Tiger Blood Not Available

Say what you will about Charlie Sheen, but the dude gives GREAT sound. I should know; I've spent the better part of twenty years hunched under an eyepiece as some functionary or another droned on (and on) in monotone. It's enough to make one wish a twitchy sitcom hack would burst through the door and begin ranting about his antelope dope or his super cool Kung-Fu grip or his bevy of fem-bots waiting with palm fronds. Actually, that would be kind of freaky, but it still pales in comparison to the operas I've concoct in my head while a better dressed co-worker goes all '60 Minutes' on some poor policy wonk. It's the kind of delusion we leave on the editing room floor, for Sally Jo Housecoat has no room in her den for the mental gymnastics performed by a cameraman at rest. Did I say rest? Make that coma, for that's what I tend to slip into when the time-code starts to blur... And that's just what happens after the location is chosen. Getting there is half the battle...

Drag a fancycam into any office building and someone's gonna try and shove you into a conference room. Don't go. Oh sure, the occasional corporate headquarters will have a cavernous glass palace worthy of exploration, but more times than not the dusty summit space down the hall is just that: a forgotten box bathed in beige paint and fluorescent rays. Wedge in a table that's clearly three times too large for the room and you have a pretty good idea why I dodge conference rooms the way most men dodge baby showers. "Lead me to thy writing surface," I say. Okay, I never say that, but if I did they'd no doubt take me to a chamber far more pleasing than some sterile cube where middle-managers plot, coddle and doze. Besides, how am I gonna get into the interviewee's head if I can't gander at his sheepskins, let alone add to my stapler collection...

Naaaah, I'm not gonna abscond with anyone's Swingline. I am however, going to do everything I can to stay lucid while the red light glows. Otherwise, I might miss a hitch in the voice, a tic of the lip, or some other cue for me to reach for the zoom button. Sure, there's little chance any self-respective executive will eek out a tear or two, but if he does it's my solemn duty to document it's descent. Otherwise, you'll find me parked squarely on my glass, scanning book titles behind my subject's head as I hearken back to my high school days when I first tried on that thousand yard stare. Just don't try this at home and while you're at it kids, stay away from the boob tube altogether. Before you know it, you'll be hunched under a camera you don't own, strung out on the next seven syllables that will spill forth onscreen while wondering why in the hell you didn't pay attention better in Algebra 1.

At least that's what I think about...

Twiggy and the Weave

As a hard-boiled purveyor of soft-centered news, there are few things I still hold sacred. How could I - when all the great themes in the world have been turned into the likes of theme night on Idol. Take that paragon of broadcasting, the water-skiing squirrel. What was once a quirky little story about a rodent on a tow rope quickly came to symbolize my industry's descent into insipidness. I myself have referenced him repeatedly as a living emblem of all that is predictable about the back half of your favorite newscast. Which is why it pains me so to learn the little rat sold out. Meet 'Twiggy" the water-skiing squirrel. Sure, he's cute all perched up there on Weaver's shoulder, but as far as I'm concerned this little nutcracker is a fur covered fraud, a corporate shill who can be found cavorting on cue at your nearest boat show. That's where Chris Weaver caught up with him last week and if I sound bitter, defeated and jealous that it wasn't me, well, it's because I am - er, was.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go call dibs on the next talking moose that blows through town.

Spore on the Floor

So imagine you're a well-heeled fitness buff running late for your aerobic drumming class. You make it to the club in time, but when you get upstairs the music is already thumpin', so you grab a pair of sticks and fall into a tense, constricted rhythm. That's when you spot ME. Rumpled and expressionless, I loiter about the edges of the workout space with all the enthusiasm of a third shift worker waiting on a factory bus. By then you're half wondering if I'm even real, until you see me swing that fish-eye right atcha. My fingers twitch, my eyebrows tighten and suddenly you worry I'm zooming in on the very body part you're working so hard to reduce...

What do you do, hotshot? WHAT DEW YEW DEW?

