Election Day Hex

Ahhh, Election Day! There's no other twelve hour shift I'd rather spend making widgets than the day we put Democracy to the test. No matter where my news camera and I end up, it's usually an exercise in slow-motion. With that in mind, here are a few things members of the media can count on, no matter whose charlatan ascends to power. It's a lock!

A Change in Attitude

Sure, they've been sucking up every commercial break and robo-calling your dog when you're not home, but even your least favorite candidate is about to go all stoic. You'll first notice it at the poling place, where suddenly the guy in all those scathing campaign spots DOESN'T want to talk on camera. Instead, he just wants to look Presidential as he emerges from behind the curtain, hoping no cameras caught him fumbling with the 'Vote For Me' thingy seconds earlier. Give him space, he could burst into tears any moment.

Insightful Analysis

Somewhere around the first noon live shot, the electronic media's political acumen begins looking a little threadbare. First, there's the reporter stationed just outside the polling place who brazenly judges local turn-out by the number of people she spotted in her three minutes of being on-scene. Minus the ninety seconds she spent checking her look in the camera's lens reflection. Or the two minutes she spent coming up with a clever Facebook status update. Take that, Zogby!

Sustenance For All

Let's face it, election day is a long haul. From those useless live shots at 5 AM to the very last dose on speculation near midnight, the only thing not in short supply is all that overtime you didn't really want. Fear not, management is on your side. In fact, they just ordered two truckloads of pizza for your co-workers back at the station. Maybe if you're lucky, the weather guy will hold up a slice during his update. No licking the live truck monitors.

Danger at Every Turn

If you're unlucky enough to be camped out with a local candidate, you don't even have to check the tally to see how your guy is doing. If all is well the assembled throng will meet you with warmth and revelry, but if your candidate's falling behind, expect accusatory stares and the occasional rude hand gesture as those who welcomed you in earlier with a hardy back-slap will now be eyeing you with murderous rage Watch out - that lady in the tiara's clockin' your every move...

Danger at EVERY Turn!

She may look like your Grandma, but wander too close to a voting booth and that sweet old lady with the clipboard will carve a road map in your skull. Not sure why, exactly - but every polling place I've ever invaded has been run by some martinet in a crocheted vest. They mean well, but to a blue hair they're convinced you and your lens alone have the power to end Democracy as we know it. Don't laugh; I once saw a septuagenarian fend off a seasoned consumer reporter with nothing more than a number two pencil and a wicked back-swing.

At times this feels like a dead-end job...

...Other times it's a twisted adventure. Even when it's somewhere in between, it's a deep enough kick to prevent me from taking up something more noble - like taxidermy. Actually, after two decades of climbing the corporate foot-stool that is local television, I can honestly say I'm as close to content as someone as melancholy as me can be. Trouble is, my children are starting to figure out what Daddy really does for a living. Just last week, my oldest daughter accompanied me to a homespun haunted house and popped off a few shots of Dad in action. I appreciate it, but after watching me shuck and jive my way through a rather feeble feature, she''ll never again buy that line about me being a stockbroker.

I just hope she'll break it easy to her sister...

Curiosity's Henchmen

Contrary to what my neighbors think, I don't hang on my station's every update. Fact is, I watch precious little local news, a habit I picked up from my children back when their idea of a good time centered around a bucket full of Barbies. These days, I'm far more apt to crack open a hardback than willingly flip over and see what the hair-do's are sellin'. It's not that I don't wanna stay informed. But at almost 44 years of age, I got but so much cranium space to devote to jokers I don't know. Besides, as a practicing cameramanthropologist, I don't have time to keep up with each and every outrage. Not when I'm a phone call away from thethickofit.

"Hey guy, know that lady they say mowed down that cop? No? Well, she's scheduled to exit a courthouse door in thirty minutes. Be there."

