The Rhythm Within(?)

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I was on the outskirts of boredom when the drums kicked in. Until then, I'd been sleepwalking through my week: chasing invisible beaver, corralling camels in small darkened rooms, even profiling weirdos at a local costume shop. None of it thrilled me. Sure, it could all pass for party fodder - but technical snafus, well-meaning newcomers and a rash of predictability had placed me squarely in a ten day coma. I get that way sometimes; so wrapped up in my own cranium that I become impervious to verve. That's where I found myself Friday as I stumbled out of a convocation I'd crashed at Winston-Salem State University. Inside some educated folk were preening in cap and gown. Outside, a clutch of scruffy drummers were standing in a loose circle, fondling their tom-toms. No sooner had I noted their position when they noticed me and my glassy-eyed friend. With a bleary precision they began hitting their skins, and I had no choice but to fall in behind them.

From there things get a little blurry. I remember the fancycam floating free, it's heft turning buoyant as it lifted me off my feet, dragging me to the source of all that rhythm. Suddenly I was surrounded as street performer and professor alike gave into the primal vibe. Moms, Dads and brand new Grads poured from the auditorium doors and the campus of WSSU took on the atmosphere of a New Orleans garden party. With a red light glowing in the corner of my tiny screen, I forgot all about shot selection. Instead I followed my instincts around the edges of the drummer's scrum before breaking off to catch a few faces. To a person they all exuded a certain groove and even this rhythm-less Father of two eventually fell into place, as for the first time in weeks I found myself shooting free, loose and unencumbered.

I just wish I hadn't tried to do 'The Robot'. Who knew they'd walk me off campus like that?

Oblivion or Bust

Hey I'm no Willie the Wimp, but when I pass, you can bury me behind the wheel. Why not? I've spent most of my adult life entombed in a procession of Fords: a pre-OJ White Bronco, skeevish EconoVans, all sorts of Escorts, one two-door Explorer and the esoteric little number I drive today. Couldn't tell you every make and model; but I bet I've fled, bled, and even played dead in more near-new hoopties than a parade of repo-men. It's not how I envisioned spending my very adult weekdays, but neither did I see all that lower back pain coming. Perhaps I was distracted by all the gas I passed. Or maybe I was taken with all those logos on the doors. Empty promises and day-glo striping can hypnotize any pilot, ya know - from that fresh faced traveler with dreams of prizes on the horizon to that craggy has-been who now lives in my rear-view mirror. Was that mental breakdown closer than it appeared? Or am I just a little highway-shy after flogging oh so many miles?

Ya got me. All I know is a thirty minute commute each way and a never ending list of stilted missions have left me a lot less fond of the cockpit than back when I first stowed away in a rusting production truck. Back then I'd let the older guys strap me to the hood if they'd let me hold their fancycam. It never occurred to me I'd have that pleasure for years and years, but now that that the groove in my shoulder matches the one in Unit Four's driver's seat, I can't help but glance at the places I've been. Clogged interstates and empty back-roads. Fog-choked mountain passes and trinket shop parking lots flooded by twisters with nicknames. Ritzy neighborhoods I could never afford and squalid housing projects where all eyes were on the cracker behind the wheel. I rolled low and slow through trailer parks where I wasn't wanted and emptied whole gas stations just by pulling up to the pumps with an unleaded icon on board. Mostly though I've leaned forward as the engine roared, wondering what normal folk feel when they grip the wheel and squint into the distance.

I may never know, for proper reflection would require me to slow down a bit - and as long as there's a cell phone diggin' into my side I simply cannot afford to coast. If I did, the good citizens of central N.C. might miss out on the latest in ribbon cutting intrigue. Whole imbroglios would go unnoticed if I get stuck in traffic.Viewers may even be forced to shut off their tranquilizing tubes and look outside should they really wanna be a Weather Spotter. No, I'm not crisscrossing the same eight counties day after day for nuthin! I'm on an expedition of utmost import: a timeless journey of stale drive-thru items and fine-divining u-turns. Yes, there's no mistaking I lead a purpose-driven life; I just wish it ran through Easy Street. Still, I saddle up most every morning fresh but never rested- knowing that no matter where I may end up, I'll have forgotten how to get there the next time I try to find it in a hurry.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to ask some stuttering drifter how to get to the Pop Tart Emporium.

