Fleet of One

There are those who dabble in broadcasting and those who succumb to it. Greg Pell is of the latter. It's something I don't really think about when I run into him at crime scenes, but this pipe-smoking optimist has been manning a camera since Gerald Ford was stumbling up to the podium. For proof, dig the above artifact: there's Pell third from right, kneeling in front of a hopped up cargo van bristling with stickers and gizmos. It was 1976 and no doubt a proud day. Why else bring together such an esteemed group of hunter-gatherers. Koontz, Taylor, Stafford, Lawing - not to mention El Ocho elder Chuck Hemrick, standing stubbornly to the left of the - ahem - mini-cam. Sure, they look like extras from that Anchorman movie, (and if that's not Herb Tarlek's jacket I'll trade in my entire VHS collection of WKRP in Cincinnati), but this motley news crew was completely bad-ass, trolling the mean streets of the Queen City while I was doodling Jimmy Carter grins in my fourth grade textbook. That I now get to trade elbows with a few of these fellas is a deep kick indeed; especially when they drop a detail from back in the day, as Pell himself did when he pointed something out about this photo...

Note the Unit 2 on the truck. Unit 2 was the first and only truck for the first 6 months. We wanted to create the impression that we had 2 trucks while we were "flying the flag" around town. And we think TV news has (just lately) gotten too promotional?

I guess some things haven't changed.

Suitable for Framing

Chances are Joe Avary was fending off the competition when he thrust his lens toward a couple of fresh felons the other week. But the image he came away with will outlast any newscast. The handcuffed knuckles, the determined shooter, the idling squad cars... that's not a screen-grab, it's a Made for TV Movie! Then again, no after-school special can match the real word education Joey Flash is acquiring in his third TV market in almost as many years. Not so long ago this mercurial goofball was trapped under the tutelage of yours truly, serving a sentence at El Ocho as he launched his lenslinging career. Now, newly svelte and freshly focused, Joey can be found cruising the mean Peachtree Streets of Hotlanta, where he's no doubt impressing all with boundless energy and sprite like ways. Come to think of it, Atlanta has become a hotspot for Viewfinder BLUES enthusiasts: Richards, Bam-Bam, Kiggins, Channel, now Flash... I may just have to schedule a stop down there for Slinger-Con 2010 - a highly esteemed gathering I just now made up but really, really like the sound of...

Now up against the car!

Boom Boom, Wow

I didn't WANT to write about The Black Eyed Peas show. Heck, when my 12 year old daughter told me she won tickets, I wasn't even sure I wanted to GO. But go we did and five days later I'm STILL singing that infernal 'Boom Boom Pow' song under my breath. How did this happen? I used to hold The Peas in low regard, more than once referring to them as The Village People of the new millennium. But when your youngest scores two free lower level seats, you pocket your preference, go to the show and thank the Lord above the child didn't win tickets to The Jonas Brothers.

Odd group, The Black Eyed Peas. Only of them even sings, the other two rap, no one really dances and for the life of me I can't figure out what that Taboo dude does. But as a four headed monster, this cartoonish combo somehow clicks - whether forcing a pre-fab groove through both your earbuds or rising up through the stage floor like a troop of musical Super Friends. Before the smoke and lasers even cleared, Hannah and I were on our feet; she to dance, giggle and text, me to work the pins and needles out of a cramping hamstring. What followed was two hours of kick-ass stagecraft, fueled by a mostly live soundtrack of songs I was surprised I knew by heart.

But enough of my warbling. Let's get to what's really on those manly minds out there: Fergie. A dazzling lass, that one. Between her one-handed headstands, maximum swagger and lady lovely humps, she offered every suburban Dads something to groove on from the safety of their seats -- even if half her vocals did sound like they were run through a tank of helium. That said, Fergie proved worthy of the love she engendered. Why, I found her 'Big Girls Don't Cry' downright spellbinding - if only because I would have sworn cash money that song was sung by Beyonce. Or Alicia. Or quite possibly that Beckham lady... Cadaver Spice, I think they call her.

