The Frigid and the Hidden

Is it wrong I ran for cover when Mother Nature took a dump? It's a question that's vexed me all weekend as I laid by the fireplace watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Outside, countless colleagues scrambled onto the sudden tundra of a fresh snowfall; stringing cable across parking lots, pointing dishes into falling sleet, sticking lenses into motorists' frozen grills. 'Should I be out there among them?', I wondered as I switched from a stout and stammering starfish to a bundled coworker yammering on about salt trucks... Did I flee from the action as the front lines formed? Did I doff my very logo as others layered up? Did I skulk off knowingly as bolder souls threw themselves on ticking snowballs? Yes. No! Yes. More than anything I just went home for the weekend, a reasonable enough maneuver after navigating five days of deadlines. But as I prepared to leave work Friday, it was hard not to notice the invasion force forming around me. Talkers, shooters, stackers and techs - all bustling about in shimmering winter gear. Heck, I saw one guy who never leaves the building sheathed in neoprene! I'd have talked to him to, but I was too busy crawling on my belly toward the door.

Not Weaver. He loaded up in a live truck and decamped to Thomasville. Saturday morning he arose mid-blizzard and steered that lurching stagecoach into the teeth of the storm. What followed was three hours of staggered remotes - shot, produced and starring one burly photog. And it wasn't just the Mighty Weave. A county away, Roy's Folk impresario David Weatherly turned a camera on himself and threatened to lick a lightpole if people didn't heed the advice he himself scoffed at: Stay off the Streets. Sure, we also had other two-person crews filing live reports from elsewhere, but for my lack of input, the most compelling content came from the two shooters operating sand assistance. Perhaps it was the lack of polish. Maybe it was the way Weaver interviewed the two Biscuitville chicks who brought him food, (thus exposing a snow coverage tradition: setting up live shots near fast food restaurants. Cowinky-dink?) It could have been that crazy redneck who slung a few intentional nasties in front of Weatherly's camera - before we abruptly cut away ---

Look at me saying "WE". Fact of the matter is I was decimating a box of Honeycombs with my offspring while El Ocho soldiers were surviving on generator fumes, snow cream and acres of face time. I don't expect my extended friends and family to understand what I've done exactly but I want you all to know that the guilt I feel from my desertion will live with me for many, many years to come ... or at least until my phone rings in the middle of the night and I alone am sent alone to check out the sludge spill at the Wastewater Treatment Plant.

Then we even...

The Wes Wing

All eyes may have been on President Obama during his State of the Union speech last night, but deep within the bowels of the Capitol, one Wesley Barrett was leafing through some reading material. Actually, the former El Ocho photog was boning up on some classwork as the President droned on/enthralled the masses (depending on your politics). Speaking of politics, I always knew it was one of Wes' passions. What I didn't know is he would one day flee the Piedmont for D.C. , where he regularly bumps fists with the leaders of the free world. Not bad for a guy who once spent an entire week trapped in an Oklahoma dorm room with your surly neighborhood lenslinger. That and a memorable appearance on this very blog could have limited this former farm boy to a life of medium market melancholy. Instead he and his lovely wife made their way to Washington, where the many monuments, nut-jobs and sat shots keep this die-hard N.C. State fan constantly hoppin'. That is, when he's not highlighting his syllabus...

Some International Man of Mystery.

Hustle and Glow

You know what they say: It's hard to look ahead when there's a tiny TV screen stuck to half your face. Okay, so no one says that - but they would if TV news photographers ruled the world. Until then, I'm happy to spotlight their plight, for you'll not find a group of people more wary, verbose or wise than the good people standing under your favorite station's fancycam. Sure, we put the talking hair-do's on the billboard, but that's only because we wouldn't want to disrupt traffic with a giant A/V geek in a fishing vest straddling the interstate. Besides, it's not what a lenslinger looks like that's important, but what he (or she) looks at...