I, Disciple

Much love to Amanda Emily for her donation of a hefty tome to the Lenslinger Library. Actually, I was on something of a reading sabbatical; having devoted my scant downtime to the far less enjoyable task of assembling a book proposal. Still, when the tattered but loved copy of Alley's 1941 autobiography appeared in my mailbox, I knew I could safely file this hardcover under 'Research'. After all, the man known as "Mr. Newsreel" accomplished my goal 26 years before I was even born: he turned his time under glass into a crisp narrative people clamored to acquire. Then again, Norman William Alley was no mild mannered mid market master-hack. He was THE pioneering lenslinger whose early newsreel work helped shape the very globe it covered. The man rode with Pancho Villa, shot vital footage of the U.S. gunboat Panay as it sank beneath him, recorded the German invasion of Poland and covered every earthbound skirmish from the Spanish Civil War to the protracted one in Vietnam. Not bad for a high school dropout. His mid-career memoir, I Witness, was a best seller of its day and while I'd read about it before, I never expected to be holding such a delightfully dog-eared First Edition of this sacred text. Thanks, Amanda. Know that it will soon join other seminal works on my shelf of mentors' memoirs - just as soon as I finish parsing every word...

Then, I'll post a review.

"You Cannot Out-Light God."

Run my mouth as I do, there isn't much I can add to this spectacular photo. Which is a good thing, since I know precious little about it - other than friend of the blog Sean Browning took it of reporter Jennifer Bjorklund nearly five years ago in San Antonio Heights, California. Sooooo, say it with me... "D-u-u-d-e." There. Don't we all feel better? Oh - and the title of tonight's entry? It's a maxim every good TV News photog lives by - whether they credit a supreme being or simple celestial alignment for The Golden Hour. Me, I blame the ancient Egyptians. Everybody knows those cats sported totally tricked-out light kits.

Barbarians at the Tape

One might think my slice of Carolina would be a pretty quiet news market. One would be wrong. With three TV stations and a 24 hour cable outfit, you can't swing a dead press release without hitting at least a few camera crews. Throw in something as dire as an apartment fire and a battered fleet of TV vans will materialize, their logo'd poles thrusting above the tanker trucks. Inside those vans, reluctant jackals gather their gear before high-stepping over hoses. They are The Photogs: a loose cabal of Ordinary Joe's who convene at the strangest places. Fewer humans make me feel so at home...

Not that it's a love-fest. Sure, the level of cooperation among competing news crews is higher than any of us will ever admit. But those of us who found ourselves pacing around the Holliday Apartments parking lot didn't cut short our morning mirror time just to bump knuckles. We came to wage television. That means more than picking a perch. Yeah, the attached snapshots may show stolid technician types hunched over their tools, but the actual players are rarely so static. No, we're immersed in a quiet game of oneupmanship. Call it Parking Lot Chess, The Awkward Waltz, Four News Crews Battling for A Limited Number of Soundbites. Whatever, just stay out of my shot!

Okay, so we're not that rude. You can't be when you know you'll face off with the same fellas at the next head-on collision, city council debacle or dog in a hole story. So you go easy, take only video, leave only generator fumes. That doesn't mean you twiddle your thumbs while the victims evaporate. Rather, you profile the crowd for the ousted, the stricken, the chatty. If that sounds crass, well, you have no business gathering news. If you did, you'd know that - for better or worse, people WANT to talk. Not everyone, certainly, but I can't think of many news scenes where someone didn't willingly step before the lens and dispense with the details. Haven't had to pay anyone yet. So watch how you judge those overly-logo'd jackals.

Some of my best friends are overly logo'd jackals.

Pondered While I Wandered...

Many quandaries crossed my mind as I schlepped around the North Carolina State Fair on Wednesday. None had easy answers...

10.) Who deep fries a golden sponge cake, anyway?

9.) Did I just traipse through WRAL's noon live shot?

8.) Are those Goth Kids still following me?

7.) Is basic dental care that hard to come by in 2009?

6.) Was that Criss Angel holding a giant Sponge Bob Doll? Or the other way around?

5.) Seriously. How much could a golf cart cost?

