrying junior reporters across the finish line every day wears me down; so does snaking five hundred feet of live truck cable up a concrete stairwell. Not that turning features is all that easier. You ever chased a glad-handing sheriff as he charity-jogged across his county? Or dodged sliding trombones at a Founders Day parade? Call it 'soft news' and I may very well pop you in the jaw. If I could lift my arm above my shoulder, that is.

Of course some say technology will save the day. Magic laptops and diminutive lenses will make the creaky cameraman as obsolete as all those hatband press-passes. I'm not so sure. As long as there's a room full of experts with airtime to fill, those of us on the other end will need our Ben-Gay at night. For crying out loud (DOH!), they do call them back-pack journalists, don't they? They do, and just because your camcorder is the size of a baked potato, doesn't mean twenty years of one-eyed back-pedal won't take its toll. Especially if you run into the likes of me, a less than fresh veteran who's not above giving you bad advice while blocking your shot. Hey, rubbin's racin', right?

Don't bother answering. Just hand me that heating pad. My back is killing me.

Open Letter to Photogs Everywhere...

It's early 2009 and Michael Rosenblum is once again vexing the Photog Nation. The man who wants to take the 'crew' out of news crew has long been a pariah among the sore shoulder set; his contention that visual data can be better gathered by tricked-out soloists than trained specialists has made him the most hated man in TV news scrums. Now he's offering a 15 thousand dollar prize for the best news story gathered by a crew of one and he's opening it up to classic news shooters everywhere. Why, the nerve! Anyway, at the risk of incurring the wrath of my fellow photogs, I'm saring my own conflicted feelings - if only because a hero of mine called me out. Sorry if it's too much inside baseball, I'll move on to something cuddlier tomorrow...

Normally, I’d sit out these Rosenblum discussions, if only because I’m so torn when it comes to the man and his message. See, Rosey’s a salesman, a thinker, and something of a demagogue. I may not agree with everything he says, but I find him endlessly entertaining and welcome the opportunity to one day knock back a few highballs with the diminutive man in back who’s become B-roll’s Most Wanted. I suppose that makes me a heretic in may of your eyes. I can live with that. I can also live with the fact that what Rosenblum peddles strikes fear and loathing in the hearts of so many photogs. He’s openly derided your methodology, held you up as all that’s wrong with modern-day broadcasting and earned some righteous coin at your ( and my) expense. But if you scrape away the conjecture and sales pitch, you might find that the man has a point.

VJ’s are nothing new. Any of us who framed our own stand-ups back in the 80’s (or earlier) can attest to that. But while TV newsrooms have always utilized the occasional solo-newsgatherer, collaboration between drama queen and A/V geek have been the preferred method. This is a good thing, I suppose. Most of the best television news has been produced by a crew of at least two. That, however was then; this is now. Ever shrinking fancycams and the twin tubes of the internet are changing everything we know about local news. Throw in a faltering economy and you have the perfect storm, an uncontrollable maelstrom that may very well flatten whole affiliates in its path. Thus, we’d look as foolish dismissing the VJ continuum as those lacquered, logoed nimrods we strap to hotel balconies and count backwards to cue.

There are many, many pros on this board who - with the assistance of pretty partners - make far more elegant TV than me. From their lofty spots, they view the solo-idiom as nothing short of blasphemy. I get that - and no more wish to engage them in debate than I wish to make a star out of yet another sorority chick. What I am concerned with is the mindset of the next generation. I work with some younger photogs who feel they can point, shoot and nod off ‘til someone tells them otherwise. I worry for them, for that ain’t gonna cut it for very much longer. Likewise, I’m concerned for the junior shooters who gather here and nod in agreement while village elders paint Rosenblum as evil incarnate. That’s an incredible disservice to young men and women who will never know what it’s like to have a soundman, a live truck operator or even a reporter to bounce ideas off of.