Me. I've looked at a lot over the past twenty years - very little of it by my own volition. Rather, I've been dispatched with great haste to scenes both calculated and haphazard. Mayoral meltdown, kindergarten cook-off, spontaneous pothole...I've rolled up on 'em all and been invited to stay - not because I'm so much damn fun to be around - but because I packed my looking glass. You know, the one glistening in familiar logos, the ones roust you from your morning slumber with cheery chit-chat and lulls you to sleep each night with Seinfeld reruns. Be it the good will engendered by all that programming or the fact people just like the cut of your anchors jib, most folk will welcome the sudden appearance of a TV news cameraman - provided you don't get in the paramedics' way or knock over some six year old Sous-chef as she tweaks her Creme Brulee. Don't roll your eyes: that very scenario could play out before lunch - then who's gonna be crying into their Happy Meal?

Not me. I'll have my eyes on the prize: that shimmering blue postage stamp floating in the not so distance. Stare at it long enough and you'll swear you've see it ALL - even if you've only witnessed ten commissioner tempests and a half dozen house fires. But steady exposure to a live viewfinder won't just shorten your attention span. It'll throw your focus out of whack, transmit the pangs of a stevedore down your right side and dare I say make you a little meaner. Yes, I was kinder and gentler before I stared down life through a tube every day. Just ask the wife. But if I was softer back then it's because I was so naive. That'll happen when you ride a desk around a cubicle farm, reciting lines from The Office as if it were sacred text. Me, I'll be out jabbing glass at something salacious, sublime or even sticky - all while swearing the secrets of the universe can be found in the very next close-up...

Just don't ask me to learn the phone system. A photog's got to know his limitations...

Remembering Frank Deal

I first met Frank Deal in his living room, years after he stopped appearing in Piedmont dens every weeknight. Neill McNeill and I were producing a series of 'Where Are They Now" pieces on WGHP personalities and the former weatherman reluctantly welcomed us into his home. I had not grown up watching Frank Deal, but by the time I set up lights and a camera in his front room, I'd seen enough archive tape to know I'd entered the crib of a master broadcaster. But he was so much more! A card-carrying member of local television's golden age, Deal did it all: emceeing shows, interviewing notables, hosting puppet shows, helming the felt board that for many years was all the 'Weather Center' a medium market TV station like El Ocho needed. It was there, amid the stick-on clouds and paper mache snowflakes that Frank Deal truly distinguished himself.

Known as much for his endless torrent of corny jokes as his prognostication, Deal approached local TV with a comedic lilt and the heft of a thespian. Viewing his many highlights is akin to watching a gifted athlete run circles around his teammates. That his nightly groaners were the product of a paid joke service is testament to his dedication to the craft of communication. Not that he needed the help! Even if his humor was more your Grandmother's speed, there was no denying Frank Deal was intrinsically funny. Whether he was miming his way through a silent forecast or laying a little ham-bone on the extended outlook, dude had timing, style and chops. Which is why I was so surprised the elder Mr. Deal to be shy and thoughtful; eager to please, but reticent to gloat over his impressive legacy. I don't remember everything we covered that evening, but I do recall Frank lamenting local TV's fascination with gadgets. Clearly, he'd rather connect with the viewer through human warmth than shock and awe them with the latest cold technology. I was surprised to catch myself nodding in agreement...

Frank Deal died this morning at the age of 84. For 27 years he was the erudite Clown Prince of the Piedmont's evening airwaves. Upon retirement he threw himself into helping his church and community. Though our contact was sporadic, I'm grateful and proud that I shared air with Mr. Deal, for his generation forged a new way to communicate. Not only that, they did so with integrity, verve and - in Frank Deal's case - a mischievous twinkle that let you know that it was okay to laugh at the nightly news. Sure beats some pseudo-scientist shouting from atop his Doppler...

