Kicked to the Curb

G. Lee knew from the sound of the keys, his window of opportunity was about to close. For even with half his face buried in a upturned eyecup, with a one inch screen taking up his peripheral vision, with a soggy lump of burned furniture shimmering in shades of viewfinder blue, he recognized the sound of maintenance man keys when he heard them. Looking up, he scanned the apartment complex parking lot until he spotted him… a dumpy figure in gray overalls passing by on the far side of the dumpsters, his overloaded key-ring jangling with the swish of every rhythm-free hip. Straightening at the waist, G. Lee locked eyes with the man and nodded in that Southern way - but the man did not reciprocate. He only glared back at the unwelcome photog as he sloughed off to the apartment door marked OFFICE.

Shit.

Five minutes earlier, G. Lee had pulled into the complex, muted his GPS and thanked the News Gods for his unmarked car. At that exact same moment, a graphic guy back at the station blew latte froth from his oversized goatee and noodled with the words ‘Furniture Fire’. That was the alliteration of everyone’s lips when G. Lee had ambled into the morning meeting. Before he knew it, he was being motioned toward the door as producers babble sentence fragments about a burning sofa, two confused roommates and an unlikely rescue from the unit’s back balcony. “TV Gold!” sputtered one show-stacker as another took deep hits off a crumpled paper bag. Knowing resistance was futile, G. Lee crawled in his car and headed that way, hoping to run rumors through the reality filter before the anchors in his life broke into programming.

He didn’t see a single ‘No Trespassing’ Sign when pulled into the apartment complex, but it didn’t stop his Spidey Sense from tingling. Scanning each passing building for the address he’d been given, he drove deep into the complex before spotting the soot covered sofa in front of a corner unit. Just above it, a second story window hung in shards as evidence of the overnight fire blackened the jagged panes. ‘Yahtzee!’, thought G. Lee as he found a place to park. A minute later, he was outside the car and moving, raising his tripod to eyeball height before sliding the camera on top. Walking his rig over the living room rubble, he powered up, chose a white balance pre-set and began to roll. He’d popped off two medium shots when ’Key-Ring’ strolled by, dead-eyeing him all along the way. One wide shot later, G. Lee heard footfalls heading his way.

That’s when he saw her.

Blonde hair, rounded shoulders, overstuffed nylons packed into a pair of Daisy Duck shoes. The woman only picked up speed as she waddled his way, a retinue of office help and maintenance men behind her. G. Lee smiled weakly at her, but she only dug deeper into the asphalt as she walked within ear shot. G. Lee couldn’t help but notice the lady has both fists balled up, so he reached over to his camera and ever so casually zoomed out. ‘Shot number 4’ he thought as he made sure the red tally light was switched off.

“Pack it up, Chief, I had about enough of ya’ll last night!” Angry red blotches ran up the lady’s neck as G. Lee watched her breathe solely through his nose.

“What’s the problem?”, he asked - stalling for time.

“Problem is, you’re on our property” she barked. “Last night I didn’t have much choice, but the fire department’s gone, the Po-leece are gone and you’re about to be gone!”

G. Lee looked past the lady to her posse there on the pavement. A nervous looking young woman stood just behind her, fondling an iPhone just in case the cameraman went nuts and authorities were needed. To her right, Key-Ring stood beside a younger, skinnier version of himself.

“You know, I don’t even think we were here last night. You have a big crowd?” Before the lady could answer, G. Lee reached over and tried to act casual as he adjusted his camera’s shot. ‘Number 5’ he thought.

“We had too damn many of you if that’s what you’re askin’. Ya’ll got a lot of nerve bargin’ onto private property.” The lady’s breathing had slowed a bit but she still looked like she wanted to deck him.

With the flick of a wrist, G. Lee tilted his lens up at the soot-covered balcony ledge. ‘Number 6‘. Fighting the urge to glance over at the viewfinder, he looked at the lady and gave her his best Gomer Pyle.

“Yeah, we never know when we’re invited and when we’re not”, he said. “I guess we ask forgiveness instead of permission”

“Well you’re permitted to leave”, she spat. “I ain’t got time for all this.”

With the lady’s neck blotches still spreading and Key-Ring diggin’ in his overall pockets or a weapon or snot-rag, G. Lee relented and took his fancycam off the tripod. Turning toward his news car, he heard the four of them fall in line behind him as he fiddled with the camera’s controls. When he reached his car’s tailgate, he set the camera on the ground, lens pointed toward the building with the burned furniture in front. Fumbling with his keys as the tape inside his camera rolled G. Lee asked his four hosts the only question he could think of.

“Ya’ll know a good place to eat around here?”, as 'Number 7' crossed his mind.

“No”, the red-necked manager said with a huff. “Go!”

With that, G. Lee knew the gig was up and as he picked his camera off the ground, he finally stopped the tape from rolling before he placed his axe beneath the hatchback. Only then did the lady and staff relax, but they barely budged as G. Lee brushed past them to crawl inside his car. Cranking it up and dropping the transmission into Reverse, he slowly backed out while rolling down his window.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asked the lady as she tried to stared sourly at him..

“Chase off any other crew before they get through the gate. That way this place won’t end up on the news…”

He drove away before she could answer.

The Brothers Welch

Move over, beFrank! Catch a cab, Busse! There's a new shutterbug on the scene and his name adorns grape juice bottles the world over. Actually, I'm not sure Corey Welch gets one thin dime from that jug of Pineapple Orange Apple Cocktail in your fridge, so stop askin'! From all that I can tell, he's a mild-mannered freelance photog out of Rhode Island who's also handy with the stills. Along with his younger brother Ryan, he bags snapshots that trigger flashbacks in this overly wordy camera-nerd. Take the above shot for example, a single frame that floods my frontal lobe with untold memories of late night shootings, inner city stand-offs and the finest in unexpected structure smoke... Yes, with mad camera skills like this, is it any wonder they gave up squeezin' grapes for more honest work?

