Nuggets from Doug

And to think I was worried Doug Richard's blog would suffer when we he went back to work. Hardly! Ever since the mind behind Live Apartment Fire signed up with Atlanta's WXIA, he's spoken truth to power with a flurry of posts that would be preposterous were they not so spot-on. This guy's on fire! And I'm not just saying that because he's heaped undue praise on me in the past. No, I click on LAF 'cause it's written by a real person - not some overblown, chiseled phony you see sleepwalking from Sports to Weather, but an honest to God reporter who knows how to play dead in a live truck, where to grub in the inner city and how to act when the shit goes down. If that weren't enough, Doug's doing it all under his real name, thus incurring the slings and arrows of every nutbag with a Blackberry in the greater Atlanta Metroplex. That takes grapes, not to mention a conscious effort never to take one's self too seriously. Trust me: it's harder than you think. In my nearly five years of constant blogging , I've more than earned the wrath of certain competitors and colleagues - simply by pixelating one lenser's opinion. But enough about my busy dance card, this post is for Brother Doug, who's found a paying gig without giving up his voice. Still not convinced? Consider his recent list of newsgathering truisms - which includes a tip so tried, so true, so trenchant - every new reporter should commit it to memory.

8.) If the phone rings at five minutes after noon, beware. It means that the newsroom managers have seen something on a competing TV station’s noon news that your station has overlooked. The phone call means you’re being asked to recoup on a story with a rapidly fading pulse. Consider waiting five minutes, then return the call. The problem may solve itself.

Quick, somebody etch that in stone before I'm forced to write it in lipstick on the ladies room mirror. Then who will be lookin' for work?

Inaction Jackson

With the Tenth Anniversary of Hurricane Floyd drawing nigh, I can't help but think of all that has (and hasn't) happened in the decade since...

When Jesse Jackson entered the Tarboro High School gym, chaos came with him. Until then the place had been relatively quiet; a half dozen news crews muttering shop amid a sea of displaced people. Even the Red Cross volunteers seemed to be moving a little slower, their heroic efforts finally ebbing after days of caring for this sad, soggy lump of humanity. I myself was on visit number three to this gymnasium turned shelter and had long since grown tired of wringing sound from the newly downtrodden. The people of Princeville didn't need another camera in their face. A few miles away their modest homes sat marinating in toxic sludge and not one more local profile was going to dry out all that debris. They needed cash, clothes, groceries and a miracle or two. What they got was Jesse Jackson on auto-pilot.

No sooner had the famed civil rights activist entered the cavernous space, the new denizens of the gym rose to receive him. In return, Jackson radiated warmth - encouraging the crowd in his singsong cadence while shaking just some of the hands thrust before him. A young mother who'd been picking clothes out of a soggy pile dropped them at her feet and raised her upturned palms to the rafters. A leathery old man I'd just watch brush his teeth with a dirty rag now swung the half-bitten remnant above his head like a victory flag. A pregnant teenager, who could do little more than weep, pushed her way into Jesse’s arms. Through it all, he cooed reassurances, offering them everything and nothing at once. I only wish I could remember all he said, but I was too busy fending off lenses to listen very carefully.

“If the media could just step back a little” Jackson said, turning the young woman in his arms a little to the right, to better catch the flank of blinding camera flashes.

The needy would have kept coming all day, but Jesse was not there to assuage them. He was there to get on television and with the scrum of cameras growing all around him, this master of disaster worked the poor folks of Princeville like a studio full of warm props. I shot as much of it as I could stand. When another TV photographer tried to leap over a cot and almost flipped an old lady out of it, I hung my head and headed for the door. Not because I was especially pious, but because the buses were lining up out front and I was afraid they'd somehow leave without me. When the small convoy did pull out, each bus lumbered past capacity with photographers, reporters, technicians and writers, all clamoring for an unfettered shot of Jesse in the flood zone. Not everyone would get their wish.

Located across the swollen banks of the Tar River, Princeville is widely known as a town founded by freed slaves. But in the hours and days following the flood, this village of nineteen hundred gained turn of the century fame as the place where Hurricane Floyd left its ugliest bruise. As the line of buses followed the lead Suburban past the barricade, it was easy to see why. The roofs of cars inched above the slowly receding water, hand-scrawled X’s condemned two out of three homes and lawn furniture lounged in the tree-tops. A hush fell over our bus as the driver negotiated a network of new ruts. I braced my camera against the bouncing window frame as Neill McNeill scribbled notes in a skinny notepad. Then the Suburban ahead of us pulled over and I lunged for the door before the bus driver could warn me otherwise.

Outside, Jesse and his bodyguards emerged from the Suburban and walked toward Princeville's waterlogged Town Hall. With the other buses still parking, the photogs in my group moved in for the kill, trailing after Jackson and his handlers as they marched up the hundred year old steps. Inside, I managed to squeeze past the other crews, stomping around the condemned space before my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. With my vision clearing, I sidled up next to the guest if honor and took in the room through my viewfinder. Almost on cue, Jackson bent down to pick something up. I followed his hand and was surprised when he peeled an American flag from the muck underneath. Twisting the focal ring into submission, I feathered it into sharper view as Jackson chirped a homily about perseverance. I was seconds from volleying a question at him when other voices drowned us both out.

“Out, out - Everybody out!”

Uniformed deputies piled through the door, hitching thumbs and eye-gouging the crowd. Seems the Town Hall was condemned for a reason, and even carpetbaggers and their lapdogs were not permitted inside. But the underwater pony show wasn't over. As Jackson and company made for the door, I stuck with him, unwilling to give up my vantage point as he paused onto the Town Hall's front steps. It made for a powerful backdrop and Jesse must have sensed it too, for he decided to give the media a little Q and A. Still clutching the dirty flag, Jackson took questions from the reporters he pretended not to need. As the microphones and lenses hung on his every word, he spoke of hardship, race and renewal.