One Small Schlep

This is either a publicity still from a Twilight Zone episode I've never seen or it's a rare photo of a Plumbicon "Creepie-Peepie" - an early 'mini-cam' thought to be responsible for more bulging discs than any other recording device of its day. Capable of transmitting pictures without a cable, this truly was a futuristic rig, albeit one with a hideous nickname. (Creepie-Peepie? Who names your cameras? Paul Lynde?) Of course with fifty pounds of sharp edges and hot coils strapped to your back, 'creeping' is about all you're gonna do. That battery girdle alone would slow down most men; it'd got enough chafing power to drop a Navy Seal. I just hope no spot news break out. Otherwise Sherman here's gonna tip over, trigger the jetpack rockets or rips the shit out of Rod Serling's suit...

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of incredible lower back pain; a middle ground between key-light and shadow, live shot and deadline, journalism and hernia. There's a stairwell up ahead, a staggered vortex where only man's imagination - and core body strength - limits his visit to another dimension... Next stop - well, you get the idea.

Thanks as always, Amanda Emily.

Ender's Blame

See, the thing about shooting TV news is, there's never any closure. You can crank out ninety second epics until your lens goes limp and know about the only thing you've done is prop up a bunch of Viagra commercials. Don't get me wrong: I like my job! But if a feeling of satisfaction ever lasted for more than four hours, I'd do more than call my Doctor. I'd run outside and make sure there were still call letters on the wall. Maybe then I'd know if the alternate universe I somehow stumbled into still offered a bi-weekly stipend, for that and a shelf full of chrome-plated figurines can buy you about ten minutes of respect in this business. But I'm not complaining! I'm simply coming to terms (again) with what I have to look forward to, should that whole pampered gadfly thing never work out. I'm guessing it won't - and while the idea of a slower, balder, fatter me dozing off at ribbon-cuttings makes my current temples throb - I gotta get a handle on where this, ahem, 'career' isn't taking me.

It's different in the beginning. At least it was for me. In my early twenties and courting failure, I took to the not so noble pursuit of slingin' lenses with evangelical zeal. Back then, there was nothing I wouldn't do in the name of news. Wanna drop me into a prison yard with antique gear and a red-hot intern? I'm game! Need someone to grab fresh sound at the horsefly convention? Giddy-Up! Everyone else refusing to follow those beekeeper-preachers into the hood? I'M your huckleberry... Yes, for me the Dawn of the Nineties was a time of self-discovery. Who knew my lead-foot, attention deficit disorder and cat-like reflexes could provide me with a lifetime of wrinkled press-passes and floorboard ketchup packets? (Well, there was that one guy in the dingy fishing vest, but HE won't talkin'). No doubt about it, learning about life through a logo'd tube was a mind-beding way to spend my Twenties... At (nearly) 43, not so much.

Is that because I'm wiser? Wider? Whinier? Perhaps. But part of why I no longer hold any illusions when it comes to news is the vacuous nature of broadcasting itself. Simply put, it pays NOT to pay attention. That way you won't notice you've been repeating yourself since the Clinton Administration. It won't bother you that all your blood, sweat and fears fade into the ether quicker than a golf course fart. Hell, you won't even mind that the intern you once taught to edit now decides how you'll spend your day. Denial ... beats a lobotomy! Maybe I'd feel different about my chosen field were there more opportunities for advancement, instead of a corporate stepladder covered in gaffer's tape and tobacco spit. Probably not though... Now for the disclaimer: I really do dig what I do (in theory). The days I work alone I'm in nothing less than a trance and I go home on those evenings grateful to have used my limited skills for good instead of evil. The only real question is: Will I one day look up from my wheelchair at the Old Photog's Home and regret wearing the stripes of a lifer?

Let me get back to you on that...