Schmuck Alert: Like a Rock

A camera was grabbed, so this technically qualifies as a SCHMUCK ALERT, but I can't feel but so good about the lens-centered fisticuffs captured recently. A news crew had just arrived outside a Chevrolet dealership in Wayland, Michigan when they caught sight of some freshly fired employees knocking each other to the ground. It may be an unfortunate sign of the times, but whenever anybody is body-slammed on camera, an assignment editor get their wings. Thus, the intrepid news crew dug in on the perimeter and no doubt wondered if they'd be the next citizens tasting the sidewalk. They weren't, but the bruiser in the pink hat did come out and berate them while his buddy stuck his hands in the lens. People, people! How many times have we discussed this? In America members of the media CAN set up on public property and point their cameras just about anywhere. It may be a bit unsavory at times, but that whole 'freedom the press' thing really comes in handy when demonstrating democracy. No doubt there will be other businesses going under in this apocalyptic economy and sure as shootin' a news crew will scurry on over to get it all on tape. Wanna stay off the tee-vee when that happens? Don't shove your coworker into a trashcan in front of God or a photog! We tend to record those things and share them with the tri-county region. Now how's THAT going to look on your resumé? Schmucks...

Leave it to Weaver

As you may have gathered, I'm not all that competitive. What can I tell ya? A lack of athleticism and knack for apathy has plagued me all my days. An early baseball coach soured me forever on team sports (thanks, Asshole!), thick lenses and a flair for narratives rarely helped me in gym class either. As I grew into the full sized wisenheimer you know today, things like collaboration eluded me too. Yes, I picked a competitive field, but I'm most effective when simply left the eff alone. Throw in a frontal lobe stuck on auto-reflect and you have a couple of reasons why I'm not the guy to get jazzed over brackets and such. That said, there is one guy who keeps me in the game and you're looking at, well, just below him. Chris Weaver is a hard guy to keep up with. He shoots, writes, slices, blogs, vlogs and Twitters. If we'd let him slap a few more logos on his news unit and crash a NASCAR race, he'd probably do that too.

We're friends, fellow web geeks and in many ways, polar opposites. It wasn't always that way, of course. In fact, when I first met Weaver, the internet was barely a glimmer in Al Gore's eye. What did exist of it was clumsily called the Information Superhighway: a term I bandied about on-air often as a one-man-band. When I wasn't mangling scientific terms, I was riding shotgun with over-caffeinated cops and mastering other broadcast cliches. On occasion my bosses would send me back to my hometown of Goldsboro for a scintillating press event at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base and that is where I first laid eyes on Weaver. He was a former pizza delivery guy with a serious jones for news. I was a chain-smoking chump who already thought he'd seen it all. Separately, we made the kind of television found in small markets everywhere. Together, we made polite conversation. Little did I know back then, I'd be sharing an orbit with this astronaut-wannabe well into my forties.

But that's exactly where I find myself today. Quite by accident, we both landed at El Ocho more than decade ago. I dare say we're both the better for it. Sure, Weaver likes to collaborate with all kinds of talent and I tried to get all but one seat in my news unit removed and yes, his love for scanners is outmatched only by my disdain for being interrupted -- but we're really cut from the very same cloth! See, my defensive cynicism is just his unbridled enthusiasm turned inside out. We're kinda like twins ripped from the womb, reared separately, then reunited askew. We often reach the same conclusion, for very different reasons. I do know that if alien spaceships ever darkened the Piedmont's skies, there's no other photog I'd want doing the 'nuts and bolts' than The Mighty Weave. Sure, I'd be tempted to point ole Zartron's laser at Weaver's skull so I could see just where all that happy came from, but I'd never act on it.

Our Mamas live way to close to each other for THAT.

Sat Truck on the Side

We here at the Lenslinger Institute have a habit of crawling into brightly spangled TV trucks and pointing them towards calamity. More times than not it's perfectly safe, but any photog who hasn't barely skirted peril in a rolling billboard hasn't been shooting news very long. Just ask KSL 5 engineer Dave Lindsay, who's traveled more icy Utah roads than most folks in that state. But even that experience was no match for the elements on Wednesday, when the satellite truck Lindsay was driving hit a patch of black ice.

Yes Virginia, black ice really DOES exist. I know you thought those boobs at your local affiliate made up the term, but they didn't. Now SuperdyDuperDoppler, that's another story.

When the road turned to glass, even Lindsay's 1000 miles a week in the name of news didn't do him much good. Instantly, the sat truck lost it's tenuous grip and slid off the piece of road that tattoos that stretch of Provo Canyon. Only a guardrail stopped the vehicle from plunging in the river. Instead it rolled over on its side and slid down the hill, leaving Lindsay hanging upside down in his seatbelt and no doubt wondering 'what the $%#& just happened?'. In the end, Lindsay came away with only bruises; the sat truck's contusions will a little longer to heal. Meanwhile, we'd like to extend this virtual cup of hot chocolate to our engineer friend and remind everyone that only cinema superheroes can avert disaster every time...

The Making of Midnight Moon

Normally I don't do endorsements, but if ever I decide to give up my Maker's Mark and go the corn liquor route, this would be my spirit of choice. Based on a recipe by the patron saint of bootleggers everywhere, Junior Johnson's Midnight Moon is an 80 proof triple-distilled booster rocket in a bottle. Recently, I took my second stroll through the old train depot in Madison, where a small group of laid-back locals crank out my state's only legal moonshine - 250 gallons at a time. I refrained from imbibing that day of course, but since then have all but drained the airplane bottle that sits before me. While I wait for my speaking voice to return, do check out the above 'Made in North Carolina' and know that I haven't had this much fun since Tucker and I toured that pimento-cheese factory.

Now if you could just shove this wet washcloth down my throat, I'd appreciate it.

A thread I started at b-roll.net felt so right, I'm sharing it here...