Okay, so maybe that's NOT how Texas news shooter Michael Humphries ended up dead center in this photograph by Helen L. Montoya of the San Antonio Express-News. For all I know, he's absorbed every detail surrounding alleged drunk driver Sandra Coy Briggs. Or maybe he's like me and lives a full life without ingesting pixelated chit-chat. That way, he was unburdened with needling details and just joined in for the love of the hunt. Hmmm? What's that?

"I hate perp walks."

Maybe so, Mr. Humphries, but it didn't stop you from nailing the subject at hand. See, I've studied the resulting report and it has all the markings of a professional hit. The way you navigated that narrow walkway, flipped your filter wheel every time the light source changed and avoided taking out the radio guy with his over-sized microphone flag and electric blue i-Thingie. Not to mention your positioning! Pivot, spin or parry, you found a way to be where the camera demanded and as a result you bagged the perpetrator's dirtiest of looks! Hey, that's not just a felonious scowl; it's the kind of facial expression that launches a dozen updates. So while you may harbor a distaste for the chase, you didn't let it stop you from bagging your limit -- and you did it all with the kind of facial expression most often found on the faces of seasoned correctional officers. The mark of a pro, indeed.

Now if you'll excuse me, the guy who lives beside me wants to talk about the local moratorium on anteater farms and I gotta find a way to tell him I don't even know what that means...

Cue the Delusion...

You meet a lot of people in my business. Reprobates, scholars, rock stars. But the encounters are forced or fleeting; there's never time to know the soul behind the soundbite. After awhile, you kind of lose track. That's when the countenances blur; the victors and the vanquished all meld into one creepy set of features that haunt the one inch screen hovering over your mind's eye. Pretty soon, you cease to care as the faces keep coming at an infuriating clip. Before you now it, your stumbling through some ungodly portal, trying your best to wrestle control of the next high-def expressions to demand your own splintered attention... Then you realize you're not having a mental breakdown at all. You're touring a haunted house -- and a chintzy one at that! So you back away slowly, crack a bad joke about black lights and flashbacks, all while drawing attention away fromyour little freak-out back there at the mask montage. Hey, happens to the best of us...

Ways in Which I'm Not Like Weave...

...I don't gleefully drive into the teeth of a shit-storm. Weaver does; that's his Droid spewing live radar all over the the spotless interior of Unit 15. If I know Weave, he was racing toward the red zone while manning the scanners while popping off the occasional snapshot. Don't worry, though. Dude's like a trained professional. Plus, he's seen like every episode of Dukes of Hazzard there is - even that crappy half-season when they replaced Bo and Luke with weirdly inverted doppelgangers. But I digress - something you'll never see Chris Weaver do, as he usually bum-rushes the fecal spray without a safety goggle in sight. Me, I'm a bit more reticent.

In fact, when Chris and countless other camera-nerds were out chasing rainmakers, I was ensconced in a dry edit bay, smoothing out less than linear transitions and sorting Peanut M&M's. Hey, it wasn't like I was hiding! Rather, I was fleshing out an update on a grim hit and run. Mother Luck stuck me with a reporter today and while we hunkered over source material inside, the rest of the world was unraveling. Or so it seemed when I wandered into the newsroom... Scanners crackled, managers shouted and reporters read out loud... why it took me twenty minutes to slow-crawl out of there! Once I got back to my tucked-away edit bay, I considered sealing the door cracks with leftover bits of duct tape - in hopes of blocking any runaway light from catching the eye of a passing assignment editor. Nobody in here but us chickens!

Weaver, meanwhile, was triangulating cloud patterns with dispatcher accents, hoping like hell to pierce the thrum of the front so he could shoot some wicked cool footage and obtain videographer immortality. If it sounds like I'm mocking him, I'm not. Okay, so maybe just a little but the truth of the matter is I got mad respect for Weave and anyone else who voluntarily plunges into the Great Unknown. That, of course, is where memories are made; highly stimulating visual situations so deeply imprinted they'll be making your eyelids twitch long after you've been relegated to some rest home hallway. I got mine. So too does Weaver, but unlike so many others of his particular vintage, he's retained an insatiable taste for the uncomfortable chase FAR PAST the normal news career spoil date.

