The Language of LIVE(!)

Ahh yes, spot news at dusk... it looks the same everywhere, doesn't it? A shiny fleet of logomobiles parked askew, hazards flashing, masts slowly poking upward... The city lights twinkling in the distance as desperate citizens yearn for the skinny on that propane spill on the edge of the desert. (SNIFF!) Why, I can smell the gas fumes, birdshit and hairspray now. Smells like...WORK. Then again, I'm just a Southern-fried cynic, staring at a photo I found on the internets. Perhaps Daniel 'NewsRover' Kovach, the Salt Lake City photog responsible for the shot, could fill me in. No doubt he'd speak of cable-pulls, the trajectory of his dish, how long this piece of television delayed dinner. I'd nod, pretend I knew more than I did, then ask about my old pal Fields Moseley. At that point, he'd probably lose me with a lot of local call letters and I'd confuse him how we fill hours of East Coast airtime with less than half a foot of slushy snow. Then I'm pretty sure we'd seek out an adult beverage.

Some things are universal.

Cue the Hubris

In her latest discovery, archivist Amanda Emily has stumbled upon two of my passions: retro tech and vexed exploration. Indulge me, won't you?

I don't know squat about cameraman Lawrence Darmour, but that cat on the left is none other than Frederick A. Cook, one of the most polemic figures of polar pursuit. As a young surgeon, Cook distinguished himself on Robert Peary's 1891 expedition to North Greenland. From there he launched his own forays into reconnaissance, racing Peary and others to the few blank spots left on 19th Century globes. Trouble was, Cook was one sloppy documentarist. That, or he was a stone cold liar, for his claims of scaling Mt. McKinley and locating the North Pole have long been thought to be fraudulent. Locked in a lifelong battle with his rival pioneer Peary, Dr. Cook yearned for glacial immortality. Instead he forged a new kind of infamy; a hearty soul whose thirst for adventure and unquenchable ego overshadowed his earlier feats. If the above photo was indeed taken in 1909, it captured an explorer in the throes of controversy. Before the year was out, would see his cherished reputation as Explorer with Capitol "E" dashed upon the rocks of ostentation. A decade and a half later, he would map the interior of a prison cell, convicted of defrauding oil investors in Texas. All in all, a spectacular fall from self-appointed grace...

I've often thought that Dr. Frederick Cook's sordid life story would make one hell of a cinematic venture. Then again, the annals of Polar exploration are rife with heroes, cads and villains. Think sweeping vistas, epics of deprivation, ill-equipped patricians in bad mustaches dying slowly from exposure on drifting ice floes. Even within our most distant history, lies the promise of endless blockbusters. Meanwhile, Hollywood greenlights a remake of Get Smart. Maybe that's why I haven't joined Netflix yet.

The Urge to Spill

Sure, I strike a stoic pose, but I'd much rather run my mouth! Just ask any co-worker who's chuckled in passing at one of my lame jokes, only to have me stand over their desk dribbling out schtick. I can't help it! I come from a long line of smack-talkers - from my prodigal Father ( a gifted raconteur) to my Mother's brother, who never met a smart remark he didn't share with the room. It's biological, I tells ya! In my first crack at tenth grade, I was voted 'Wittiest' in the yearbook - before dedicating my high school years to the pursuit of truancy. When I did make it to class, I often entertained, but usually blew it by never knowing when to simply. shut. up. Yes, I've grown more adroit at controlling my tongue over the years, but the times I've driven home asking myself, "Why, WHY did you say THAT?"... well, I don't wanna talk about it. Now that I'm well into my 40's I find that I'm better about censoring my speech - even if I care less than ever what people think. Credit my Mom for raising me Southern...

All of which makes this evening something of a victory, for I remained mum when a younger me would have spouted bromides at length. It came late in the day, when - covering for a fellow photog who'd contracted the funk - I telephoned a young, attractive reporter to tell her I'd be taking over for him on tomorrow's franchise shoot. "Ooooh," she paused on the other end of the line, "We usually try to fancy those pieces up. Maybe YOU can shoot it and HE can edit them." Her words hung there in the car as I sped homeward, thinking of all the different kinds of local news I'd cranked out over the years, the half hour specials I'd produced on the subject at hand, the cheesy re-creations and melodramatic editing techniques I'd set aside when she was unpacking her sandwich in some junior high lunchroom...

"Yeah, that's fine." I said before bidding her adieu and dropping the phone in my lap.

Some conversations, I've (finally) learned, just aren't worth having.

Don't Stand So Close to Me

Proving he's got too much time on his hands, Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty is demanding the media GET OUTTA HIS GRILL! Actually, he's just asking journalists to hang back a bit as they do that whole 'afflicting the comfortable' thing. Seems Canadian camera crews have a habit of bumrushing His Premiership as they pummel him with those pesky questions. It reportedly makes him 'uncomfortable' - and in a time when all of Ontario is in the grips of recession, what could be more important than their leader's comfort? Apparently, not much, for McGuinty has joined the Prime Minister and premier of Nova Scotia in asking that reporters and photographers keep a distance of five feet between themselves and any elected elite. That way, decorum is preserved, inquiries are repelled and no politicians ever have to smell what their local news crews had for breakfast.