Glass at the Impasse

Of all the places my fancycam has dragged me, perhaps the most perilous is the governmental meeting. Sure, there's more danger down at the Sheriff's sally port, what with all those shackled crackheads and bad cop mustaches. And the highway can be hazardous when you're passing gas in the breakdown lane. And don't get me started on the zoo! That alligator may be hibernating but he's probably dreaming of cameraman crotch. But of all those exotic locales, nothing strikes dread in this 'slinger's spleen more than the fluorescent confines of a county owned conference room. Which is why today's assignment was so very dire, as I perched above a room full of constipated wonks and waited for the shite to take flight...

It. Never did. Oh, there was tension. You can't trap this many overdressed politicos in an enclosed space without kick-starting the drama-thon. I mean, these are important people! They've got tailors and constituents, preferred parking and a DVR bursting with their favorite newscast cameos. Most of them even mean well! They can't help it if the come across as third rate James Bond villains. It comes with the scenery (which, incidentally, usually includes some cameraman or another muttering about housecats, batteries and traffic). But for all the ill will generated by these warring factions, the people of Guilford County should be proud of these less than civil servants... No ultimatums thundered down. Gang-signs did not appear. Why, nary a switchblade was even pulled! That makes for a higher level of discourse, certainly, but it can be damn boring to document...

So I let my mind wander. Like a prison inmate who manages a flower shop in his head, I fired up the synapses just to see where they'd take me. I stared at the ceiling tiles and wondered if they'd hold me, should I seek higher ground. For the longest time I tried to move a nearby paperweight with my mind, but when that didn't work I checked my iPod Touch for the thirteenth time - just in case a wicked cloud of wi-fi passed by... When none did I turned my attention back to my fellow photogs - but they were all embarked on their own catatonic journey. I admired their powers of concentration for a moment before scanning the crowd for any signs of toupee. When no particular rug jumped up to be noticed I began reciting old Rush lyrics - until my fevered falsetto scared the lady from District Six. Finally, I centered myself, stared out the window and wondered if all this inactivity might make for a half-decent blog post...

Told ya it was risky.

A Fitting Tribute

John Billingsley Photog! from Leighton Grant on Vimeo.

I did not know John Billingsley, but by all accounts the 27 year old Rutherford County native was a funny and enthusiastic member of the news-gathering community. His sudden death in Charlotte this weekend has left his colleagues at WLOS reeling from the loss of someone so young and they've honored John's legacy with the kind of tributes once saved for only anchors. Of those living memorials, my favorite is the one pieced together by his fellow photogs. It speaks not only to the spirit of their young friend but also to the reasons anyone would want such an odd job as ours in the first place. Rest In Peace, John Billingsley.

Some Settling May Occur...

No matter where my fancycam takes me, I spend a good portion of each afternoon locked in a box. Okay, it's officially an 'edit bay' and I'm not even sure you can lock it, but it hardly matters for when your reporter of the moment writes you into a corner, then you Sir or Ma'am are trapped. Throw in a digital clock and a few goofy phone calls and you have the makings of a 24 episode in which Jack Bauer spends the entire time hunched over a candy-colored keyboard. Sound dull? You've never dragged and clicked your way across a still-forming time-line as gaping chasms of black threatened to collapse your very narrative... Why last week they dragged one guy out in a straight-jacket after he overdosed on excruciatingly slow dissolves! Then there was the lady who locked herself in with a bunch of sick celeb obituary scripts and a stack of file tapes. It was six days before they even found her body!

Yes, when it comes to the perils of news-gathering, I'd put the daily edit sesh right up there with the inner city stand-off - not because there's any gun play in those little broadcast closets, but because there's so many other ways to poke your eyes out. Take the underdeveloped but over-imagined documentary piece - you know, the one you got six shots of ketchup packets with which to flesh out a three minute report on climate change! If that won't make you gouge out your cornea, there's always that intern who wants to sit in so he can tell you how he would have cut it on his Dad's iMac. Me, I can stand that particular intruder, but so help me if that reporter insist on hovering over my shoulder so he can orally debate my every slice, I'm gonna commit some kind of journalistic fratricide! A-hem. Sorry to get all worked up like that, but too many people think the edit bay is a bathroom stall or a snack bar or a ballot box in need of stuffing. To those folks, I say LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!

