Kringle Slinger

Not a lot of folks know this, but Santa Claus himself spends the off-season under glass. No kidding - nine months out of the year he shoots morning television down in San Diego. From what I understand, the local mostly leave him alone. Good thing, too - 'cause the old guy really gets into it. Rising early to run cable, Standing all handheld for hours on end, nursing his girlish figure every day at a different drive-thru... why, it's an exiled figurehead's total fantasy! Best of all - none of those filthy elves running around the place! At least that's what ole Kris Kringle said when he caught me stealing batteries out of his live truck. Said he was gonna out me on some kind of list --

--Hmmm? What's that? It's NOT Santa Claus? It's some dude named 'Big Al, the Weatherman's Pal' - that elusive shooter for Meteorologist Dave Scott on Good Morning San Diego Weekends on KUSI Channel 9?

Way to cancel Christmas...

Blue Heron Bliss

Indulge me a moment, for there are things far more important than local TV news. Like, my bike! It's a standard enough Trek with front suspension and a rigid seat, but when I climb aboard it becomes a heavenly vessel, one capable of defying gravity, folding time and bloodying my shins. It is quite possibly, my favorite possession. But for the better part of the past four years I've let it gather dust in the corner of my garage. Now, however, I'm back in its rock-hard saddle, thanks to a break in the weather and a totally intact mid-life crisis. No, I'm not gonna go drop coin I don't have on a shiny news Corvette (What kind of choad do you think I am?), but I WILL toss the Trek in my truck, find a winding path through the local jungle and forget my troubles as I surf the Earth. What I won't do is wiggle into those biker clothes, you know - the gay superhero look. Hey, you can 'don't ask don't tell' all you want, but if you're hanging out in the woods in day-glo spandex, it might be time to have that talk with the wife. But I digress.

Of course, to really get off track you need a narrow, twisting path full of bowls, berms and other nut-busting luxuries. Here in the Piedmont, we got that in spades. Why within a stone's throw of my humble abode, lies the kind of tail-derailing trail that can make a forty-something father of two feel a quarter of his age. That, or end up in traction. And while there are other, more fabled bike paths around these parts, I've become enamored of a place called 'Blue Heron'. With far fewer roots than I'm used to a nice, open flow, Blue Heron features the kind of jostling topography I could only dream of when I lived closer to the ocean. In fact, I'd only lived here a couple of months when a photog by the name of Allen Horton turned me on to the endless network of bike trails that tattoo our many parks. Since then, I've reveled in the scenery, the solitude and serenity of this thing called 'singletrack'. You can have your skinny-tired cycle and lime-green Lycra tights. I'll be down in the holler, rocketing over hilltops and trying NOT to wrap my torso around a tree.

Still, I had to know where I stand, er crouch. So I called on some folks with chain grease in their DNA. Jerry Wolford and Michael McQueen are friends of the blog and its somewhat humble author. Now, technically, they're both newspaper employees and talented ones at that. But I know them as crime scene connoisseurs, recorders of the the highest order and bruised enthusiasts of the pedaled pursuit. What I didn't realize is how hard they ride. The day I joined them on the Blue Heron trail, they easily outpaced me without breaking so much as a complimentary sweat. The nerve... not to mention the corpuscles! That HAD to be why 'Jelly and Da Mangler' could carry on a casual conversation while I fought to keep up and catch my breath. McQueen especially - with his BMX past - can turn a handful of scattered pebbles into glorious air. Why, I saw him bounce off a woodchuck, taco his wheel and still beat me back to the truck. That's including the breather he took while I stopped to hack up a few ghosts of cigarette past.

Though I felt like I'd been run over by a dump truck the following day, I did return to the scene of the crime long enough to turn the tables on someone even less prepared to bike than I. Weaver - he of the positive attitude and McGyver tattoo - brought his boys, bikes and brawn along for a Thanksgiving morning ordeal that would leave anyone with a monster appetite - provided you still had any teeth left at the end of the ride. As for the Weavers, they left with their bicuspids intact, but not before spending a couple of hours negotiating hairpin turns and unexpected dips at less than breakneck speed. Yeah, we weren't the fastest cyclists out there that day, but we were among the giddiest. Don't believe me? Watch the video below and listen to Weaver giggle, huff and snort. Those, gentle readers, are the sounds of a grown man shedding a few dozen years along with a couple of quarts of sweat. I'm not saying he had a good time, but the last time i heard him squeal like that, his Droid was wedged in his watch pocket and stuck on vibrate.



Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pry some tree bark from my teeth.

It'll be worse in Wellington!

There's certainly nothing I can add to this brilliant send-up of photogs and boot camp, so why even try? Enjoy... then check out the priceless thread it inspired...