Okay, the second paragraph is usually where I'd crank up the snark, but you know what they say: As goes Novia Scotia and Ontario, so goes the world! Hmm? You're right, no one ever said that, and as long the ruling class of those scenic places pretend they're royalty, no one ever will. Not that I'm pro-scrum, mind you. Truth is, I hate that pack mentality crap, but when a haughty lawmaker or some lecherous peasant is making a run for the elevators, it's no time for tea and crumpets. And mind you: I don't even know what a 'crumpet' is. That's because I'm an American; a uncivilized, boorish type who's traded elbows with competitors of every stripe - even when the subject of the hunt was that feckless worm Clay Aiken. Sure, it's dignity-free - but the best parts of journalism usually are. Everyone knows that, just like everyone knows the last thing you tell a bunch of nosey news crews is to 'back off'.

Which is why we can all expect footage of the Premier's spleen to pop up soon on a television near you. Ain't Democracy grand?

Sty of the Beholder

Is that a gleam in your eye or just a rerun of 'Weeds'? It's a question you may soon ask your office mates, assuming futurologists have a clue. Ian Pearson - fresh from his parents' basement - envisions a day not so far from now when we'll pop in a pair of contact lenses and tune to our favorite TV show. If that's not immersive enough, there's even talk of digital tattoos that create impulses in accordance with the character's emotions. You know, so when that red-headed guy on CSI: Miami rips off his sunglasses, you'll know what it feels like to be an overacting tool. Those in the know say wafer-thin screens laid upon the eyeballs shouldn't interfere too much with your day. Onlookers may note the wearer's eyes look a little tinted, but I'm sure it's nothing that state trooper will mind too much when he pulls you over for driving under the influence of, say, Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle.

Truthbetold, there's more ramifications to this theoretical quantum-leap than I got time for on a Monday morning. I mean, not since the holodeck on Star Trek: The Next Generation has a piece of non-existent technology held so many implications for the couch potato in your life. Think that football fan in the living room ignores you all season? Wait until he can slap his favorite player on the virtual-ass. Does you Mom get a little wigged out during her afternoon court-shows? That's no potted plant she's gyrating on. In her mind, it's a bailiff named Rusty, and yes, you will be needing some therapy... And you Mom, ever wonder what your teenager's doing watching The Hills in that darkened closet? Now - more than ever- you don't wanna know. And what pray tell, is next? All the world's collected cinema available on a wi-fi temple implant? Yuppies on the subway, mouths agape and palms upturned as they watch that Olbermann eviscerate O'Reilly on their candy-colored iLids?

Yes, social norms will indeed suffer from this eventual breakthrough. We've ALL stood in the checkout line and winced as some nimrod with a Bluetooth wedged in his skull held a raucous conference call with half his fantasy football league. Wait until you have to watch that same crew take in a fresh episode of SportsCenter. Or worse yet, Dancing with the Stars...

Shooter in Repose

Downtime. Different photogs handle it different ways. Some use the idle spots in their day to brush up on new editing techniques. Others giggle at shadow puppets in the breakroom. Some cruise bad neighborhoods in hopes spot news will erupt. Others make like those crooked cops in Serpico and nap in their cars. Some pour over list of emergency services ten-codes. Others pour over interns. Me - I usually avoid downtime altogether by working sans reporter. That way, I'm never burdened with having to come up with new knock-knock jokes for the fellas; I'm too busy writing my story of the day (along with a fair amount of web-surfing). Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with cooling your heels while the reporter does all the heavy mental lifting. But I fear it's a dying artform...

...for the crew of tomorrow will most likely be an army of one. And armies of one experience very little rest and relaxation. VJ, Mo-Jo, One-Man-Band: you can call them human colostomy bags, but it doesn't change the fact that a myriad of forces is taking the 'crew' out of news crew. Don't believe me? You must not read much. Otherwise you'd know that markets large and small are embracing the solo-newsgatherer model like never before. But it's not because doing so will improve the product. It's for a far more important reason: MONEY. I don't know if you've heard, but the U.S. economy is in some kind of apocalyptic free-fall. Cars aren't selling, dealerships aren't advertising and as a result you average newscast is sporting a lot more look-at-me promos than honest to God paid-for spots. It's an oversimpified way of looking at it, but it does explain why the boss keeps talking about spontaneous vacations, don't it?