Hmm? Was I shouting? A thousand apologies, but I get a little cagey after that kind of extended sequestration. Normally a bag of Funyuns and a lap around the weather center does the trick but today I spent much of my stretch trapped behind a stack of archive tapes. What are those exactly? Oh, just jumbo cassette recordings of every ribbon cutting, ride-along and rape accusation El Ocho has showcased in the last decade or so. Honest to God all I need are a few fleeting shots of Chinese people smoking cigarettes - you know, just the kind of thing a domestic television station collect in abundance. To be fair, I found what I was looking for - or rather Bob Buckley did - but only because I threatened to flesh out his thoughtful treatise on the tobacco trade with leftover sequences from Pee-Wee's Playhouse. That I got reams of, collected from a time when hallucinogenics and randy hand-puppets were thought to be the keys to a more universal understanding of our heartless orb. But I don't want really wanna talk about my senior thesis - I'd much rather discuss how you plan to get us out of the stifling little cube before that bean burrito I had for lunch melts the Windex residue off these TV monitors...

Don't say I didn't warn you...

Queens of the Rink

Ever spun in circles with one eye closed while a pack of tattooed women tried to take each other out at the kneecaps? I hadn't, until Bob Buckley and I jammed over to Capital City for a look at modern day roller derby. There we found a dark and dingy skating rink teeming with enough Grrrrl Power to kick-start another Lilith Fair - provided there was some death metal on the playbill. But I don't want to paint the Carolina Rollergirls as brutes, for many of these not so fair maidens are suburban moms. Moms who could pile-drive an entire Jerry Springer audience, but suburban moms nonetheless. Why only half a dozen times did I contract any stink-eye, a relatively small outbreak of criminal conjunctivitis, considering I was trampling through their under lit dojo.

Hey, speaking of light, can we get some incandesence in this joint? I know roller rinks are all about atmosphere, but I'm attempting cinema here! The last person who gave me heat for pointing a light their way was Rusty Wallace and everyone knows he's a putz. Next time don't reach for the throwing stars quite so quickly when the next cameraman fires up his sun-gun. But I ... digress.

Of course, one doesn't breathe the rarefied air of a roller derby practice session without taking a few precautions. I'm talking steel toed boots, protective eyewear, and the removal of any hoop earrings - lest that message therapist hurtling toward you become entangled upon impact. Why in the short time Bob and I surfed the perimeter we saw a finger run over, and angle banged up and more than one woman's dignity being gouged out. Was it any wonder I stuck to the sidelines? That is until one Mr. Buckley did his best Marlin Perkins impersonation, 'suggesting' I join the zebras milling about the infield. Having thrown down the man card, Bob backed away slowly, before taking a defensive position in the snack bar. I watched him there, eyeing Little Debbie, when a Tasmanian She-Devil nearly flattened me.

From there, it was a blur, the fragmented snapshots of a slinger in survival mode. Sure, I eventually made it to the center of the floor, but not before playing 3-D Frogger with a half dozen tattooed ladies. As with most trauma, time began to bend, until I was engulfed in a swirl of striped knee socks, chrome helmets and enough shoulder ink to blot out the ancient disco ball slowly spinning above my head. You know, come to think of it, it was there - forging the ruts of the local Roller Dump - that I first became engaged in our assignment that day... Then again, it's hard not to pay attention when a woman by the name of 'Karma Suture' is tucked into a battle-crouch, coming in fast and aiming staright for your appendix. Just sayin'..