I really respect that - even if my own idea of proper rain-gear simply involves staying the hell inside.

That 70's Glow

Jean jackets, muscle cars, an unabashed doughnut addiction... it appears I have a couple of new heroes. Meet Ronnie James and David Robinson, two period lenslingers whose gritty days and grittier nights come alive on the pages of a 35 year old magazine. Many thanks to archivist extraordinaire Amanda Emily for tipping me off to said treasure. Somehow, Amanda always knows when I'm running out of steam. the pictures, articles and books she sends my way are a constant reminder that a captivating cameraman's account is not only possible - but has already been done time and time again by cats a helluva lot cooler than me. ..

But you knew that.

Roadies of Happenstance

I've absolutely no idea how I'll be spending tomorrow, which is just the way I like it. What I do know is some time between nine and ten a.m., a clutch of co-workers will disperse from a crowded room and with no small amount of snark tell me just what they'd like to see shoved into my news-hole come five o clock. Okay, so it could be at six as well, but the fact of the matter is there's about ninety seconds of dead air with my name on it each day and simply filling it becomes my manifest destiny well before the Seventh Circle of Hell takes shape, er I mean, well before Hoda and Kathie Lee take over the Today Show. Did I mention it never gets old?

Because it does. All jobs do. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's why they pay you in the first place. In my particular case, it's less than a King's ransom. Hell, it falls short of a court jester's clothing allowance - but what's few bells hanging from you hoodie when you're busy living your dream? Don't answer that; just know that my dreams have kinda changed since I worshiped at the feet of that Lou Grant Spin-off. You know, the one where Lou leaves the Mary Tyler Moore universe for a crack at running a city paper? It probably wasn't very good TV, but it sure as hell rung my eleven year old bell. Ever since, I've been infatuated with telling stories under less than stellar conditions. Hmmm? The Suits want a nat sound piece on the sign-language academy? Not a problem...

After all, I'm a photog. Though lacking any official sheepskin, I got a Ph.D. in Making Shit Happen. I also operate under the delusion that I've seen it ALL before - which technically isn't true. Still, it's a mindset that comes in damn handy when you're standing in the middle of the road and some family's beloved homestead is heading your way. It's the kind of assignment that's really pretty stimulating the first dozen time you do it. After that, you start to grouse a little when the hardhats start to dawdle. "Hurry up! I'm On Deadline here!", you want to scream but never do because not so deep down inside you know that the world doesn't operate on your schedule and even if it did, you'd find another highly creative way to bitch about it.

After all, you're a Photog.

Lips of a Hippo

Holy Halitosis! In all my time wandering the North Carolina Zoo, I’ve not peered into an abyss quite like this. But then, a pudgy river horse in need of a breath mint is just one of countless smells you’ll inhale when you walk around with a camera on your shoulder. Keep the pistol-grip; my fancy-cam needs a face-mask. Maybe then I wouldn’t gag the next time I stick my lens into something unsavory. Sure could have used a gadget like that when I...

...took a walking tour of a kiddie cough syrup factory. Hey, I’m all for making medicine taste better, but the sickeningly sweet synthetic hex that fell upon that place sure made me rethink my next Cherry Pop-Tart. Just sayin’.

...shot my last umpteenth feature at the animal shelter. As much respect as I have for the people and beasts within, I gotta say, that place stinks. You get used to it quick, but whenever I first pull up to the place, I french-kiss the air conditioning vent.

...stumbled across a flooded chicken house. It had been a week since Hurricane Floyd had passed when Bill Sherck and I happened upon what can only be described as a Grade-A poultry concentration camp. The low narrow barns had been submerged for DAYS. The water-logged fowl within baked in the midday sun. Foul, indeed.

...followed an uproarious team into an ECU football locker room. The mighty Pirates had just rolled over their opponent and it was my job to capture the clamor. That I did though the ‘Funkifus Musticus’ wafting through that gladiator gathering bested anything I smelt at sea.