Of course you don't need this silly site to know the world is changing. But I'd be remiss in my duties as self-appointed pundit if I didn't mention one facet of these alterations: they're permanent. Sure, your company may one day reinstate their 401 K plan and I'm sure raises will one day return. But if you think for one skinny minute that newsrooms are going to learn how to do more with less, only to revert back to the tried and true ways of the good ole days, well then I'd further assure the video only looks blue in this particular monitor. So, what have we learned? A) The drama queens and A/V geeks of paradigms past are morphing into one multi-tasking, fairly sweaty individual. B) The resulting television will initially be as ugly as that pet primate who 'went chimp' on that poor lady and C) for once, looks don't matter. All that really matters is that your magnanimous affiliate keeps the juice turned on. Everything else is the equivalent of bathtub farts.

Now, make like The Senator pictured above and get some rest. We're all going to need it.

Rolling to the End

Much love to Amanda Emily for turning me on to the life of this legendary lenslinger.

Neil Davis did what every news shooter at one time or another thought about: filmed his own death. But this Australian combat photographer had no deathwish. He did, however, feel most alive when documenting peril. The only cameraman to film North Vietnamese tanks as they crashed through the gates of the Presidential palace in Saigon, Davis had a well-earned reputation as a man who would hunker down and roll when others would up and run. This fearless verve kept hin in good standing with his NBC suits. They readily bought his footage as he covered combat on three different continents. But Davis was more than a mere photog; he was a Journalist with a capitol J, a poetic soul who every day wrote the following in his diary:

“One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name“

In 1985 that glorious life came to a violent end when Davis was killed by tank fire during a Thai coup attempt. He was less than fifty meters from the tank that killed him, and rolling to the end. And we stateside shooters complain when our batteries turn up missing...

INTERVENTION

"Dude, when you gonna update your blog?" asked Satellite Dan. "It's getting kinda stale."

"I dunno," I half-muttered. "I'm thinkin' about shutting it down."

"No Hell You Ain't."

Danny's right. I'd no more deactivate this site than I would rip my chin whiskers out one by one. Lately though, this place has been a tad troublesome. A recent browser upgrade has made it harder to log in to Blogger (without first commandeering my 14 year old's laptop. You ever tried to cut a teenager's instant messaging session short? For a straight A student, that girl sure can swing a shiv). Mostly though, I've simply lacked the mojo to look around my skull and describe what I see. Blame the good books I've been reading, the TV shows I don't watch, the amount of hair that sticks to the brush each morning. Whatever the cause, I've no more control over my output than Joaquin Phoenix has over his own runaway beard. Nearly five years into the blog, I know this to be true. Whereas I use to suffer over keeping up the pace, I'm now learning to let it flow when it will and not worry too much when it won't. Understand, we writer types are famously self-involved. Since I can't afford to lock myself in some chamber and marvel at my fingernails, I occasionally have to push back from the beloved keyboard, stand up and shake it off. Oh, and once in a while I hafta talk about eighty-sixing the entire site. I don't really mean it, but having a reader (and a friend) act like he's gonna jump up and crack me in the jaw if I mention it again, always clears my head.

Thanks, Danny.

Halo of Flies

At its best, the junkie memoir is a specious thing. The transcription of bad behavior, forays into self-aggrandizement, a story arc straight out of 'Behind the Music'; it's a thoroughly skeevy endeavor. Worse yet, weave in a bit of embellishment and you got enough troubles to fill an episode of Oprah. Just ask James Frey. Yes, one of the few things less admirable than wallowing in drug-fueled squalor is trying to turn it into opium for the masses. All of which fails to explain why David Carr's life story is such a treasure. When the New York Times columnist set out to document his trip to oblivion and back, he couldn't differentiate between memory and self-protective myth. So he did what any good reporter would do: he began asking questions.

And not just of anyone. Carr tracked down old running buddies, cornered ex-drug dealers, quizzed the women he hit. The resulting tome is no fairy tale. In The Night of the Gun, Carr follows his regrettable trajectory: from good time party boy to full-on psycho. Before successfully completing rehab (on his fifth attempt), he finds himself, a bloated, deranged drug addict who harangued his friends, beat his lover and ignored the well-being of his prematurely born twins for the open lure of a freshly-packed crackpipe. It ain't pretty, but Carr's insistence on 'keeping it real' renders his personal history worthy of redemption. Mostly though, it's a beautifully written confessional by a man unafraid to own up to his oh so sordid past. His chapter detailing the day (and the way) he finally hit rock-bottom is so achingly accurate, so potently told, so totally devoid of froth and glory, it should be taught in schools. A+

Fire in the Sky

What DID Eddie Garcia capture with his fancycam? The News 8 Austin videographer was covering a marathon on Sunday when he noticed a - AHEM - fireball in the sky. Ever the professional, he pointed UP and recorded a mysterious image hundreds of other Texans reported seeing. Was it debris from crashing satellites? An optical illusion caused by too many water bottles? The lead starcraft of an alien race bent on our very destruction? Hard to say, but when a TV station photog is quoted in an AP article, worlds are already colliding.