I covered a job fair today. You know, people in dress clothes milling about with résumés in one hand and free donuts in the other…not exactly an Amish Dance-Off. Still, I hustled on over, lest The Suits change their minds and send me on a walking tour of the new urinal factory - or worse yet, court. Anyhoo, two thoughts struck me as I tried not to club any of the great unwashed with my tripod: 1) Our nation is in dire peril. For a community college job fair, there were more forty-something Dads with lost looks in their eyes than at Home Depot on a Saturday morning, and 2) the average news crew has dropped a lot of weight…

Of the four fancycams in attendance, three were being operated by teams of one. Not by shooters sleepwalking through their third spray-job of the day, not by college kids with lenses the size of yo-yo’s, but by reporters who shoot, shooters who speak (and one jack-ass photog who thinks he’s Hunter S. Thompson). My point: The future is here. With on-air advertising in the cellar and TV stations about to go through the same cutbacks now eviscerating the newspaper industry, the solo-newsgatherer now walks among us. If that very fact boils your blood, you’re not gonna like the following paragraphs. But with what’s about to hit broadcasters, not digging my drivel will be the least of your problems.

I don’t work in a large market. I’m not a freelancer. I’ve not jetted around the globe with a sound-man, a make-up chick and three skeevy handlers. I don’t know dick about unions. What I DO know, however, is medium-market TV news and how it’s never going to be the same as it was even a year ago. Just ask the Gannet staffers across the street. Most of their two person crews now seem to work without the aid of each other. Ask the weekend anchor now learning to edit, the super-hot news bunny studying meteorology, the news director trying to wrap his head around Twitter. They’ll all tell you, “This ain’t your Father’s Oldsmobile.” Yes, age old assumptions are falling by the wayside as budgets shrink and individual expectations grow. Will it make for better television? In most cases, NO. But here’s a real newsflash:

It doesn’t really matter.

Now before you flame me for dismissing any and all vestiges of quality, hear me out: I wish unemployment on no one. (Well, that’s a lie. There are few folks I’ve worked with I’d like to push in front of a bus, let alone hand a pink slip.) Whereas Rosenblum seeks to burn down our huts and villages and Nino lies in wait to blowtorch him back, I just want to make good TV and get paid for it. I suspect most of you on this board wish to do the same, and while many of you have developed skills that far surpass mine, I’m more concerned with the younger ones among us. I worry they’ll drink Rosey’s Kool-Aid and trade in their tripods for black turtlenecks, or believe his many detractors when they say he’s simply out of his gourd. He’s not. He’s got a version of the future he’d like to sell you and while I differ with him greatly, I certainly see where he’s coming from. And where this silly business is headed.

Take MY bosses for example. I’m not entirely sure they know who Rosenblum is. But they damn sure know about diminished revenue streams, managerial mandates and the low-cost lure of all those baked-potato cams. So far, they’ve yet to shove one in any shooter’s hand and while I’m not volunteering to be the first, I know that day is coming. Not because some self-proclaimed prophet said so on the internets, but because the quantum leap in technology and giant sucking sound up in Sales will soon demand it. Hopefully I can keep a grip on my heavy glass, for its functionality liberates me. But while I cradle my XDCam in one arm, I’m busy scooping up new skills with the other. Why? Not to impress you schlubs, but to keep the steak and bourbon money flowing into Casa Pittman. It’s really that simple…Like your job? Fine, learn another one while you’re at it. Maybe they’ll let you keep both of them.

You know, I talk lots of smack about certain reporter-types. Two decades of dragging prom queens of widow’s porches will do that to a fella. Still, I value the role reporters play and hope they never disappear completely from our ranks. That said, I’m more than happy to work without them, provided my bosses continue to grasp when the solo shtick is warranted and when it simply sucks balls. Newsrooms that can crack that nut will continue to hoard relevancy long into the Nuclear Winter that is about to decimate our population at large. So, I beg you junior shooters out there: Add to your skill-set. Take a stab at writing a script, even if it’s just connecting the soundbites with sentences that pop in your head. Learn every non-linear editing system you can lay hands on. Commit your particular region to memory. Pass out business cards to contacts and encourage them to call YOU - not that putz on the desk. (You know, the one who’s learning your job on his off-hours.) Do this, and you stand a much better chance of retaining a logo’d pay-stub than that semi-hottie who never thought she’s ever have to lift anything heavy.

But please, don’t take my word for it (I can be a bit of a blowhard). Instead, turn to b-roll elder Richard Adkins, known better here as RAD. If you’re like me, you read his steady updates of bliss-inducing gigs and think, “How does this dude score all these sweet shoots?”. I’ll tell you how: Dude hustles like it’s his first week on the job. He interjects himself into the editorial side of news-gathering, not just the pretty pictures and nifty nat-pops. Most of all, he writes his own scripts much of the time, freeing himself from the shackles of a talking hair-do so he can go turn far-flung epics, watching lighthouses move, riding on submarines, catching White House Christmas trees as they fall from their mountainside homes. You want a career like that? Free reign of an entire state while still sleeping in your own bed most nights? You can still have it. All you hafta do, is do it ALL.

Most of it, anyway.

Erector Vet

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s ... the bald spot that ate my youth. Oh well, what’s a few missing follicles (a few?) when you’re getting paid to hang out. That’s really about all I did today as construction workers attached a nearly century old cement frieze to a brand new school‘s rising facade. Okay, so I did more than hang out. I had to track down a chatty onlooker, pawn of my lapel microphone and not miss a single frame of a maneuver that at any moment could end in an 80 year old POOF(!) of suddenly unimportant cement dust. Luckily for the folks at Union Hill Elementary School, the ropes held and my minute-thirty kicker didn’t turn into six seconds of globally known viral video. Oh well - can’t ask for everything! At least I chilled for most of the morning, got to nosh on some natural sound and by the end of the day produce a piece that had absolutely nothing to do with the faltering economy, Ty Lawson’s injured toe or that pesky Octo-Mom.

With assignments like this, who needs hair?

Overdue Disclosure...

Ever open the wrong door at work and find a couple of your buddies jabbing lenses at a comely young model? Ever tuned in to a college basketball tournament, only to catch a glimpse of a friend on his knees? Ever watched Air Force One land on the local news and wondered how long the Secret Service made your pals on the risers pick their teeth? If you said yes, then you Sir or Ma'am are a photog ('FOH-tog') and I regret to inform you, there is no cure. Sure you can unhand that fancycam, slink away and go sell shoes, but the long term effects of street level lenslinging will haunt you 'til your dying day.