So there you have it: my full admission that by the time the last of the confetti fell over the RBC Center, I counted myself a fan. Sure, their music is befitting a junior high pep rally, their lyrics are about as introspective as a John Mayer tweet and they'll never be accused of nuanced song-craft... but with their spastic back-up dancers, goofy posturing and overall message of acceptance, The Black Eyed Peas are using their power for good and not evil. This parent really appreciates that. As for my daughter, she loved it - though she spent much of the concert texting her friends the song list, snapping these photos and trying to forget that the shadowy figure poppin' and lockin' right beside her was in fact, dear old Dad.

Take THAT, Jo-Bros...

Soothsayer to Player

Local folks know him as a mild-mannered meteorologist, but the REAL Charles Ewing is a lightning bolt of chutzpah, opinion and style. Around the station we call him 'The Showstopper' - and not just because he interrupts football games to talk about low pressure systems. Of course, when he's not layin' down the weather, he can be found riding shotgun with any number of El Ocho's finest. That includes me. Over the years, we've dug through dumpsters, dined on the finest swine and fended off a fan or two. Charles get that a lot - but as an arbiter of cool AND a family man, he staves off the affection of green-screen junkies with slightly-chilled aplomb. But this hep-cat has claws, too. Once I inquired how long this rain might last and he threatened to garrote me with my very own Leatherman! Okay, so that never happened, but when you roll with a stone-cold prognosticator, you learn not to ask about the elements. So the next time you flip by your favorite forecaster, remember: there's more to the man than just some three degree guarantee...

Just ... don't ask him about his glasses. He swears they help him spot rain clouds...

Executive Derision

While it doesn’t warrant a full-on Schmuck Alert, the recent collision between reporter Wendy Saltzman, Dekalb County CEO Burrel Ellis and his rather frazzled Public Information Officer was a gret big exercise in AWK-Werd! Seems the elected official didn’t want to address Saltzman’s ‘tough questions', so she showed up at a meeting and executed a near-perfect ambush: blocking his egress, demanding answers and keeping her cool. The result was an awkward waltz in which the intrepid reporter got no new answers, yet exactly what she wanted. Depending on which side of the lens you call home, her performance was the very definition of gauche or Democracy in Action. Me, I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot it. Earning my stripes at the Dawn of COPS left me well equipped to storm the gates, but ever since William Shatner stopped hosting Rescue: 911, I’ve felt the need to ratchet my glass past happenstance less and less. Besides, if I wanted to be accosted by a woman with a scarf, I’d rush whatever bunker Stephen Tyler is hiding in and take my chances. Until then, watch my back would ya? That PR lady’s got a broach and she’s not afraid to use it!

Blades of Glory

Should ever I find myself stranded on a far flung stone, riding a rooftop or simply sucking seawater, I hope like hell it's in North Carolina. That's because my home state has a crack squad of action figures ready to pluck me from the edge of peril. Yesterday I was among a half dozen journalists permitted to tag along as pilots and paramedics took turns giving each other a lift somewhere above Badin Lake. It was not a bad way to kill a couple of hours. Then again I'm always up for an early drive, a dizzying visual and time with fellow photogs I don't yet know. I only wish I'd gotten the name of the two Charlotte shooters I chatted up in the back of that Colonel's pick-up truck. You'd think after hunkering down under swooping choppers, we'd exchange business cards or something, buy everyone had their hands full of heavy glass they didn't own...

Besides, one interloper I recognized. Jennifer Moxley, she of News 14 Charlotte, greeted me with, "Hey, you're that guy with the blog..." She then reminded me of a conversation we'd had outside a federal courthouse four years ago as we both waited for some fallen lawman to emerge in handcuffs. I grinned at the remembrance, but then promptly had to duck and cover - lest the National Guard Blackhawk hovering above me kick up enough forest shrapnel to cleave my fool head off. That's about the time the photo was taken, proving that, while I have walked away from two close scrapes, the encounters have scratched my psyche. Thus my curious posture, a sign I'm more than ready to run should the roaring war-bird directly overhead decide to take a drop a deuce. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a chiropractor to harass...

My neck is killing me.

