TV on the Radio

L-o-n-g before I conned my way into broadcasting, I listened intently to Allan Handelman. Back then he was delightfully subversive; interviewing rock stars, whack-jobs and the kind of interstate drifters that always made for intriguing radio. Many a Sunday evening I'd teased my budding mullet as the strains of Handelman deconstructing some conspiracy or another filled my teenage bedroom. Little did I know back then that one day I'd be one of those weirdos myself, holding forth not alien abduction or weed legalization but something equally squeamish: local TV news. Yup, I tweeted him a while back and pitched a segment on the future of the tube. Apparently desperate for guests, he bit and today after work I sat down for an extended conversation with the voices in my head. The resulting hour of airtime won't bag me a Marconi, but I did manage to keep it relatively snark-free - even if I did use the phrase "dare I say" three times too many. Oh well, there's a reason I stick to the ass-end of the glass. But don't take my word for, listen for yourself. Meanwhile, I'd like to thank Allan for doin' me a solid. Now, about those crop circles...

Calm Before the Swarm

It's the part of the news story viewers never see: that interminable period of time when shooters slump and reporters loiter. Depending on how long it last the downtime can be delicious or deeply unsettling. After all, the show's gonna go on no matter what. Just because your defendant, detective or nearly dead celebrity remains cloistered out of view doesn't mean the director isn't going to punch up your shot at the top of the Six and expect something newsworthy to ensue. Almost always, we field workers make it happen but it doesn't come off without a lot of strife, grumbling and enough gossip to choke a hairdresser. That's not unique to broadcasters, I know - but in what other industry can you swap scuttlebutt one moment and trade elbow blows the next? Outside of pro wrestling and Mary Kay sales, that is...

Moth to a Flame

Compared to Margaret Moth, I am but a chattering coward. Then again, so's most every other human. Unknown to the average news consumer, this CNN camerawoman has long been recognized in international circles as THE person you want behind the lens in a war zone. Quite simply, she's fearless. When bullets filled the air and grown men dive for cover, the mercurial Moth shouldered her own weapon and bravely waded into the fray. Time and time again, the resulting images brought home the horror of combat and oppression, making even the most casual viewer flinch with fear. But her storied career and very life almost ended in 1992, when a Serbian sniper riddled the vehicle she was in with bullets. The ensuing injuries to her face and jaw robbed her of some of her beauty, but none of her grace. She eventually recovered and returned to the global hot spots she thrived on documenting. Now, with their pioneering photog in the final stages of terminal cancer, CNN is paying proper respects with a two part documentary on her incredible life and untamed spirit. Lenslingers the world over would add to their education by viewing this potent film, but they'd do well to dismiss their opinions about what a woman can (and will) do in the face of danger, for Margaret Moth rendered such preconceptions obsolete.

That, and a million indelible images, will be her legacy.

BamBam on the Lam

Lest anyone think I'm the only member of my tribe exiled to a Tar Heel affiliate, there is another! Benjamin Canady, my mother's brother's son punches all the right buttons just down the road from El Ocho, proving that others of my ilk CAN play well with others. How we both came to toil in local television, I'm not really sure - as the most we ever shared as kids was the occasional headlock in Grandmother's yard. However it happened, I'm quite proud of my kinder, gentler cousin - if for no other reason than the fact he goes by the nickname BamBam. Lately however, Barney Rubble's boy has been vanishing before our very eyes, shedding pounds and - gasp! - running. THAT'S where I draw the line. No relative of mine's gonna run unless he's being chased by zombies, revenuers or worst of all, TV consultants. Come to think of it, I'm gonna jump in Unit 4 and head towards Capitol City for a first class intervention. Maybe then he'll stop making me look so bad with his people skills, ninja-like reflexes and sunny disposition!

Probably not, though...

Details to Swallow

If you think hanging out with the PO-leece is a fascinating way to spend the day, you've never tried to pry the particulars from a reticent detective . Actually, the constable in question was nothing but helpful the other day when a couple of competitors and I convened on the scene of fresh misfortune. I'll keep the greasy details to myself; mainly because they were in such short supply that afternoon. No bother. Half the time the key to responding to spot news is merely proving you were there. Sure, we'd all love to see Bigfoot stumble from the thicket and tell us where his weed was, but more times than not you're lucky if an officer wanders over and drops some cop-speak...

"Suspectgainedentyrat1400hoursatwhichtimeresidentsfledonfoot"... Who talks like that?