Lifer's Lament

Pay no attention to the man behind the van. He's only doin' time. Okay, so a twenty year gig in local television ISN'T a prison sentence; those of us with numbers under our necks just like to pretend it is. See, I'm a lifer. I staggered into this silly business two decades ago and haven't worked up enough momentum to stagger out. I'm okay with that. Sure, I've seen many inmates plot their own escape - even helped a few clear the wall. Back in 1993, I myself even bailed. Fed up with being a one-man-band in a thankless bureau, I ignored my gut instinct and took a job pumping out commercial dreck for the man. I hated it and it hated me. So I followed some of the smartest folks I knew to a place called El Ocho. There I found a home where I could write, shoot and edit for a daily wage. Yeah - I thought my news bosses would take one look at my coterie of skills and insist I go back On Air. It did not happen. And as my hair's grown thinner and my glasses thicker, even I've grown less enchanted with my own reflection. So here I stand, a medium market television news photog who's pushing 44. Gimme a minute, will ya? I got to go breathe into a paper sack...

Okay, I'm back. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, teetering on the edge of a corporate stepladder. Honestly, it's a view I'm used to. Why, from way up here I can see the future of TV News and it's a broken, plastic landscape littered with the bones of poor souls like me, who never wised up enough to seek a new horizon. Or maybe that's the past. Truth is, no one knows what local TV news will look like a few years from now. Loyal viewers are dropping like overstuffed houseflies, new gadgets and fewer escudos are taking the team out of team coverage and everywhere you look, people are staring at hand-held screens, chortling at what some neighbor just out on their taco platter. I suppose we gargoyles of the Fourth Estate should continue to squint, cast scary shadows across the land as we fly away, the remains of our once beloved institution crumbling under our stony claws. Well, as my esteemed Father would say, "piss on that."

Honestly, I'm optimistic about the future of TV News. Sure, it's about to shrink, ripple, and remold itself into something new, but can you name another industry more overripe for reform? I can't, but then again, my eyes are a little off from staring at life through a tube all these many moons. But new bifocals aside, I'd say my vision's pretty clear. And what I see is a whole lot less people. Already, studios and newsrooms have found ways to do without half their staffs. There's more (or less) where that came from, for sure. And while I only wish joblessness on a precious few, no one can say they haven't been warned. Really, it's been in all the trades, not to mention that new thing the kids call the internet. Fewer producers, smaller anchor teams, less techies underfoot... it's all a bit of a drag. Unless of course you're a competent shooter who can write, edit, shuck and jive. Then you might be tempted to think the future is kind of bright, for once we get rid of the pretty people and pretenders, all that's left will be the likes of ME.

Take a moment to let that soak in. Feel free to lunge for the remote if you must.

Just don't get me wrong. I'm not celebrating the extinction of long-held jobs. Nor am I predicting any of this will make for a better viewing experience there at home. Quite the opposite, actually, for over the next five to ten years, broadcast news is going to get even uglier than it is today. But it's my utmost hope and half-held belief that whatever form local television news takes, it will be grittier, harder to watch, finally free of most of its hokum. I for one can't wait, for if local TV news stayed the same, I'd be even less inclined to show my lifer card in public. As it is, I'm still a bit hesitant. Too many talented people have let the fold already. Perhaps if I had more exciting options, I'd consider it too. As it is, I'm stuck under glass, biding my time, watching and waiting in hopes new opportunities will crop up before I resign myself to pumping out reruns. Am I kidding myself? Perhaps, but nowhere near as much as the spunky new reporter chick who's counting on a posse of underlings to do her heavy lifting. Who knows, I might even get out from behind this van...

Probably not, though.

Legends of the Scrum

Attention Rookies: Beware the dude looking totally chill in the middle of a shit-storm. He's about to block your shot. It's nothing personal. He's just been here before. He knows the podium and the players, his sat truck is perfectly parked just outside the door and he already knows what he's having for lunch. Don't hate him. He used to be you. But the rub of ten thousand newscasts has left him more than sore. It's left him strangely centered, gifted with a sense of Zen so implacable you'd be ill-advised to jack with it. Give him room. Know that he's made every mistake in the book, including a few he invented himself. So do yourself a favor. Be nice. He'll be nice back, for if decades of dealing with drifters, incumbents and news directors has taught him anything, it's that you don't HAVE to be an asshole just because you can.

Oh, and remember this: his time is more precious than yours. The suits know full well the powers he's honed. They expect him to bend space and twist time without getting his mullet in an uproar. If he came in one day able to levitate, his bosses would shrug, say it's about time and immediately assign him a three part series on Teaching Anchors to Fly. He'd do it too - not because he believes in the project, but because he refuses to put anything but his best on the air. How else could he stay so smitten with such a limited field of view? Don't answer, plebe. Just know that with enough fortitude, time and grit, you too can emit the vibe of a lifer.