Well, if you're like the ladies at the 'Drums Alive!' class I crashed last night, you dig in your heels, tighten your grip and begin beating the gloss off an exercise ball. It's a good thing too, since I didn't weasel my way into an upscale health club to collect wet towels. No, I showed up ready to roll. And even though the nice instructor lady tried to beg off 'til next month, I wasn't about to leave with my lens unquenched. Not when there's a goofy new way to stay in shape. Not when fat's collapsing under the weight of bad techno. Not when there's a whole mess of reflections to play with. Not when I'm being paid to at least spray the place. Actually, that last part's not exactly accurate. I didn't spray the place...

I completely hosed it down.

Understand, a puff-piece on aerobic drumming calls for a different cinema technique than say, an inner-city stand-off. Sure, both draw a crowd, but if you go slinging a lens at a crunked-up gunman the way I did to those ladies, somebody gonna stumble away with a cap in their glass. Thus, I save my doofier moves for happier locales, where the biggest danger to the cameraman in question is a drumstick to the skull, or worse yet, a face full of mace from a camera-shy society wife. Luckily for me, nothing but the occasional glare befell me, as I invaded the personal space of total strangers all in the name of a b-block feature. Hey, I don't decide what passes for news these days. I just show up where I'm told and act like I'm welcome.

You should too.

Brink of Distinction

Just look at the lines, would ya? Sturdy of purpose and exquisitely lit, its unmistakable shape giving pause to creatures big and small...Hmmm? yes, the lake is pretty too, but I'm talking about the fancycam! Surely that's what Kyle Dubreil was focused on when he snapped this impressive vista the other day. Okay, so maybe I'm projecting a bit, but it's been many months since I've dragged glass of that stature around a still-beating news scene. Back last year El Ocho got all Hi-Def, a senseless act of upgrade that ripped full-sized rigs from the shoulders of rookies and lifers alike. It wasn't pretty, but six or seven months later I have to admit the smaller, lighter cameras are working out just fine. Yes, they have all the heft of an empty Big Gulp cup and what used to be an instinctive flip of a toggle switch now requires seventeen levels of menu exploration, but under great conditions, they take really good pictures. Still, I can't help but yearn for a bigger unit, ifyaknowwhatI'msayin'...

But it ain't happenin'. I'll probably never sling an axe that size again, not with lenses diminishing all across this fruited plain. That's progress I guess, but the classic lines and bold profile of a full sized fancycam will no doubt go down in history as one of those unmistakable shapes, the kind of thing you'll one day only see in woodcut relief. But as time goes by this silhouette will go from heroic to laughably large, much like 80's era jam-boxes must look to iPod disciples. What a shame. The modern day fancycam was the industry standard for longer than the green screen. Soon they'll be as irrelevant as countdown slate. That makes me sad, though I gotta say my spinal column won't miss a thing. Still, for men (and women) like me, that overly bulky box of wires and light possesses every bit of sexiness as a classic Corvette. And you don't even have to own a teensy winkie to appreciate it.

Helps, though.

Eight Track Playas

Just in case you wondered what the news crew trailing Scooby and the Gang LOOKED LIKE, we now have visual proof. Okay, that's not fair, as I'm sure these cats were unabashedly bad-ass backintheday. How could they NOT be? Red windbreaker, Chukka Boots, Brown cords and that poofy vest... Throw in some vintage recording equipment with what appears to be the coolest news car ever and you have one funky bunch of white guys. I only have one question: With all the chicks that tried to pile into that ride, where did they store the gear?

Schmuck Alert: Sacto Fracas

It's difficult to know what preceded the outburst caught on tape Sunday morning in Sacramento, but the result is UG-LEE. Screams, shouts, a cacophony of threats leading to a senseless attack. Yeah, there's Schmuck behavior on display all right; I just hope it's all on the side of the family. Here's what we do know:

FOX40 reporter John Lobertini and photojournalist Rebecca Little responded to the scene of a murder outside an IHOP Sunday morning. But they weren't alone. Friends and family of the slain 27 year old had also gathered at the scene, setting up a makeshift memorial. Reporter John Lobertini had the unenviable job of approaching the family to see if they wanted to comment on camera. It's an unsavory task, but one that most reporters can pull off withOUT adding to the drama surrounding an unexpected death. What happened next is unclear, but it's safe to say the family didn't want to talk. They did however want to the news crew to leave and the tactics they chose to convey this were, well, criminal. Several women pulled Little to the ground buy her hair, reportedly kicking her in the face. The mob then turned on Lobertini.