Actually, news photographers - both moving and still - would be excellent emisarries should a higher lifeform decide to come a slummin'. Think about it: We know where all the city leaders hang out, tend to travel with assorted foodstuffs and know how to handle individuals with very large heads. I know if I were looking to conquer a distant civilization, I'd snatch a few good tour guides first. You know, some local handler who knew the streets but didn't really care for his neighbors too much, some schlub who drove around with extra clothes who could point out a greasy spoon or two, a creature with an all-access pass who wouldn't be missed too much if he got sucked into some giant spacecraft's underbelly...

Ya know, I think I may have the makings of a pretty awful Made for TV Movie on my hands here...Any title ideas?

E.T. (Extra Testy?)

Morose Encounters of the Third Kind?

Men in Black (Moods?)

Bueller? Anybody?

Procrastinator's Shadow

So, you waited until the afternoon before Valentine's Day to pick up that gift for your sweetie. 'No problem', you think, 'I'll just duck into this chocolate shop and no one will be the wiser'. So you do, snagging a spot in line there amid the post-lunch rush. Ninety seconds pass and you advance in line, until you're almost within reach of the sample tray. Finally, when you're close enough, you reach over and toss one of those dark chocolate thingies down the hatch. It's chewier than usual and as much needed saliva wells up in the recesses of your engorged cheeks, you notice weird shadows on the back wall of the storage room in the distance. Suddenly, a store clerk appears in the door frame, her outline strangely backlit. Then she stoops to pick up something and you spot me, a TV News cameraman, light on, lens pointed straight at you. Your eyes widen and your throat hitches as you struggle to keep that chocolate abomination from spraying through your moustache. Just when you think you're going to hurl warm brown Valentine juice all over the action news-hour, you notice I'm not even looking into the eyecup. In fact, I barely look interested in anything at all as I scan the far reaches of the room, my eyes darting from truffle to customer to the singsong lure of the open cash drawer.

Relax, I see you. You're the dude in the FuManchu who looks like he ate a Hotpocket he found under his mattress. Normally, I'd frame your particular choice of facial hair in a nice medium-to-wide shot, but it's obvious You Sir, DO NOT WANNA be on tee-vee. How do I know? Well, besides the fact that you look like you're choking down a baby pigeon, it's the whole awkward, negative vibe you're giving off. Really now, if you don't want to be noticed, must you clock MY every move? I haven't seen eyes dart like that since the last time I interviewed the beefy fella from Two Guys Named Chris. Remember, we lenslingers pride ourselves on our peripheal vision and sense of ambivalence. Besides, I already got enough bad actors on tape to cast a CSI episode, what do I need to hassle a cat who can't chew his food? Tell you what, I'm gonna stick my lens back in the cash drawer; you make like you didn't see me and wipe your mouth. Careful though, there's a Soccer Mom right behind you who's just dying to be on the tee-vee and if you so much as cough up a Hershey's Kiss, she's goin' for the Heimlich Maneuver.

Then I'd HAFTA put you on the news.

Of Bum-Rushing Nuptials

Ever crashed a courthouse wedding? I hadn't, 'til today. Seems the desk wanted video of a couple getting married on Valentine's Day, 'cept it ain't Valentine's Day - it's Friday the 13th! W-w-whatever. I been doin' this too long to get bent over a single mission. Like I've said before, if shots of Ronald McDonald breakdancing are what it takes to end my day, that clown is going down! Today, however it wasn't burger-pushing weirdos on the bill, it was young lovers on the cusp of nuptials, holiday or not. An easy enough score on its own, but since I was in busy slogging through chocolate shoppes and flower spots, I found a way to forget about it. In fact, I'd made it all the way to 2:20 in the afternoon before my cell phone rang in that certain, nagging way.

"Good news - a couple's getting married in the Magistrate's Office at 2:30."

Grumbling a bit, I dropped the phone in my lap and did the math. I wasn't exactly sure where the civil magistrate's office was, but I had a feeling it didn't have a drive-thru window. The courthouse it must be in was a few blocks away, the streets choked with Friday afternoon traffic. More importantly, my main epic of the day, a minute-thirty look at last minute shopping that was due to premiere at six, was uh, stuck in development. So I ditched my plans to find a street vendor and dropped Unit 4 into Drive instead. City pigeons dove for cover as I peeled out of the florist's parking lot and into a crowded turning lane. Sitting there under the light, I felt my blood pressure rise as it sat. on. RED.

The bus parking lane outside the Courthouse was empty so I glided right in and parked up by the newpaper boxes. Wedging my El Ocho placard in the winshield, I hopped out, popped the hatchback and grabbed my Fancycam and wireless microphone, leaving my tripod and a pile of pocket change behind. I made it three feet up the sidewalk when a small car pulled up, front left window rolling down to reveal a smiling woman with a box of Krispe Kremes and a weirdly bearded Joe Killian behind the wheel. It was one of those odd, disposable moments in your day, a cinematic vignette in which interesting people make ill-timed cameos, but I was under the proverbial gun so I declined the donuts and turned to scurry up the long sidewalk. 2:25 blared the sign atop the old JP building: 'still time', I thought as I ran up the wheelchair ramp.