Who knows, you could even rock one of those Three Musketeer mustaches the ladies love so much.

Cecil and The Beast

With TV news crews increasingly coming under attack, a few shooters are taking matters into their own calloused hands. Take Cecil, for instance. Dude got himself a bodyguard. And not some ex-bouncer oaf either, but a straight-up Eastern European killa. I first saw the guy outside the courthouse, smoking a clove cigarette next to Cecil's live truck. None if us camera schlubs thought much if it - until Vinnie walked over to bum a nine volt. Man in Black bent his fingers back. Now everyone's afraid to so much as brush up against Cecil in the scrum, lest his new bestie gouge a fella's focus out. A stringer I know swears he saw the same guy working security every time The Scorpions blow through the coliseum. Says his name is Vlad and that he smells like cabbage. All I know is my pal's new goon is killin' the vibe down by the crime tape. I can't even remember the last we all swapped war stories, traded stroke tapes or even hazed a newbie. Funny thing is, Cecil's a real pussycat. No one can figure out why he's blowing his own coin on a heavy. Hmmm. Maybe he got jacked by some elementary kids at one of those career days shoots.

That would do it for me.

Schmuck Alert: Silent But Stupid

Audio be damned, I'm calling this one on looks alone. I mean, really, get a load of this guy! The beady eyes, the glowering scowl, that overly bowed-up posture... who wants to bet he's got a shiny Corvette waiting for him in the parking lot? But that's not fair... I don't even know the dude. Until now. For when Nebraska Defensive Coordinator Carl Pelini honed in on TexAgs.com photog Brandon Jones, he clearly appeared on the Lenslinger Institute's internal radar and earned himself the right to be called a Schmuck on and off the field. Even if the evidence isn't entirely conclusive...

It happened Saturday, moments after Texas A&M handed Nebraska their cornhusked ass. The score was 9-6, but judging from judging from some folks' reaction, it was a crippling defeat. Not for Brandon Jones, though. He took to the field with a fancycam of sorts. As co-owner of TexAgs.com, he was out to capture all the post-game action for his website. Boy, did he! No sonner had he made it about mid-field, Jones captured footage of little man Carl Pelini seemingly berating a man. I say 'seemingly' because Mr. Jones neglected to attach the microphone before running onto the field. Thus, everything he recorded from then on out was devoid of noise. Silent. Nada audio. Hey, it happens.

What followed is a classic case of pantomimed testosterone. Little Carl notices the opponent's camera pointing his way. Turning on the proverbial dime, the Defensive Coordinator makes a bee-line for the lens, with straight up offense in his eyes. At this point, cameraman Jones makes another tactical error: He lowers the camera to his side. Thus, the alleged attack was not properly documented. All we see is a jostling as the frame goes out of focus. According to Jones, though, what happened next was clearly uncool.

“There’s this awkward moment where we’re eye-to-eye with each other,” Jones told me. “And I say, ‘What are you doing?’

It was then Jones claimed the diminutive coach tried to wrestle the camera from his grip. Not able to best the absent-minded cameraman, Lil Carl then breaks the eyepiece in several pieces, throws them into the surrounding crowd and storms off (no doubt to berate the nearest waterboy for some imagined slight). The viedo - while strikingly quiet - is avail;able on the web in glorious slow-mo.

I've watched it several times now and have come away rather convinced it happened just the way Brandon Jones said it did. There's simply no other explanation. Neither is there any good reason for an almost fully-grown man in a polyester uniform to act like such a child. A pox on you, Carl Pelini. You took a simple loss on the gridiron and turned it into a showcase of your own shortcomings. Is that what you teach all those corn-fed youth? No wonder you lost.

Schmuck...

Event Horizon

If you drove by a certain toiletries emporium the other night, you probably saw me leaning against that live truck. Truth is, I was barely hanging on. But you'd feign consciousness too, had your last eight hours been spent rushing headlong into happenstance. Most days, I dodge this kind of fruitless pursuit. Friday, I didn't have much of a choice. How it all came about never made much sense, but with a fresh deadline rapidly approaching and not a helluva lot else going on, logic is the first to fall. Which is why it's hard to explain just how exhausted I was as I watched traffic stream by my live shot. Who knows what all those motorists thought when they glanced my way? More than likely, they were just looking for someone famous. They couldn't have fathomed the truth: that a reporter they'd recognize was inside that very van collecting breast milk, that together we had launched and abandoned a hard-target search of every Christmas Tree lot in town, that we'd been saved from this insipid mission by some dude claiming to have a bomb in his duffel bag.