4.) Would the Missus still let me hang one of those Lynyrd Skynyrd mirrors in the playroom?

3.) Am I supposed to feel my spleen?

2.) Did I really just get heckled by a middle aged gypsy in skinny jeans?

1.) Could it have been SO HARD to pay attention in high school?

The Glamorous Life

"Dude, you have the most interesting job!" It's a phrase I've heard a lot over the years and it's certainly true - especially if by interesting you mean 'vexing', 'exhaustive' and 'thankless'. It's all that and more. Just don't call it 'glamorous'. It ain't...

Case in point: the pre-show phone call. Whether you're tuning in a live shot or just trying to figure out why tendrils of smoke are rising from your fancycam, you'll probably be forced to call back to the station for some 'technical support'. While it's not exactly like dialing Calcutta, it's not without its language barriers - especially when the engineer on the other line starts in with the dreaded tech talk. Look I'm a photog - not an astronaut! I don't sketch circuit boards for fun and I ain't big on manuals! There's a room full of people down the hall from you who are counting on a dog in a funny hat story in exactly 22 minutes and if they don't get it we're gonna have more problems than your broken flux capacitator! AAAAAUUUGGGGHHHHH! ... Hello

A-hem. Where was I? Oh yeah, half asleep on my feet while the mayor yammers on about his new plan to paint the underside of all city-owned manhole covers in time for the sesquicentennial. Take Me Lord. Ya know, in the movies all press conferences end in some kind of bombshell announcement, usually followed by a car chase or some kind of montage. In real life, they drone on for far too long - first they they spend twenty minutes recognizing everyone in the room, then they mention a half dozen folk who couldn't make it but send their regrets, then they rush through the prepared statement someone who makes triple my pay wrote for them. By the time they get to the question and answer period, I'm so brain-dead I can barely recite my station's call letters, let alone form cogent inquiry.

They say getting there is half the battle. They're wrong. It's easily two-thirds. Don't follow? You've obviously never received this urgent phone call: "Stew! Spot News! A transfer truck hauling medical supplies just jack-knifed along that dead stretch of I-40 in Cornole County! There's colostomy bags splayed for a hundred yards and traffic's backed up FOR MILES! We need you to roll! And don't foget to wear your safety vest. Sherrif says he'll lock up any nimrod who shows up without one!" That's about the time I regret daydreaming in school all those many years, then I dig some old school Metallica out of the glove box and get in the zone. You'd be surprised how far you can drive in the breakdown lane if you just act like you you're desperately needed on scene. Logos help, too.

"It's not the live shot. It's the breakdown." I cannot tell you how many times I've told that to a young reporter as I took their cellphone and handed them a gadget to pack. See, when you've spent the last ninety minutes of your day going live(!) by the bake sale/train wreck/drive by, there's nothing you want more than to flee the scene of the crime. But like the toddler who's been playing Caped Crusader all day, you can't have snacktime until you put all your bat-toys up. This can be done a couple of ways: like a junkie trying to hide his stash before the cops bust in, or like a forgetful fisherman fondling his favorite lures. I try to aim for somewhere in between, but I'm good with either approach, as long as everything's packed up and ready to go by the time the mast collapses.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go scrub the glamour from my fingernails...

Dad Gone Mad

Richard Heene: Fringe Scientist, Bad Dad, Media Mogul? Yeah, I know; dude's in the running for Tool of the Year - but hear me out: In his quest for fame, this Colorado crackpot hijacked the 24/7 news cycle like we've never seen before. By convincing his brood that salvation would arrive via cable TV fame, Heene concocted a plan so brash, so ingenious, so colossally stupid that he got what he exactly wanted and absolutely nothing to show for it. This guy should be a network executive - or a community organizer - or that weirdo on the corner who waves at traffic all day! I can't decide which...

One thing I do know: Heene (rhymes with weenie) is a few grade schoolers shy of a payload. Who else would entrust their quest for global recognition to a six year old? Who else would invite the cable news jackals to examine his integrity, knowing he'd hammed it up badly on not one, but two episodes of Wife Swap? Who else would sit by idly talking live(!) via satellite to the likes of Meredith Viera while his youngest son hurled into a cup? Hey, John Gosselin's got more class that THAT! But sextuplet abandonment aside, the henpecked half of John and Kate ain't got nothin' on our floppy banged man of the hour. For while he pretty much proved himself unfit to raise gerbils, let alone three young sons, admit it: dude grabbed the attention of a planet!