Lotsa occifers, that's who. Hell, I'm convinced they take a specific course at the Academy focused on draining the color out of the English language. It's understandable, really. There's plenty of talking hair-do's standing by to hype, extrapolate and misconstrue. I think that's why most cops prefer dealing with photogs. We're far less accusatory, often own property in the area and rarely travel with a stack of autographed 8X10 glossies (Well, there was that ONE guy). I know that if I were the bearer of bad news, I'd be more trusting of some rumpled roadie than a licensed spotlight hog. That's not to say all reporters are bad. Some of my best friends are reporters! Besides, what's to tell before the CSI guys arrive? Oh and when I say CSI guys, I'm not talking about those trenchcoated couples cracking wise in primetime; more like some dude in a wrinkled jumpsuit with smudged eyeglasses and a spit cup in his truck...

Now, what DID we chat about there at the lake? Honestly? Leftover meatloaf vs. babyback ribs, the stickiness of your average mast and the strange case of the reporter who photo-blogs her every other outfit. Now THAT'S a talker...

Friday Night Shite

Ahhh, high school football season, that special time of year when TV stations place high-dollar fancycams into the hands of interns, part-timers and that slacker down the hall who thinks he might like to be a PHO-tog. Dashing from game to game in car-jacked news units, they strut and prowl the sidelines of their former youth; zooming in on tight-ends and wide receivers, whipping underage crowds into orgasmic frenzy and gathering whatever leftover glory they can stuff into a rolled-up program. I guess if you're a certain type of sports fan, it's nirvana. Not so for the everyday shooter. Those missing camera batteries, the twisted viewfinder knobs, that delicious smell of cigarette smoke permeating every pore of your mobile office - why it's enough to volunteer for weekend call, just so you can keep your gear from being groped and tickled...

Okay, so I'm venting. But if you've ever checked in on a Monday morning to find your tools of the trade misplaced, manhandled or otherwise maligned, you'd understand. Then again, maybe you wouldn't. Maybe those fleeting seconds of gridiron glory are more than enough to make up for those hard-target searches every seven days. Me, I could do without these weekly games of hide and seek. Then again, I'm not your typical sports fan. Sure, I tune in every Sunday to watch my beloved Panthers lose in glorious high-def, but otherwise young men in tights have never really turned me on. I went to football games in high school, mind you, but more to flirt with girls and swig Everclear than ever pay attention to what was happening on the field. Since then, I've lived a full life without ever developing a regional crush on up and coming athletes, but as the above photo proves, even a bookworm like me shot local gridiron Back In The Day (1990 in my case).

With that in mind, I'll try to be more forgiving when it comes to you weekend warriors. It would be a lot easier though, if you'd treat the equipment less like the padded athlete you so idolize and more like the cheerleaders you never went out with. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run a DNA test on a few floorboard french fries...

Partners on Safari

I know precious little about the horse rescue my buddy Duff McDander covered the other day, but the trek he and his reporter had to make in the process looks all too familiar. It's a facet of news-gathering most couch potatoes never think about. Nor should they have to, I guess. But whenever I watch a story about imperiled animals, unplanned landings or some hiker stepping in something sticky, I can't help but ponder the portage. Maybe that's because I've humped it into the muck more times than I'd like to admit, usually while cursing like the sailor I once was. It was easier in my twenties, when adrenaline, arrogance and acid-washed jeans fueled my fervor for the kind of assignments I now try to dodge at all costs. Does that make me less of a lenslinger? You betcha - but twisting happenstance into headlines is a young man's game and at age 42 I'm damn near antique. Besides, I'm most often alone - a status I've cultivated through brash acts of flatulence. But sometimes, even I yearn for a partner, someone to boost my morale, lift my spirits and carry my sticks.

Duff seems to have had just that and no doubt his back is the better for it. Of course not every reporter will lower themselves to the role of stevedore - some because they're erudite overdressed professionals, others because they're lazy sacks of shit. (You know who you are.) It's a shame, too because there's no better way for a news crew to bond than over a shared hernia. I know some of my most cherished reporter memories are ones involving apoplexy, deprivation and flopsweat. I'll spare you the smelly details; just know that no one rages against the machine like a lacquered correspondent coming apart at the greasy, wrinkled, stinky seams. So the next time you're staring at the flat-screen and some yammering hair-do breaks into programming with breathless details of a fresh Sasquatch cadaver, newly harpooned fugitive or particularly sticky pot-pull, pay close to attention to his or her pits. If all is arid extra dry, chances are said mouthpiece scribbled details in the sanctity of an air-conditioned sat truck while an army of shooters delved deep into the bush. If however they kind of look like they woke up in a nightclub dumpster, give them your attention and dare I say, your respect.