It all began in the morning meeting, when some well-meaning soul mentioned they thought they saw Christmas trees for sale on their morning commute. Exactly who foisted this deception isn't known, nor does it really matter. All that really matters is this simple fact: Before anyone could question the veracity of this unseasonable claim, the words 'Christmas Trees' were written under mine and a reporter's name. Somewhere down the hall, a guy in the Art Department began working on the over the shoulder 'Christmas Tree' graphic. The deed was done. Now all my reporter and I had to do was wrench reality in such a way that would fit the worldview of those who so rarely got outside. Did I mention the local tree lots stood empty? That the big box stores hadn't received their first shipment of former saplings? That even the local tree farm family was laying low until next week's Christmas Season kick-0ff? God knows I tried...

But to be fair, my words weren't worth a lot. I knew it too. In the world of morning meetings, a lousy idea still trumps nothing at all. So until I came up with something better to pitch, I was more than encouraged to swallow my opinion and go find some damn Christmas Trees. Besides, no one huddled around the conference room table believed such a story would ever make air. Surely some kind of spot news would crop up before the Six o Clock open rolled. A bus wreck, a meth-lab domestic, a demon sinkhole. Certainly something would crumble, jump up or erupt long before we took to the airwaves with tales of trees that weren't yet anywhere to be found. First though, we had to go through the motions - which means we had to hit every empty lot that's trafficked in trees since Bill and Hilary Clinton slept together on a regular basis. Hey, no one ever said this behind the scenes stuff was pretty!

We. Looked. Everywhere. Up and down the busiest thoroughfares, out behind Boy Scout huts, down around that garden center with the yard art out front. No matter where we went, we heard the same thing. This place will be hoppin' with trees this time next week. All seemed lost, until one of our many phone calls was returned. 'Yes', in fact, ' a few local Food Lions had trees on the premises and up for sale'. Without another word, my reporter and I raced to the nearest franchise and found a stash of unadorned trees leaning against the outer wall. Positive we'd hit pay dirt at last, we strode inside to congratulate the manager on his newfound free publicity. We expected him to go corporate. Instead, he went douche-bag and we were invited to take our cameras elsewhere. Knowing our chances of finding anymore cut trees was next to nil, I pointed my news unit due South. Thirty minutes away, the Spillman Christmas Tree Farm sat full but silent. The good people there hadn't answered their phone all day, but I was now prepared to drive straight there and take a hostage if that's what it took to get a cursed evergreen on tee-vee...

That's when it happened.

The Droid on my side blasted out a tone that told me the assignment editor had struck a vein. When I finally figured out how to make the newfangled phone stop ringing, the voice on the other end launched into a soliloquy. "Someone walked into the Bed Bath and Beyond on High Point Road and told the clerk he had a bomb. Stole some cash and the clerk's car ---" He didn't have to go any further. We raced to the store in question and found a cop car convention out front. The store folk weren't talking but the cops were feeling chatty. After no more than ten minutes on scene, we had everything were gonna get: shots of detectives smacking their gum, hardened shoppers rendered less than agog and enough store signage to remind everyone they're not even safe picking up a towel set for Grandma this Christmas. Laying in wait, we pounced on a few shoppers as they exited the store. We peppered them with questions. Did they want to be on camera wasn't one of them. Then, as quickly as we arrived, we left.

Two and a half hours later we returned, this time in a live truck. Since leaving earlier, we'd returned to the station, high-fived a producer or two over the sound news judgment and went to work on their new lead story. Not another word was said about Christmas Trees. Not with real news in the hopper. True, our story wouldn't change any lives. As robberies go, it was pretty inconsequential. Sure, the clerk lost her car and the company cash, but the average viewer would have to receive regular payments to even pretend to care. but the story of one loser's jihad against high thread count had more than enough to lead off a news cast. It had cop cars in the distance, a setting soccer moms knew well and, of yes, it had wordplay. 'Bed Bath and Bomb' the lower third graphic would no doubt read. The alliteration alone was worth it weight in promos. So as you can see, five hours of frantic effort can shatter upon impact when just a few minutes of the right kind of outrage presents itself in a timely manner.

I just wish the towel-hating bomb bandit would have struck a little earlier. Might have saved me a ton of runaround...

Have Logo, Will Block Fire Lane

It's said to be the only true perk of broadcasting: the right to park like a putz. Actually, I've scoured the by-laws of our profession and can't find anything about free-range vehicle placement. But you can't rewrite history and neither can you convince some 20-something slacker he's not allowed to snake the Mayor's spot. It's been that way ever since a TV station first slathered a Packard with false promises. It's as if those early call letters bestowed the fleet that followed with an eternal, mysterious power to pull over anywhere we damn well pleased. Why is that? I'm guessing it had something to do with the heft of our weaponry. Back then, even the most basic gear induced hernias in 4 out of 5 photogs. Or is it because our very tools sparked panic/joy/loathing in the hearts of otherwise placid taxpayers? Perhaps. Even to this day, the citizenry affords news vehicles and the crews within them access they don't always deserve. It's the kind of thing you won't find me pointing out to the crime scene crowd as they step back to let me place my unit right up against the yellow tape.