That's when I saw them...

Lips pierced, elbows inked, glares seething... I'm not saying the swath of citizenry funnelling into the courthouse door was less noble than most, but if Jerry Springer ever runs out of audience members, I got the hook up. Worst of all, these people were in my damned way and nothing short of ordinance would clear the way. So I did what any self-respecting photog would do: I pantomimed self importance by grabbing the attention of the dead-eyed attendant by pointing to the logo on my fancycam. At first I thought I'd found a fan, a glimmer of light making her gaze look almost lifelike. But then she conferred with her heavily-credentialed superior, whose facial expressions ranged from "You can't be here!" to "Who gives a #%@^?". I got the latter and was forced to fume as a guy in a Slipknot t-shirt in front of me dug day old roaches out of his pants pocket.

When finally the denizens of misery made it through the line, I gingerly placed my camera on the conveyor belt, along with the wireless microphone and my wallet. This did not set well with the basket lady, a stark enforcer of x-ray etiquette. "PLACE YOUR ITEMS IN THE BASKET!" I did so - with a death-stare straight out of Shawshank. Another mistake. She must have used some hand motion to call for back-up, for though I never heard her mutter a word, two beefy sisters were waiting for me on the other side of the metal detector. One held a wand; the other a Master's Degree in kidney punches. Never breaking their gaze, I stepped through and raise my arms, my inner ear listening intentlyfor the clank of my camera exiting the X-ray machine. That's when the twins moved for the kind of thorough wanding you usually have to drive out of state for...

"Over here, Sir."

Another linebacker in a skirt wasved me over to the other end of the conveyor belt. She had her hand on my camera, a clear violation of the International Photog Creed. But after the slap and tickle I'd received from the Kidney Twins, I was just happy to see my rig with its innards intact. I instinctively reached for it, but she of the sloped shoulders recoiled, demanding I turn the 'camera' ON for her, so she could sign off on the fact that it wasn't a flamethrower in disguise. Perhaps she was afraid I might light up a sleeping bailiff. I have been known to out 'em on tee-vee. Once she saw a dull blue light pour from the eyecup, she released her hold, for who would rig a fake camera with a real viewfinder? I didn't dare ask, for yonder clock on marble wall read 2:28 and I still didn't know where the civil magistrate's office is...so I inquired.

Tactical error, for while the bearish bailiff had mapped the location of the snack machine on every floor, he hadn't yet figured out where the magistrate's office wuz. He could only advise me to take the elevator down to the information desk, where one of his colleague's would be more than happy to delay me further. Instead I chose to look around, spotted a sign with the words CIVIL MAGISTRATE pointing me upstairs. Knowing the elevators would be stuffed full of accused humanity reluctantly acending to their dates with justice, I bee-lined through the stairwell doors and dug deep for the first few steps. Two flights later, I was a good deal more sluggish, a father of two under hard deadline and heavy glass. By the time I burst through the inner office in question, I was dizzy, disheveled and a bit winded.

As for the bridal party, they couldn't have been nicer. Once I caught my breath, the groom nodded to the judge, who kicked into officiating without further adieu. As the young couple traded vows, I stood and watched through my viewfinder, realizing that - mad dash or not, it was still the easiest wedding I'd ever shot. Afterwards, I told the young married couple as much and after inquiring why the TV station was so interested in their matrimony, asked if I'd take a picture of the whole wedding party. I obliged, knowing it was the least I could do, since chances are the footage I'd clawed my way to the top for would most likely, never air.

It didn't.

The Rise of Supa Noop

I've yet to meet Anoop Desai, but if he lasts much longer on American Idol, I will. That's not to say I'll jet to the West Coast to hang with this nearly unibrowed tenor. Unlike the Days of Daughtry, pressurized tube trips to Hollywood are no longer in the budget. That's cool; countless voyages into the belly of the Idol beast have left me less than enamored with L.A. and deeply distrustful of anyone in a 300 dollar spangly t-shirt. But this post ain't about me. It's about the UNC grad student who just made it onto the live portion of Season 8. This kid's got pipes, a low key vibe and a name that's fun to say. What more could Idol producers want? Well, a pet giraffe or a Mom in rehab would be nice, but you can't have everything. Besides, Noop-Dawg has something else going for him: normalcy. I'm told it's the new freak!

Understand, I don't sully my site with the World's Cheesiest Sing-Off without a lot of forethought (even if it does spike my traffic!). But after interviewing Anoop's college buddies, scouring the web for any and all Desai detritus and lumping it all into this profile, I gotta tell ya: dude's got potential! No,I don't have any inside info, but I have (been forced to) watch every frame of his appearances so far and my sniper's eye knows a ringer when it sees it. Remember, Idol isn't a talent contest; it's a tee-vee show. Thus, Noop's strategically-edited cameos on the show so far - at the end of one show and the beginning of the next - are sure signs that North Carolina's got another hopeful vocalist to exploit, er celebrate. This fact alone represents a lot of future work for your somewhat humble lenslinger, but that's O-KAY!