They sure got mine.

Brutes on a Shoot

Camera-Monkey. Tape-Ape. Lens-Simian. We've ALL heard the uncivilized terms reserved for TV news shooters. Now, NBC News hotshot Dwaine Scott has captured an image that forever crystallizes the derision. I don't know whether to congratulate him or file some kind of charges. Either way it's a safe bet this picture will grace the cages of television newsrooms the world over. To make matters worse, Scott tells me he was thinking of a certain blowhard photog when he snapped this shot. I don't know quite how to take that, but as soon as I finish peeling these bananas with my feet, I'm gonna fling some poo at him...

What About Bob?

"You been robbed, Lenslinger! All I heard on the 10-year hurricane anniversary was Bob Buckley, Bob Buckley. The video was the THING!"

I had to chuckle when I received this tweet, for A.) it's from a local newspaper editor who probably watches more TV news than I do and B.) it's spot on. But lest you think I'm feeling sorry for my own beleaguered breed, understand this: It's an accepted part of the gig. As much as we TV news shooters might like a little credit, most viewers rarely care. I'm cool with that; if I yearned for televised attaboys, I'd still be shooting my own stand-ups at the end of the day. I walked away from that a long time ago and not just because I grew tired of changing into a dress shirt by the side of the road. No, I turned photog 'cause it just felt natural. That and nobody was demanding this average white guy keep stepping in front of the lens. Sure I could probably worm my way back on-air but I learned a long time ago that being gestured at in the Wal-Mart parking lot don't feed the bulldog. I'm far more interested in visual storytelling, be it my preferred solo methods or as part of our continuing team smotherage of calamities past.

That's exactly what Buckley and I have been up to this past week, slicing, dicing and spicing up the footage we gathered weeks ago in Hurricane Floyd's decade old wake. Though my eyeballs have bled from the extended edit sessions, I'm reasonably proud of the assembled pixels. For photogs like me, that's enough. See, no TV shooter worth his (or her) first white-balance sticks with this gig for plaudits alone. There's more glory in gutter-repair. So while those still shooters have their photo credits and the news anchors have their promos, we lenslingers generally do it for the love of the game. Why else would we break our collective backs erecting spotlights? Trust me, it ain't the money. It's the access to continuous intrigue. As for Mr. Bob Buckley (seen above flanking Floyd survivor Monika Barkley along with some unknown techie), he's a master of the form with a gift for explaining the esoteric. Hey, who else can work Copernicus into a story about silly string?

No photog I know...

Attempted Sousacide

Never mind those freshly shackled crackheads, a cameraman's gotta keep his one good eye on those pesky marching band members - especially when they're in the throes of spelling something special. Such was the case this past weekend when Ohio State University sousaphone player Frank Cosenza "dotted the i", nearly lopping off the lens of an ESPN fancycam. DOH! Now, to be fair Cosenza told the loitering lenslinger to "Watch Out!" a full second before he brought the horn in question crashing downward. Parts flew, the photog stumbled off and somewhere Kanye West kicked a girl scout in the teeth. All's fair in love and college football, I guess...

Floyd's Lost Flock

It was the boat ride that changed my life. Okay, maybe that's overselling it - but the forty five minutes I spent cruising through a newborn lake ten years ago finally convinced me it was time to start writing. Since then I've scribbled an encyclopedia's worth, but this rather overwrought tale remains one of my favorites. If you've read it before, forgive me. If you haven't, check it out and then watch this newly produced piece that brought the footage and the feelings flooding back.


I gripped my camera and leaned into the wind as the bass boat plowed through the murky water. Beside me a stoic wildlife officer in designer rain gear stared ahead and gripped the wheel, piloting the skiff through a gauntlet of half-submerged telephone poles. The bow of the small boat slapped the filthy water without mercy, and I tried to fall in sync with its rhythm. I pulled the rain-cover tight around my station’s camera, and squinted from the spray. In every direction ugly brown water swirled and fermented, courtesy of Hurricane Floyd.