These days, of course, I roll sans logo. The unmarked life has its merits. I can slow-cruise a shopping mall parking lot without tipping off the rent-a-cops. I can space out at a green light without the dude behind me threatening to kick my weatherman's ass. I can even drive past a liberal college's student union without a single overindulged neo-hippie kid flipping me off. It's all rather refreshing! But stealth has it's downside. No more rolling up to a house fire like an ambulance driver. Now I gotta go through a lot of windshield pantomime to convince the firefighting underling I'm not just some freelance looky-loo but instead am a respected member of the local media scum, er, scrum. Sure, I got a laminated sign with El Ocho's logo on it, but it's not just the same as driving a minivan wrapped in day-glow peacock feathers. Been there, and got a heckuva better spot for my troubles. Oh well, at least I can live vicariously through the infractions of others by visiting the latest Facebook group, Media Parking.

Basically, it's pictures of cars. News cars. From massive sat truck gatherings to a lone news unit's refusal to park like a mortal van, this ad-hoc collection of logo-mobile porn leaves me strangely titillated. Maybe I'm just pining for the old days, when I could commandeer some executive's parking lot perk without any real fear of retribution. Whatever the reason, I'm not alone in my fascination. Already a butt-load of vehicular pix have been uploaded and the admirers of said site increase with every click. I believe that to be just, for if I can't get get away with spot-squatting like I once could, it's refreshing to see others break all kinds of social mores in cyberspace. Hey, isn't that why the internet was invented in the first place? Don't answer that. In fact, don't move. There's a grandmother hunkered down in a Cushman nearby eyeballing us both while stroking her citation pad. As soon as I throw this baby in PARK, hop out and run for the front entrance. She can't ticket both of us...

Just be careful how you open the car door. Those fire hydrants leave a nasty mark.

Here Comes the Pitch...

Who needs a gym membership when you schlep a camera everywhere you go? Even for a guy like me - whose current rig has all the heft of an empty shoebox - simple portage leaves me sore. Perhaps I should put together some kind of reality show exercise tape in which I'm flanked by two portly photogs in glistening wet rain suits. We could do the dead battery lunge, the hatchback slam, the cross country cable pull. Just imagine the plumber crack possibilities! If that's not enough, we could follow that up with a cooking segment using old Big Macs and room temperature energy drinks... Yeah, you're right - we should definitely work in the McRib. Maybe afterward, we'll cram everyone into an enclosed space the size of a live truck driver seat, hook electrodes up to everybody and see who can go the longest without passing gas. Unwanted exercise, a lousy diet, squelched flatulence - I'm telling you, it's Tee-Vee Gold! But what to name our new show... I guess 'The Biggest Loser' is officially taken. OOH! I know! We'll call it ...'Wednesday'

(Apologies to Corey Welch, whose kick-ass photo of freelance photographer Matt Gregoire got me thinkin'...)

The Droid You're Looking For

We were jamming sandwiches down our necks when the first fire truck flew by. I glanced at Weaver and he at me. Not a word was said but I couldn't help but notice he was fondling his Droid. Seconds later it was on the table, bleeding a steady stream of static and southern accents all over that Subway sandwich shop. I tried to ignore it, but between the fading sirens and my buddy's twitchy eyebrow, I couldn't help but chew a little faster. It's a good thing I did; within a minute or two Weave's Droid turned back into a phone. When it rang/buzzed/burped, I immediately knew three things: 1.) Something really was on fire down the road. 2.) I probably shouldn't have ridden with Weaver to lunch. 3.) A chocolate chip cookie wasn't in my future.

What followed can only be described as an out of body experience. No, I didn't hover above my own crumpled form while mumbling lyrics to an old Kansas tune, but I DID manage to gain a new perspective on something I've done a thousand times. Okay, so maybe I haven't covered a thousand house fires, but it damn sure feels like it. This time, however, I was unarmed. My own stunted fancycam was locked up back at the shop. Weaver and I had driven to lunch together and now I found myself digging fingerprints into his dashboard as he readied his famed triple lane-hop maneuver - all so we could watch a house of ill repute ooze a new kind of funk. "Get me killed over a crack house fire and I'll haunt your next ten descendants', I promised Weaver. He just grunted a hung a HARD left.