Death by Presser

I don't know what YOUR idea of Purgatory is, but from my slice of the risers, it looks a lot like a press conference. Maybe that's because I've attended more electrified gatherings than most capitol punishment junkies. Sure, they're often thrilling in the movies: tense debriefings in which someone thinner, better dressed and more diabolical than any actual podium jockey reveals information crucial to the gauzy montage that soon follows. Not so in real life. No, most pressers pack about as much excitement as your last trip to the restroom. And unless you take a really wide stance, that's nothing to wrap a screenplay around. So while you zip up, allow me to unfurl the following Tenets of the Scrum:

Feeling a bit adventurous? Wanna look 'Continental'? Wife hide the iron? Go to work wearing something garish, wrinkled or reflective and you've guaran-damn-teed yourself a ticket to the undertaker's luncheon.

98% of the self-congratulatory pap uttered into a bank of microphones never. airs. anywhere. But let those batteries in your wireless die and dude with the suit's gonna start reciting coordinates to Osama's hidey-hole.

You can sneak into a theater. You can sneak into church. Pay the right people and you can even sneak into rehab. But strap half a TV station to your back and try to enter a press conference in progress unnoticed. Cannot be done.

After a few soundbites, one photog will invariably wiggle out of the scum and begin working the edges of the room for wide shots, reversals and cutaways. Ask us and we'll tell you we're just doing our job, but mostly we're just effin' with ya.

Most semi-circle summits are hastily-convened affairs; cop-talk confabs with scribbled digits and bare-bones production. To pull off a high-tech happening - complete with bad back-light, countless shout-outs and highly distracting background noise - you're going to need a highly-paid consultant.

Speaking of consultants, See You in Hell!

Gratuitous Review: Madhouse

For years, ace reporter Chad Tucker has told me the racing scene at nearby Bowman Gray Stadium was a reality show waiting to happen. He wasn't kidding. 'Madhouse', an pretty slick look at the world of Southern-fried modified racing, debuted on The History Channel Sunday night and if the premiere episode is any indication, it's gonna be a deliciously bumpy ride. Understand, I ain't much of a race fan. That makes me all but queer in some rusty Camaro circles, but it's my (rather hetero) opinion that one need not possess a patch-covered jumpsuit to enjoy this TV outing. I sure did. The unbridled horsepower, the coiled testosterone, the thick but authentic accents... what's not to love? Bowman Gray Stadium is only ninety minutes or so from Charlotte Motor Speedway, but it's light-years away from the corporate orgy that is modern day stock car racing. At Bowman Gray, the men who climb behind the wheel on Saturday nights are the very same souls bangin' out dents the next day in some cluttered garage. Throw in an inter-generational rivalry, ample editing and a stadium full of fans who would bow up and beat down any Jerry Springer audience and you have White-Trash Pageantry... Unvarnished NASCAR... Tee-Vee GOLD!

That's right: GOLD. As much an anthropology study as a reality show about low-level motorsports, Madhouse (lousiest. title. ever.) features the kind of blue-collar yearning and pit crew euphoria that propelled generations of bootlegger wannabes into the NASCAR stratosphere. The linguistics alone are an embarrassment of riches! In fact, I volunteer to screen the very next episode with a bunch of snooty New Yorkers - provided they let me translate. Maybe then, I can impart some fancy book learnin' on the Yankee set; explain to 'em that twisted syntax notwithstanding, what they're hearing is AMERICA, in all its unwashed glory. It's the same kind of rural verve that made NASCAR one helluva show and the exact ingredient that could put the bite back into a spectacle that's pretty much been defanged. But don't hold your breath. Big time racing will taste more antiseptic with every swig while the unscripted action of Bowman Gray will grow more potent with every sideswipe, sucker-punch and pit-stop. Which is why I'LL be watching Madhouse - every time they fling the doors wide open.

Just don't ask me to go down there and watch it in person. Sorry, Chad.

(Photo Credit: Bruce Chapman, Winston-Salem Journal)

Warping the Fourth (in 3-D!)

With all this talk about 3-D TV coming to a cable channel near you, it's not a s-t-r-e-t-c-h to think your nosey neighborhood news crew might want in on the action. How that might further warp the Fourth Estate remains to be seen, but I'm willing to whip up a Top Ten list - if you promise not to assign me a camera the size of a Hemi!