Drafting Danica

I do hope Danica Patrick is ready for what a NASCAR career will bring. Not only will she have to master restrictor-plate racing, she'll have to trade paint with the likes of Kevin Wrenn. Better buckle up! El OCho's premiere sports shooter is a wiry brute; tenacious with a Capital T, competitive to the point of bloodshed. Why, in certain camera corners he's known as The Siler City Assassin! That's why when this Orlando Sentinel photo surfaced, I had to laugh - for if NASCAR's It-Girl is gonna outrun Wrenn-Dawg, she'll need a faster car, a richer sponsor and quite possibly, a restraining order.

Boogity-boogity...

Size Flatters...

I always knew our modern fancycams would appear ludicrously huge one day. I was wrong. They already do. Case in point: In the attached photo, it appears I'm balancing the engine block of a VW bus on my shoulder. In fact, it's just my axe: a slightly battered Sony XDCam that I know better than some rooms in my house. For nearly six years now I've dragged the damn thing around with me - so much so that when I dream at night, it's usually stuck to my imaginary face. As field cameras go, it is an apex predator and with it by my side, there's no deadline or live shot I cannot slay. Were the camera a guitar, it'd be a Fender Stratocaster with SRV etched on its surface. Yes, you could say I love this electronic recording device - in much the same way other men love automobiles, power tools or football teams. Too bad I'll soon lose her...

No, I'm not hanging up the lens to pursue professional table-tennis (not yet, anyway). But a smaller, lighter, weaker rig IS in my future and until I get in the business of buying TV equipment (instead of just transporting them across county lines), there's not a lot I can do about it. Besides, I think I'm ready. A diminished lens will be harder to use. What used to be accomplished through mere muscle memory will now require three levels of computer menu maneuvering that I will no doubt fat-finger for the first year and a half. But it will no doubt be Hi-Def, a format I've foamed at the mouth over ever since WRAL put 'em on the street so many moons ago. What's it matter that it's made of blended polymer? Or that every other press conference will be as soft and bouncy as that famous shot of that Branch-Davidian compound the ATF torched in Waco... And outside of every sports shooter I've ever met, who really cares how big your unit is? Okay, so trading in an shoulder-mounted cannon for a plastic pea-shooter is a little emasculating, but as the father of teenage girls, that's a concept I'm pretty familiar with...

Just don't ask me to downsize my career goals. They're already pretty diminished.

Head of the Glass

I've said it before and I'll say it again: live shot viewers get robbed! All they see are attractive telecasters pretending to be alone. What they don't see is what happens just out of frame. Pantomime, feats of contortion, crowd control ... that and a whole lot more goes down on the far side of The Fourth Wall. But it's not like we're hot-doggin' back there. YOU string together a mobile studio in under ten minutes while someone counts backward in your ear and sleet ricochets up your nose. You can do it all right, but like lottery tickets, leg warmers and ladies' night, going LIVE(!) under duress reveals your true character. Me, I'm fine - until some infernal contraption inside the truck craps out and I devolve into a pissed-off pre-schooler. Hey, we all have our weaknesses. Mine just happens to involve an unhinged reaction to dying batteries and dirty weather.

Other photogs I know handle such snafus far better - utilizing grit, precision and just a wee bit of histrionics. What can I say - we're communicators! Just not the kind you're used to seeing on your TV set. That's a shame really, for with all that's going on behind the scenes, reporters often have the best seat in the house. Electronic meltdowns, emergency tapectomies, even the occasional pee-pee dance... yes, those known as 'talent' see it all. Don't believe me? The next time you're watching some pretty reporter prattle on from the middle of nowhere, get really close to the screen and peer deep into her eyes. Chances are you'll catch the reflection of a techie - a burly, surly shape wrestling with an epilpetic light stand, dozing at attention or fending off some who somehow showed up with a list of shout-outs. Of course, all photogs are not created equal. Some seethe, others putter. But the real pros take all that strife in stride...Take my pal Matt up there: he'd been standing in cold rain for the better part of an hour when I snapped this picture and still he radiates mirth and understanding. Of course, that IS the same look he gets just before he rips somebody's lips off...

And you'll never see it coming....