And that’s saying something. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go floss my nostrils.

Let the Wookie Win

If the evil media is to be believed, WPLG Photographer Robert Palumbo WASN'T packing glass Tuesday night when some miscreant tried to sink an ink pen in his clavicle. Thus, it cannot be construed as an attack on the Fourth Estate - no matter how much I might like to. It should also be noted that Palumbo maintained equanimity - even after said nut-bag plunged a writing utensil into his neck. I make no such promises. Sure, I attempt to feign some level of refinement on a daily basis, but take a stab at me and I will quickly show you my country ass. It has as much to do with my upbringing as my profession, but before any further in discouraging you from assaulting a news shooter, allow me this disclaimer:

I am NOT a tough guy. Anyone who drops terms like 'miscreant' and 'equanimity' can, frankly, never claim to be anything but a hopeless word nerd. Guilty as charged. However, I did grow up with combative siblings, so I know a thing or three about trying to gouge your brother's eyes out while Mom ain't lookin'. But this isn't about me. It's about your garden variety photog and why - if you're fond of your fruit-basket -- you'll leave them the hell alone. Just please remember: I'm a lover, not a fighter. Those other fellas, I'm not so sure. Which is why I'm compelled to share with you five random reasons why...

YOU SHOULDN'T STAB A 'SHOOTER'...

1.) We Got Tools in Our Truck. Would you drop-kick a plumber? I wouldn't, for fear he’d hurl a wrench at me, or worse yet, punish me with his crack. Much the same can be expected from a TV News photographer, who also travels with a collection of medieval implements. Remember, the detached tripod leg is mightier than the sword.

2.) We are Vessels of Rage. Hey, we're not ALL unstable - but of the photogs YOU know, how many are ticking time bombs of tension and testosterone? I know one guy who goes postal whenever someone rearranges his camera batteries. Is this really the personality type you want to take on in a round of fisticuffs? Or even a heated game of Yahtzee?

3.) We're Already in Pain. A sore back, a thrown shoulder, pinched and blistered fingertips... When it comes to personal injuries, we photogs rank somewhere between bike messenger and rodeo clown. Whatsmore, we’e used to working through that pain. You want a soft target? Pick on a producer. Those cats complain when the fluorescent lights hum too loud.

4.) We Got Peeps! Bail Bondsmen. County Commissioners. Ghetto Preachers. Vice Cops. Consumer Reporters. I got all kinds of unsavory characters on Speed Dial. And while I’d never employ my Rolodex to wreak vengeance on my enemies, I really can’t speak for the Photog Nation. What’s that? There’s a phone repairman swinging nun-chucks on your porch? You’re breaking up...

5.) We Fight (Way) Dirtier Than You. Let’s face it: A courthouse camera scrum is no tea party. (Boy, that term ain’t what it used to be!) Even a bookworm like myself isn’t above throwing sharp elbows at people I actually like. Imagine the lowdown moves we’re capable of when fending off an rabid attacker. Better yet, don’t. Keep your meat-hooks to yourself and I won’t have to throw my back out reaching for that Leatherman.

Now, can’t we ALL just get along? Hello? Is this thing on?

Tweet Space Nine

When a Miami news crew found themselves in a badly damaged live truck, the reporter grabbed her iPhone and tweeted all the way to the hospital. That’s Moxie! But it got us thinking... What if other insatiable communicators were as diligent with their missives?

@SassyNewsLass: Weird. Giant shadow following our live truck. Scanners won't work. Roger the Photog keeps reshaping his Frosty with rusty Leatherman. Eeew!

@SassyNewsLass: OMG! Saucer shaped spacecraft hovering overhead! Strange musical tones keep repeating! Roger screaming something about his meal break. WTF?

@SassyNewsLass: ACK! Live truck aloft! Sucked up into odd beam of light. Logos glowing. Belly of craft opening slowly... Hey - I can see my house! Holla!