Or maybe it's just me. When I left The Life back in 1994, I thought I'd be happy cranking out promos. I was wrong. The very first time a hurricane blew up, my old running buddies raced for the coast while I stayed behind in a nice, dry TV station. I nearly unzipped my skin. Turns out I was a news guy, not some studio hack with an aversion to sunlight. So I reluctantly plunged back into the world of press releases, live shots and urgent voices on bedside telephones. Yes, I came back of my own free will - even though I knew all too well the discomfort that awaited me. A dozen or so years have passed since then and most days I don't regret it. Most days...

Naaah, who am I kidding? This job still pretty much rocks, if only because it's spared me the disappointment of scheduling extended time off only to find my golfing buddies were diddling their assistants instead. As it stands, my friends still haunt the same old places: interstate oil spills, coliseum corridors, police department parking lots. It's there we meet on a moment's notice, masts rising, thousand yard stares intact. We may act like we're bored out of our skulls, but truthbeknown, we're still pretty stoked to be there. How else do you explain why so many energetic MacGyver types choose to spend their lives schlepping Sonys that aren't even their ownies?

I'll tell you why: this silly gig offers a lifestyle not found in fine department stores. Yeah, there's that whole long hours - short pay - I'm never gonna have a holiday off again my entire life thing, but once you get your head around it, things really ain't that bad. I for one still enjoy the thrill of making slot, the unfettered access to other people's lives, the fact that nine times out of ten I can park like a paramedic and totally get away with it. As for all that bile I spew here about what a thankless role it can all be, well that's as heartfelt as any Made for TV movie you'll see. Do I love my job? Do I detest it? Do I deride, treasure and defend it for the very same reasons? Yes, yes I do. So, the next time you think ole 'slinger has flipped his lens, is inching closer and closer to the tower out back with a scary look in his eyes, know that eight times out of ten, I'm just blowin' smoke.

It's when I don't blog you should worry.

Back in the Saddle

There are days this gig feels like an enema. Friday wasn't one of them. That's because I paid a visit to Kirby Creek Equine Center, a 52 acre horse farm nestled in the hills of central North Carolina. They weren't expecting me. Instead the people that run this rescue ranch for waiting on horse trailers - the kind you see a lot of 'round Surry County. Needless to say when I rolled up in a Ford Freestyle with GPS pinging, the lady at the gate could tell I was no cowpoke. She was a little shocked to see a man with cameras and questions about Kirby Creek's first vaccination clinic and in truth, so was I. See, I take requests and lately all anyone with a newscast has wanted to hear is the End of the Economic Good Time Blues. The last time someone in charge wanted something sticky and sweet, John Edwards was considered a viable running mate. Thus, I didn't blush when a manager handed me a print-out about a place called Pinnacle, I made for the door before they could change their mind and send me to some paperclip parade downtown.

Of course, I didn't explain this to the lady, intoning only that I wished to take a few pictures. She seemed agreeable, but before she could radio the others, a battered horse trailer arrived and pulled through the gate. I jumped into action at the sight, leaving the lady alone with her clipboard as I jumped back into my horseless carriage and followed the cloud of dust in the distance. Looking back, I guess I should have slowed my roll, for less than a quarter of a mile later, the caravan of two came to a halt. I jumped out and grabbed my gear, shouldering my weapon before rounding the corner. When I did, a woodsy looking gentleman stopped me with questions of his own. "What's all this then" he kinda sorts asked and the next voice I heard was me explaining from which I came. The must have liked the look of my logo, for minutes later I was leaning over the veterinarian's shoulder, as he poked and prodded his first patient of the day. I love it when a lack of plan comes together.

What followed was a fairly glorious morning. A slight breeze whispered through the valley as I tried not to stare at the iconic outcropping looming overhead. From Kirby Creek, the reported inspiration for Andy Griffith's much mentioned 'Mount Pilot' hung like a painting in the sky. That made it tough for me to focus on the horse whisperers at hand, for I'm a flatlander by birth and tilted topography still renders me agog. Inoculation or not, it was difficult to pinpoint the equestrian needleship on display when a Bob Ross watercolor floated in the corner of my eye. Not that the locals noticed. Jamie Renzi and Susan Bingman opened this place back in August. Since then, they've boarded many an abandoned steed, from neglected nags to post-prime thoroughbreds. It's a bucolic, pleasing place and the weddings and festivals they hope to hold there should attract all kinds of attention. Certainly should you ever find yourself traveling through the shadow of Pilot Mountain, I urge you to mosey on over.

In fact, of my short time there, I left but with one regret. On my exit the kindly proprietors directed me to the barn where refreshments reportedly waited. I begged off at first but acquiesced when a certain pastry was repeatedly featured. Following my hosts past the stable and into a small anteroom, I saw, among other things, a box of Krispy Kremes sitting on a table. I did what any Southerner would do, scooping up a glazed confection before rejoining a walking tour of a couple dozen stalls. Tell me, have you ever eaten a cold doughnut while your nostrils were swaddled in fresh manure fumes? It's a flavor you won't soon forget, no matter how many times you shave your tongue. I don't know if such sensitivity will eliminate me from competition but something tells me I'll never fulfill my dream of becoming a rodeo clown...

At least the day made for pleasant television.

Power of Attorney

Ever barged into a stranger's office and demanded they elucidate? I have - more times than I've been to church. Most often, it's a lightning strike: Call from the parking lot and let the logo do the talking. If eight times out of ten you can't score an instant sit-down, you're not mentioning the logo enough. But Phil Bolton isn't some used carpet salesman. He's Greensboro's top bankruptcy attorney and when he first heard El Ocho wanted to come over and chat, he was probably expecting someone with more product in the hair. He got me instead, a somewhat rumpled father of two, who needs all ten fingers to even spell b-a-n-k-r-u-p-t-c-y.