Cradling my camera in my lap, I recorded a few low angles as we skimmed along, before pointing the lens at the craft’s third passenger, a stooped little man in ball cap and soaked overalls. He didn’t return my camera’s gaze; instead he stared into the distance and continued the silence he’d embraced since we left dry land thirty minutes earlier. I zoomed in on the old man’s weathered face, the shiny water strobing behind him. His eyes were dry, but they conveyed a quiet sadness I’d see a lot of over the coming days. He pulled a tattered rag from a pocket and dabbed his face, perhaps trying to wipe away the vision of the unnatural lake that eclipsed everything around us. The image in the viewfinder muttered something, but the roar of the boat’s engine drowned out the old farmer’s words.

After what seemed like forever, our square-jawed captain made a sharp starboard turn, and we rounded a stand of battered pine trees. As he eased up on the throttle, the high pitch of the outboard engine subsided to a low throaty rumble. I took the opportunity to dab water drops off my lens as the old man across from me uttered his first words of the trip.

“’Bout a half mile more, just past ’em trees,” he twanged. “There’s two hun-erd head if there’s a one of ‘em”

I thought about what he said as the Wildlife Officer goosed the accelerator and the small boat chortled forward. Up ahead, a box-like structure stood guard in the middle of the watery expanse. As we got closer, I saw it was a single-wide trailer, the water-line just below its curtain-less windows. Large, indistinct shapes bobbed all around the pathetic building. I shouldered my beta cam and pushed in with my lens to get a better look, but the pitching deck offered little purchase. Instead, I followed a glint of sunlight as it danced along the metal edges of a nearby road sign - the marker barely poking above the roiling water.

‘River Road’ it proclaimed. Without a thought I steadied up and rolled tape. I was still congratulating myself on bagging my first important image of the day when I heard the old man’s voice break…

“Sweet Jesus…”

The smell hit me before my eyes landed on the target. Just a few feet off the starboard bow, the bloated carcass of a full-grown steer stared back at us. The pungent odor of the rotting beast raced through my sinuses and I hid my face behind the viewfinder. Through it, I watched a delirious green fly pull a piece of flesh from the waterlogged animal’s swollen tongue. I looked away quickly, only to catch sight of another bovine corpse bobbing alongside, followed by another, and another. The Wildlife Officer pulled a state-issued bandanna over his emotionless face and piloted the craft through the swirling brown sea of long-dead cattle.

“Never had a chance”, the old farmer said. The worn creases around his eyes squeezed even tighter and he stared off into oblivion, addressing no one in particular. He seemed unaffected by the stench, his weather-beaten nostrils long since given up on unpleasant odors.

“People’s got boats, a damn head a cattle ain’t got a chance in hell --”. At that, the old man’s voice cracked and he turned even further away, taking in his loss and nursing his pride. I watched the short speech through the artificial blue haze of my viewfinder, punctuated by the steady red glow of the ‘RECORD’ light.

The twin-engine pushed the boat forward and the old mobile home came into sharper focus. As we closed in on the only man-made structure in sight, the number of dead cattle increased. In a desperate lunge for higher ground, the panicking herd had converged on this abandoned trailer, as the slowly passing storm had dumped more water on this old pasture than man, or cow, could have imagined. Many of the doomed beasts choked on their own tongues as dirty water filled their lungs. Others had been gored and stomped in the closing minutes of the frantic stampede, their rubbery entrails now exposed to the midday sun. A dozen more carcasses floated in the toxic sludge surrounding the trailer, their lifeless forms rubbing against the metal walls and making a scrubbing, haunting sound.

Our stoic pilot pushed in within feet of the mobile home and turned to circle it. At the far end of the front side, the trailer’s thin walls lay splayed open, itself a victim of the storm and ensuing onslaught of frightened cattle. One cow in particular, seemed to have perished during the fight to get inside, his whole left flank ripped open by the sharpened tin. Holding my breath, I rolled tape and tried to picture what it must have been like during those last few horrible moments. The great lumbering beasts thrashing and kicking at each other, fighting to the death in a frenzy of adrenaline and instinct, as the water rose and rose and rose.

“Well, I’ll be damned…” The farmer’s voice snapped me back to reality as the boat rounded the far side of the trailer and we came face to face with the lone survivor of the watery death march. Solid brown with a touch of tan on his muzzle, the cow snorted as he blinked at us through the empty window frame.