"I was punched on the side of my face," said Lobertini, "but it was a situation where I was trying to fight off 6 or 7 or 8 people, I can't even count them."

Eventually the blows subsided. Rebecca Little was able to free herself from her attackers, but the screaming continued while the TV cameras rolled. Both Little and Lobertini were 'shaken up' but did not require medical attention. No charges were filed. So what sparked the assault? Not sure, but all the ingredients for trouble were plainly visible before the first blow was landed: a grieving family, a fresh death, a nosy news crew. It's the kind of assignment I hide from, for no matter how much tact you employ, ugliness can break out at any turn. Most reporters I know are pretty adept at navigating these shoals, but with our society coarsening at an apocalyptic pace, it's impossible to knw when you'll be dashed against the rocks. Or worse.

Schmucks.

Slowly I Turn...

Were I fully in charge of Viewfinder BLUES, I'd end each and every day with a scintillating new blog post, three neatly constructed paragraphs bursting with humor, analysis and a few flattering photos. Sadly, I'm not. In charge, that is. Sure, I'm the only loser who logs in and leaves web droppings at this address, but don't think for a moment that I'm the least bit regular. Far from it. See, I have this affliction called a full-time job and while I'm thankful to be employed, it DOES get in the way of my higher aspirations. That's okay, I guess, as a 'slinger has to eat but if I didn't log 40 some hours a week chasing, shooting, editing and WRITING daily news stories, I might have more mojo to spread around my corner of the internet. Trouble is, I'd have nothing to write about. Oh, I have OTHER passions: mountain biking, the Electric Blues, my dog, the Age of Sail... Somewhere inside me a pretty personal 'coming of age' tale lurks, but until I avoid a few more years of therapy, there's little chance I'll share it here. I'm also a pathological reader and while I tend to review the books I buy, I'm not sure I want to clutter up this space with ruminations on the written word.

No, this site requires focus.

And therein lies the rub. For every good idea I have, a few lousy ones seep through my cerebellum. I've been spotlighting the plight of TV News shooters for more than five years now and sometimes even I grow bored, confused or mentally constipated. Such is the case now as a matter of fact, which is why I'm logging in to explain myself. Longtime readers will recognize a pattern here, in which I attempt to shatter my writer's block with a rambling diatribe consisting of nothing more than assembled syllables. Yup, it hurts me more than it hurts you, for inside my head Viewfinder BLUES is not some homemade paean to a limited field of vision, but a glossy document suitable for mass consumption. Thus, I've refrained from stuffing this blog with pure filler, lest I ever choose to 'get published' by transcribing this site with a stapler and a stop at Kinko's. Chances are that won't happen though, as I am a photog after all. Any chance of me collating this mess and hinting 'Print' is right up there with me turning in the keys to Unit Four and pursuing a life of quiet reflection. Not that I haven't thought about it.

A lot.

But hey, who HASN'T fantasized about a new way of life, a better way in which one spends the day enthralled in meaningful endeavor, not lapping a courthouse while scanning the joint for a proper place to park your unmarked news cruiser. But enough about me, what about you - whadda you think of me? That's the exact kind of trite dialogue I'd like to avoid here, as I deal with plenty of needy egos at work. Okay, so most everyone's pretty chill, but a stark few more than make up for it with egregious displays of self-satisfaction. Trust me, they make Kanye West look like that kid Urkle and while a complete breakdown of such crimes against nature would make for sound reading, I don't dare yet share them, lest I get that free time I've been pining for. No, I'm keeping the juicy stuff under lock and key, saving it all for the book I'll never write. Meanwhile, I'll try to keep Viewfinder BLUES afloat, for while it may be a guilty little pleasure for you, it is therapy, ambition and a pleasant kind of curse for Yours Truly.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a blank screen to stare at