To Bolton's credit, he never batted an eyelash as I schlepped into his office suite and opened all the blinds. Scene set, it was time to conduct the official television interview ... The second hand of the clock in the corner drowned out all sound as the counselor and the cameraman stared at each other. Fearing I might be billed for the hour, I commenced with my laser-focused inquest...

"Soooo, about this whole bankruptcy thing..."

From there the debriefing began. With the precision of a litigator, Bolton explained the tenants of insolvency, from how to avoid bankruptcy to when to embrace it. Throughout the summation I nodded knowingly, wondering how in the hell I was going to make all this data palatable for the masses. See, most interviews are but one (important) portion of the prerecorded report. For this story, however, the talking head was the sole component. "In Their Own Words," the managers demanded. "No reporter track, no interruptions, no cheesy two-shots." Knowing better than to question why, I huddled with my new attorney friend and pretended I understood everything he said. In the end, this finished piece won't bag me any trophies, but it's unpretentious, fairly informative and 100 percent loophole free.

Now, if you need me - I'll be in my chambers.

The Mod Squad

Sure they're both elder statesmen of the Fourth Estate now, but once upon a time Steve Flyte and David R. Busse were young broadcast bucks, sporting enough moustaches, straps and gadgets to fuel an entire episode of The Electric Company. What's more, this intrepid news crew did it all while dressed in the finest JCPenney fashions! Short-sleeve shirts with that Western cut, bulging battery belts and the kind of high-waisted jeans that Jessica Simpson tried to bring back a few weeks ago! "Are those Garanimals? Don't answer. In fact, ignore me altogether - for I can hardly judge fashion. Not this Kentucky Waterfall in the distance. Besides, these guys truly are legends; Steve Flyte became famous in 1979 after he scratch-built a microwave antenna in the field and saved an ABC News remote from going down in flames. And David R. Busse? Why he became the Forrest Gump of electronic news-gathering. Which reminds me...

Run, Busse, RUN!

Steeped in the Shallows

Videography. All those syllables make it sound important. It's not, I'd wager, but that's the subject of another post. Tonight, I want to talk about longevity. It's been on my mind lately; the time I've spent jostling from one tripod spot to another. Twenty years - a number of months that sucks the very breath from my lungs. I never planned to stick the lens this long. In fact, when I started I was fairly certain I'd muck it up in a month. Instead, I found religion. No, a winged-creature didn't swoop down and place a fancycam on my shoulder, but a lot of good people gave a shaggy smart-ass a chance, long before I'd earned the right to televise anything. I still remember pulling up to my first car lot, a van full of camera equipment and nary a clue what to do with it. Countless local commercials later, I was figuring it out, but then an acquaintance took a friend of mine hostage and my baptism by news began. Suddenly, scanners crackled with shouts of prophecy fulfilled and the News Gods smiled down upon their acid-washed argonaut. Yes, it all seemed mystical in the beginning, this portage and deployment of video recording gear. When did it grow so mundane?

I'm not sure exactly, but it did. Somehow, amid the blur of ribbon-cuttings and ride-alongs, the press conferences and protests, the drive-by shootings and bloodmobiles, calamity became the norm. No longer the zealot of other people's peril, I found myself a washed-up apostle, a castigated ape loping from deadline to live shot and back again. What did I shoot last week? Christ, I'm still piecing together yesterday. It was either a daffodil contest or a burning bus full of orphans, itallkindsofrunstogetherafterawhile. What I can tell you is, it's a young person's game, both in pace and compensation. I left for a few years back in the early 90's, tried my hand at cranking out dreck for the man. It wasn't so bad in retrospect, but at the time the office, the assistant and the asshole down the hall felt like a plague of locusts at best. So I excommunicated myself from the House of Pain, made a pilgrimage to the Piedmont Triad and found a sect I could reflect in. An energetic lot, the crew at El Ocho; they took me in and forgave me of my swish-pan sins. In return, I stopped pretending to be grizzled. Suddenly, I just was.

So there you have it, a white-washed version of how I came to be here. No longer the wild-eyed believer I once was, I can't claim to be totally agnostic either. News - or at least the pursuit thereof, still feels like what I'm supposed to be doing. This should please me more than it does, for some folks go a whole lifetime without ever stumbling over what makes them tick. Not me. I learned early how to turn a limited attention span and eye for irony into the suckiest job you'll ever love. From watching the atrocity of a pedophile trial to riding shotgun with Meals-on-Wheels, the ever-present Sony on my shoulder has provided access to an education I never dreamed of back when I was cuing used car salesmen to do their finishing move. I only hope the craft of broadcasting continues to evolve, for I sometimes feel guilty of arrested development. It doesn't take a Mensa member to document life as we know it. Give me a few afternoons, along with one of those table-long subs and I'll have YOU traipsing up some widow's porch reciting 'Wide-Medium-Tight'. Just be careful: at some point you have to come back down and look at yourself in the mirror...

Try not to squint.

No Prose Needed...

But when did that stop me? Besides, this heavenly shot by Nathan Parsons deserves some kind of write-up: Seen here in the wild, these temporary spires can be found alone and in clusters. Courthouse parking lots, interstate breakdown lanes, suburban sinkholes, there's almost nowhere these broadcast obelisks won't pop up. Often reaching apogee just around dusk, they then contract altogether, before reappearing in empty parking lots an hour shy of midnight. Me, I avoid 'em these towers of babble like the plague; but only because I almost O.D.'d once on generator exhaust and Cheesy Poofs. Don't ask. Just know that young Nathan laid a halo on this leaning steeple, bringing a sense of divinity to an otherwise ugly appendage.

Not bad for the new guy.