The look in his dark eyes was wild and knowing, unlike the look of bored vacancy usually found in the breed. As our boat made a slow arc around him, he stepped in accordance - tracking our every move. Around him, two more swollen carcasses bumped against his hind legs. I pulled out to a wide shot and wondered if this simple beast understood his perilous state. He had, after all, watched his companions died a horrible death all around him. Bracing myself against the low bulkhead, I zoomed in on his dilated pupils, catching for a second the real (or imagined) guttural pleading within.

On board, the old farmer took off his dirty ball cap and ran his leathery fingers through a shock of graying hair. “The good Lord may know what’s best, but I’ll be damned if I can figger it out.”

With that, the man seemed satisfied with the visit and he asked the silent Wildlife Officer to take him back to the command center. As we made our way back through the maze of drowned cattle, the old farmer slumped in a corner of the craft and pulled a plug of tobacco from a pouch hidden in his drenched overalls. No one spoke a word the whole way back, and as the motor droned on behind me, I realized I had a new answer the next time someone asked me what was the weirdest thing I ever saw with a camera on my shoulder.

In Scruff We Trust(ed)

"Its funny how cameramen are such a scruffy set. They spend all their time at the biggest functions in the world, yet they manage to look like tramps. ... Its no use use wearing good clothes anyway – they don’t last five minutes. You clean your lenses with your tie, and lie down on the ground to take an angle shot; you tear your trousers as you climb through a fence. No, a cameraman is better off scruffy."

And so it was written in 1947, laying down a legacy of leisure-wear modeled by sloppy photogs the world over. That's right, cabana fans, we're here to talk about what you're wearing. Me, I got no problem with it. Then again, I got more Hawaiian shirts and cargo shirts hanging in my closet than every other Dad in the cul-de-sac combined. They more than make up for it with their fancy cars and holidays off, but do they know the rush of waltzing into a stuffy Republican fundraiser dressed like they're fresh off a fly-fishing trip? Have they ever rolled up on a train-wreck wearing actual hobo-clothes? Can they fathom what it's like to ask a world leader a question while rockin' darkened armpit circles and hiking boots? Highly. Unlikely.

If they did, they'd stop giving us photogs the stink-eye, for then they'd realize half the fun of being an assignment roadie is dressing like one. Until then, count on the gentler set to continue judging you at a dozen paces. Sure, they'll stop to kiss your glass when it's to their advantage but otherwise that rather gamey concert T will only ruffle their designer feathers. I ain't sayin' that it's right; only that it IS. Ever since the first horn-rimmed engineers erected the first empty tube, those of us tasked with filling it with pictures have focused far more on what we see than how we look. Our on-air cohorts know it's true. More than one reporter has raised a sculpted eyebrow over how their shooter chose to cover himself that day. We as a breed tend to shrug it off, but now a new animal is threatening to unravel our sartorial gnarl...

Vee-Jays. Multi-mediums. Ratpack Journalists. Whatever you call them, these crews of one are popping up everywhere and it's a safe bet they look better than you. Hell, I know one statuesque 'slinger who could find steady work modeling for one of those aircraft nose art calendars. Technically, that's a sexist statement - but what did you expect from a guy sporting a Cannonball Run press-on decal where most folk park a polo player...decorum? Perhaps, but I for one can't help but notice how the new breed of newsgatherer eschews the look of old and aims for something a bit more respectable. Chalk it up to those tiny cameras they sport - or the fact that so many of them double as their own on-camera talent. That's a tough gig and if you can pull it off in something other than lumberjack clothes, well - my non-ironic trucker hat's off to ya. Now if you don't mind I gotta gubernatorial debate to attend....

Anybody seen my serial killer pants?

Shakes on a Plane

Whereas I spent the day locked in a box watching stagnant water, The Mighty Weave took to the heavens. That bastard. Actually, I can't blame the guy. He was nothing but hunched over his newsroom computer the other day when The Assignment Guy laid the high-flying gig at his feet. I know; I watched the whole transaction from a cubicle away, barely suppressing the urge to scale the partition and the both of them with my Leatherman. I would have done it too, but my Leatherman was in the car and at the time I was writing under deadline. Besides, Weaver's probably the better choice join professional news lady Cindy farmer as she did loop-the-loops over Winston-Salem.

See, dude's a bit of an astronaut. We both came of age outside the same Air Force town, but I was never able to recite the specs of every swooping war-bird quite the way Chris did. When the two of us (separately) took up the lens years later, we worked our respective fancycams for entree into many a cockpit. Me, I favored hot air balloons, homegrown helicopters and a near hallucinogenic ride aboard the Goodyear Blimp. Weaver liked to go fast, strapped in, upside down if you let him. I suspect he's hoping he'll get to take over the controls himself one day - but only if he could figure out a way to capture the whole death-defying ordeal from every possible camera angle. He is a photog, after all.