Banksy, He Ain't

Sooo, let me get this straight: 'Banksy', the super-secretive British graffiti artist is actually West Coast photog Sean Browning? Really? I mean, I KNEW the guy was sketchy - but a world famous master of illicit street art? Where does he find the time? Hell, I can barely eek out a handful of blog posts each week, let alone skulk about some darkened alleyway with a can of spray paint and a sense of entitlement. Hmmmm, I guess it kinda make sense. After all, 'Banksy' DID direct a documentary that got nominated for an Oscar and recently he freaked out the powdered wigs at the Academy with plans of crashing their televised ceremonies while wearing a monkey mask - but now you're telling me he's a local news shooter too? Man, that is just SICK! Hmmm? Browning AIN'T Banksy? He's just posing by the latest unwanted masterpiece all back-lit like Batman? PHEW! For a moment there I thought I was gonna have to wing my way to Westwood and stage some kind of lenslinger intervention. Or at the very least blackmail him for every spare camera battery he's got. Instead, I'll stay right here and vouch for his character - should any errant gumshoes want to make a name for themselves by unmasking the artistic cad. Naaah, Sean's good people: a second generation newsman with TV embedded in his DNA and some really cute kids at home. Just do me a favor if and when you see him...

Check his pockets.

A Chance to Dance

Nervous laughter filled the air as the ladies filing into the Randelman Road RUSH realized a hairy cameraman was sitting in on their Aquatic Zumba class. I however remained silent, hoping they'd soon forget I was even there. That didn't seem likely, as several were silently eye-gouging me from across the pool. Taking note as to who might meet me in the parking lot afterward, I centered in on the friendlier faces and tried my best to disappear. Soon however my presence was forgotten entirely as a strong Latino hook overtook the room and the ladies got down to the rhythm at hand. It. Was. Awesome. Why? Because I was able to flit about the place like a fly on the wall, zooming in on whatever I saw (un)fit while trying to suppress my white man's overbite. I don't know how successful I was, but forty five minutes later the music ended and I lay spent on a nearby pool drain. But I couldn't rest. No, I had to jump up and convince a few ladies to let me interview them - despite the fact I'd spent the better part of the last hour isolating their O-face.

Fast-forward a few weeks, in which I used ten minutes here and five minutes there to cobble together a report that quickly turned into my favorite Sweeps piece. How could it not be? Dizzying visuals, warm characters and not a body-bag in sight. When I told the ladies to act like ever other woman and ignore me, they wisely obliged, losing their calories and inhibitions to a lusty Latin beat. All I had to do was point and shoot. Later on, I culled a few soundbites from the interviews I conducted and draped a few words around them. From there, I handed my script to senior reporter Bob Buckley for proper enunciation and any credit reception. The rest was gravy, as I noodled in the edit bay between drive-by's and live shots. All in all, it was MY idea of the perfect assignment. Will it spark outrage among the shut-ins? Slow global warming? Win me some tacky trophy to show off to my friends? Nyet. But neither should it, for stories like this are reward enough. Best of all, no one jumped me on the way to the car!

Attention on Dreck

Politicos on both sides of the aisle can't wait to rip into President Obama's 2012 budget, but these fellas just want an unobstructed shot of it. At least that's what I think is happening in this latest photo from NBC cameraman extraordinaire Jim Long. Truth is, these seasoned 'slingers could just as easily be zooming in on something Steven Tyler coughed up on Idol; both make your back hurt. Just know that whether we're leaning over a 3.7 trillion dollar breakdown of our country's debt or a rhinestone-encrusted hairball from the Permanent Vacation days, our aim remains the same. Don't believe me? Sidle up to the next scrum you see and start making waves. You'll be picking elbow out of your teeth long after that wall of lenses falls. It's just one more reason I avoid camera-packs as if they were laden in genital warts. If I wanted shaky shots and flop-sweat on me, I'd drag the wife's handy-cam to a Green Day Show and drop into the mosh pit. Maybe then, I'd get some respect, instead of a competitor's cologne up my nose. Have you smelled a network cameraman? Last time I did, I blacked out in front of Sam Champion. Luckily, we were packed so tight, no one knew I was unconscious until the press conference ended and I dropped to the floor in a fetal position. It wasn't so much my rocking back and forth that upset those lifers so much...

It's how I roll.