Gerald Hege: Back in Black

Hey, I'm no stylist, but I did find Gerald Hege's new look arresting as he sauntered past me into the Davidson County Board of Elections building the other day. Black jeans, a matching Henley, all cinched together by a collared pair of shades and a high-waisted motorcycle jacket. Why, he looked fabulous enough to win back his jurisdiction and drop-kick Steven Segal all at the same time. But then, the former Sheriff of Davidson County has always had an eye for fashion: the broad horizontal stripes he made his chain-gangs wear, the sickly pick paint he slathered on jail cell walls, the sleek black 'Spider Car' he tooled around town in... Nope, no one ever accused this fallen lawmen of not having any style. But Hege saved the real savoir vivre for he and his men. High-laced combat boots, jet black fatigues, questionable epaulets. Hell, I once saw set up a roadblock on I-85 while wearing a camoflauge onesie, spats and a pith helmet! Okay, maybe I didn't - but with Hege's tastes, it's not outside the realm of possibility. He's always been that kind of pop icon with a paramilitary flair... You know - like Michael Jackson!

But unlike the King of Pop, Gerald K. Hege couldn't avoid prosecution. In 2003, authorities charged the self-styled crime fighter with 15 felonies and suspended him from office. Rumors of embezzlement, nepotism and all kinds of false pretense swirled around Hege until the man with a "No Deals" sign on his office door accepted a plea agreement, eventually pleading guilty to two felony counts of obstruction of justice. I was outside the courthouse that day and as a (somewhat) humbled Hege emerged from within, I knew it wouldn't be the last time we heard from this oh so controversial constable. At the time, I was just coming to terms my writing compulsion and in a way I hated to see him go. Six years later, my biggest literary regret is that I never gave this larger than life figure the Lenslinger treatment. Well, it looks like I'll get that chance after all...

'Cause Hege's Back (in black). Now a convicted felon who's no longer allowed to carry a weapon, the man who wallpapered his office lobby with self-congratulatory press clippings finally has the street cred to truly be the bad boy he always claimed to be. Since he left office in disgrace, the city of Lexington has gone back to being known for barbecue, a sedate replacement has rid the department of any inappropriate bling and all the TV stations have shuttered their Davidson County bureaus. As a fan of civil liberties and skeptic of all things hillbilly-ninja, I breathed a sigh of relief when Hege left office. But as a newsman and satirist, I wept openly. I've met some real doozies in my day: ghetto preachers, rock stars, shackled wackos... but I've never run across anyone like him. A master showman, cocksure politician and self-avowed enemy of the criminal element, Gerald K. Hege has the grapes of an ape and an ego to rival that other polarizing figure I've chased down a few hallways, Simon Cowell. Now that he's trying to get his old job back, all the Piedmont's a pundit. 'Surely the good people of Davidson County won't re-hire that felon!' I hear them say. Perhaps not, but I've eaten lunch in enough swine dives around Lexington to know his supporters are just as rabid as his detractors. Whether or not this latest move is his first step to redemption or merely a failed footnote to his tarnished legacy, you can believe one thing: Gerald K. Hege will plot his comeback with swagger, menace and panache...

I just hope he doesn't start rockin' that Smokey Bear hat again. That's a hard look for anyone to pull off...

Sermon on the Mount

Damn the News Gods. First they curse me with three straight days of general assignment strife; stripping me of my cloaking powers, making me chase potholes and pariahs until IQ points dribble down my chin. Then they lock me in a live truck where I serve a kind of purgatory known only to lenslingers of my vintage. Then -- just when I'm about to rip my eyelids off from sheer, tortured boredom, the heavens open up and I am beckoned Westward. That's what happened this morning as the Suits in the Room chose to throw me a bone. "Pilot Mountain's shut down. Go find out why." I was out the door before they finished their syllables - not because the Surry County summit was going anywhere, but because I'd been spinning my wheels all week. But all that consternation faded away as the ribbon of asphalt known as Highway 52 spooled out before me. I followed it and by the time Pilot Mountain hove into view, I found myself humming a familiar tune...