Rather, they take everything expressed here with a huge shaker of salt - or better yet log off altogether and get busy adding to their skill-set. I’m no towering authority, but I’d be happy to share what little I know. Better yet they can consult the latest CNN photogs’ product and see how the cable pros are doing it. For that you see, is the brightest version of the future I’ve seen: journeyman photogs using full-sized cameras to create lens-centric stories that have absolutely nothing to do with cheesy talent cut-aways. That’s the kind of news I want to be and part of; it’s the kind of news I already produce. It may not be your idea of a perfect product, but it damn sure beats carting around some failed actor more concerned with their glossy head-shots and latest escape tape than whatever the subject of their story has to say.

Wanna work in TV news ten years from now? You ain’t gotta be a VJ, but you damn sure better learn to do more than look good in a fishing vest. At my shop, we have quite a few attractive ladies who can melt a teleprompter at fifty paces, along with some truly brilliant photojournalists. To one degree or another, all are worried about what the future will soon bring. Not me - I’m too busy making myself invaluable by working harder than I have to. If that bugs you, know that I’m protected by the fact that - deep down inside - I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks - but I do like how I feel at the end of the day, when -win, lose or suck, how my package looks is solely on me.

As for contests, meh - I’ve always found them a bit distasteful. I know too many shooters (some - not all) who doctor their product after the fact, then otherwise phone in their performance whenever their assignment of the day falls short of shiny mantle trinket status. Feeling that way makes me no better than them; I just get my kicks elsewhere. That said, 15 Grand will buy an awful lot of Happy Meals and were I not so very, very slack when it comes to pulling together my efforts of yore, I might even enter myself. Probably not, though. After all, I got blog posts to write...

Aim High, Sling Low

A childhood friend of mine has achieved the rank of Colonel in the U.S. Air Force. Those of us who grew up with Danny Dant are very proud of him; no doubt he's worked hard to earn his place in that meritocracy. We're a bit surprised though. I mean, who knew when he was passing out noogies in the fourth grade that military leadership would be his calling? Still, I cannot view his ascension without a wee bit of jaundice, for while he was mastering the many disciplines required for that lofty rank, I was shooting ribbon-cuttings. Sure, there's more to it than that, but I can't help but look over my now two decades behind the lens and ask myself... What fields have I mastered?

WEAPONRY - Okay, so the only thing I shoot with are heavily-logo'd fancycams, but over the years I've attained sharpshooter status on everything from those suitcase-sized recorders of yore to news camcorders the size of baked potatoes - provided I remember to remove the lens cap.

ESPIONAGE - From tuning in to competing crew's two-way radio frequencies back in the day to lip-reading Channel X viewfinders from across a crowded scrum to following the other guy's live truck all the way to the cop car convention, all is fair in love and television.

DIPLOMACY - Within the course of a single shift I can corner and interview a County Commissioner, a captain of industry and a freshly shackled crackhead - without ever letting them know I think they're an asshole.

RECONNAISSANCE - As a TV news photographer who thinks and speaks as well as points and shoots, I'm often called upon to size up breaking news scenes - from the faldely-advertised fender-bender that'll never make air to that strange, saucer-shaped craft bobbing in Town Founder's Lake... I NEED BACK-UP!!!

PHYSICAL READINESS - Granted, I'm no Jack LaLanne, but even a forty-one year old schlub like me can't afford to become too sedentary; not whe, at any moment, I may be forced to chase a cadaver dog down a riverbank, sprint up courthouse steps or weasel my way out of a late-breaking live shot.

LEADERSHIP - One may not think of the lowly 'cameraman' as leading the way, but if you've ever been saddled with a reporter half your age, one tenth your life experience and quadruple your wardrobe allowance, well then - you know what I mean.

AERONAUTICS - Okay, so TV news live trucks won't soar through the heavens, but take that hill too fast en route to the school bus wreck and it will take flight - or at the very least, catch some righteous air. Back when I began, I'd regularly break the sound barrier in one of these festooned beasts. These days, it's got to be a Bigfoot sighting - or a soon to be shut-down Chinese buffet.

ENGINEERING - My more McGyver-like colleagues will tell you I'm f-a-r from an electronics expert, but even we inattentive bibliophiles must maintain a certain level of technical proficiency. Why, just last week I managed to troubleshoot an ornery transmitter - after of course I slathered my plight in profane, polysyllabic parlance.

PROPAGANDA - Are you kidding me?