Which is about the time Neill snapped the photo. It’s become a treasured souvenir. Not because it’s terribly significant, but because the single frame tells so much about that humid afternoon. Look closely. There I am, just to the left of Jackson - back bent, arms hurting, sweat pouring down one squinted eye. Over to the right, a large orange X stretches four planks wide, telling all those who need to know the building is finished. And hanging from Jackson’s grip, the American flag that seemed to be waiting for him and his rhyming bromides. Looking back now, ten long years later, it’s tempting to reconsider the center of all that attention. Though he left the flood-ravaged families not one red cent richer than before he came, it’s a safe bet they all slept better that night, knowing none other than Jesse Jackson was on the case. Maybe that alone was worth something, maybe there’s more to helping people than cutting a check, maybe there’s something positive to be said about the way Jackson swoops in on tragedy and leaves vague warm feelings for victims to embrace. Maybe, just maybe, Jesse Jackson ISN’T the divisive charlatan so many pundits claim him to be...

Naaaah, dude's a user.

Hills on the Grill

You know the scariest thing about this photo? Dude's shoes. Few photogs rock a flip-flop on the job, mostly because tripods like to step on your feet. So when I stumbled across this most recent beFrank masterpiece, it was the gentleman's decision to go open-toed that troubled me the most. No pro wades into that kind of battle with his toe-knuckles exposed. The fire encroaching on this guy's live shot must be close. to. HOME! West Coast Jedi Bryan Frank confirmed my stirrings...

Jeff Mailes is one of my fellow photographers...They had a small fire going on up there and it was just ever so slowly creeping towards the populated parts of the area... It was exciting and then boring and then it got exciting again. Like a movie, but with the added risk of people actually losing their homes and all their worldly possessions in a blazing hellish inferno.

Also, somebody baked cookies. Now that's so much more friendlier than what we can usually expect. I kept asking Jeff if he'd like to turn the sprinklers on us.

I wouldn't have minded.

What neighbor would have?

Schmuck Alert: Ma and Pa Crazy

Holy Hemorrhoid! I blow out of town for a few days and the nation's elderly goes bat-shit crazy! Isn't there a Stephen King book where old folks begins lopping off the heads of everyone under fifty? If not, there should be - for the maniacal glee displayed by these two seniors rivals anything dished out by a certain homicidal clown...

We begin in Florida, where two not so nervous news crews climbed the porch of a troubled teen's home, with fancycams shouldered and rolling. But before either reporter could ask their first vexing question, an old woman in an even older housecoat appears and unleashes a brand of profanity that makes even an ex-sailor like myself tense up. If that weren't nasty enough, Granny then emerges with a digging implement! But she ain't on her way to the garden. She's about to whup ass first and scrape dirt later. The ensuing moments have to be seen to be believed and while there's no excuse for violence, we at the Lenslinger Institute wince at the situation that sparked it. Simply put, on-camera door-knocks are dangerous, unneeded and generally suggested by those who never leave the newsroom. I've done it myself more times than I wish and while I've never had a grandmother try to cleave my head in two with a garden hoe, I've more than while as a door creaked open before me. End On-Camera Door-Knocks NOW!

Next we head North to Doylestown, Pennsylvania, where an idling pack of TV cameramen waited outside the sentencing of a woman accused of staging a fake abduction. Sure, it's lousy duty - but it's nothing any of us haven't done a hundred times before. Which is why it was so surprising when the father of the accused - no spring chicken himself - bursts from the courtroom and bum-rushes the awaiting scrum. First he clubs the nearest lenser with arthritic fury before turning on another photog who had the audacity to intervene. By then Gramps was operating on pure adrenaline and administers a rest-home beatdown for the ages. It may have gone on forever (or at least until the old guy was winded) had it not been for the actions of photog number 3 - who manages to grapple the patriarch with his one free meat-hook. Bravo! By then, others peel the old man off the Fourth Estate and he's soon shuffled away by a rather girlish deputy. AT press time, charges had yet to be pressed.

So what drove these seniors to act like savages? Is there a bad batch of Geritol going around Are there violent subliminal messages in all those Lawrence Welk reruns? Is it just built-up angst now that Bob Barker's stopped feeling up his lovelies every day at eleven? Ya got me - but one thing's for damn sure. I'm keeping a close eye on Granny the next time I'm forced to film a family reunion. Schmucks!

Life by the Drop

A scrawny kid 'borrows' his big brother's guitar and begins to mimic the sounds he hears on old Blues albums. Unable to read a note of music, he somehow coaxes unknown emotions from his older sibling's axe, his young, big hands displaying a muscular finesse grown guitarists would kill to possess. As the kid matures physically, much about him remains stunted, save the mastery of an instrument he never seems to put down. Soon he finds himself slinging his weapon on the local scene, sweating it out in club after club as he slowly re-wires the Electric Blues. When an overseas gig astounds the millionaires in attendance, he's recruited to play on a rock star's comeback album. The album goes platinum; the kid's gritty licks lauded by the press, his new set of peers and an adoring public.

But when the rock star invites the kid to join him on a world tour, the near destitute guitarist turns him down. He'd rather finish the crude recording of his own debut album, a nearly live rundown of his road-tested set list. That album exceeds all expectations and launches a career that introduces age old Blues masters to a new generation. Hit singles, silly videos and world tours follow; soon the kid is jamming with his childhood heroes and being held as The Blues' answer to Jimi Hendrix. It's heady praise for a young gunslinger and either despite or because of it, the kid fosters of habit of self destruction. Through it all, he rarely fails to blister the stage, though whiskey and coke are never out of reach. Predictably, it almost kills him, but just before it does, the kid does something few tortured virtuosos do: he sobered up.

