Editors Note:


EDITOR'S NOTE: Fresh off a three year managerial stint, your friendly neighborhood lenslinger is back on the street and under heavy deadline. As the numbing effects of his self-imposed containment wear off, vexing reflections and pithy epistles are sure to follow...

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

The Phantom Grimace

Arm BraceAhh, the dreaded cross-lateral elbow clutch; makes my thorax throb just thinking about it. Now, I don't know about the guy in the green ( I don't even know who he is), but if you ever see ME slowly reach over and support my camera-arm, you can rest assured I'm about to A) pitch forward completely until I'm just a quivering mass of word-nerd there on the floor, B) gently set down the Sony and embark on a life of panhandling or C) demand the person being interviewed stop congratulating himself and get to the $#&@% POINT! Then again, I'm less than patient than most. (Twenty years of dragging around glass and mannequins will do that to a fella.) As for other phantom pains, I get 'em all...

Inflamed Scanner Acid Reflux - I get this in the afternoon a lot. There I'll be sitting at my desk in the newsroom and the bile in my throat begins to rise. That's when I look up and see three managers hunched over the police scanner and looking my way. Luckily, the hives don't break out until they start fondling their map books.

Live Truck Sleep Apnea - No sooner do I settle in behind the wheel of a parked TV truck for a little shuteye when it happens: My mouth hangs open and I begin to choke on a combination of exhaust fumes, Cheezy poof dust and failed ambition - until I've broken the reporter's wi-fi connection and train of thought. Pardon while I wipe this up...

Pavlov's Phone Call - There I am, spraying bird crap off my drive way when a familiar buzzing begins radiating off my right hip. Absentmindedly, I'll reach down to answer my ever-present cell phone only to realize it's upstairs on its charger. If I new it was gonna vibrate from afar like this, I'd pretend it's in my pocket

Widow's Porch Wooziness - That's the sour feeling I get in my soul whenever I have to climb some widow's porch and invite myself into her darkest hour. Try as I might, even hiding behind the tripod and staring at the floor offers no relief whenever her tears begin to fall.

Amateur Hour Migraine - What? You want me to drive around in circles while you decide who to call? Hold my breath while you spray on your face? Write your package while you think up new Tweets? Explain an issue so you can feign your way through yet another interview? Fine - but I'm warning you - my head is killing me!

...Good thing the wife's a trauma nurse.

2 comments:

turdpolisher said...

funny, we had a reporter we called grimmace, like ronald mcdonald's big purple pal.

Horonto said...

I love my mono-pod