10.) For years microphones have gotten smaller. Look for that to change as field reporters refuse to wade into even a minor scrum without one of those skinny Bob Barker numbers. How else they gonna joust for sound?

9.) 3-D could singlehandedly (triplehandedly?) save that most endangered commodity: local TV sports. Who else is gonna bring you team coverage of the high school cheerleader pyramid? You know, besides those pay-websites...

8.) Mark my word: The first time they cover a hurricane with 3-D cameras, some reporter will finally get their head cleaved off by a flying trash can lid. It should be spectacular.

7.) What good is an extra dimension without some schwag to fling into the void? Look for carrier pigeons, floppy discs and station flamethrowers to make an immediate comeback.

6.) Will that giant, acrid plume rising from the warehouse fire on the edge of town set off smoke detectors across the tri-county region? And what happens when a single marijuana extraction story gets half the Heartland high? Rhetorically speaking, of course.

5.) Journalism. It's all fun and games, 'til someone gets their eye poked out.

4.) High speed chases will get a whole new look as news choppers shoot 3-D camera drones into the cockpit of some hopped-up Nova for proper fly-around footage of whatever drunken mullet's behind the wheel.

3.) Hostage stand-off, street riot, tsunami, kindergarten Easter Egg hunt. Introduce a three dimensional news crew into either if these scenarios and somebody's goin' down!

2.) With field crews having all the fun, expect the anchor teams to demand management build them a 3-D set... Aquariums, dried ice, scepters, and over the shoulder graphic boxes that spin in and out of frame like expertly thrown Ninja stars. Look out!

and finally...

1.) Think the Weather Guy's got a God complex now? Wait 'til he can hurl logo'd thunderbolts across your rec room.

Licensed to Ill

My plans to post only polished insight this calendar year have already been derailed, thanks to a giraffe with one scratchy, spotted throat. Okay, so I don't precisely remember walking through the cloud of crystallized giraffe spit, but the fact remains that I spent a good twenty minutes ambling through the North Carolina Zoo's African Animal paddock and limped away feeling like a lesser life-form. From all that I can gather, the microbes entered through my auditory canal. Maybe that's why one ear feels like it's smuggling apricots while the other feels like it's been thoroughly blow-torched. Hey, I'm no doctor; I didn't even stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night. For all I know, whatever crawled in my hed and dies did so long before I ever made it down to Asheboro. But as long as I have a half-imagined inter-species sneeze to blame for my maladies - well, that's my story and I'm stickin' with it...

Pity, if you will, my wife. A tough little woman with a decade of ER shifts under her belt, she must contend with a husband who can smother a simple head cold in hundred dollar words. In fact, the only reason I'm able to communicate with you now is due to the fact that The Missus has pumped me full of multi-colored, magic pills. I'm not sure what they were exactly, but after swallowing them I played air guitar in the closet for an hour and a half. She say's she'll give me more in the morning - if only I refrain from complaining so much. You got a deal, honey, but if you load me up too much I may very well play Purple Haze behind my back again. But enough of my delusions. I really just checked it to check out. See, I don't feel so good. Whjetehr I wake up with a hankerin' for tree leaves remains to be seen. Just do me a favor, eh? Send someone over to check on me in a day or so. I'll be right here, licking my ankles with my new purple tongue or trying to scratch out The Star Spangled Banner on the family cat...

You may wanna knock first.

Class Under Glass

Tonight on Quantum Leap, Sam jumps all the way back to 1972 for a rollicking turn as Horace Riprock, a beefy news-gatherer with an eye for fashion. Can he win the ratings and save his station? Or will the sleazy owners turn it into a disco? Before he can find out, Sam/Horace must rescue Holo-pal Al from an aging oscilloscope, convince a bumbling consultant that film will last forever and stave off the affection of a boozy noon anchor (special guest star Morgan Fairchild), who has a well-known thing for 'slingers... 'Oh boy', indeed... (CC) 60 Min 9PM

Next Week: The behind the scenes hi-jinks continue as Dr. Sam leaps into the all black threads of alleged visionary Michael Rosenblum, moments before he takes on arch nemesis Nino in a fight to the finish cage match! Warning: Some scenes may disturb viewers too young to care...