@SassyNewsLass: Small gray beings everywhere. Separated us. They say I'm their Queen. Roger not so lucky. Put up struggle. They're probing him now. TTFN!

@SassyNewsLass: Great News! I’m anchoring Galactic News Nine!! Grays say they adore my tape. Then they showed me Roger's spleen. OMG! I get my own billboard!

@SassyNewsLass: Resistance IS futile. GalactiCast going very well. Photog fellow now just head in a jar. Ratings in! #1 in carbon based bipeds, 25-54! GR8!

@SassyNewsLass: Floating over Tokyo. Grays acting strange. Ogling local hottie on sat feed. :-( Worried I’ll end up like photog fellow. What WAS his name?

@SassyNewsLass: Oh. My. God. Grays totally raided Tokyo. Say they dig Asians now. Those bastards! Dropping me off in open field --withOUT my headshots! WTF?

@SassyNewsLass: Watch my Special Tonight! “ABDUCTED! How One Brave Woman (and her driver) Fought Off Evil Aliens with Beauty, Grace and Style." Soo excited!

Dreaming Under Deadline...

We were seconds away from our live shot when the drugs kicked in -- but, really, THAT'S a story for another post. What I want to talk to you about tonight are dreams. I have 'em all the time: irrational passion plays, nonsensical operas, psychedelic slide shows. Out of nowhere they catch my mind's eye and before I know it I'm scaling the drapery in some vexing quest that can never be fully explained to a spouse who has to be awake in a couple of hours. I blame my job - as most every scenario I end up wrestling the ottoman over starts off with me and my gear traipsing over some twisted news-scape. Look - those trees are holding a press conference! And if I'm not mistaken, the ribbon those aardvarks are cutting is made of frozen gravy! Good thing I can transmit it all back to the mother ship with this handy neon egg-beater suddenly growing out of my forehead! How else would I make it through that long plastic hallway in time enough to stitch all those eyeballs and diaries together?

Don't answer that. Just know that when I do turn in, the deadlines keep coming. Why else would I wander through dreamland with a hundred pounds of the finest recording equipment 1974 ever chose to forget? I mean, it's pathetic enough trudging through this realm with a viewfinder in my face. Must I do so from the sanctity of my thirty year old Shazam(!) pajamas? (Don't ask.) Better yet, get the hell out of my dream! Must I share everything with you people? Can't a fella craft paragraphs that go nowhere withOUT insisting tens of citizens waste their time trying to decipher what are merely finger exercises? Again, your input is far from needed, as I'm obviously just choosing which delusion I'll use to scare the therapist I'm not seeing. Otherwise, how's a guy like me supposed to sleep? You know how many times I've slept-walked from crack-house to palace with faraway eyes - only to end up in some edit bay haze with only a panicky page from a producer down the hall to me distort my sordid torp ----

ZZZZZZ.... (Thanks to Rad for the disturbing photo!)

Otherwise Known as Wednesday

You ever park in some professor’s spot, grab your gear from the rear and scamper across campus with your dignity and lens akimbo? I did just this morning and the inelegant sprint was indicative of the day to come. But I’m getting ahead of myself... Hey, have you ever burst into a small room to find a friend of yours grilling the ex-President of Pakistan? I did, about forty-five seconds after jacking that Reserved space in front of Elon University’s Alamance Hall. Pervez Musharraf was well into his response by the time my own camera kicked into gear. When it did, I fell into the eyecup, brought the former world leader into sharp focus and felt my own senses dulling. No bother, I thought. I’ll just capture everything that moves, drag it back to an edit cave and let some other neanderthal ponder its contents. After all, I had a reporter impatiently waiting back at the station...