The Stuff of Blockbusters

Whenever I feel silly or vain for amassing so many pictures of myself with a fancycam, I peruse the personal gallery of one David R. Busse, intrepid everyman, legendary lenslinger. Taken as a whole, his photos play out like some unlikely storyboard; frozen frames from a life too rich and varied to possibly be true. Here he's pictured chillin' with soundman John Casillas and a Salvadorian soldier along the Pan American Highway near Cojutapeque, El Salvador, circa 1982. I'm no film critic, but in my not so humble opinion Hollywood would do well to stop regurgitating old TV shows and start dramatizing the plights of people who've spent their days riding the line between access and peril - if for no other reason than to see the likes of Brad Pitt rock a hat and 'stache like that. Sure, it'll never happen but from where I sit in the multiplex, King Kong ain't got nuthin' on David R. Busse...

New Year's Evolution

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, for it is only I - your incredibly stuffed-up lenslinger. I’m back at work, you see, slumming in an El Ocho live truck while one Angela Rodriguez opines about a possible gas tax hike. Fascinating, no? Well, no - but whose life is continually intriguing anyway? Mine sure ain’t. Sure, I folded some righteous washcloths the other day and nobody can alphabetize a CD collection like yours truly - but is that really the kind of thing you want read about here? I’m guessing not - which brings me to point of this strategically random missive: Blogging is hard! At times I can make it look easy, but don’t be fooled; I think about this place far more often than I contribute to it. It was different in the beginning. In late 2004 I was flush with confidence, stoked about the feedback I was receiving from my b-roll.net brethren and near evangelical about spotlighting the plight of your above average photog. That continues to be the primary goal of this pixilated shrine, but I’m here to tell you it’s gradually growing more difficult. Why that is, I don’t really know. All I’m really certain of is you’ve been very generous with your clicks and I feel obligated to make it worth your time. If that strikes anyone as a bit delusional, my lovely wife would like to extend you a hearty high-five. But with her taste in men, can she really she really be trusted to pass judgment on our little late night trysts? I think not.

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yeah - watching the hair on my knuckles twitch as my fingers searched for the right way to end the next sentence. Sorry - but if four plus years of steady blogging have taught me anything, it’s that nothing spurs worthy content like openly admitting I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. That’s really quite easy for me, as I’m quite comfortable with being underestimated. Hey, nothing relieves performance anxiety like lowering others expectations. It’s just the kind of attitude that enabled me to set aside a whole year of high school to pursue a street-level degree in truancy and pharmaceuticals. Don’t try that at home kids, you’ll find yourself trudging up some widow’s steps with a tripod on your back, wishing you hadn’t been quite so adept at forging report cards. But I don’t like to talk about my flair. Rather, I wish to educate the masses on what it’s like to go through life with a viewfinder stuck to your face. These days you can get that several other places, but where else can you witness the inner tribulations of a wordy camera-nerd in real time? You won’t find it on Pay-Per-View, and if you could - how would you explain it to the wife when the bill came? “Yeah, babe I was just wallowing in the pathos of some anonymous news shooter. It’s not like it was dirty or anything…”

So, what have we learned? I look back at 2008 with little regret and lots of trepidation. Professionally, it was something of a draw. I worked by myself A LOT, which while highly preferable, is a sure fire recipe for being overlooked. I’m cool with that, as all I really ask from my bosses is that they hand me my morning assignment and forget my name for the day. Though the coming year is certain to be filled with lay-offs and cutbacks, I’m not all that worried. See, versatility is key to survival and while I’m not exceptional at much of anything, I can shuck and jive with the best of them. So to all those past colleagues who scoffed at my penchant for solo-newsgathering, I’m more than willing to extend a few lessons in this newly valued discipline. The rest of you can kiss my ass. Harsh? Yeah, but when you put on some old Oingo-Boingo and let your fingers tap dance over a coffee-stained keyboard, you never know what you’re gonna end up sharing. So while you busy yourself being appalled, know that I’m having a fine time here in my upper lair. After all, the wife still lets me sleep inside, the kids act like they love me and I’ve finally learned not to let this blog - or writer’s block - drive me too crazy.

Oh yeah, Happy New Year.