Change You Shouldn't Believe In...

New Year's Resolutions? I can't keep a pair of toenail clippers for more than a fortnight; how am I gonna keep a pledge for twelve whole months? Simple...I'm not. But I am going to share with you ten, er seven things I'd do to improve myself over the next 52 weeks - were I the kind of guy who to follow up on an oath. Which I'm not. Promise...

In 2010 I resolve to drive less with my knee, to use a turn signal like a law-abiding mortal and to stop flipping people off beneath the dashboard, where they can't see it. Unless of course they cut me off. Then IT'S ON like Grand Theft Auto, baby!

This year I promise not to daydream so much during protracted press conferences, but rather glean every syllable of said podium blather for meaning, nuance and implication. That or purge my iPod of any new Abba medleys my wife may have uploaded.

I hereby affirm that in the next calendar year, I'll continue to pepper my speech with words people just don't expect to hear from a TV news photographer! Words like 'obdurate', 'allegory' and 'Excuse me Officer, is it okay if I park here?'

In 2K10 I resolve not to take a hostage when the weather turns hot. Sure, it's sixteen degrees now, but just as soon as I find all my cold weather gear, the last wind will blow and an underwear-expanding blanket of humidity will once again make this Southerner threaten to move to Maine, fur-shirt and all...

Over the next twelve months I pledge to work by myself more than ever before, if for no other reason than it irks certain colleagues who are too lazy, unwilling or frightened to try it themselves. Have fun with those evening live shots, fellas!

In Twenty-Ten I vow to be a more mature news-gatherer, to thank the assignment desk for any directions, to nod and smile when berated about a bump I've already cut, to exercise a little verbal @&*%$ restraint when The Suits want to send me to Choad County for a photo essay at the Septic Tank Sit-In.

Finally, in 2010 I resolve to cut down on the many lists I post to Viewfinder BLUES. After all, lists are eerily sequential, rarely original and almost always a rip-off of something David Letterman's already done. That reminds me, have I ever told you my top twelve ways to confess an indiscretion. #1) Get a talk show...

Dream Job

Ever have that dream where you're tuning in a live shot and the engineer on the other end of the line starts speaking in hieroglyphics? Then you look up to see a badly smoking spacecraft crashing past and you realize that's just the kind of thing you dreamed of seeing when you first picked up the lens and wouldn't it be life-inspiring to capture such a sequence for all of mankind instead of HOARKIN' AROUND WITH SOME NEARSIGHTED BATTLE-WAGON FROM HELL! And then suddenly you're holding on for dear gear as the golf cart you're in jostles side to as you and a weasel - an actual weasel - chase an inebriated NASCAR legend through a cactus-packed back nine. Through thick cigar smoke the weasel rattles on and on about Ricky Bobby's tight schedule and immediate need for aloe so you lean down low to get a shot of the velvety green landscape strobing by and you lean too far and in an instant you're tumbling in a giant dust-ball of fresh faxes, bad toupees and late 80's bag-phones. By the time you come to a stop you're completely bedraggled and as you shake off the hurt and rise from the now vacant dreamscape you find you can hardly move and that's when you realize you're weighed down by ever camera battery you've ever 'borrowed'... With ever dreaded step, the fanny pack full of lead around your waist grows heavier until it's very shadow blots the sun! Soon you're but a bug squashed beneath a bulging blue canvas satchel the size of a space station and as you lie there trapped for all eternity, the IFB speaker jammed in your ear comes alive and you perish there slowly, as the distant signal of control room coworkers riffing on last night's episode of "Glee" taints your dying breath. You ever have that dream?

Me neither.