Mere moments after Heene phones the media first and the Po-leece second, the world took note. Cable news anchors rushed to their sets, deejays lunged for the microphones and newspaper folk kicked themselves for not having better traveled websites. But that didn't stop the unwashed masses. They took to their Twitters, touched up their Facebooks. Suddenly humdrum status updates featuring sandwich choices bristed with dispatches about Balloon Boy. Balloon Boy: authorities hadn't even spotted the Mylar abomination in the sky before a global catch-phrase was set aloft. It would be ours before late night talk show hosts could sink their teeth into the term, but the snark was already racing across the fruited plain. So too were news crews, desperate to join the chase, giddy that such a sensation had swept through their Thursday afternoon. WHAT was Heene thinking?

Hard to know. By all accounts, the man is a moron. He created the perfect shitstorm and all too soon it came raining down upon him and his family. Whole theses can and will be written about what and how he did it, but I'm more taken with why. Dude wanted fame. He got infamy. He yearned for riches. He's getting ridicule instead. Heene deserves every bit of it and while he may end up being a mere footnote to the fall of '09, he represents a new breed of interloper. Never before has it been so easy to manipulate the mind of Mother Earth. Not with overly-social websites, a rabid press and every other taxpayer sporting a telephone that can jack into and ratchet up the mindless media maelstrom...

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta work on my robot girl. Wait 'til the world gets a load of her...

Satisfaction Doubtful

WANTED: Young nomad to electrify. Must possess firm grip, sniper's eye and a knack for gadgets. Endless missions await. Will supply with aging weaponry, middling assistance and new demands daily. Shoulders eroded. Elbow grease siphoned. Spines misaligned. Empty stares lengthened. Must like ugly weather and attractive gasbags. Motoring skills mandatory. Penchants for pockets a plus. Will train but never coddle. Moderate pay tolerable. Bad attitudes validated. Abuse a certainty. Respect sporadic. Other rewards less tangible: Worldview widened. Anecdotes amassed. Swagger magnified. (House Cats Need Not Apply.)

Schmuck Alert: Who's the Loser Now?

No one likes shooting weather video. It's rather boring, often intemperate and always inconvenient. But rarely do you have to worry about jackholes crawling out of the woodwork. Until now. KATU photographer Bob Bullock appeared to be minding his own business while his camera rolled on a rainy day outside Laurelhurst School in Southeast Portland, when a man approached him and came undone. First, Peter Fournier pressed his back against Bullock's camera, blocking its view. Then he accelerated his ire: cursing the hapless photog, calling him a "loser reporter" and finally, taking a few swipes. Video aired by KATU shows the ensuing struggle, including footage of Fournier manhandling the camera as well as some unfortunate off-screen 'sounds of distress'.

Reportedly, Peter Fournier was upset that Bullock was shooting video of children. It's unclear if he was, though the KATU photog was within his legal right to do so from his public property perch. Harrassing kids seems to a special concern of Fournier, as he's previously been excluded from Laurelhurst Park for using a stun gun on a minor. For his latest vigilante efforts, Fournier was arrested for assault, malicious mischief and impersonating an officer (having waved a badge, assumedly coated in cereal dust, at the KATU photog.) As for Bullock, he suffered cuts and bruises in the melee but now has a great cocktail party story to tell about the day 'that whackjob accosted him in the park'. The lesson here kids? Always Be Rollin'. You never when some delusional superhero is gonna pop out of the bushes and declare war on your lens...

Schmuck!

Beautiful Disaster

Wet pavement, engines' roar, a swath of red and blue ... sling a lens and you'll stumble upon it: a view of the overnight crew. Okay so there's nothing poetic about a midnight collision, but the aftermath does have a lyrical quality all it's own, especially when you approach it with sleep in your eyes. That's how I roll (up): station cap jammed over bedhead, run-bag hanging low, echoes of an unexpected phone call still ringing in my ears. If you've ever scored as backstage pass to a light show such as this , you know how tragic the palette can be. Cory Welch obviously does. Recently, the young Rhode Island freelancer paused to reflect on a beautiful disaster and walked away with an image I'd hang in my upper lair - if only the wife would let me. Where does she think I go when the bedside phone explodes?