Schmuck Alert: Run for the Border

As proven by that friend of yours who can never hold his liquor, there's a Schmuck in every bunch. That includes law enforcement, where the efforts and rep of a whole department can be sullied by one cop with too much caffeine on board. Just ask Victor Castillo, an Action 4 News reporter who got cuffed and stuffed while covering a police pursuit in the Rio Grande Valley. Seems a drug investigation ended in a case of bent-sheet metal, creating the kind of scene you might watch on the evening news. That's when our man Victor rolled up with gear in tow and caught sight of cops unloading bundles of marijuana from the freshly-wrecked vehicle. Momentarily confused as to which side of the border he was on, Victor set up his camera on public property and did what a free member of the American media has every right to do: he quietly recorded the unfolding events from a reasonable distance. On its face it all seems pretty innocent, but Victor must have passed gas or made one too many doughnut jokes: for one officer took suddenly decided the Constitution wasn't a good enough reason to let some pesky news photog document the confiscation in question.

After exchanging less than pleasantries, the camera-toting Castillo backed off more than he really had to, but Office Bogart still didn't dig it - so he arrested the young interloper for committing television right there in front of God and everybody. Why the nerve! Anyway, knowing outrage when he saw it, the very angry cop placed the brazen photojournalist under arrest and charged him with interfering with public duties. Considering he was a good deal away from the action and surrounded by members of the public when he was arrested, Victor Castillo shouldn't have too much to worry about. For now though, he's still facing a Class B misdemeanor punishable up to six months in jail and a $2,000 fine - all for doing his job. What a country! Maybe someday all badge-wearing individuals will read the memo, brush up on the Fourth Estate or just get a freakin' clue! That way maybe we can avoid these predictable fits of testosterone. Until then, careful where you break out your camera; it just might win you a trip to the pokey. Schmuck!

Remains of the Day

Nobody becomes a photog just so they can hang out all day. But take it from the Turdpolisher himself: Sit Happens. Yes, for every high speed chase, for every raging warehouse fire, for every floating airliner, there’s a couple hundred bouts of courtroom minutia to record. Trouble is, some states (and all federal) courthouses don’t allow prying lenses inside, a less than transparent policy that kicks the cameraman to the proverbial curb while his better-dressed partner yearns for a sketch artist inside. Time. Stands. Still. But how we handle that downtime illustrates the sometimes imperceptible difference between lifer and loser. Some folks polish their battery collection. Others simply text. I usually hunker down and strive for some reasonable state of Zen. That rarely works however, and I end up tossing pebbles at competitor’s live trucks. Not Louisiana’s own Rick Portier. He uses his quiet time to cook up some potent prose, fire off a few snapshots and find new ways to poke fun at his profession - without alienating his allies. It’s an odd hobby, but one that gives me plenty to read whenever I’m down and out in some half-dead live truck…

Provided I don't doze off first...

Subterranean Mutt Not Included...

Attention Producers --

I admit it: I lingered too long in the newsroom the other day, poking fun at the phone call you wanted me to turn into television. Sorry, but claims of stray dogs stuck under houses always crack me up. It’s not that I’m anti-canine, I ‘m just naturally skeptical. (Twenty years of chasing vapors will do that to a fella.) This time however, your instincts were dead-on and had I shagged over there just a little quicker, I would certainly have captured some memorable moments on camera. Instead, all I can offer is the following exchange; two true-life minutes that are now stuck on a loop inside my head…

“I’m sorry you came all the way out here,” the lady in the housecoat said, “but Horace already got that dawg out.”

“Really?” I asked, looking around for evidence of the imperiled pooch. I found none, but there was plenty else to look at there in the lady’s front yard. Cats, perhaps two dozen of them, roamed this way and that, peering out of the front window, cowering under nearby bushes, rubbing against my ankles.

“Yeah, the poor thing got stuck up under there this morning” she said, hiking a nicotine-stained thumb to the modest home behind her. “But he’s in the woods by now. Horace got him out.”

That’s when I noticed a flashlight’s weak beam shining from beneath the house’s crawlspace There, through a low square hole in the bricks, a greasy head of hair inched toward the opening. Horace, I presumed.

Following my gaze, the woman acknowledged her hero. “Didn’t take him but a minute to get him out. Said his collar was hung up on my ductwork. I gave him some food and he took off for the woods. The dawg, not Horace.”

I nodded as I watched the man of the hour turn his shoulders and shimmy out through a hole the size of a shoebox lid. Incredibly, the baseboard orifice birthed a pretty sizeable hillbilly. As Horace stood to his full height, he squinted at the stranger staring back at him. Lowering my gaze, I couldn’t help but notice the muddy skid mark on the front of his rebel flag t-shirt. Something in my subconscious clicked and I suddenly remembered the pick up truck I’d park behind a minute or so earlier sported mud flaps with the same set of Stars and Bars. That’s when I noticed Horace was looking at me, hard. Then he coughed up some long-lost lung nugget, hurled it into the dirt, reached for his millionth Winston and turned to the lady.

“That’s the same dawg ate that cat last year.”

This seemed to bother the lady and for the first time she acknowledged the felines at her feet.” I just hate to hear an animal suffer. It’s why I got all these cats. I don’t go looking’ them. They must just follow their friends here.”

I nodded absent-mindedly, wondering how I was going to convince the producers that the great Stuck Dog Story of Aught Nine was a no-go. That got me to guessing how else I might spend the rest of this suddenly slow news-day. About then, I felt the burning stare of Horace as he searched my form for any sign of confederacy affiliation. Finding none, he turned his attention to my glasses, his forehead scrunching between unkempt eyebrows. Wondering if my bosses would be able to find my remains by tracing the memory of my GPS unit, I glanced nervously at the woodline, where the mystery dog was supposedly licking his woods. That’s when Horace uttered an offer I still can't seem to get outta my head...

“You want me to stick him back up under the house so you can get yer picture?”

Oddly enough, I didn’t.

Daughtry's Drummer

Chris Daughtry may not have taken his old band along with him on his post-Idol career, but he did hook one homeboy the hell up. Joey Barnes, a charismatic young drummer from around these parts flew all the way to L.A. to audition for his old rival's band. Needless to say, he got the gig. I first met him in 2007, hours before Daughtry took the stage at a free concert in downtown Greensboro. Belligerent women roved Hamburger Square in packs that day; Joey risked being ripped to shreds by them when he popped out of the tour bus for an on-camera chat. It was a righteous thing to do and I vowed to return the favor should he ever need someone to spit-clean his tambourines. THAT opportunity never materialized, which is why Shannon Smith and I were so stoked to rendezvous with him a few weeks ago at a top secret location....