But there's another reason Weaver's got the upper hand, one I don't broach easily. Flying - height in general, really - scares the shit out of me. What can I say, I got a fertile imagination and a vocabulary to match it. I've never let my mild phobia stop me from crawling aboard whatever aircraft that would take me. I've even jumped out of a semi-perfectly good plane, parachuting to the Earth while sporting a mullet straight out of 'Roadhouse'. If that doesn't take grapes, I don't know what does - even if I did freeze up a dozen years later after stumbling out of a Las Vegas elevator and onto the top floor of the Stratosphere. I still say that had more to do with blood alcohol content and sleep deprivation, but I understand if the likes of Portier weigh in to differ.

It's inconvenient, really. People - pilots included - assume the cameraman who shows up for the airplane ride to be pretty stoic. Usually I pull it off, though there have been a handful of times where I made deals with any deity listening while scrunched down in the co-pilot's seat: Get me down and I won't get back up. But I tell you is this: Despite a lifelong dread of falling to my death and a plate full of unedited Floyd retrospectives, I would have jumped at the chance to take Weaver's spot on that chase plane - if only to scratch another sphincter notch on my Sony. Still, the News Gods made the right choice, for if - God forbid - something were to go happen to the pilot in mid-flight Weaver would push the guy aside and request a vector, Victor. Me - I'd simultaneously soil myself while swearing in seven syllable soliloquies.

It's the only way to fly.

Breaching the Fiefdom

Like a weathered but still proud gargoyle hunched above the Fourth Estate, the broadcasting vet can't help but wonder what's crumbling underneath. Okay it's not that Gothic, but the rate of decay is all the talk in the TV News kingdom, from the Earls of Anchordom to the serfs with tripods in their oxcarts. From my particular perch, I see nothing but upheaval on the horizon, a relentless schism that will leave the media landscape unrecognizable to all but who enter it anew. Then again, I'm not the only stone monkey dragon thingie peering into the distance. Many a village elder and more than a few damsels in tight dresses have clamored for a better view. What they've spotted has caused many of them to breach the fiefdom, to run screaming for higher ground, wherever their checkbooks or cheekbones would take them. Me, I'm part of the architecture - but even a sculpted dolt like me has to ask himself...

"Why am I still hanging around?"

That query is answered of course every time I pull into Castle Pittman. Let's face it: no one's going to pay me to sit around and pen venomous epistles for the internet. Not yet anyway. There's plenty of TV in my future and not just the 42 inch Sony I sit with my back to most every night. No, I make my living off the evening news and while it ain't the deep kick it was back in '91, I still dig it more days than not. Truthfully, it's all I know. Running around mass communicatin' is something I've done for most of my adult life. Thus, I see the world through a prism of lenses, one eye buried in the 'finder while the other scans the room for the very next view. It ain't a habit that lines your pockets with silver. Dead 9-volts, maybe, but not silver. That kind of currency's reserved for folks with far duller gigs that mine. I get paid in access, perspective and two week increments. It'll never land me a shopping spree in Belize but I knew that the moment I first dedicated myself to the pursuit of news. I just never realized how quickly the world would change.

But it has.

Audience, technology, resources and rewards are at levels unthinkable just a few years back. Even us squatting quadrupeds have had to sit up and take notice - a tough enough nut when you're forever burdened with deadlines and live shots. From here, it's easy to bury your head in the morass of the next newscast, provided those newscasts keep on coming. I'm not so convinced they will, which is a helluva thing to mutter out loud, for when I first hoisted a fancycam it was generally agreed the evening news would last forever. Well, score one for the odd oracle out there who predicted a renaissance. Most of us weren't listening, cleaving instead to our individual disciplines as the calendar pages fanned before us. Me, I got lost in the pixels and fell in love with a form of communication that never had much respect for itself. That's cool; I didn't have much else planned anyway. But as the rub of unending updates has worn away my reserves and I find myself wondering if I should have a crack at my shackles and at least attempt to fly away. Sure beats choking on the coming rubble...

Now help me up, would ya? My haunches are killing me.