After an uneasy but ultimately successful rehab, the kid emerges amped and lucid, his trademark tone back with a clear eyed vengeance. The performances that follow hypnotize all within earshot and between stunning numbers, the kid begins preaching the wisdom of leaving the party while you can still walk.He then marshal his forces, settles some old musical scores and plots the many compositions he hears in his head. Asked to join the roster of guitar giants at a promising concert, the now sober kid plugs in and lays waste to the stage. When the last encore ends, it is he who is held up as the evening's real legend. But even before the crowd clears the lot, the kid's true fate plays out, as the chopper he boards soon crashes into a foggy hillside, killing all souls within it. The Kid dies in his stage clothes, the echos of the audience still in his ears...

Stevie Ray Vaughan's life was as cinematic as his music. Ever since he perished 19 years ago today, I wondered if the story behind the music would ever be truly told. Since then, I've pieced together parts of his soul by dissecting every track he ever laid down - as well as many, many live shows surreptitiously recorded by others. His life's work continues to consume me and I've waited for the day when he will truly get his musical due. Two biographies have been published and years ago famed director Robert Rodriguez expressed intentions to make a movie about the man known as 'Guitar Hurricane' . Alas, the once innovator of guerrilla cinema seems content to pump out CG laden kiddie fair and second rate Tarantino dreck. I hope he hasn't forgotten the incredible heft of his fellow Texan's legacy. I damn well haven't and until Rodriguez or someone else helms the project, I'll avoid all those other biopics and drown my joys and sorrows in the soothing blister of SRV.

Here's hoping you will too.

The Mermaid Never Showed

Okay, so our little Floyd follow-up didn't result in the kind of rollicking adventures that enrich the blog. Instead, it consisted of three long days scouring Eastern Carolina for witnesses of the water that was. We found 'em, but it wasn't easy. Luckily, Buckley and I know our way around Downeast and together we called in every favor, contact and drifter we know. Along the way, we (I) drove 865 miles - from the smelliest flood plain to the continent's edge (pictured above). Did I mention it was a thousand degrees? It sure felt like it. But what my home region lacked in autumnal splendor it more than made up for in solid citizenry. Old acquaintances, total strangers, extended frenemies - all made time for one sweaty news crew and a few goofy questions.

That includes a few folks we didn't put on tee-vee, for Bob and I couldn't crisscross the TV Land we once both toiled in without looking up a few of its superstars. Hoffman, Fox, Bailey, Cowell, Sawyer, Anderson - it was great seeing you ALL. As for that photo above, Buckley's the consummate reporter, see, and can't even enjoy a walk on the beach with his third-favorite photog without stopping to grill a few starfish. That, or he was just trying to hear the ocean. Either way, I told him he could get the same effect by holding a seashell up to his ear. That's when he launched into a soliloquy about grains of sand and the gritty nature of Copernicus. Gotta love that Bob...

Before I Go...

Look for postings to increase, cease or become downright weird this week as I team up with seen-yore reporter Bob Buckley for a three day jaunt into the flood zone. Okay, so the flood zone's all dried up - but that's kind of the point. Ten years ago, Hurricane Floyd blew through Eastern North Carolina and brought it with enough rain toregister on the Biblical scale. I can't begin to tell you all that I saw while covering the flood caused by Floyd, but this tale of floating through dead cows best sums up the experience. While you read that, know that I'll be busy traversing the Eastern half of the state, gathering new interviews to go along with our old footage and as always, looking for things to blog about. Now if you'll excuse me, there's an ass-shaped indention in the driver's seat of Unit 4 (not to mention a fresh bag of Cheesy-Poofs) with my name on it. Updates from the road to follow. Hopefully.

Mal Under Fire

Those of us who gripe about tight deadlines here in the States should immediately cough up our man cards and mail them to Mal James. Then again, I'm not sure where we'd send them, as the Fox News cameraman tends to skitter from one global hot spot to another. Most recently he's been spotted North of Afghanistan's Helmand Province. There, he and correspondent Greg Palkot embedded with U.S. Marines as they chased the Taliban through land that bested even Alexander the Great. Along the way, Mal has ridden a convoy along 'The Desert of Death', marveled at the vanity of Afghanistan’s National Army and burned a wag bag or two. More than anything, Mal and Greg have endured conditions that would make most news crews spill their bowels into their boots. What they went through while simply trying to feed footage back to New York is the stuff of cinema...

The room we found in the compound had been stormed earlier and the dirt floor was covered in broken glass, window frames hang loosely, old rags and a frayed piece of rug were the only things in the room. And old tin box became my workspace out of the wreckage that existed.

First footage sent in and a live shot from the safety of the garden outside, every few minutes another volley of gunfire echoed around, to a bizarre extent you can become immune to the noise, as if it were just the norm.

The next phase for us was to edit a feature length piece for the Evening Primetime broadcast, and sitting in the shell of the room we were piecing together a spot, when all of a sudden there was a loud scream around the compound.

“Fire in the Hold”

What the F--! Every single person suddenly ducks down into a fetal position and puts their fingers in their ears. You close your eyes not sure of what are about to happen.

Boom !!!!

Now what was that you were saying about smelly live trucks?

Exercise My Eye

I don't know what your exercise regiment is, but mine consists of carrying a 25 pound fancycam most everywhere I go. Throw in 14 pounds of tripod, along with a battery or three and you can probably grasp why I let my gym membership lapse. I'm kidding, of course. I've never owned a gym membership. Well, there was that brief period in the early 90's, but after a few visits it occurred to me I was paying a faceless corporation for the privilege of lifting heavy shit. That sort of scheme didn't set well with a stevedore like me, so I hung up my unitard and haven't worked out indoors since. Why should I - when I drove around with a bunch of high-dollar dumbbells in the back of my car.