I've mentioned before my fixation on 'Mount Pilot' ... the way it calls to me whenever I zoom by its base, the photos of it I keep in my glovebox, how I like to shape its shoulders in peanut butter whenever the wife's not looking... Look, I've already revealed too much. Let's just say I got great love for this monadnock; whenever I can storm it, I do so with glee. Even when the whole place is shut down and I got to hitch a ride with a passing park ranger. Keith Martin was an amiable host: he chauffered me around the broken backroads of the great knob, and didn't even flinch when I asked about the pod people. A crafty one, that one. No bother: I'll gladly skulk away with my bounty: an incidental enough package - that, while it won't win me any pageants - was far more fun to shoot than your average sat truck convention. Now, get off my cloud!

Lombardi Gras

Covering Mardi Gras is kinda like being in a bar fight. The surging crowd, the airborne alcohol, the flying elbows, and that’s just the grandmothers. Add a big silver football and 53 newly minted world champions to the mix and you’ve got what locals are calling Lombardi Gras. It’s a party of biblical proportions and only a team owner with his hands high over his head can part the Black and Gold Sea.

Whodats from around the country converged on the city below sea level to celebrate their team’s first Superbowl victory and thank the players who brought it home. But nary a bare breast was to be found. The WhoDat Nation ain't your ordinary Mardi Gras crowd, and this was Dat Tuesday.

The blogger formerly known as Turd was in that number as the lowly, street-level live camera at ground zero as 800,000 of his closest friends jumped and shouted for cheap plastic crap falling from the heavens. But mostly, people doused lens and lens-meat alike in exuberant, spittle-filled clichés as they cheered the state's new heroes.

Street-level Mardi Gras day is tough enough when you not tethered to an overstuffed logo-van, try strolling through the throng to the safe side of the barricades with Chet Dimplechin on one wire and a surly truck on another. It ain't pretty.

Now, take away the barricades and put yourself in the middle of the action. Turd says they took no prisoners, unless you count the kid Chet stiff-armed getting to Reggie Bush and the pregnant woman he clothesline with his mic cable running for local Superbowl hero Tracy Porter.

For veterans of the Beer-and-Vomit Fest like Turd, it's all in a day's work, and to think, he gets to do it all again next week.

Schmuck Alert: Tripodicide!

Hey, wasn't there a Stephen King movie where all the old people turned into homicidal whack-jobs? If not there should have been - for it's a highly cinematic scenario. Just ask Jim Morrison. No, not the allegedly dead Lizard King - the Univision photojournalist who was recently accosted by a deranged maintenance man outside an Albuquerque warehouse. Apparently, the elderly fellow didn't want his picture taken (lest the lens steal his soul). How can I be so sure? Morrison's video clearly shows the unidentified man expressing his rancor with a flagrantly displayed middle digit - before taking issue with the sticks. Look out! He's got a collapsible camera stand and he's not afraid to use it! Sorry, I just get a little jumpy whenever someone mistreats a three-legged beast. Which is just what this apoplectic elder proceeded to do: first slamming Morrison's tripod on the ground and then running it over with his pick-up truck. C'mon, Gramps! Someone slip a steroid in your Metamucil? Wheel of Fortune get pre-empted by another Obama presser? Still pissed about the whole horseless carriage thing? Whatever the reason for your rage, one would think a man of your vintage would maintain some level of decorum - or at the very least act like you got some damn sense. Instead, you display the kind of behavior that would send a fifth grader to Detention. That's no way to treat the media, Sir. Nor is it a proper example to set for the younger generation of custodial engineers who don't yet know how they feel about passing camera crews.

Schmuck!

The Live Truck Diaries

Are you there, Zod? It's me, Stewart. I know it's odd that I keep you writing you like this - what with you being an effeminate movie villain from my youth and all... But when your stranded in a live truck on the edge of someone else's destiny, the mind wanders. Besides, I used to have a poster of you on my bedroom wall and unlike the Farrah print that hung beside it, channeling your image doesn't feel so skeevy. So bear with me as I center myself, block out the electronics squawking over my shoulder and conjure up a space opera worthy of a Kryptonian refugee as yourself. Don't worry though, we got like twelve minutes...