Why? It's not just because Anoopalooza will allow me to shirk the confines of drive-by shootings and the like. It's because once again the far corners of our nation will have to rethink the state I love. Think about it: an unassuming dude of Indian descent who speaks with no discernable accent, loves all things Southern and can belt out throwback R&B jams like early Bobby Brown? That, dear readers, is a new kind of North Carolinian and I for one look forward to watching him shatter longheld stereotypes. I just feel sorry for his eyebrows. Idol's head stylist is a fully-stocked refrigerator of a man and he's gonna rip those caterpillars out one by one. Remember, you heard it here first.

Fear and Loathing in the Fourth Estate

First Newsweek tells me I'll never get rich off my blog, now The Wall Street Journal says local TV stations are facing uncertain futures. Thanks, Team Obvious! What's next - an eye opening report on the dearth of working phone booths? I hear the fax machine industry is on the ropes, too, Better make some calls! A-HEM. Sorry if I sound a bit peevish, but it's getting hard out there for a pimp - and by pimp I mean 42 year old suburbanite who makes his living with a video-camera. Once upon a time my mastery of heavy glass assured me plenty of work and all the logo-wear I could stomach wearing. These days it often earns me the derision of Generation Laptop, who look down their nose-rings at my full-sized rig and ask why anyone would still use such a large, cumbersome camera. There are several answers to that question, but none more satisfying than a certain hand gesture. I rarely bother with either reply though, as we lenslingers have more important things to worry about: like how to stay employed...

But it's not just us shooter-types who are worried about the future. Wander into your local broadcast newsroom and pop a balloon. Chances are someone's gonna wet their pants! But that's not incontinence you're smelling. It's the palpable funk of fear, that aromatic sensation that the other shoe is about to drop. That dread of downsizing has rattled us all: the well-paid main anchor who doesn't take those 2 hour dinner breaks every night anymore, the daydreaming associate producer who's finally learning to edit, that overly verbose photog who thinks he's a freakin' poet! We're all nervous -not just because budgets have dried up, but because life as we know it just may cease to be. If that sounds overblown, you haven't lunched with many broadcast vets lately. I have - and I can tell you they're lousy tippers! But who can blame them... us... you? For every colleague who's lost his job, hundreds more are afraid they'll join them on the beach. If that ain't shocking enough, consider this: Larry King still has a nine o clock time slot! That's just cra-zee...

Then again, not a lot makes sense right now. Consumers continue to hang hi-def plasma-fatties above their fireplaces while News Directors the world over hand out baked-potato cams to twenty-somethings and call 'em pioneers. What will this practice ensure - besides some ugly ass footage? Why are you asking me? I drive around with tools in my hatchback, for God's sake! Okay, okay, I'll take a crack at it. The democratization of the evening news will further erode The Fourth Estate. Already, more recent grads can identify Kanye West's late mother than some stuffed shirt by the name of Edward R. Murrow. As all thoughts of proper camera management fall by the wayside, TV news will shed every vestige of cinema. Soon broadcast journalism just won't be something you'll waste on your wide screen. If you watch it all, it'll be on your iPod wristwatch - or maybe you'll give the news a glance on the side of your toaster. You know, the one that comes with it's own Wi-Fi YouTube channel - yet still burns your morning bagel? Yeah, that one.

Now, as for blogging not making you rich: Anyone who thinks their cyber-diatribes will bring them anything but a false sensation of being red is beyond pathetic. Trust me, I sit up every night speed-typing whatever runs through my head. I know pathetic.

No Rhythm Required

I don't care how many bodybags you've shot, there's redemption for the taking at the Father-Daughter Dance. Thrice now, I've capped off a February workweek with a visit to The Empire Room - where attorneys, airplane mechanics and the occasional TV cameraman can be found leading their princesses through the first tentative steps of The Macarena. I didn't say it was pretty; just redemptive. Don't believe me? Check out the Sales Executive over there - the one with his hands in the air like he just don't care. Ninety minutes ago he was clutching a letter opener while fighting the urge to sink it in a client's neck. Now he's pumping his fists to a Kelly Clarkeson song his high school freshman knows by heart. Where is she, anyway? There she is - hiding behind that drink cart.

Truth is, the little girls are the most fun. There's just something intrinsically life-affirming about a conga-line of kindergarteners snaking through a crowded ballroom - no matter how bad your feet hurt in those damned dress shoes. Besides, where else can you see a forty year old Pharmaceutical Rep 'stir the soup' to an old No Doubt song? They don't sell pills for that. And that guy who looks like he should be head of the I.T. department at a Insurance Agency. Someone tell him if you're gonna even attempt The Robot, you gotta commit! No wonder his little Princess is sobbing uncontrollably. I'd cry too if my old man shook like that.