Actually it was an anonymous house in Summerfield that just happened to have a recording studio where the car-hole usually goes. If that weren't odd enough, Joey actually showed up on-time (okay, he was an hour late, but if I just came off a whirlwind global tour, I might keep the locals waiting too). Anyway, when he did roll in, Shannon and I cornered him with cameras and questions: How did it feel to play stages the world over? Was Oprah cool or all 'suh-diddy'? What color M&M's did he and the fellas in the band simply not tolerate? Joey answered 'em all, before steering the conversation toward the reason for our visit: His new CD. That's right, this hometown boy is keeping busy between Daughtry albums by crafting a solo effort of his own. Best of all, he's doing it all right here in the Piedmont. The tracks he and producer Josh Seawell played for us were indeed diverse; each showcasing an urbane verve one might not expect from a drummer who favors kilts and kabuki masks behind the kit.

But I'm no critic. Hell, I'm barely a cameraman! So Shannon and I did what we did with Bucky Covington and what she and Weaver did with Daughtry's first recording session: we rolled on everything 'til they kicked us out! That way, we had plenty to choose from when it came time to sit down and slice: a stilted series of edit sessions plagued with all kinds of interruptions. Oh well, who wanted to concentrate like that, anyway? We still managed to plug Joey's upcoming album repeatedly, all while supplying the region with their recommended monthly allowance of swaggering bald rock-star news. Hey, if assisting musicians on their way to immortality is my special purpose, someone get Phil Spector on the phone - I got some doo-wap I wanna record! So while I warm up my throat, check out this profile of a thoroughly engaging young man who happens to have the world by the tail. I just hope the new music garners him some female attention. Must get awful lonely out there on the road....

Screech of a Leach

How is an apartment fire like a garden party? It’s not, really – but when you’ve kibbitzed near as many hulking remains as I have, the wine and cheese crowd seems a little stuffy. Perhaps I’m not giving these afernoon soirees enough credit; I’m sure you’ll find lovely people there. I just prefer my small talk with something smoldering in the background. Those who crash calamity with deadlines in mind know what I mean. Or maybe they don’t. Truth is, this silly gig has skewed whatever social norms I once embraced. Whereas once I marveled at that plume of smoke in the distance, I now curse it for delaying my edit plans, my lunchbreak, my afternoon interludes of quiet reflection. It’s kind of negative, I know – but at least I still know how to behave around the freshly bereft. For every huddled clump of hollow-eyed homeowners I’ve put on the tee-vee, there’s a hundred others I’ve left the eff alone. See, I’m a photog, not a complete KNOB. It ain’t always easy, but I’m doing my best to live the difference. Take the other day for example (please!): I didn’t put that skeevy guy in the blue blanket on the news and it wasn’t JUST because he was flashing me gang-signs. I’m not totally sure what he meant, but I have a feeling he wasn’t inviting me for a sit-down. A BEAT-down, perhaps...

So, now that we’ve established I’m a master of apathy with a penchant for distance, allow me assure you I ain’t alone. There are countless lenslingers in the news crew nation, rugged if not rumpled individuals who wouldn’t think of getting in your business - if the logo in their lives didn’t pretty much demand it. We’d much rather keep to ourselves… out there by the ditchbank, clustered just off the breakdown lane, bathing in the rejuvenating exhaust of a dozen haphazardly parked fire engines -You don’t think we’re discussing journalism out there, do you? Most likely the topic centers around some workaday abomination: the threat of furloughs, a competitor’s infideility, that rug the weekend sports goob has started to sport... you know, important stuff. Okay, not so important stuff, too. Like cinema hitmen chewing over minutia outside their victim’s door, journalists and first responders have the oddest conversations at the edge of other people’s darkest hours. C’mom, I can’t be the only schlub who’s had to dub in the sound of an idling firetruck over a particular piece of footage in which I questioned the efforts of some self-appointed TV genius... can I?

On second thought, keep your opinions to yourself. Just know that I’m more than willing to stand behind the bulk of my statements, should Saint Peter meet me in front of the pearly gates with a rolling transcript of my crime tape commentary. Sure, that crack about scanner code junkies and sheet metal enthusiasts was a little crass, but not once did I storm the porch of a new widow with details designed to ensure the procurement of tears. Trust me, those people are out there (or at least they were) but the vast majority of journalists I know would rather take a kick to the kidneys than grill the hapless or the bereaved. So much like the veteran traffic cop who cringes at the sound of breaking glass, most newsgatherers out there are all too human. We just have weird jobs; occasionally exciting occcupations that once felt revolutionary but now smack of laborious futility. Or maybe that’s just how I see it. Whichever the case, it’s a safe bet you’ll find me far more entertaining at the train wreck than at some stuffy, cheese-tray get-together. Trust me, I’ll understand completely if the invite never arrives.

Besides, I look lousy in a sun-dress...

Schadenfreude at 11

So, there’s a nasty catfight among media factions in Oklahoma and, were it no so moronic, it might be kind of entertaining. But we’ll pass judgement later. For now, let’s do the math:

When KOKH-TV wanted to produce a weeklong series on the demise of newsprint, they sure didnt look very far. (I know what you’re thinking: Who produces weeklong series anymore? Answer: About five more people than actually watch them.) Why should they – when just down the road the local paper proved such an easy target? Like lots of paid publications, The Oklahoman is losing readers, hemorrhaging relevancy and (gulp!) raising their prices! Remember, every time a newspaper goes under, a twenty-something news producer who only reads Facebook gets their wings. Is it any wonder what happens next?