Now, I'm no Doctor. But I did once chase a disgraced Dentist into a courthouse elevator and if I learned anything from it, it's that even a prissy hygienist will still throw wicked elbows if she feels her livelihood and/or skeevy boss is threatened. What exactly that has to do with the subject of tonight's post I haven't yet decided, but it does illustrate my gig's inherent risk of unplanned exertion... There's the squad car squat-thrust, a method of quick cockpit expulsion utilized whenever the ride-along suddenly turns into a foot-chase. You know, there's only one reason you never see a COPS cameraman stop mid-sprint and heave on a tree: editing.

Then there's the desperate stretch. Performed in courthouse corridors and winner's circles, this maneuver consists of hoisting your camera as high as physically possible. Try to remember to point the viewfinder tube down before you do. Otherwise all you can do is stare up into nothing and hope you don't drop the damn thing. Once you master that, you're ready for the thousand yard sweat, something I perfected just today when a certain PGA event turned into that egg-sucking scene from 'Cool Hand Luke'. Don't ask; just know that if Davis Love the third wants to take home another trophy, he'll stay upwind of your suddenly pungent pal.There are more forms of torture of course, but until these painkillers wear off, I probably won't get around to making them up....

In the meantime, hit the showers, will ya? That kind of camera-punk funk could melt the wax off TelePrompter glass. Then who's gonna lead our country?

Heard on a Wire

Judging from the look on Kyle Petty's face, he can't figure out why the TV guy is taking his picture. Truth is, my snap decision (get it? 'snap' decision?) had little to do with the pony-tailed philanthropist. Rather, I was moved to do so by the recorder's disorder. And no, I'm not bagging on this newspaper photographer's baked potato cam, as it's the same kind my 12 year old uses to sneak up on her Dad when he's sleeping at his desk and that footage always turns out fine! No I got a problem with dude's audio technique. See, that's a lavaliere microphone in his left hand, the kind of device you usually see pinned to some speaker's shirt - not hung out to dry in the midday sun. Now I realize video is this shooter's last priority, but such inattention to detail is exactly what's going to make this new era of media consolidation so difficult to watch. And hear. Now, for those of you who think I'm picking on this multi-tasker, well, you got me there. But considering there were two (2!) private airplanes firing up their turbo props just a couple of yards away, this rather unsound technique left me speechless. As for Kyle, he carried on, telling his interviewer, "SKKKKRAGGGGBBBBBEEEEEEEEFFFFGGGILLLLLLLL..."

At least I think that's what he said.

UPDATE: Upon some reflection, I've decided I was a bit too harsh on the above news-gatherer. As one who straddles a couple of mediums myself, I should know better. A pox on me for taking what kind of comes off as a cheap shot. Besides, I watched the report that resulted from the above interview and Kyle's sound quality was no where near as egregious as I predicted. Who knew?

Dear Madam...

I'd like a chance to explain why your frowning mug made it on the news tonight. God told me to put it there. But don't blame Him. Blame You. See, when I wandered into that classroom you were sitting in this morning, I was just looking for a few quick cutaways. You know: shots of pencils penciling, teachers teaching, students acting like they had some sense. The kind of thing you might see on TV. Tee-Vee ... that glowing box in the corner of your den that tries to sell you dishwashing liquid and virility pills. You've seen it, right? If you had, you'd probably know that those flickering images don't get there by themselves. No, there acquired and assembled daily by lowly souls like me, individuals who quickly decide they've seen it all - long before they actually have. I myself have pointed cameras at shackled crackheads, celebrities with one name, morons with white sheets over their head and a flatulent world leader or two. But few have reacted like you.

From the moment I followed the instructor into that classroom, you made your presence known. The huffing, the puffing, the oddly audible eye-rolling - it was quite a performance. Granted you have every right to act that way - and there's no law saying you have to be on television. But the tact you took to escape my gaze had all the subtly of a sweaty wrestler swearing vengeance on a costumed foe. Between the stink-eye and the hyperventilation, I considered for a moment digging my cell phone off my belt and dialing 911. Instead, I tried to ignore you - with the quiet knowledge that before I left that small room I would commit your image to video - something I had zero interestin until you began acting like that hopped-up 'tween from The Exorcist. I would have stuck around longer, but I don't look good in green pea soup.

There were other people in that room who didn't want to be televised. So they hunkered down a bit and hid in plain view. Not you. Apparently, you thought I was a cyborg bent on destroying the community college system class by class - or perhaps you figured I was lead sentry for those death panels you've heard so much about. Maybe you simply assumed I was out to steal your soul. Either way, you flailed about there in your undersized seat, hissing in a twangy stage-whisper like a pissed-off Minne Pearl. Soooo, I pretended to tie my shoe, drawing your attention away from my camera. I had no choice - for defying a photog to take your picture is like hurling a Molotov cocktail through a fire house window and expecting the guys in Nomex pants to ignore it. Consider it a code we photogs live by - much your like habit of draping that amorphous torso in NASCAR garb. Besides, we both know you wanted to be on camera. So enjoy the cameo, for while it's your mullet filling the screen...

...this close-up is on me.