You ever triangulate sketchy directions with your knowledge of the topography while a better dressed companion talked to a man about a (stolen) horse? I did, just after lunchtime and for a few minutes there, it felt like it was going to happen. See, when a fellow faxes over an ‘urgent press release’, you kind of get the feeling he wants to talk on television. Not always so, I’ve found. Hey, you ever bum-rushed three Mexicans and the horses they rode in on? Brandon Jones and I sure did, confident the gauchos before us were fully expecting a camera crew to come a callin’. Only after a few minutes of international shoulder shrugging did we discern these fine fellows didn’t know what the hell we were rambling on in English about. That was odd, as they were in the very pasture we were told to go to. One even handed me his cellphone, whereupon I listened intently to the man’s superior attempt to clear up the confusion by yammering to me in broken Spanglish. By the way, what IS the Spanish term for ‘mid-life career change‘ anyway?

You ever cold-call a furniture executive and tell him you’re about to put him on television? We did, right around three P.M. and before the gentleman could wiggle out of the idea, we were in his building’s elevator. That’s how it goes when your stolen horse story rides off into the sunset, leaving a big chunk of black in your very next newscast. Thus, Brandon and I stormed a High Point tower two hours before the story we were about to begin shooting was scheduled to air. Luckily for us, The Suit in question coughed up enough answers to feed our jones and within ten minutes we were back on the street looking for a backdrop to fill. We found it just outside a certain showroom. The sales staff was irritatingly giddy at first, but with a few heavy breaths they calmed down enough to speak in complete sentences. Good thing, that.

Hey, you ever popped the passenger side of a live truck up on the curb just so the mast you were about to raise wouldn’t lean over and crash into a fourth story plate glass window? It was the least I could do as I prepared to execute the live remote that would no doubt push our broadcast straight to the top of the never ending ratings war. Once both left sided tires rested firmly on the sidewalk, I commenced to flip a strategic series of switches while the tony Mr. Jones turned fresh soundbites into a script. Minutes later, I hunched over a steaming Mac, splicing and dicing random shots of pedestrians and settees into a haphazard news package. I’d like to say I did it all by my lonesome, but it wasn’t so. Knowing I’d not yet edited Final Cut Pro in a truck, The Mighty Weave materialized like some newly skinny Obi-Wan. Nary a Jedi was beheaded in the ensuing minutes, but without a few tips from Weave, I may very well have thrown myself on my light saber. Ya know, if I HAD a light saber.

Speaking of which, you ever looked back over your career and realized that, like a certain space trilogy, the script was stilted, the actors bad and the effects weren’t necessarily special?

Yeah, me neither.

Three of a Kind...

It's not often three TV News photographers get to take part in a sit-down lunch, but that's just what happened when Weaver and I made a mad dash to Lexington to break (corn)bread with the legendary lenslinger known as 'RAD'. Richard Adkins tends to traverse the state, creating potent television for the powerhouse affiliate WRAL. He's a fierce competitor; normally when I see him it's in the heat of battle. Which is why it was altogether pleasant to meet him on neutral ground, where neither of us had to worry about what shot the other guy was getting. We laughed, we whined, we hoarked down some righteous swine. But no sooner had we gathered than it was time again to go, for the three of us were, as always, on deadline. Still, the photog fellowship was refreshing: full of tech-talk, war stories and more than a little mutual admiration. If that's so wrong, I don't wanna be right, for I enjoy RAD's company almost as much as I enjoy his work.

Remind me of that the next time we're jostling for shots of the Presidential Christmas Tree, some celebrated wreckage, or the Governor's every utterance. Chances are I won't listen, but remind me anyway.

Gripes of a Lifer

Hey, I'm all for steady employment but to be honest, I've been at El Ocho for about a decade longer than I planned to. How that happened is a long story, one involving children, crabgrass and a wife's steady paycheck. But who am I kidding? I love it here! And as long as The Suits let me cover the news sans meat-stick, I'll gladly hang out (until I hit the lottery/get a book deal/witness The Rapture.) Still, even we lifers gotta wonder if we've stuck around too long. Thus, I give you...

THE TOP 10 SIGNS YOU'VE WORKED IN YOUR CURRENT MARKET TOO LONG...