One terrorized church bus later, we arrived at our destination. Too bad the great unwashed beat us there. Yes, if you could have peddled popcorn to the crowd forming around that semi-inferno, you could give that Redenbacher fellow a run for his money. Why DO folks stop and stare at bent sheet metal, melting vinyl siding and the like? Why do they bother turning on the local news just so pretty people can spew death and destruction into their dens? How 'bout you forget I ever asked such a dumb couple of questions, since my very paycheck depends on the deep seeded need to rubberneck. Now, where were we? Oh yeah - in a Food Lion parking lot on the wrong side of town. It was there I realized I was lens-less. Then I remembered the Droid nestled on my belt. Have I mentioned this wondrous device?

I swear, the fine folks who make the Droid ain't payin' me to rave. Sadly, no one is. But I'd be less than blog-honest if I denied the news-gathering prowess of this (and other) smart phones. Mine's only a couple of weeks old and already I've called in an air strike, ordered three cheese pizzas and struck a number of rumble strips staring at the damn thing when I should have been looking out the windshield. I resolve to do better. In fact, I've kept it holstered for the most part as of late, which is why it took a moment to realize how easy it would be to document said - ahem - 'pharmacy inferno'. This I did with vigor, snapping off far more frames than this little calamity called for. Hey, it's what I do.

As for Weaver, he was all up in the cup, scanning the crowd for faces and finding them. After all, that's where the story is. Smoke, flames and hoses only stretch so far on screen, to make good TV you need peeps - be they wiseacre firefighters dropping commentary or trouble junkies leaning on a pole. Then again, thirty seconds of news only needs so many characters. Unless Osama Bin Laden burst through the front door with his turban on fire, this particular conflagration wasn't gonna make the half minute mark. Which is why, five minutes after we arrived, Weaver and I bailed. With separate shoots looming, we both had places to be. I guess cutting edge technology and Jedi like driving skills don't mean diddly when there's only a little smoke showin'...

Shoulda grabbed that cookie.

"...A Hard Thing to See."

It's shaping up to be a tough week for those of us beneath the glass. First, grief-stricken cretins assault the first photog they can find; now a veteran cameraman lies hospitalized after being hit by a car Tuesday night. It happened in Toronto; that's where 58 year old Bill Atanasoff was responding to the scene of a Special Investigations Unit probe. Fellow photog Tony Smyth watched Atanasoff pull up to the scene, but looked away just before the point of impact.

“There was this horrific smash,” Smyth told CBC Radio. “There he was on the ground. There was debris flying around, a hard thing to see.”

Several journalists did see Atanasoff fly through the air after being struck by a 1985 Lincoln Continental. The area was well lit, but the veteran Citytv photographer was wearing dark clothes. Police believe the camera on his shoulder obscured his view of the oncoming car. Police have yet to charge the 68 year old driver of the Lincoln but they're still investigating. Meanwhile, Bill Atanasoff remains in critical condition with severe head trauma, a broken neck, broken pelvis and broken legs. Chances are he may feel alone, but that's simply not the case. The Photog Nation is holding him close in their thoughts and using his undeserved plight as one more reason to keep both eyes open. Godspeed, Bill.

Shooting the Messenger

Over the years I've taken great pleasure in issuing Schmuck Alerts, those cheeky warnings in which I poke fun at pampered athletes, parolees and other pariahs who lash out at local lenses. Most often, the incidents are a tad trifle; harmless if if not regrettable episodes featuring otherwise lucid souls who, for whatever reason, suffer a momentary lapse of reason. THIS, is not one of those times.

It happened in Florida, Orange County to be exact. Hundreds of relatives of a 15 year old boy killed in a hit and run incident were wrapping up a memorial service when anguish morphed into rage. Exactly what caused that tipping point is unclear, but it's believed the father of the deceased took exception with the way a Spanish language news crew interviewed his surviving son. From there, logic quickly crumbled. Witnesses say the father confronted the news crew, a move which led other family members to target additional journalists on scene. A photographer from WFTV-TV paid the price. The opening frames of his video resemble a late night zombie flick, as angry strangers lunge for him and his lens. You don't have to be in the habit of carrying a Sony on your shoulder to be frightened by that scenario. What followed was a flurry of curses, kicks and punches as what can only be described as a violent mob descend on the unarmed photog.

'Big deal', you might think, 'some nosy newser got his ass kicked after invading a poor family's piece of mind.' You'd be wrong. From all accounts, the WFTV crew was merely the closest target available. Video from other sources shows the photog in question putting up no resistance as the emotional crowd overtakes him. When he can, he scrambles to his feet and hurries toward his waiting live truck, only to be further attacked by two men who apparently felt wronged by the red light of the retreating camera. That last assault is especially ugly, the photog is pushed down and punched before he manages to once again get away. At no time did he challenge his aggressors. No matter - his mere presence enraged the by now felonious mourners.