Twitter in the Wind

Anna, Bill, Claudette - I lay low for a single weekend and the Tropics start hurling Caucasian names toward the East Coast. Here we go again! But now that we're blathering like never before, I wonder just what it will be like when a certified hurricane does slam into the social media landscape. I wonder, if it would go something... like ... this:

Took some convincing but the bosses said I could go! Bags packed, camera wrapped, tank topped off, cooler full of granola & Gatorade. Hurricane Leo here I come!
20 hours ago from TwitterFon

Last twenty miles took forever! HUGE line of campers headed other way! Wimps! Cops almost didn’t let me on island. Weather’s really getting lousy. WTF?
17 hours ago from TwitterFon

Arrived at hotel. Six sat trucks already here! Lady @ desk says power about to be turned off. So? I’m here for adventure! Now where are those Granola bars?
16 hours ago from TwitterFon

Shirtless guys boarding up trinket shops. Agreed to be interviewed but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Something about ‘kegger at the double-wide’.
13 hours ago from TwitterFon

Station keeps calling. Wants live shots ‘round the clock. Reporter doesn’t wanna get wet. Took her umbrella. Guys in parking lot sharing cigarette. Hmmm.
12 hours ago from TwitterFon

Just interviewed surfer live. Dude was whacked! Repeated same live shot nine times! Station wants ‘more movement’. WTF? Gonna run out for some grub!
11 hours ago from TwitterFon

Nothing open on whole island. Locals flipped me off. Storm to come on shore soon Cops chased me off. More sat trucks @ hotel now. Bring on the ‘nola!
10 hours ago from TwitterFon

Winds picking up. Saw a trash can fly! Going live from 3rd floor balcony. Gear all over my bed. Sat truck guys sure curse a lot. Is that Anderson Cooper?
8 hours ago from TwitterFon

Storm’s here. Lobby full of crews. Big blob on lens from built up moisture. Rash on ass. Station wants reporter ‘out in it’. Saw her pass a tape to CBS worm.
7 hours ago from TwitterFon

4 hours to sleep til next live shot. Room HOT & HUMID! . Stomach seized up from granola. Hotel totally pitch black. Took dump in ice bucket. Is that wrong?
5 hours ago from TwitterFon

Still raining sideways. Dozed off but overnight producer kept paging. Wants reporter on the beach. Says other stations doing it. Watched light poles bend. Whatever.
54 minutes ago from TwitterFon

Reporter wiped out in surf. Still missing. Station sending back-up talent. Camera starting to frizzle. Should a brought more socks. Another granola bar, I’ll shit an oak tree.
16 minutes ago from TwitterFon

Sat truck died. Operator locked in room. Cantore outside high-fiving Weather Channel crew. EFF THIS! Wading into angry ocean. Mom was right. Should've gone to film school...
3 minutes ago from TwitterFon

Attack of the Mad Men

Proving that news photogs can do more than clamor at crime tape, a couple of senior 'slingers have tapped their inner auteur, in hopes of promoting b-roll.net. It all began when the founder of that invaluable site sounded the clarion - er, started a contest: "Make me a kick-ass commercial," Kevin Johnson intoned from on-high, "and I will hook you up with some serious photog schwag!"Cries of excitement followed this grand challenge; shooters began scribbling ideas on old tape labels and one guy fashioned a diorama using nothing but floorboard french-fries and tiny bits of scrim. In the end, however, only two (2!) submissions rolled in. That may sound like less than a groundswell, but considering the effort such a production calls for - not to mention the cruel and unusual critiques that would surely follow - it's understandable why many a lenser were afraid to try...But enough about me - THE ENVELOPE PLEASE!

And the Winner is.... Richard Adkins! Yes, THAT Richard Adkins! Seems the artist also known as Rad isn't content with traversing the Carolinas for broadcast powerhouse WRAL - now the dude's a director! His polished spot took the Grand Prize handily, no doubt for it's crisp premise, back-lit extras and slick execution. In it, Adkins envisions a veritable b-roll HQ, a bustling nerve-center where workers toil 'round the clock in lenslinging assemblage. This ad has it all! Minus of course a cameo from a certain Greensboro-based blowhard... Hey, Adkins - have your people call mine next time! We'll do lunch!

Speaking of cameos, it's the singular performance of a New Zealand deity that lies at the very heart of our inevitable runner-up. Stephen Press, narrowly revered as CameraGOD on many an on-line message board, takes the stage with little more than some index cards and gaffer's tape around his wrist. What follows is a cringe-inducing bit in which our nearly breathless steadi-cam operator blurts out the kind of inside one-liners that would make even a tripod lifer like myself groan. All goes unwell until an off-screen voice informs our hapless glass-hound he's barking up the wrong forum. In a word, Brilliant!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rethink my dream sequence. The scrim holds up fine under the lights, but the french fries are starting to sag.

Flash Over Chasm

Nothing overly eloquent here, just a pretty picture of an old friend. Joe Avary, better known as 'Joey Flash' left the fertile plains of El Ocho more than a year ago in search of higher ground. He found it in Asheville, that leafy enclave nestled in the mountains of Western Carolina. There he's carved out a gnome-like niche, slinging lenses, tweeting incessantly and on occasion, chewing on the longview. Won't you take a moment to dig it with him?

Depleting the Breed

It takes a certain personality type to stick with this career, a rugged individual undeterred by indifferent officials, tragic accidents or - URP! - Happy Meals. Me, I've been doing it for damn near two decades. In that time I've noticed a pattern of behavior in the best of the vets. Cynicism. Giddiness. An affinity for distance. That's not so say we're ALL embittered drifters. Some of us is quite social! Why even in my tight circle of lifers, I know guys (and the occasional gal) who don't need logos to hypnotize the masses, Honest to God showmen who wandered behind the scenes and found they dug the view. That's not to say on-air talent doesn't have its place. Hey, some of my best friends are reporters! But if I'm going to be stranded on a desert isle or stuck in an elevator, I want not scribes in my tribe but seasoned shooters. At least those Prima Donnas know how to use a Leatherman!