As for my girls, they're here somewhere. Except the occasional slow dance, the don't want to be anywhere near, should the lack of rhythm hit me. At ages 11 and 14, there's little they can come to terms with. Missing remotes, borrowed earrings, stolen glances - it doesn't take much to spark a backseat insurrection. But on the following they wholeheartedly agree: Daddy Shouldn't Dance. SO I float, drifting from wife at the refreshment table to the deejay booth to that putz from the cul-de-sac who thinks my company car means I want to discuss local politics all the time. I could give a rip. I'd much rather wander the floor, looking for white man underbite and red-faced 'tweeens. Plenty of that here...

Still, the smile that spreads across muy furry mug every year this time has little to do with the attempting The Worm over there. No, the fact that I'm here at all - the father of two wonderful daughters who are actively pursuing a lifestyle I hand't yet perceived at their age. Those two carry a piece of my soul in their purses - along with more lipgloss than I want to think about. I'm pretty good with words but I still haven't imparted upon them the depth of my affection. Hell, lemme tell 'em now, tear them away from their friends for as much Daddy Hug as allowed in public. I bet they're on opposite sides of the dance floor, spreading rumors about each other they don't really mean. I bet they're formulating putdowns even as I speak. I bet they're - over there, barefoot, hand in hand, dancing together like only young girls can...

Redemption, I tell ya.

Hernias of Yore

Long before live trucks were lacquered in logos, industrious souls dashed after deadlines in late model sedans. Okay, so they didn't so much dash; with a car full of plug-in luggage, it was more scientific expedition than journalistic jaunt. That, of course, was before the DuMont Portable Televisor debuted in 1941. Developed and built in good ole New Jersey, this radical rig signaled a streamlined approach to mobile broadcasting, one that would eventually lead to the garish sat truck encampements of today. Now, strong men in skinny neckties could wheel about the naked city, confident that if news broke out - they'd be along in a hour or so to pull a groin muscle. I'm serious, have you seen the equipment manifest? I've seen jam bands with less gear...

DuMont Iconoscope Camera 45 POUNDS

Power Supply Unit 45 POUNDS

Video Intermediate Amplifier 37 POUNDS

Intermediate Amplifier Power Supply 52 POUNDS

Line Amplifier 45 POUNDS

Video Monitor 54 POUNDS

Synchronizing Signal Generator 38 POUNDS and 43 POUNDS!!!

ALL THAT in Bryl-Creem and pleated pants! And YOU whine when you gotta drag out a couple of lights...

Occupational Knowledge

...Other than lopsided shoulders, I can't really say what a life under the lens will bring you. The following, however, I DO KNOW...

When desperately searching for kids playing in the (half-inch of fresh) snow blanketing sparse portions of your viewing area, proceed straight to the worst neighborhood you can think of. Out in the ‘burbs kids are laid up inside, playing Guitar Hero on their Wii as Mummy readies the hot-chocolate. In the inner city however, youngsters are rolling Frosty out of gravel and cigarette butts, riding trashcan lids down ill-advised hillsides and lobbing snowballs at passing cop cars. I ain’t sayin’ it’s right, just that it makes for better tee-vee.

Academians are as obsessed with status as any network news anchor. When they agree to be interviewed by the local TV station, they fully expect a locally famous face to show up and validate their newsworthiness. Thus, they're taken aback somewhat when a scruffycrew of one shows up. Often miffed, they proceed to answer the on-camera questions with dripping derision for the lowly camera monkey before them. I usually play dumb (like that guy from Cash Cab), then hit them with a twenty dollar sentence, replete with eloquence and insight. Then I silently pass gas while they stammer.

Three minutes after agreeing to wear a wireless lapel microphone, the average bloke forgets all about it - especially in a crowd. This of course can be great source of entertainment, for very often the bugged-subject will ignore the fact the cameraman is wearing headphones and proced to mumble profanities, trash talk the media, hint at past peccadillos or - best of all- excuse themselves to urinate. Kinda explains the fruity behavior regularly showcased on reality TV, don't it?

The apex and nadir of the human condition are as difficult to predict as the last few snowfalls. Could the conduct of we thinking apes truly be forecast, ALL news footage would be perfectly centered, in focus and gleamingly coherent. Alas, it is not to be. However, should you neglect to gas up your station vehicle, charge those camera batteries or check your stash of discs or tapes, you can guaran-damn-tee that something of value will fall from the sky, the Mayor will call a press conference and cop to that affair or Osama Bin Laden will get popped shoplifting at the Wal-Mart.

Despite their stern denials, police officers, firefighters and emergency medical technicians love to be on television - preferably doing something heroic. As a vagabond of the Fourth Estate, I'm happy to oblige one way or the other - be it a car crash, stand-off or heated exchange outside the battered woman's shelter. What's most taxing however are undercover vice cops, who will interrupt the meth lab takedown to tell you they cannot be shown on-camera, at which point they flex and preen center-screen - often while dressed like that little squirrelly brute on Dog the Bounty Hunter...