10) You know the competition's live trucks by their in-house nicknames.

9) You remember taking that manager lady out on her first story - when she was an intern.

8) You've got six generations of logowear hanging in your closet and you don't wear any of it.

7) By the time you learn the new reporter's name, it's time for his going away party.

6) You give directions based on decade old crime scenes.

5) Former colleagues keep up with their old station by following your blog.

4) You remember when this place had a travel budget.

3) All the local sheriffs know your name, but they still forget it whenever the hot new weather chick shows up on scene.

2) You've seen scores of coworkers come and go - and you actually miss a few of them!

AND THE NUMBER ONE SIGN YOU'VE WORKED IN YOUR CURRENT MARKET TOO LONG...

1) You write about it on the internet.

Ever have one of those shoots...

...where you just wanted to hand out paper bags for everyone to breathe into?

...where you were haunted by vivid flashbacks of your less than illustrious commercial production career?

...where you really began to regret all that fun you had skipping class in high school?

...where you had to physically fight the urge to set the camera down, run run the room, climb the nearest utility pole and start bellowing nonsensical Doors lyrics?

...where you found yourself wondering if it was finally time to launch that pro bowling career?

...where you decided it would be more fun to be tazed in the crotch by an over-caffeinated SWAT cop than continue this little production?

...where you realized it's these kind of exasperating assignments that will finally convince you to start writing that book?

...where you yearned for the monastic existence, comparative glamor and hip wardrobe of a lighthouse keeper?

...where for the first time since the Reagan Administration, you actually prayed for spot news?

Well, I have - and judging from the above photographic evidence - I'm not as good as hiding my thoughts about it as I used to be.

One in Every Herd...

I cannot begin to explain why this young fawn decided to move in with a herd of neighborhood cows, can't fathom why someone would actually call a TV station to report it, can't come up with a good reason why I pounded a half gallon of Guatemala's finest coffee on my way out there. All I can really tell you is that the Ginns family of Stokes County are indeed lovely people, that it somehow pleased the News Gods for me to be there and that a forty-three year old television news photographer can shoot a pretty passable story all while doing a wicked 'Pee-Pee Dance'. See if you can spot the moment where my sclera turned yella...

Crashing ConvergeSouth

Once upon a time I led a session or two at ConvergeSouth, the semi-annual web-head summit that takes place right here in Greensboro. This year, I just showed up and started rolling. It was a lack of tactics on my part; having meant to attend but never bothering to register, I promptly forgot about the damn thing until Friday morning. That's when a series of newsworthy events failed to happen and I found myself surrounded by producers annoyed that I was still in the building and blocking their view of The View. It was then I glanced at my Twitter page and saw news of the steepening think tank at North Carolina A&T State University. Knowing I’d have to somehow squeeze ninety seconds of TV out of a room full of computer geeks, I headed over anyway. After all, these are my people!

Or were they?

Once my eyes adjusted to the cavernous classroom, I found myself staring at a bunch of strangers. They weren't staring back, of course. Rather, their collective gaze was fixated on their laptops, their Blackberries, their iPads. Hey, this IS a tech conference! Giving the speaker one's undivided attention is Two Thousand and Late, anyway. Besides, what fun is it to hang with the techno-crowd if you can't electronically notify your disciples that you are in fact, hanging with the techno-crowd. Don't answer that. Just know that as I scanned the crowd, I did spot a few familiar faces. Polinsky, Wharton, Ainbinder, Hwang... Fine folks all the way around, but barely a fraction of the insatiable communicators that founded this gathering five years ago. 'What happened to the old gang?' I wondered as I trudged up the stairs. Did politics ruin the fun? Did infighting trump future-speak?

Is the McRib really back to stay this time?