But, alas, the breed is evolving and it's gonna take a lot more than a fancy pocketknife to alter our DNA. These days, it's not enough to haul gear and ass in heavily decorated chariots. It's not enough to wrangle lamplight, bend time-lines or drive like a fireman. It's not even enough to field-strip your lens on the edge of a hurricane. No, to get ahead in today's shooter circles, you have to bring story germs to the morning editorial, connect soundbites with actual sentences and quiz new widows all by your lonesome. Yes, it can be done. But the transformation from artistic roadie to utility player is forcing some press conference vets to seek a higher podium. It's not uncommon to watch a fresh eyed youngster give news shooting a go, only to run away screaming. But now I'm seeing folks whom I figured would die with a station logo on their tit leave the fold for jobs that don't involve live trucks or nightly deadlines. That's a drag...

But there is hope. For every grizzled shooter that's hightailing it to another industry, there are easily a dozen more that are quietly holding on. But with shrinking budgets, diminishing gizmos and inflated expectations, The Job just isn't as fun as it used to be. That's not to say there isn't good television being made out there. But more often than not the photog's role is being marginalized - or simply stretched beyond recognition. Some folks call it progress - but they ain't got tripods in their trunk. Those that do pretty much thought they'd seen - and shot - it all. But few of us expected the upheaval that is now upon us, not when we were all sitting fat dumb and happy back in - GULP! - the good ole Nineties. Who knew? Not the photogs - we were all too busy making slot - knowing that, like Janet Jackson, the newsroom suits only want to know what we've done for them lately. So if there's a news shooter in your life, buy 'em a drink, won't ya? Chances are their workplaces aren't what they used to be. If they are, that will soon change, for highly skilled artisans were never any match for a ballyhooed new paradigm.

Now if you'll excuse me I gotta teach this intern how to power up the auto-cam. Pretty soon she'll want my keycard.

Fire in the Sky

Longtime readers of Viewfinder BLUES may be wondering why I haven't kvetched about the elements this summer - as it's my annual inclination to whine like a leetle girl every time the thermometer starts to throb. Truth is, it hasn't been that bad. Sure it's been warm, but we just haven't experienced the kind of lung-sucking sun butter so common to a Carolina Summer. That is, until now...

August is upon us and - judging from the way street signs are melting across the Piedmont - it's pissed! Like one of those cinematic spaceships that hovers over whole cities, an amorphous monster has settled over much of the state and it won't leave until pumpkins dot the fruited plain. Exactly how long that will be is still unknown - but it hardly matters, since time tends to creep when your underwear gains weight. If that's - ahem - too much information, understand I'm still still a little giddy from crisscrossing the county in search of sunstroke. It's a gig I knew I'd get before I ever left the air conditioned confines of my suburban lair this morning, for seasonal heat is just the kind of soft news best collected by a kind of hard-case. Yes, when it comes to turning froth into something watchable, I'm your voyeur of choice...

Actually Weaver's equally capable of harnessing the sun, though if the truth were known he'd rather escort a reporter to their very first Emmy than laze in the haze with with a loser like me. That's cool - we all have our personal thresholds. Besides, the big lug shot me a solid early in the day - interviewing a sign-wielding pro who sweetened my timeline with his year round cheer. If that weren't enough I stumbled upon a family of mulch-spreaders, some kindly Snow-Cone pushers and an eloquent chap in questionable bike shorts. Before I knew it, I'd committed it all to disc, including a few artsy sun shots I bagged in El Ocho's parking lot. Of course those who stack the shows were less than whelmed by my efforts - a condition I've only encouraged by accomplishing the improbable on a daily basis...

That's when it hit me. I'm the only viewer I have to woo. Unlike the producers who groom their Facebook pages or the assignment guy who only wants to know where I am should the Earth spin off its axis, I'm the guy with the wandering eye. And so too are you dear photog, for if viewers knew how much of what radiates from that box in their living room was put there by some schlub with stevedore's knees and perma-squint, well, they probably wouldn't care - as long as a disembodied voice they recognized led them through each and every soundbite. But here's to you anyway, pit-stained shooter, for your moxie makes the home audience squirm and not just because you've raised your arms in victory while packed into a crowded elevator. Yes, you deserve any false sense of pride you can possibly muster and at least a week or two of vacation come September. For now, hold your hands and head high and let 'em know who the real newsmaker is...

On second thought, lower your extremities. Either that lady beside you is working on a hairball, or her throat just closed from the impact of your stench. She hits the floor and there's a good chance you'll be an air-conditioned freelancer by week's end. Then who ya gonna sweat on?

(Photo by Sean Browning)

Varner Takes Manhattan

This may surprise you, but I don't normally make a habit of watching Regis and Kelly. That said, I'll damn sure be tuning in this Friday morning when my old pal Jeff Varner fills in for the Reege. You remember Varner - former Survivor contestant turned local newscaster. When he first came to El Ocho, I was among many skeptical staffers who wondered what kind of vibe this showbiz joker would bring with him. What I didn't know then is that Jeff held a journalism degree from UNC and what he lacked in local TV chops he more than made up for with charisma, piss and energy. Not that he was EVER easy. Varner's brash, unapologetic and temperamentally incapable of backing down from a fight. These traits - along with his popularity among viewers - didn't always endear him to colleagues and competitors - but I found myself liking him immensely. Together we stormed more than a few food courts, wandered up a widow's porch or two and crashed a Sex Offender's cell block that resulted in one my favorite pieces of the past five years.

These days, Jeff is main anchoring in of all places, Kalamazoo. With his indefatigable laugh, Southern drawl and pesky habit of saying EXACTLY what's on his mind, I can only imagine the impression he's left with Michigan viewers. Apparently they think enough of him to vote him a top spot on Regis and Kelly's From Local to Live Co-Host for a Day Search"Contest. Thus, Jeff will soon 'assume the stool' on Friday, interviewing Susan Lucci, American Idol David Cook and some dude touting the virtues of Texas barbecue. I, however, will tune in for the crosstalk, for the Varner I know doesn't believe in biting his tongue. When I spoke with him last night, Jeff was excited, grateful and not the least bit intimated about filling Regis' tasseled loafers. I believe it, for despite his trademark histrionics, dude ain't skeered to mix it up. Remember, he engineered Australia Outback's infamous chicken argument (that's him at 0:41, slinking away from the fray he helped spark). Chances are, there won't be any fowl to slaughter on the Regis and Kelly set, but with Varner in full flower, there's no guarantee a feather or two won't fly. I just hope he'll follow the three words of advice I gave him...