Days of Chunder

The Daytona 500 isn't until Sunday, but that hasn't stopped a cyclone of cameras from already forming over parts of Florida. Yes, somewhere in Volusia County, the motoratti is hunched around a middle aged man in a butter-bean green jumpsuit, scribbling intently as he holds forth on his latest spit-cup endorsement. Could I make that up? Sure, but it wouldn't compare to the rarefied air inside the marketing and media maelstrom that is NASCAR's biggest race. But don't take my word for it, though. Ask Weaver. For the better part of a week, Mr. "Call the Law" himself has been prowling the grounds in a souped-up sat truck, high-fiving drivers and fans alike as he and a couple of Kevins crank out a steady stream of racing reportage. But what self-respecting media blitz would be complete without a torrent of social media? None that we'd be a part of, which is why at this very moment Weaver is most probably yammering into his Droid about the racing stripes on Clint Boyer's tube socks. Hey look, I just dropped the name of a Nascar driver I couldn't pick out of a line-up! Maybe I'm becoming a racing fan after all, maybe I'm discovering the bleary-eyed gear-head within, or maybe it's just because Weaver's many tweets come directly to my phone...

Yeah, that's GOTTA be it.

Seventh Inning Kvetch

It's not often you'll find me on the scene of a straight-up sports story, but the recent case of the college coach who gave one of his players a kidney was so inspiring I had to make an exception. Also, Sheeka and I were without a story that day and The Suits thought we could milk a little more emotion out of this future Made for TV Movie. Who could blame them? It's not every day a college baseball coach coughs up a kidney for a Freshman outfielder. Even an information isolationist like myself had heard rumblings all week about the Wake Forest coach who'd put an internal organ where his mouth is. Talk about diggin' deeeep. Still, I was more than happy to ignore the story from afar, lest any of that alleged humanity wash away my hard-earned cynicism. Well, that's not entirely accurate...

I abhor baseball. There, I said it. Hell, I typed it! Misguided as it may be, my aversion to this once national pastime has deep roots. Back when I was but a boy, I followed my parent's suggestion and tried out for the church baseball league. I made the team, but my thick glasses and complete lack of athleticism left me a marked fourth grader. For the entire season, I rode the bench, never once playing in a game. Still, I preferred the games to practice, for that's when I did take the field, only to be openly disparaged by kids who didn't know better and adults who should have. I blame the coach, a small minded lout who - between globs of tobacco spit - took great pleasure in ostracizing me at every turn. I grew to hate him, his half-drunk supplicants and most everything else that these good ole boys of summer held dear . At the age of eleven, I swore I'd NEVER take part in another team sport. It's a promise I've kept to this day.

Anyhoo, enough background. I don't lie in bed at night cursing the name of Abner Doubleday, or drive by ballparks all slow and gangsta-like, but neither do I go out of my way to attend, support or acknowledge this wretched form of recreation. Having said that, I'll point a camera at (most) anything my bosses wish, so when they suggested we be in place when a post-op coach joins all but one of his players on the field, I headed West without much thought to my barely-buried hang-ups. Which was a really good move, since not only did it allow me to remain employed but it restored my faith in bent-bill strategists. Coach Tom Walter moseyed up slow, four days removed from surgery and missing a kidney. Still, he was a man in full, accomodating the many cameras awaiting him without once appearing to gloat. His quiet advice to always think of others almost made me rethink my stance on baseball. At the very least it reminded me that not ALL coaches are like the miserable choad I suffered under.

Just don't ask me to play catch.

Wayne's World

Far be it from me to objectify my former colleague Wayne Covil, but the longer I stare at this antiquated frame grab, the more I marvel. It's from a WNCT-TV promo, circa 1990. Wayne wasn't the star of the spot, but rather a reporter hard at work as a Creative Services lens swept through the newsroom. What that camera captured was worthy of engraving; visual proof of a period when the only computer in the newsroom was a cheap digital watch or a calculator that couldn't crack Algebra. Am I reading too much into it? Sure, but I became a (news) man in that room and seeing one of my mentors frozen there forever reminds me of a kinder, gentler era. Allow me to break it down by the numbers...