Disclosure: I’m totally bereft of any insider information on this matter. Sure, I helped commandeer a certain costume shop in nearby Norman, traded shots with fellow photogs and scratched my head at all those standing ovations - but aside from some NPPA Workshop schwag, I don’t know squat about media machinations in Oklahoma City. However, I do know a thing or three about the acidic relationship between TV stations and their closest newspaper friends. Friendly, it ain’t. You’re more likely to get that creepy Burger King dude to cough up something he likes about Mayor McCheese than hear a broadcaster point out anything positive about those ink-stained wretches down the road. Likewise, print folk will glady lambast the efforts of their nearest affiliate – often with words we TV dweebs don’t even understand. So when I say I’m fair and balanced in the following reportage, well, you never really believed that hooey, did ya?

Now,I don’t know if reporter Nick Winkler wanted to do this story, but he certainly gave it his all. College professors, ex-readers, newspaper delivery boys all growed-up: dude talked to everybody! Of course the folks at The Oklahoman declined to speak on-camera, but you can damn sure believe they caught every frame of a five part series that pretty much celebrated their impending extinction. You stay classy, Fox 25! Of course by local TV standards, the stories were pretty even handed, though you can almost hear the high-fives being traded back at KOKH. I’m not saying their information was anything less than accurate, but if I crafted that a smarmfest like that, I’d have to go home at lunch just to shower. Worse yet, The Oklahoman followed the station’s playbook by cranking out a shrill set of ads questioning the broadcast outlet’s intent. “Hey, I got an idea! Let’s heap some publicity on that ten minutes of television where they say we suck! Who’s with me?”

I’m not – even though FOX 25 did further dirty the waters by putting together a sixth piece, in which they sought out the reasoned opinion of (shudder) some bug-eyed radio hack. What’s next, some clown in the park wanna pantomime his displeasure with the glaring lack of floppy shoes for sale in the classified ads? I’m all for nuanced analysis of the Fourth Estate, but easy on the self-congratulatory crosstalk, people. Before any of us know exactly what’s happening, the death of local television will be documented too. But it won’t appear in any musty old newspaper. It’ll be twittered, in 140 characters or less. TTFN!

Templates of Adventure

C'mon now, really. What OTHER job lets a man stick his nose into someone else's cinders - without first putting on turnout gear? What OTHER gig allows an individual with a shabby wardrobe and limited social skills be on first name basis with every mover and shaker in town? Name one OTHER occupation where a fellow can spend the morning socializing in a police evidence room and the afternoon making new undercover camera friends at an open-air drug market? I'm sure such a profession exists outside the Fourth Estate, but from where I sit here in the cheap seats, I really can't think of any. Still, I didn't log in to compare notes with dog catchers and the like. I came to riff on the access. Nearly twenty years in, it's the one part of The Job that still makes my needles jump.

See, I could give a rip about fighting City Hall. I'm not big on consumer advocacy either - as there are enough gasbags on both sides of that microphone to make me wonder who the true hack really is. Nor is the cameras that get me all juiced. Sure, I dig the science of documentation, but if I could do it with one of those skinny print reporter notebooks, I probably would. No, the thing that keeps me coming back to El Ocho (besides that whole 'must have sustenance' thing) is quite simply, The Access. No matter how many times I sidle up to some breaking calamity, I still get a kick out of my unobstructed view. It's not that I don't think I have a right to be there; I just keep expecting someone to insist I render assistance. My CPR's a wee rusty officer, but if snarky remarks and purple prose are what it's gonna take to revive that hobo, then You Sir, have volunteered the right photog...

Hmmm? No? That's cool. I was afraid to leave my gear alone anyway. Not that my cohorts would take anything. They might hide something - say a camera battery, a tripod, my finely-tuned sense of purpose... Whatever they might abscond with, know that they'd pay me back with an endless stream of lies and hyperbole. Understand, even if we TV news photogs haven't SEEN IT ALL, we kinda feel like it. Hey, YOU shovel tripe and tragedy into the gaping maw of local television for more years than you can remember; you'd polish your chops, too. So while I hang back with the chattering class, trading notes on the repuations we've so assiduously inflated, know there's no other place I'd rather be. Sure, some coffee shop would be awfully cozy right about now, but do they serve lifer's alibi along with their four dollar java?

I think not.

Falcon and the Snowman

Yes Virginia, it snowed in the Carolinas. You know what that means: bedlam in the checkout aisle, a rash of bent sheet metal, flash-frozen lens-meat in matching logowear. Why, it's enough to make one swear off the icy overpass. In fact, that's exactly what I did today: forego my role in the continuous team smotherage by shooting a franchise piece instead. Trouble was, I wasn't 100% sure my scheduled expert would be in his office when I arrived. So I did what any crusty news shooter would do: I prepared for the weather. Boots, a couple pair of socks, thermal underwear above and below the Mason-Dixon line. By the time I waddled out of my house, I looked more like the Michelin Man than the dashing lenslinger I so pretend to be.

Of course, all this sartorial layering could only mean one thing: My guy was where he said he would be: ensconsed in his lawyerly lair, a fourth story perch he was apparently trying to burn down with a thermostat set on 'Smother'. You ever interviewed a bankruptcy attorney while dressed like an icebound lumberjack? It's a special kind of hell usually reserved for those greasy drifter types who specialize in tri-state crime sprees. I'll spare you the details, but about three questions in I was sweatin' like a high-dollar housewife with a credit-card fetish. As for the counselor in question, he didn't miss a beat; launching into a dissertation on foreclosures while fighting the urge to make me empty my pockets - assuming I could reach them.

But while I sat and squirmed, another photog roamed the local tundra. Chris Weaver, Chief Engineer of Lenslinger Labs, assumed a position I know all too well: hunched over the steering wheel of a moving news unit with suburbia streaking by. You know those obligatory shots of kids sledding in the snow you see on the news? They don't come with engraved invites. No, some plucky photog has to go out and score some of that hillside revelry. Sure, it's never too hard to find, unless you're under deadline - which, of course, Weaver was. He fumbled about at first, but once he realized a photog summit was taking place at a certain Mexican restaurant, he came upon a kid-infested cul-de-sac. Forty five minutes and one taco special later, the Mighty Weave delivered.

Then he returned to the office, snapped the above photo of El Ocho's sat farm and captured a rare shot of my pick-up... Perhaps I should have sprung for lunch.

Naaaaaaaah...