"Don't go viral."

Industrial Snuff Film

Rarely has one industry's tipping point been so crystallized as in the above time capsule. In the 1983 documentary clip, Consultant in Chief Frank Magid and his minions descend on a certain station and do their best to spruce up the news. Though this particular instance was in MY neck of the woods, similar scenes have played out across the fruited plain since affiliate owners first began paying strangers for out of town advice. Perhaps it was the advent of videotape that convinced station owners they had to rethink all they knew. No longer did news photogs shoot with film; what had been a laborious processing lag evaporated almost overnight. Now field crews could turn their footage around on a dime, edit in the field and report LIVE(!) from the scene of the train wreck, bake sale or apartment fire. Whatever the underlying cause, focus groups and think tanks rose to the fore, convincing local broadcasters they had to all be the same if they were to to be taken seriously by the citizenry. I supposed it seemed like a good idea at the time...

In a way, I feel for the folks tasked with jazzing up the broadcasts. To them, those regional reports must have seemed awfully plodding, chock full of hokum and embarrassingly sincere. No matter that viewers cherished these touchstones or recognized themselves in the accents of their hometown narrators. No, what these yokels needed was a bit of big city branding. So they jacked up the pace, colored the lights and rubbed away the local soul of your neighborhood newscast. Soon dispatches from Newark resembled those in Nevada, toothy readers glimmered in shimmering split screens and the self-serving live shot was born. Shortly after, the human element was re-tooled as well. Main male anchors had to look like Fortune 500 executives, their invariably perky partners made to resemble their slightly sexy second wives. Before anyone could think to protest, local newscasts lost all their hometown flavor. No matter where you traveled, the six o clock dispatch was just another report. from the United States of Generica

Sure, the slows got slicker. But along with that sheen came acres of empty reflection. Not sure if the new reporter knows how the justice system works? Who cares, have you seen the way she uses her eyebrows? Don't know what that thumping sound is? It's just Edward R. Murrow spinning in his grave. Crank up the news open theme music and you can barely hear it. While you're at it, turn over to The Deuce, would ya? They've got a new logo I really trust. Okay, I'm being facetious. But it's hard not to be glib when I look back at 'the hinge' - that point in time when luster trumped integrity. Don't get me wrong, a little window dressing doesn't hurt. I mean, look at my wife; I appreciate pretty people! But when sheer artifice is the coin of the realm, you end up with second-rate thespians who can indeed 'tell you 'bout the plane crash with a gleam in their eye'. That said, news anchors aren't evil. Neither are they stupid. Hell, the one that turned me onto this clip insists on remaining a journalist! Others could learn from him, but in an industry that values flash over facts, looks over books, intonation over understanding - well, they really don't have to.

Thanks, Frank!

Pursuing Hootie

"With a little love... and some tender-ness ..."

THE VOICE took me by surprise. It really shouldn't have; I'd just followed Darius Rucker into a room full of sick kids and musical instruments. But while I was fighting three other photogs for space on stage, someone handed the man most folks think of as "Hootie" a guitar. That's when the jukebox started. Except it wasn't a jukebox. It was the unassuming dude who'd just finished fishing with the kids at Victory Junction. You remember Victory Junction; that bucolic swath of Randolph County Kyle and Patty Petty turned into an oasis for chronically ill children. I'd barely made it through the gates when a certain ex-coworker whisked me away on a golf cart. "You've just about missed the fishing, but you're in time for the jam session." Nodding, I'd told my host how I'd gotten tied up at an earlier shoot, a (shoulda been) simple interview session complicated by multiple microphones. But before I could fully relate the frustration of flipping switches under duress, we pulled up outside the camp's Silver Theater and the hunt was on.

"We'll walk upon the water, We'll rise above this mess..."

Actually there wasn't much 'hunt' to it. My quarry, an affable enough chap I used to watch perform at college bars up and down the Carolinas, walked right past my golf cart. Flanked by both Pettys and trailed by camp staffers and no less than three cameramen, Darius and his family were in the middle of The Grand Tour. Smelling blood, I followed the small coterie into the theater, knowing I had some serious catch-up to play if I was gonna match Hofbauer shot for shot. Steve Hofbauer, a smiley, hulking photog from Channel 2 I see an awful lot of these days was on the same mission as I and, judging from the sweat on the back of his neck, he'd been trailing Hootie for a good ten minutes or so. That's an eternity in terms of time on tape and knowing Hof was on target put more than a little more pep in my step. Thus, I wasted no time in the lobby, plunging instead into the pitch black theater, where a stage full of kids suffering from Spinal Bifida waited with tambourines and smiles. Rucker's face lit up at the sight and as he glad handed his way on stage, Hof, Austin, George and I ALL jockeyed for the best lens position. Doubling back through heavy curtains, I managed to worm my way in front of the guest of honor as he took a seat and greeted his back-up band for the day. I turned away for a ten second shot of a particularly cute camper when Darius turned into that guy on the radio again.

"With a little peace ... and some har-mony..."