Are there extenuating circumstances that led to this seemingly unjust beat-down? Couldn't tell ya. But there is one I'm fairly certain of. The WFTV photog didn't want to be there. Shooters never do. No, that kind of urge to witness misery up close and personal usually comes from within the newsroom. We lenslingers are merely the tip of the spear. Very often we're also the most rational members of the media, less inclined to shit on people we know we're going to encounter down the road. It's easy to be cocky when you never leave the newsroom. Smell a few bodies burning, watch a few widows weep and that bravado fades. The news shooters I know can gather in a pack at the edge of atrocity and still find ways to show respect. We're not a particularly noble breed, but we do know how to gather data without drawing blood. If you don't believe me, you really should get out of that news cube more often.

Even if you do, you'd be hard-pressed to vilify a family coping with unspeakable loss. That seems to be who these mourners were and while my heart bleeds for their sorrows, it dries up pretty quickly when you come for my jugular. Do we news photogs have an unsavory occupation? At times. Do we take pleasure in hounding victims in their worst hours? Hardly. In fact, most TV stevedores would rather shoot a hundred ribbon cuttings than loiter outside a single house of pain. Still, it's our job and until Flip phones and Twitter accounts fully replace us, you can expect we'll gather at the rim of unfortunate incidents and try to stay out of the way.

But mercy is shown where mercy is given. You don't have to like me. Feel free to flip me off. You won't be the first. And while I may grimace at the digits, I won't return the sentiment. After all, it's just another lousy assignment to me. To you, it's very often the worst day ever. I get that and will give you far more that the benefit of the doubt. But lay hands on me and the empathy dissolves. I may not succeed in planting my boot in your crotch as you take me down, but I reserve the right to try. Whatever happens, keep smiling, as your every action will grace the next several newscasts I have anything to do with. Until then, you have my deepest sympathies...

To the Makers of Megamind...

Dear DreamWorks,

Congratulations. With your latest animated release, you've captured the imagination of moviegoers everywhere - for at least a weekend, anyway. We here at the Lenslinger Institute couldn't be happier for you and may even use our children as an excuse to attend this 3-D feast of computer-generated mayhem. We're especially stoked about the character of 'Hal', frantic TV cameraman by morning, misguided superhero by mid-afternoon. He's a riot, and a fairly believable one, too. Dumpy, vested, hapless: You guys nailed it! Not since Chris Elliot totally skeeved out Andie MacDowell in Groundhog Day has a television news photographer been portrayed so realistically. There's really only one problem...

HE'S HOLDING THE &#$% CAMERA THE WRONG WAY!

Honestly, no TV News Photog worth his weight in Double-A batteries would be caught dead gripping his rig like that - in ANY dimension! Ergonomically, it makes no sense, not to mention the fact that it elevates said cameraman's armpit to a bedeviling level! Have you smelled a TV News cameraman's armpit? It ain't the kind of thing that fills theater seats! Now, I know what you're thinking: We small-screen schlubs are overreacting. Not true. For as long as lenslingers have been featured in cinema, you Hollywood types have simply mismanaged the handling of this everyday object. What gives? Would you notice if the Priest from 'The Exorcist' held his crucifix upside down? Would you insist that crusty backwoods sheriff character twist his pistol sideways all ghetto-like? Would you let a Jedi Knight pick up his light saber by the wrong end? We. Think. Not.

Now, we don't expect you to correct this oversight. Animation is expensive, after all and we TV Newsers know just how irritating it is to make a last-minute re-cut. But this is 2010 and if your otherwise delightful movie makes even a modicum of bank, a sequel is all but inevitable. You probably already have it story-boarded. PLEASE - consider the positioning of Hal's right hand in any future productions. Sure, it's a small thing, but this tiny adjustment would mean the world to we TV Type and in turn create an army of dumpy, vested, hapless DreamWorks believers.

Come on... how ELSE ya gonna kick Pixar's ass?

Body of Work

Though not nearly as iron-stomached as my paramedic brethren, I'm not particularly squeamish. That said, I abhor movie gore, finding it banal at best, misogynistic at worst. In fact, I've not watched a horror flick since Freddy Krueger was hip, never seen that clip of the Taliban sawing some dude's head off and generally go about my day NOT wondering what eyeballs look like when they explode. Today, none of that mattered. No, when you score an assignment so fraught with possibility as the one I did today, you set aside all personal quirks long enough to bag your limit. That's exactly what I did this morning as I schlepped gear into the Natural Science Center's newest exhibit, "Bodies Revealed". Perhaps you've heard of it. I had, sort of. But whatever cheesy TV piece I half remember watching didn't compare to the feeling I got when I rolled into the traveling exhibit, looking to construct my own cheesy TV piece. It was, to use an SAT word, creepy.