I never found out, for no sooner did I grow bored with making smart people nervous than the keynote speaker captured my attention. More on him in a minute, but can I just tell you potent a tool even the crappiest TV camera can be? For example, an auditorium full of forward-thinking early adopters with heavy disdain for mainstream media and a raging gadget habit will STILL run their fingers through their hair whenever a fancycam is pointed their way. Anarchists, assassins, ar-teests ... no matter the mindset it's just human nature to sit up a little straighter whenever some camera-schlub cranks up the ole vanity-enhancer. If that weren't enough, nine out of ten audience members were absorbed in their Twitter feeds. Cradling my own mobile device (once called a "phone"), I knew that with a single hashtag I could plant my thoughts on the screens of the very folk who were clocking me out of the corners of their collective eye.

'Is it just me - or is the cameraman gassy?', I wanted to tweet, but sadly lacked the grapes to hit SEND.

Besides, it was too late for my tomfoolery - for by now the keynote speaker was really hitting his stride. Looking down at the program, I saw his name: Brent D. Payne, SEO Director. 'Cool', I thought - not entirely sure what SEO stood for. Turns out, it's Search Engine Optimization, a concept a needy narrator type like myself can really get behind. So could everyone else in the auditorium apparently, for folks actually started glancing up from their screens every now and then, before muttering to themselves and changing their status updates for the twelfth time in so many minutes. Not that Brent D. Payne minded. Dude was used to it. Listening to him run through surefire ways to increase your web-traffic, it occurred to me he'd been semi-ignored by classier crowds that this. Then I started tweeting tips myself, knowing that if I followed my new hero's every rule, I'd be overseeing a media empire to rival Howard Stern's, instead of sitting here nursing a cocktail and talking to you...

Not that I don't value our special times. Really, it's isn't you. It's me. I need some time to work on ME...

And We LIKED IT That Way!

You there, jabbering into the laptop. Nice suit. Hey, did I ever tell you how we used to put together TV in the field? It’s crazy now that I think about it, but at the time it seemed totally dope. First off, we ran around with these colossal cameras on one shoulder and a Samsonite full of VCR parts hanging off the other... VCR, Video Cassette Recorder. You know, those rickety brick like devices your parents used to play reruns of Barney on. You know, Barney - big purple dinosaur, first openly gay children’s show host. Anyway, we’d have to bring a bunch of these like, huge tapes with us, ‘cause once you filled them up, there they were. I mean, you could dub the stuff over to another tape but it took forever and the only draggin‘ and droppin‘ going on were the ashes falling off all those cigarettes they used to make us smoke.

Oh, and get this: All the microphones had cords hanging off them. No joke, they were physically attached to the recording deck. On shoots we’d be tethered to each other, me with the camera and deck, you with the big-ass microphone. On walk-downs and such, camera crews would get all tangled. It wasn’t at all uncommon to spend ten minutes afterward untying yourself from the other schlub sportin’ forty feet of cable. If you weren’t careful, you could even trip a civilian or worse yet, a cop! I once took a bailiff out at the knees during a gang-bang, thought I was gonna spend the weekend in the pokey. And then there were the lights. We used to attach these big ole landing strip lamps on-top of our cameras, then strap on a battery belt just to power them. A battery belt! A belt made of batteries! I shit you not.

Of course it really wasn’t all that bad, since we only had, what, two or three newscasts a day. Hell, if a ballgame or show went long, the studio crew would tape it in advance and cue it up for later. Can you imagine? News in a can? Of course back then stations still signed off at night. Yeah, around midnight they’d just throw up some horse blanket and chill ‘til dawn. No infomercials, no dirty 800 number spots, just a still image and - get this - tone. TONE! they’d blast that right intro people’s homes like it was some kind of air raid. I’m tellin’ ya, it was whack! Good thing was we rarely ever went live. Stations only had one live truck a piece back then, not a fleet like now. Yeah, back then if you were going live, there had to be a plane crash or a submarine hunt or some kind of cop car convention, Not like now when any old city council meeting attracts a satellite farm out back, I remember when we first got our - Hmm? What’s that? You’re trying to track audio?

Yeah, I’ll shut up.