Ship to be Square

I may have momentarily lost my focus, but Amanda Emily never has. The displaced media genius and archivist extraordinaire continues to post vintage lens pictures faster than your above average shooter can riff on them. Still, I'm especially taken with this particular shot, a 1920's frame of someone named Hislop. That jaunty brim, the tucked-in tie, that camera that looks like it was fished from the wreck of the Titanic. I don't know when exactly the broadcast photographer went from overdressed optimist to scruffy news bum, but it couldn't have been a pretty transition. Not that the journey is complete. What with lenses diminishing and photogs disappearing by the dozen, the current image of a downtrodden journeyman with a full-sized fancycam on his shoulder will soon seem as outdated as the look of self-satisfaction ole Hislop is rockin'. I just hope I'm still around when it does. Otherwise, who will be able to explain this?

The Covington Update

Say what you will about Bucky Covington; he sure makes the country girls scream. Recently the former American Idol finalist blew through his hometown of Rockingham, N.C. for a victory lap, some homemade cookin' and a free concert. When I caught up with him he was fending off a group of women at a charity event. It was no less than a hundred degrees inside that warehouse, the masses were in full-on cackle and Bucky made them all feel good about being so excited. Sure, it didn't hurt that a video crew from GAC was documenting his every move - but that's just me being cynical. In fact, I probably risk a little crusty credibility every time I gush over this gangly good ole boy, but what can I tell ya? He impressed the hell out of Shannon Smith and me the moment we met him on a Hollywood rooftop some three years ago. While other Idol contestants were working on their scowls and falsettos, this former body shop worker was happily stunning the West Coast staff with his genu-wine Southern drawl, turning a simple showbiz junket into an anthropology exhibit.

Since then, Covington's excelled where many Idol winners have failed, releasing an album that debuted at number 1 on the country charts and spawned three hit singles. Heck, I even listened to it once! But Bucky doesn't need a lenslinging schlub like me hanging on his every warble. He's got a legion of female fans clamoring for his sophomore CD, a reportedly potent disc that even boasts a cover of a (GULP!) Nickelback tune. That aside, it should sell very well, for Bucky's done his due diligence, crisscrossing the country, performing with industry giants, even going on tee-vee to prove he was 'Smarter than a Fifth Grader'. Dude's come a l-o-n-g way from bangin' out dents in Richmond County. When we chatted on the day of his return we picked up on a conversation we'd last had in a Nashville recording studio. He remains the same giggly hillbilly and for that fact alone I consider myself a fan. Those outside country music may not get his appeal, but it hardly matters. Bucky Covington will still be wowing crowds with the music he loves long after the likes of Simon Cowell have choked themselves on too tight t-shirts and trendy bitterness.

And many thanks to Jimmy McDonald for use of his photo. Check out his other stuff!

Grifter's Epiphany

"People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be." — Abraham Lincoln

Don't know if you've noticed, but I've been awfully constipated as of late. Not the type that Pepto-Bismol helps, but more of the Ican'tgetthewordsout kind. As afflictions go, it's pretty benign - but for someone with a full blown writing compulsion, it ranks right up there with a case of the bends. I should know; I've been blogging steadily since the Fall of 2004 and in that time have endured dry spells, writer's block and explosive diarrhea of the keyboard. If it's okay with you, I'm gonna move away from the gastrointestinal analogies - if only because I live with three females and access to a bathroom is never guaranteed. So while I search for another way to express myself, know that you have my complete permission to stop reading this right now, provided you promise to stop back by later for my usual TV News poop. Oops, there I go again.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, lamenting my lack of output and asking you NOT to feel sorry for me. See, the very fact that someone other than myself is reading this provides its own kind of solace, though I'm at a loss to fully explain why. I suspect it has something to do with that basic need for human connection, albeit the kind where you or I never have to look at each other. I'm cool with that. I spend my every working day getting up close and personal with reporters, elected officials and reprobates, only to rush back to an edit bay and stare at their mugs on tiny TV screens. Yep, I get plenty of face time. What I need is a little distance, a sequestered spot where I can put my feet on the desk and my mind on a shelf. I've been doing that for damn near five years now and the approaching anniversary is weighing on my frontal lobe. Maybe that's why I can't think straight...