1) What can you say about wood paneling? Not much other than it was that thin simulated wood grain crap that would still give you splinters if you rubbed up against it wrong. Mostly, we hung Associated Press awards on that wall - the official imprimatur of any Roy Hardee-led newsroom. Imagine our alarm on the weekends when someone would slam the back door and all that gilded praise would clatter to the floor in a clump of scratched plaque compunction. I didn't do it!

2) That's no broom closet - that's an edit bay! But don't look for any glistening new Mac or tricked out PC's - they're not there! Instead, you'll find a couple of player/record decks from the Carter administration, all tied together by a control panel that's missing a few buttons but sporting several condiment splotches. It's difficult to explain to today's non-linear editors, but making news on these machines was always a thrill, like flying a biplane to the Moon.

3) Were I the technical type, I could recite the very model number of this orange Ikegami. I can't. What i can tell you is that it was all sharp edges and stiff toggle switches. The faded viewfinder screen looked like a Monet painting in progress and you didn't point it at a light unless you wanted a big ugly smear in your shot. Still, it was this exact breed of beast that first rode on my shoulder, lit up my id and bolstered my soul. Just don't ask what it did to my back!

4) This one's complicated, so I'll go slow: It's a file cabinet (fahyl kab-uh-nit), a squat metallic structure designed to house sheaves of lumber in an orderly manner. Think of it as an external hard drive for the pre-PC generation. It operates much the same - except the only search button is the callous on your thumb formed by a thousand paper cuts. Also, the metal file cabinet made a most distinctive sound when kicked by an anchor in mid-tantrum. Trust me on that.

5) Look closely. That's no hollow set prop, but a functioning desktop telephone of the original touch-tone variety. Oh, they're still around, but you'd be hard-pressed to find one with so few features. Transferring a call? Not without getting up, you're not. Park and Page? What the hell are you talking about? Here's one thing those old phones were good for: Intern defense! Tie two handsets together and you have a pair of homemade nun-chucks custom made for getting that kid with the clip-on tie outta your chair. H-o-u-r-s of fun!

6) Who knew the electric typewriter would go the way of the wagon wheel? Not me! No, when I staggered into the sea of Channel Nine technology, ye olde typewriter was the only instrument I felt good about playing. These days of course they're considered useless relics, but with nary a button on board that would conjure up Facebook, Twitter or Porn, reporters using them finished their scripts a whole lot faster. Unless of course there were corrections to be made. Wait 'til you wrap your head around White-Out...

7) And then there was the correspondent in question. Even back then, Wayne Covil was a master of multi-tasking: shooting, writing, editing and fronting his reports. Not only that, but Wayne acted as an ambassador of sorts, charming the secrets out of street people an patricians alike. Yes, back when the term 'VJ' meant Martha Quinn, Wayne Covil was (and remains) one helluva One Man Band. Today's generation of distracted babblers could learn a lot from such a laser-focused Luddite. As for those glasses...

Schmuck Alert: Bashing the Flash

When last we saw Joey Flash, the former El Ocho photog was settling into new digs down in Georgia's capital. Since then, he's navigated the mean streets of Atlanta with his trademark aplomb, processing froth and atrocity into bite-size nuggets while maintaining his goofball status. Which is why it's so disturbing to see him and his camera slapped about by some addled school administrator. But that's what happened just yesterday as Joey and reporter Tony McNary asked parents their opinions about a local sexting case involving a principal. A principal! DeKalb County school administrator Dr. Grace Anderson must have been equally outraged, for she stomped off campus and promptly batted about Joey's lens. Now, THAT'S leadership! The clip in question, which can be floating around Facebook but NOT on the station website, clearly shows the assault. However, a police officer on-scene must have missed the whole thing, for he shooed away the apoplectic administrator without so much as a dirty look. Let's see... a principal with sex organs on his phone, an administrator who acts like a thug, a cop who does nothing and a TV station that doesn't share the footage with their viewers... No wonder Atlanta has such a shitty rep!

SCHMUCKS!

Cracked Rear View

She had a face for television and an ass the size of an old chest of drawers. That was okay though, since she rarely let G. Lee get anywhere near it with his camera. For six years they’d worked together off and on, Bridgette with her wireless microphone and winning smile, he with his over-sized Sony and thousand yard stare. Together, they were an Emmy winning news crew. Apart, they probably wouldn’t have much to do with each other. But local television makes for strange bedfellows. He knew she looked down on his late nights and young dates; she’d said as much. And he’d rather take a lawn dart to the eye socket than hang out with her society friends. Still, when it came to deadline making, G. Lee had her considerable back.