Now YOU KNOW.

Epiphany Not Included

There's not a lot I can say about this photograph by the great Bryan Frank besides the obligatory "Damn, LOOK at that shot!" Ya know, it's just the kind of image that got me all hot and bothered about news in the first place and- after all these years - one that reminds me how very cool it is to sling a lens for a living. Strip away the tripe, the bad actors, the tea-leaf interpretation that is the overnight ratings game and you have a dying profession I'm still quite proud to be a part of.

In theory, anyway.

25 to Life

God knows I tried to avoid the meme that ate Facebook, but when so many friends demand you reveal 25 random things about yourself, you tend to pony up a few bons mots. So, without any further adieu, I give you two dozen or so useless factoids about yours truly - in hopes you never ask I do so again...

1. I was born Stewart Lee Carney. L-o-n-g story.

2. Garth Brooks laughed out loud when I asked him if he ever got tired of singing ‘that Achy-Breaky song’.

3. Long fascinated with exploration in the Age of Sail, I can prattle on for hours about Sir John Franklin’s doomed pursuit of the Northwest Passage. But I will NOT discuss Shackleton’s voyage. Shack is Whack.

4. Once upon a time, only my wife called me ‘Stewie’. Now it seems everyone does. I don’t remember authorizing that.

5. I have a pathological aversion to pompous dickheads - which makes working in local TV News awfully difficult sometimes.

6. I fully plan to self-publish a book of short-stories this year, and am more than willing to sell all 4 copies.

7. I have imparted upon my children a reverence for reading, a love for early Stevie Wonder and a wicked Frisbee hurl.

8. A mild case of acrophobia has never stopped me from hopping into every cockpit my fancycam would allow: rickety Cessna two-seaters, attack helicopters, hot air balloons, the Goodyear Blimp. I’ve even jumped out of reasonably good airplanes without freaking out -- but little sleep, lots of liquor on board and one very tall Vegas building can still reduce to me rubble. Right, Portier?

9. I HATE to re-write - and it shows.

10. I’m as equally comfortable in a crackhouse or Governor’s Palace, provided I have a brightly-logo’d Sony on my shoulder.

11. A fairly stable student through middle school, I took off my sophomore year to pursue truancy and pharmaceuticals. It did not end well and Tenth Grade Revisited forever taught me the value of compartmentalizing frivolity.

12. Not all that materialistic, my most prized-possession is the battered pair of eyeglasses that lives at the end of my nose - for without them, you’d have to drive me home.

13. Twice now I’ve escaped great peril with a high dollar videocamera in my hand - ONE while break-dancing in the Atlantic Ocean, and TWO while running from a remotely-uncontrolled moving truck. You can better believe I’m always looking over my shoulder for the inevitable number THREE.

14. I celebrated my 21st birthday out to sea.

15. One of my wife’s nicknames for me is ‘Professor’ - a strange thing to call a guy who barely scraped through high school.

16. I can turn a three word story description into ninety seconds of fairly powerful television - but ask me to change the oil in the lawnmower and I go all Caveman.

17. I’ve committed much of Jim Morrison’s drunken poems to memory and used to test microphone levels with laborious exhortations from the Lizard King collection. These days, I usually beatbox.

18. I knew from a young age I would one day write about my working life. Thank God I didn’t take a job cleaning septic tanks.

19. Rusty Wallace once yelled at me for shining a light on him. Eff Rusty Wallace.

20. Back in 1989, I spent several months successfully selling Beamers, Volvos and Jeep Cherokees to yuppies - despite not even knowing at the time how to spell B-M-W.

21. I’m forever grateful my two daughters were not born sons - even when the estrogen levels get so bad in my house that I have to excuse myself to the garage and gorge on warm beer and beef jerky.

22. I’m usually neat and most always distracted, gregarious in a stand-offish way, capable of both comedy and callousness. I’m apathetic yet weirdly ambitious. More than anything, I’m a hard guy to buy a Hallmark card for.

23. I married Up. Way UP.

24. I can shoot a house fire with my eyes closed, move through a crowded ballroom like a master assassin and knock on a widow’s door while still feeling pretty good about myself.

25. I’m not at all upset with Michael Phelps.

Thighs Without a Face

Not since a certain nipple-slip electrified the nation has one celebrity body part so dominated the Superbowl Halftime Show. I'm talking about The Boss's ill-advised power slide, an impromptu knee-ride that ended with a violent manhump right there in front of God and everybody. Those who missed it can watch it here, just understand if I avert my gaze out of professional courtesy -- LOOK OUT! That canned bombast may fly down at the Stone Pony, muscles, but this here's the big time! Try and act like you been there before! That includes keeping your top on and your junk off the glass, ya know. Otherwise you'll have to slip all future residuals from 'The River' to the cameraman in question, lest his neck seize up from that face full of millionare mid-section. And while you're at it, drop by my rec room and pick-up all this popcorn I spilled; you nearly bowled me out of the beanbag!