Premature Admission (ewww...): I was going to pull the plug on this blog come November, hole up in my dusty lair and hammer out a self-publishable version of The Book. I even called up a few dear friends and floated the idea past them. Most liked the idea of me finally twisting my treasure into something you could take to the can, but most warned me not to suspend the website without a lot of thought. PFFFT! I wake up at night thinking about this website, what it was, what it now is, what it can someday be. You might view this place as a guilty pleasure every now and then, but to me it's the living preamble to the hardback I want tossed in my casket someday. If that means I'm possessed, so be it. From what those in the know tell me, it's exactly what you have to be to get your name on a library spine.

Soooo, to make a five year long story even longer, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I'm NOT shuttering the blog. My plans, my sanity, my ego will not allow it. These pages - and you fine folk who have seen fit to drop by now and then - have helped set in motion something I would have never done by my lonesome. That's really kind of pathetic, as it's been MY dream all along. Still, you work with what you got and I got a wealth of material, some generous friends and a book proposal to write. I may indeed SELF-publish someday, but first the professionals are gonna have to tell me I suck. Until then, look for this site to thrive - though I do reserve the right to go dark once in awhile. Just don't think I'm all that tortured about it. I'm not. In fact, I've found my early forties to be quite satisfying. No longer so unsure of myself, or overly concerned with how others see me, I am attaining a level of Zen simply by pretending to be enlightened. Try it sometime: you'd be amazed how good not giving a shit feels.

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta hit the latrine.

Bravado Under Glass

Funny thing, the fancycam. It can throw your back out of whack and strengthen your spine at the same time. Take last week for example, when I found myself standing watch across the street from what can only be described as a crack infested hovel. Okay, so officially it was a convenient store, but according to frightened neighbors and a years of police reports, it was an outlet of ill repute. Hours earlier, it had been a crime scene. I forget the details exactly; Citizen A took offense at Citizen B and chose to settle matters with a sidearm. The particulars didn't concern me. All I knew is the nice ladies who lived next door seemed to fear for their lives from the violence surrounding the store and for once they were willing to talk on camera about it. This of course enabled reporter Roxanna Haynes and I to spotlight their plight and after convincing the desk were were on to something juicy, we set about to do just that.

My heart went out to the neighbor ladies. In sad, matter of fact tones, they told of nightly gunshots, open air drug deals and conjugal visits on their children's swing sets. This of course I founds repellent, but since I lack an S on my chest I relegated my role to that of documentarian. In other words, I shot video of the locked-up shop while Roxy coaxed the dope from the two brave ladies. According to them, the business was but a front for a thriving crack trade - a claim made all the more believable when the -ahem- gentleman who rented the store arrived to open up for the day. Needless to say, he wasn't happy to see your friendly neighborhood news crew interviewing a concerned citizen outside his sordid emporium. But rather than openly protest, he simply glared,until I pointed the lens his way -at which point he draped a jacket over his head and unlocked the door. Hey, nothing says innocence like cowering under outerwear as you fumble with a padlock key...

To her credit, Roxanna and the neighbor lady followed him inside as I stayed in the parking lot and listened in on the microphone she was wearing. Through broken English he explained he was a victim too, then vehemently declined the offer of an interview. Back outside, we conferred with the neighbors before thanking them for their cooperation. That's when the citizenry of Summit Avenue began rolling up in tricked-out caddies and beat-up Escorts. Most only threw me the stink-eye as they parked and entered the store, but inside a pep rally of sorts must have been underway, for to a pimp they emerged invigorated. I'll spare you the salty syllables (my Mom reads this blog!), but let's just say they all urged me to indulge in a brisk round of carnal shenanigans, before thrusting forth certain digits and questioning my lineage. I merely informed them I was doing my job, had every right to remain on public property and politely declined their offers of parking lot copulation.