How couldn’t he? They’d interviewed Presidents and peasants together, sometimes in the same shift. They’d ridden in police cars, helicopters and a few Christmas parades G. Lee would like to forget about. Once they drove all the way to Philly to profile a new procedure some surgeons had up their scrubs. That had been a long trip. Somewhere along the Jersey turnpike, he’d even threatened to throw her Celine Dion CD’s out the window. He would have too, had she not relented and let him enjoy some low volume Metallica. In truth, he succumbed to her wishes more times than not. She was pushy that way; it was what made her such a good reporter. That and her insatiable need to stir whatever pot she could uncover. G. Lee still shook his head in disbelief whenever he thought of that drive-by. A young girl had died under a street light and when Bridgette had accidentally stepped in a puddle of her blood, a prop was born. That night in her live shot, she waved the bloody pump around like a conductor’s baton. Bad taste? You betcha, but it finally won her that gold-plated Goddess she’d spent so much money on.

Now, six years later, Bridgette and G. Lee were still on the beat. If you called chasing degenerates and bent fenders a beat. All those showbiz junkets and in-depth interview trips had dried up along with the budget. Now the aging beauty queen and the shaggy cameraman were back where they started when the first bush was on office. Crime, grime, a thousand points of blight. It made for easy fare, but G. Lee missed the old days, when he could spend three days in the edit bay, slicing away at some puff piece that only he appreciated. But there was little appetite for that now. All the desk wanted was murder, mayhem and the occasional marauding. Which is how he once again came to be parked outside the projects, watching Bridgette through the windshield as she chatted up the blunts and forty ounce crowd. With her powder blue pantsuit and blonde ‘do, she looked like an Avon lady trying to sell lipstick to crackheads.

“Care to join me, Spielberg?’ Bridgette asked the wireless microphone in her hand. Her voice crackled in his earpiece and he threw up a good natured middle finger in response. Then he stashed his Blackberry, grabbed his camera and began walking toward his weekend anchor lady in waiting. Whatever she was up to, he knew this forty two year old multiple cat owner with very few friends would see to it they’d get a nice dinner break along the way. It was one of the things he DID like about her. No matter the assignment, she made sure they ate, often picking up the tab. It was a way she let him know she kinda cared and would always have his back...

...as long as he she didn't see hers on any TV screens...

Any Given Photog

When's the last time some jacked-up gladiator flattened YOU at work? It happened last night to an unfortunate photog working for NFL Films. There he was, shooting the - ahem - "Big Game" when Pittsburgh Steelers Running Back Rashard Mendenhall plowed into him after a seventeen yard gain in the third quarter. Point of impact is eight seconds in: Mendenhall collides at damn near top speed, the photog takes it like a (camera)man, absorbing the blow and tumbling backwards - all while rockin' a blue NFL photo vest we'd ALL like to have hanging in our game room. As for the guy in tights, Mendenhall didn't seem to enjoy the encounter. He took a knee long enough to spit out a few chunks of fancycam. Here's hoping the photog's okay. Now, someone roll that beautiful spleen footage...

Guts and Bolts

Tonight on CSI:Somewhere, a pox falls over the Greater Metro's Upper Heartland as a routine news story about an old warehouse leads to grisly discovery. Someone’s offing city officials and unless ‘Slinger and the Brain soon find out who, the next three months of newscasts will run OUT of groundbreakings, ribbon-cuttings and the occasional closed door kerfuffle. Can the surly duo put their differences aside and catch the killer? Or will wisecracking producers have to log off their Facebook accounts long enough to re-write their b-blocks? Car lot spots hang in the balance as the market’s third most popular news crew chase a mysterious figure up a rickety transmitter tire, only to watch him plummet to his death. Did he slip? Was he pushed? Or did the killer simply give up after a certain photog, enraged after missing a week of lunch breaks, berated him with the kind of language normally reserved for prison yards, warships and journalistic circles? Listener Discretion Advised.