"All the Best"

According to a strict set of bylaws I just made up, I'm unable to classify this on-camera confrontation as a Schmuck Alert - since no cameras were accosted. But one gets the feeling New Zealand reporter Matt Chisholm would have preferred a Kiwi beatdown over the reaction he got from a strangely - ahem - affection meat-cutter. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It all started when TVNZ's Close Up began investigating claims of horse meat being sold for human consumption. EWWWWW!

Anyway, Chisholm and his lenser do their due diligence - collecting evidence and recording incriminating video before they corner the beefiest of butchers. The ensuing encounter begins typically enough, with Slaughterhouse Clive denying any knowledge of said horseplay. But then, just before the two minute mark, things. get. weird. I'll let your imagination do the rest, but just know Sam the Butcher's urge to cuddle wasn't just unexpected, it was positively genius - as it nearly unraveled our inquisitve friend (who was doing so well until then!). Will this kind of press reception catch on? Hard to tell, but a nation of news crews are already testing that theory by trying to catch rising ingenue Megan Fox in anything unlawful - in hopes her response will be equally amorous. Good luck with that fellas...

(Much love to Stephen CameraGod Press for the heads-up...)

Station to Station

If unpacking gadgets in the shadow of catastrophe is your idea of a fun afternoon, have I got a gig for you. So too does Sean Browning - one of man L.A. based lenslingers caught stalking the plume of the Station Fire. Now I've never covered an inferno of those dimensions, but I have made plenty of Tee-Vee on the side of the road and I can tell you it's not without its potholes. Knuckle-scraping cable spools, passing traffic, a Greek chorus of wisecracking firefighters ... throw in a couple of troublesome Double-AA's and you understand why I've been spotted spinning like the Tasmanian Devil around any number of these modern day chuckwagons. But enough about me - check out the gear! I've staged whole telethons with less equipment! Ya know, it's enough to make this East Coast schlub wanna wing it to Hollywood and get my very own logo'd stagecoach. Hell, I could stand chasing wildfires and mudslides, freeway chases and dead celeb--

On second thought, I'll stick with Hurricanes and Swine Flu...

Unnecesarry Bluffness

See, here's the thing: YOU KNOW Chris Rock ain't in town just as well as I KNOW Chris Rock ain't in town. But when your company issues a 'Press Release' stating (and I quote) "Chris Rock will be in High Point previewing his new movie..." well, you set more than a few news wheels in motion. It starts in the newsroom, where someone whose job it is to decipher incoming faxes suddenly begins speaking in tongues known only to Pentecostal grifters. Now, before I can even duck under my desk, said sinner locks eyes on me and the loopy arm movements and broken syllables increase tenfold. At this point, all logic is suspended - for while everyone in the newsroom realizes the chances of Rock being on this side of the state line are damn near nil, we're obligated to assume it's true, lest we blow it off only to see the popular comedian yukking it up at six on another station.

From here on out, the adventure's mine. Sure, someone from the Art department begins scouring celebrity websites for a suitable image and a few producers debate what movies they should include in the filmography that will follow our sure-to-be exclusive interview - but I'M THE GUY hurtling down the interstate, triangulating surface street stoplights while digging fresh batteries out of the glove box for my digital camera. By the way, you ever run a Cadillac full of elderly furniture shoppers off the road 'cause you were dickering with a memory card when you should have had your mind on the merge? It's a lousy feeling - especially when you finally arrive at prescribed destination only to find the only Chris Rock on the premises is the cardboard cut-out you're not allowed to shoot.

Now don't get me wrong: I like you guys! Your company makes an interesting product and we've done good work together in the past. I'm equally stoked that a big name like Chris Rock made note of your firm in his new film. In fact, I'm happy to do a story on it, but this kind of subterfuge wastes my time and makes us both look silly. It's akin to me calling you up and saying, "Hey, Katie Couric is in town and she wants to tour your plant! Quick, clean up - she's on her way over RIGHT NOW!". Now, I would never do that - and not just because I have absolutely no affiliation with the leggy CBS anchor. Speaking of leggy, that PR lady you sent to intercept me at the movie theater was gorgeous! She could have been a toothpaste model, which would be damn handy since it kinda feels like you guys took a dump in my mouth. Un-Cool. You know, were I a more industrious sort (and not some TV news geek with questionable driving habits), I'd take your little press release around the country as a sterling example of how companies can screw themselves out a well-deserved press opportunity. You know for that kind of presentation, I'd need someone to front it, someone funny, famous and full of street cred...

Someone like, Chris Rock... I hear he's in town.