Damn, that dude can sing. Three syllables into 'Hold My Hand', I was rendered agog by the soothing gravel of his voice. I'd heard it plenty of times before, most often with a beer in hand and a mullet down the back of my neck. Back in the day, Hootie and the Blowfish were mainstays on the Southeastern college bar circuit. Long before they conquered the world with Cracked Rear View, they charmed the pants off many a sorority chick with their infectious singalongs. I remember seeing them play dives in Raleigh, Greenville and Columbia, not because I was one of their backwards cap wearing fraternity fanboys, but because they were ALWAYS playing somewhere close. That, of course, was twenty years ago. These days, the Blowfish are suckin' seawater, but Rucker's reinvented himself as, of all things, a successful country artist. But none of that mattered to the kids at Victory Junction. They were glad to have a musician in their midst - even if they weren't precisely sure why four TV cameras were hanging on his every utterance. As for me, I wanted to put down my camera, lift up a lighter and sway back and forth, but with a deadline in the distance and sweat dripping down my viewfinder, I feathered the focus and tried to concentrate.

"We'll take the world together..."

After a good thirty second tight shot of Rucker's hands on the guitar neck, I contorted my body and started framing up his audience. A wide shot of the kids, many in costume - a tight shot of child struggling to keep the beat with a maraca someone handed him, a medium shot of Patty and Kyle Petty beaming. I too was beaming a little, congratulating myself for bum-rushing the photo op at the last minute and still ending up at center-square. Hof was there too, crouched down beside me with a face full of eye-cup. Shifting my weight a little , I turned back to Hootie -I mean Darius - and glanced at the reassuringly red RECORD light in the corner of my screen. That's when I noticed something tickling the back of my leg. At first I assumed it was the heavy stage curtain, but after a little mental math, I realized it was my headphones dangling low from the back of the fancycam currently digging a rut in my shoulder. Hmmm, I thought, those should be wrapped around my ears, not my ankles. Somewhere deep inside my skull, rusty synapses began to fire and with a jerk, I zeroed in on the bottom of the one inch screen taking up my view. There, in what should have been a dancing display of green and red light, my audio meter sat shrouded in dark, taunting silence.

"We'll take em by the h-a-a-nd..."

'SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL!' I almost shouted as I began clawing at the side of my camera. I didn't have to look to see what the problem was; earlier I'd reconfigured my microphone inputs to accomodate a couple of talking heads. Forgetting to set them back, I'd hightailed it to my next shoot in sweet ignorant bliss. Only when I found myself inches away from a top selling artist as he gave an impromptu concert for a grateful audience did I notice I WAS RECORDING SILENCE! AAAAAUUUURRRRGGGHHHHH! Backing up a bit, I tilted the axe on my shoulder, flipped open a panel, found the right switch and jammed it home. Suddenly, my audio meter readout began flashing, letting me know that only now had my camera decided to record sound. Sinking deep into my viewfinder, I centered up on Hootie, Darius, whatever and stayed on him as he inspired all who heard with a song you didn't realize you knew so well. As he sang, I prayed nobody took notice of my little spasm, I prayed that Hof's leg were cramping just as badly as mine and most of all I prayed that the guy sitting across from me would please keep singing! Well, he did and by the end of the song, I had enough of it on camera (and microphone) to fuel the epic already forming in my head.

"'Cause I've got a hand for y-o-u..."

In the end, it didn't really matter - but if you've ever gained access to a pivotal moment only to shit the bed when it mattered most, you know the feeling running down my leg as I realized I'd invariably muted Hootie. Later, Hof and I interviewed Darius, who proved to be the same solid cat I remember tearing through old Zeppelin tunes at The Attic all those years ago. Though I didn't mention how close I'd come to requesting an encore earlier, we did chat about what a shame it was that The Attic - a Greenville institution we both thought would live forever - no longer stood. I probably saw him and the Blowfish there a half dozen times and while those sets were always drenched in alcohol, none were as intoxicating as the unplugged performance he delivered to those sick kids and sweaty cameramen earlier.

Once I turned on my microphone, that is.

Derision and the Lens

An otherwise content photog will openly diss the validity of his sticks. He'll question his tripod's very stripes; cursing the three-legged beast for not walking under its own power. Your garden variety shooter won't think twice about casting aspersions on his company-provided ride. He'll point to the peeling logos on the door and the cheeseburger growing under the driver's seat as indisputable proof his news car's a hoopty. That same photojournalist will lament the dents in his light-kit's case. He'll pop the lid, gander at the broken bulbs inside and ask how any self-respecting glass-handler can work with gear used in the production of Birth of a Nation. Yes, though most of us who shoot news for a living do so with other people's property, we're quick to highlight whatever the hell we can find wrong with it. There's only one exception...

We will NOT denigrate the lens.

Why that is I don't rightly know, but I suspect it has something to do with the camera's proximity to our noggins. Walk around with a fancycam covering half your face for very long and you tend not to turn the other cheek. After all, any videocamera that will power up, white balance and record is all a man (or woman) needs to bring back a picture. In theory, at least. Truth is, even if said shot looks likes a dirty fishbowl, we as a breed are reluctant to trash-talk our glass. Panasonic, JVC, a boned-up Sony; no matter the veracity of our glass, we tend to give those magic machines on our shoulders get a pass. Our lenses' abilities are strangely sacrosanct. To call them into question is to ridicule the very eyesight of the person squinting through that logoed tube. It's been that way since minicams the size of Buicks roamed the Earth.

Me - I love my Sony XDCam, from its pockmarked, hollow cheekbones to its to its three batteries a day habit. Will I still feel the same way about my rig when it fits inside my teenage daughter's iPod sleeve? Will it endear the same warm feelings when it more closely resembles my garage door opener? Hard to tell, but I'm pretty sure it will still be easier to use than that unholy live truck they stuck me with. Damn thing smells like a urinal and drives like one too! Why just the other day I was coming off the interstate and almost got the thing on up on two wheels. I'm tellin' ya it's a first class piece of $#!&@*$%!...