It then occurred to me, for not the first time, that a brightly logo'd videocamera is both a weapon and a shield. With it, I can stroll into a gubernatorial press conference in progress without ever worrying about the fact I'm dressed like a zookeeper. I can backpedal in front of frothing protesters and know that, whatever it is they're pretending to be pissed about, they'll slow up enough to wallow in my gaze. And yes, I can stand my ground before a vexed parade of mid-morning gangbangers - provided they don't reach down their baggy pants and whip out a gat. Even if they did, I'd probably unwisely freeze in disbelief that they'd dare to do so in front of a rolling TV News camera. Mind you, I'm no bad-ass. far from it. My interests are reading and walks in the woods. I got a hell of a Barbie collection in my walk-in attic and on the right day, a really good orange juice commercial can reduce me to tears. Dirty Harry, I ain't. But grant me my fancycam of choice and there are damn few places I won't tread.

Except a kindergarten class, of course. A cameraman's GOT to know his limitations.

Remains of the Day

It's been said that TV News is the only business where when it's five o clock, you wish it was FOUR o clock. That's not to say we broadcast yaks never want the day to end, but rather we could all use just a few more minutes before putting on the news. Alas, that great digital clock in the sky waits for no one, not even those of us who haven't worn a wristwatch in a couple of years. Who needs one - when your company-provided fancyphone keeps you in constant contact with a cadre of house cats whose job it is to call you up and count backwards?

A word on housecats, otherwise known as producers, editors and assignment folks. I give them a lot of grief here on Viewfinder BLUES, but deep down inside, I hope they know I appreciate them (the good ones, anyway). For without them I'd be forced to order my own graphics, write my own teases and watch whole episodes of Oprah lest her ratings plummet. I couldn't take that, so while you won't hear me say it often, I'd like to take this opportunity to dip my lens in reverence for all my news-roomies who've endured my wisecracks, sullen glares and occasional warbling spitballs...SOAR-EEE!

Now, when was I? Oh yes...TIME, the one thing that runs out quicker than that camera battery you stole from your buddy's charger. Whether I spend my late afternoon licking nab wrappers in the sanctity of an edit bay or pacing the perimeter of a dreaded live shot locale, I more than inured to the sensation of losing time. Friends of mine outside da biz talk of idle chitchat while waiting for the clock to hit 5, but it sounds like bad fiction to me. No, my day ramps UP, the minute hand gathering speed as I hunch over a timeline, a mangled spool of live truck cable or just some ornery bag of Funyuns that someone back at the chip factory hermetically sealed.

So where am I going with all this? Ya got me. I just know that if I don't recommit myself to this once sacred space, I'm going to lose focus like that fancycam I once took for a dip in the briny blue. I desperately don't want that to happen, for while this blog has yet to finance an armful of Rolexes, it has provided me with more therapy than I could ever fit into my average workweek. See, it's been nearly five years since I first logged in here with equal parts pith and vinegar. Who knows how much longer I'll continue to do so, but whenever I consider quitting, I find myself wondering how else I'd spend every evening. It won't be spent watching the news, that's for sure. Have you seen how the people who put that stuff together run around all day?

Who has time for that?

Farewell to Fergie

No doubt about it, I've worked with some gorgeous women over the years. But all too often their beauty is marred by arrogance, affectation or smothering self-absorption. Not so with Nicole Ferguson. For two short years this humble stunner has sweetened the Piedmont's airwaves with a telegenic presence and a grace than cannot be faked. But it takes more than looks to earn my ardor. Intelligence is a must, as is the ability to work a breaking news scene without doing any harm. In this, Nicole is equally gifted, pursuing news stories with grit, determination and a firm handle on the human condition. Which is why I gladly set aside my anti-social tendencies whenever we were assigned a story together. A presidential stump speech, a state park profile, the region's seediest taxicab yard; we survived them all and shared a joke even when we shouldn't have. But then, Nicole's laugh is legendary; a raucous, spiraling thing that is nothing less than a comedian's dream. But now we'll have to settle for its echo, for darling Nicole is leaving us. Soon, she'll begin gracing the TV screens of Nashville, where the royalty and riff-raff of Music City will quickly sit up and take note. No doubt it's the next step in a brilliant career, but her departure can't help but darken the hearts of all of us at El Ocho, even as it brightens the horizon of central Tennessee.

So good luck, Nicole. Something tells me you won't need it...