I know, I know: a dozen sweeps round the dial doesn't seem like enough time to lionize the heavy in a bad 70's sequel. PFFT! I've fashioned whole parables from nothing but dashboard dust motes in fewer minutes. Of course, I was safely ensconced in a TV truck then, too. There's just something about a fully extended mast and splayed out cable that slows the Earth's rotation. Unless you're editing under deadline. Then time flies like that goody-two shoes dork in the red and blue suit. You know - he whose cape should not be laundered with everyday washables. 'Kal-El', I believe you locals call him... Either he's dry-humping my transmitter dish as we speak or there's been some kind of horrible bird-strike in the greater Lexington Metropl -- SHHHHHH!

I think she heard us. Her - the pretty one with the water bottle and Blackberry. Ever since I've been mumbling into the ether, she's been clockin' my every move. Personally, I don't trust her. A few minutes ago she sprayed hairspray right in my face, then like totally ignored me as she recited something called 'an intro'. I bet she doesn't even own any comic books. What little she knows of your kind comes from a Three Doors Down song and by the way, I don't trust any performer who loses his Southern accent when he sings. Yeah, you could call me paranoid. .. but I'm pretty sure some kind of nefarious super-villan is poisoning live truck generators - because after my third drag from the tail pipe, I got a little dizzy....

Perhaps that's why I couldn't find a phone booth.

PotholePalooza

Our nation's leaders may be up to their rhetoric in freshly fallen snow - but here in the Piedmont, we're moving on. You know what that means: Pothole Watch. Seems those jagged gaps in the blacktop are of towering import these days, what with the Superbowl over. Actually the smotherage of said pavement patches are as much a winter tradition as riots in the bread aisle. I don't know how you news crew roll in Buffalo, but here in the contiguous Southeast, we top off a good snowstorm with two or three days of intense hand-wringing... Will the Earth open up and swallow our city whole? Could your kids school bus get sucked into a crevasse? How DO you get drive-thru coffee out of real Corinthian Leather? Yes, it's a veritable telethon, but reporting on Pavement Quake 2010 is about as earth-shattering as covering a hole in the ground.

Not that your average news crew craves excitement. We get plenty of that. It's just pointing lenses at a future mud puddle carries with it a certain indignity. Don't believe me? Bum-rush an asphalt patch crew and tell them you need to shoot video of them working. They'll let you, but it's awfully hard to feel good about your career path when the guy with the bucket of highway sludge thinks your job is stupid. Still, ours is not to judge, so Emmy Award winning Chad Tucker and I tried to give it our finest effort - it being Monday and all. First we hunted down the City Worker in Charge of Filling Potholes and Fending Off News Crew. I'm not sure if that's what his business card say, but a guy I know only as Dwight spent much of the morning answering our questions, wrangling work crews and rolling his eyes. Not always in that order. Then again, when you have a half dozen journalists phoning you with breathless queries about crumbles in the infrastructure, a little sarcasm is all but required.

Undue confession: Chad and I bagged on our assignment too. It's hard not to when your utilizing thousands of dollars in electronic equipment to get to the bottom of a four inch ditch. And while I'd like to apologize to the minivan mom who found my roadside presence so distracting (Eyes on the road, lady!) and to that pedestrian who asked me what was going on (Foghat is NOT reuniting), I for one harbor no remorse towards the gang-bangers who nearly stopped my heart with their ill-timed horn blast and indecipherable knuckle language (Hey, I don't roll up in your workspace and spotlight the bodybags... Oh wait -- I do!) Hmmm, where was I? Oh yeah, complaining about Pothole Watch. Wouldn't my talents be better served examining the human condition or at least chasing a dog in a funny hat? I mean, c'mon producers, who really gives a rip about some hole in the road anyway?

What's that? Folks are flocking to our website to report their own potholes? Newsrooms phones are ringing? In-boxes are flooding? Servers are crashing? Rating diaries are being rewritten?

Forget I mentioned it...

Upon Reflection...