Still, as a fully licensed cameramanthropologist, I'm duty bound to point my lens at many things that sicken me (like school board meetings!). Thus, I manned up and waded into the vast exhibition space, slowly taking in the cadre of cadavers that awaited me. Most were missing their skin, many struck dramatic poses and then there was the lady made of nothing but capillaries. I nodded at her solemnly. She didn't respond. I passed by without a word, knowing we'd probably chat later in my dreams. After a minute or two, I regained my equilibrium and went about the business of framing up bodies in such a way that viewers wouldn't fully realize what they were looking at. Hey, I'm good, but it wasn't easy - especially when the person you're trying to make palatable is sliced apart like a stack of Pringle potato chips. Nonetheless, I plowed through it and soon had the exhibit's director in my cross-hairs for an extended on-camera chat. That's when something weird happened...

Two minutes into the interview, my audio went to shit. Static filled my earpiece and the the voluem began to wane. I stopped the good Dr. long enough to switch out batteries - only to find the Double AA's in my microphone were still full-strength. 'Strange', I thought, but changed them anyway. New batteries, however, didn't fix the problem, so I trudged outside and got another mic. Minutes later, the mellifluous tones of my guest flowed crisp and clean as I did my best to ignore the eviscerated citizen hanging over my left shoulder. Then it got really weird. My camera ... died. It just shut down as if it lost all power. I swallowed a curse and examined the camera battery - only to find it fully charged. Hmmm. Eventually, I found another battery the camera liked and limped through the interview - but I had to wonder: Was there some bad juju floating about this collection of stiffs that kept zapping my power sources? Some misplaced karma determined to thwart my pseudo-journalistic efforts?

Naaaah. Unexplained gremlins plague gizmos all the time. I've been equally frustrated with my collection of gadgets at bake sales, though I gotta say: I have never seen that particular malady happen - ever. Charged batteries tend to work - for a while anyway. In fact, the very batteries that refused to provide power in the company of cadavers worked fine an hour later in the comparatively saner environs of El Ocho's newsroom. Spooky, yes - but I'll chalk it up to the vagaries of the chase. Perhaps the same technical difficulties will occur the next time I'm trapped at some shopping mall's center square, where I have only some wino dressed as Santa to blame for any paranormal activity. In the meantime, I'll pretend none of this ever happened while taking away another important lesson. After wrapping up a shoot at a cadaver exhibit, skipping lunch may be in order...

My grilled chicken sandwich tasted like some old dude's pancreas.

Farewell, Greg Pell...

When I grow up, I wanna be just like Greg Pell. After all, dude's a legend; a pipe-smoking wise-ass who's been lighting up North Carolina news scenes since the mid 70's. I, of course, didn't meet him until 2007, when he came out of retirement to school a younger generation of journalists on the Art of the Grab. He should know. See, back when I was mastering the alphabet, Pell the Elder was ushering in the age of video at Charlotte affiliate WBTV. Since then, he's shot every kind of news story there was - and a few there weren't! When asked, he'll tell you his favorite era came in the 80's, when he and BTV reporter lived in Raleigh and covered what they damn well pleased, untouched by the drama of their distant newsroom. From the Legislature to farm news to any old excuse to head to the coast, Greg and the fellas enjoyed the kind of autonomy most modern day news crews couldn't fathom.

But Greg doesn't just live in the past. Far from it. When I met him in 2007, he was fresh off a thwarted retirement, slinging yet another lens and chortling all the way. That in itself is a towering achievement. Most of us beneath the glass inevitably let it drag us down. Be it the lousy hours, punishing pace or close proximity to liars of every stripe, we news shooters aren't exactly known for our decorum and grace. Which is why I was thunderstruck the first time this silver-haired photog with only one arm be-bopped by my live truck, humming under his breath as a cloud of sweet-smelling pipe smoke trailed in his happy wake. It was not the last time he made me feel foolish for cursing the News Gods. And it's why I brightened each and every time I ran across him at drive-by shootings, charity bake sales and the occasional Presidential pit stop. I'd like to think his serendipity even rubbed off on me, but I know myself better than that...

Still, if I haven't yet followed his example and learned to age gracefully, it may very well be too late -- for Greg Pell is retiring. And this time, he ain't comin' back. For years now, Greg's enjoyed dual citizenship in two very different slices of Carolina. On weekdays, there was no telling where he'd pop up along the suburban swath that is the Piedmont-Triad. But come the weekend, you'd find him wandering among the hardwoods of his beloved Ash County. Now that he's hung up his press pass, it's unlikely he'll venture down from the Highlands all that often. He definitely won't be spotted loitering outside some inner-city imbroglio as a distant producer counts backwards in his earpiece. No, that would be ME. And while I don't promise to be as placid as Pell, I'll do my best to emulate the man, should a junior 'slinger ever seek my counsel.

So enjoy your down time, Greg. You certainly deserve it.