Youthful exuberance: it's powered more local live shots than an acre of camera batteries. I should know; I entered this business young, dumb and full of enthusiasm. Why just being near the antiquated gadgets that populated my first TV station electrified me -- and that was without sticking my tongue on the cart machine's power plug. But as intoxicating as I found my first affiliate's interior, I couldn't wait to get outside. That, I thought, is where the ACTION is. One look down the hall at the fellows with the dusty cameras and the seen-it-all expressions and I knew what I wanted to be: Lenslinger. (Actually it would be years before that name came to me; years after a college kid took a friend of mine hostage and thrust me onto the scene of unplanned calamity.) From there I insinuated myself behind a news kind of lens; one that would take wherever I wanted and a few places I didn't. But they were very few. Yes, back then I'd repeatedly suggest I ride on TOP of the police car if I thought it made for a funkier shot. It often did and I'd rush back to an edit bay with my bounty; eager to chop, slice and stretch the sights and sounds I'd collected in the name of news. It was nothing short of revelation and every two weeks they even paid me! Sort of.

That, of course, was some time ago. In the years that followed I bounced around a bit, shot every kind of news story there was at least twice while pretending to be cynical. And then it took! No longer faking my thousand yard stare, I decided I knew it all and didn't like any of it - all because I'd televised a few midnight drive-by's. In fact I might have become completely unfeeling had I not fathered two girls. See, driveway hugs and playroom Barbie towns will soften even the crustiest of cameramen. Eventually, I came around and while being a Dad didn't make my job any easier, it sure as hell put it into perspective. No longer jazzed over the cop-shop beat, I followed my instincts and Kuralt-like aspirations into the back half of the newscasts. There I could be creative and alone, unfettered by toothy reporters and glowering deputies. What followed was a decade or so of B-Block fodder and when I looked up from my umpteenth Easter Egg epic, it struck me I was no longer cool.

These days, I'm counted among the elders - a not so washed-up used-to-be, age 43. That's 106 in photog years - dead to you and me. And while I'm not yet ready for that pine box out back I readily admit I'm not the immortal lenslinger of newscasts past... I'm that dude who'd just as soon be left alone... I promise my package will be among the best in your show - if only you get the eff out my way....So why am I dredging this up again? Simple. I glimpsed the guy I used to be outside the Civil Rights Museum the other day. His name is Brian White and I pass him in the halls. But the other day, this production assistant joined us out in the open for a full day's clot of gratuitous live shots. His help was needed and we greatly appreciate it. But what I've come to savor the most was the random snapshot Weaver took around lunchtime, for the determined satisfaction on young Brian's face as he manned a reflector took me back to a simpler time, when every live shot felt like a shuttle launch, cell phones came with their own leather shoebox and all-knowing anchors burped the word of God...

Pace yourself, kid.

Our Man in Miami

While I wade through week old snow here in the Piedmont, 'Colonel' Ken Corn is sticking his toes into the sands of South Beach. Okay, so mostly the Charlotte photog is stuck in a sat truck; one of the many mobile newsrooms currently camped out around Miami. Seems there's some sort of religious event involving pig's skin down there this weekend and the good Colonel's got orders to report on its many sycophants. Of those, there are plenty. Athletes, gasbags, flunkies and pundits - all converging on a city not known for its subtleties for a celebration so staged, so garish, so deeply American it can only be called 'Super'. But it's not all fun and games for the embedded journamalists. First, there's there's the not so wintry weather...

Well, I got one word that will strike fear into every photog’s heart, HUMIDITY. Yea, it wreaked havoc on me today. The first time I fired up the tape machines in my satellite truck this morning, they refused to work. Both editors gave me an ERROR-1 HUMIDITY. I had to run the A/C for an hour with the decks open before they would cut tape. Next was the blasted camera. Because I ran the A/C so hard, when I took my camera out for a live shot, it rolled over and died. The lens is full of fog and the tape will not roll. I got it to do the live shot, but other than that, it’s just a fancy boat anchor. So I had to have the A/C cranked for the decks, but it screwed my camera. I can’t win. I should put my camera in the cab of the truck from now on to keep it acclimated. Speaking of the satellite truck, well, without getting too technical, let’s just say I had a few problems there as well. But, all my shots made air, even if one of them was the wrong aspect ratio. Isn’t everyone 16 x 9 now? I thought the sports guy looked like he lost a lot of weight.

Weather and technology notwithstanding, there's a chance to kibitz with the rich and gifted during Media Week - provided you make your 18 daily deadlines...

Media types like me get to mingle with the players. Some players have their own booth as if they are on display at a convention or something. The “lesser known players” (yea, I heard a reporter actually call them that in a live shot) just walk around hoping for a cameraman to stick his glass in their face. So, did I get to meet Payton or Drew? No. I was out in the parking lot setting up the satellite truck. Truck operators don’t actually get to participate in the events they cover. Instead of hob-knobbing with famous NFL stars, I walked over to the Wal-Mart next door and found a killer deal on Hawaiian shirts. Slinger will be proud of the orange shirt with yellow flowers I picked up for eight bucks!

Proud I am, Colonel - if only because I know you'll still be wearing it the next time we break bread in the path of a hurricane. For now, though tell me 'bout those hot Miami nights...

Also, I’ve got to tell you about the Media Party the NFL put on out at Miami Beach (also a city not part of the metropolitan area of Miami) late in the evening. The party was on the beach! They had a live band with dancers dressed up like cheerleaders. They provided free food and free booze. The NFL puts on a kicking party. The dancers/cheerleaders started a line dance and we all joined in. Later, I saw my co-workers walking away from the bar with a beer in each hand and two more tucked up under their arm pits. Yee Haw!

I'm sure what the colonel meant to say was that he and his fellow professionals will continue crafting coverage of this blessed event into the wee hours of the evening, whereupon they'll pause for quiet reflection before turning in feeling old, sober and alone. After all, this isn't some silly game they're down there covering...

(Click here for Colonel Ken Corn's complete debriefing of Media Week in Miami. And know that Florida is bursting at the borders with photogs and sports dorks. Our very own Chris Weaver just rolled up in Daytona and will soon file reports from the cradle of Nascar civilization. Me - I'll be at home waxing my snow shovel...)

The Perfect Swarm

Whew! Here I was wondering how I was gonna describe what it was like to cover the opening of the International Civil Rights Museum and damn if I didn't capture the feeling in a single frame. How'd that happen? Oh yeah, I clubbed an old lady in the face to protect my portion of the swarm. Okay, not really - but had this long-awaited ribbon cutting lasted more than twelve seconds, Granny would have gone DOWN. Scrums are dumb that way. One moment you're leaning against a tripod spreading lies and the next you're planting an elbow in the chest of your closest competitor. Take the above photo for example: half a minute before I snapped it these combatants were engaged in idle chit-chat. But let Jesse Jackson and pals grab a pair of giant scissors and shit goes all slow-mo like those scenes from The Matrix. I myself was holding up a wall across the street when I saw the distant nucleus form. With the kind of fluid motion reserved only for 43 year olds, I lunged toward the doorway - just as hundreds of spectators did the same. It was only my sensible shoes and utter lack of shame that enabled me to get within arms' length of the history being made outside the old Woolworth's building....

As fascinating as the sight of grown men hacking away at a red ribbon is, my eye was drawn to the rabid pack of lenses to my immediate left. Though I knew many faces in the crowd, their identities blurred as they formed an impenetrable wall. That's when the good folk behind me decided no damn cameraman was block their entrance to the new museum. What followed was a flurry of flashes and press passes, thanks to some caffeinated activists, six saints in the making and a few confirmed assholes. Luckily I was able to hold my ground, but only because I learned how to mosh in Hollywood - where grown women willed themselves into seizures every time Simon Cowell passed gas (which was often!). Yes, compared to an American Idol audition, today's collision of lenses and citizens was incredibly chill - and it featured a lot less body glitter!

Me - I'm just glad it's over. The International Civil Rights Museum - located in the very same five and dime where four black college kids changed the world by demanding service and respect - is long overdue. Regional media outlets have been planning for months how best to cover today's dedication. Most went with total team smotherage - as a result I saw a lot of friends today. And though I never did get to go inside the museum, I hope to do so soon in the company of my kids - preferably on a day I don't have to body-check some senior citizen to get near the door. Now, that would be civil!