Help The Newtons!

Losing his house and everything in it wasn't on Josh Newton's bucket list, but it happened anyway. The former El Ocho photog and his family fled to their storm shelter Wednesday night, shortly before a tornado erased every vestige of possession from their Alabama address. Now they're among the reeling and the displaced, another Southern family suddenly without a home. It's been several years since I've spoken to Josh. During his tenure at my station we became fast friends. A thinker and a tinkerer, Josh is a relentless reader and wry observer of life. His early encouragement convinced me to keep trying to write and it's my hope that I can return the favor. Right now, he needs it.

As with much spot news these days, it broke over Facebook. A mysterious message, posted by Josh in the middle of the night:

"My family and I are safe with each other and nothing else. Please keep us in your prayers."

Eighteen short words that left a wide swath of speculation among the Newton's many friends. With fresh footage of spinning twisters on every TV set, it didn't take an investigative reporter to figure out what robbed the Newtons of their home. Still, it was hard for many of us at the station to believe our old coworker was among the stunning numbers of victim currently digging out of the Deep South. Then, a picture of Josh's property surfaced on-line, followed by a message from the man himself.

"Right now i don't know where we will sleep night tonight. I own a car and a backpack full of "stuff" and that is all now. My address is a storm shelter and a concrete slab. We thank everyone for the prayers. when we know where we will stay, I will send out more info. Our community has taken is in and is helping in sooo many ways. Red cross has set up a shelter and aid station in another town, and have not seen them... The locals are mot prepared for the devastation. If you want to use this in your blog or anywhere else, please do, but be sure and mention our town of Ohatchee, Alabama. it seems that they have forgotten about us."

Knowing Newton's penchant for self-sufficiency made his words all the harder to read. Though he no longer chases news for a living, Josh is practiced in the art of the grab. He's covered many a debris field before, with compassion and flair. How it must now feel to be on the other side of the glass is a revelation I can live without. But I look forward to the day when Josh can tell me all, preferably over a shot I've bought him. Not that he needs my permission to persevere..

"Life moves on. It is a day of rest, canceling checks, credit cards, paying what bills need to be paid. We took Maggie out to the site, and she handled it like a champ! We joked and laughed. It helped us all move a little closer to center. We have the best friends and family that anyone can ask for. There are businesses that have gone above and beyond for us. They have my lifelong business...and they understand it's not about business, it's about community, and family."

Josh, Brandy and Maggie are going to see better days. But they can't do it alone. If you're in a position to help, won't you join me in lending assistance to this undefeated family? A letter, a check, a gift card ... e-mail me and and I'll forward you the mailing address. If you're at all fond of the stories I tell here, know that Josh has long helped inspire them. Or, if like me, you just feel a little uneasy sitting there in your den as others clutch at rubble on the evening news, well, here's your chance to do something about it.

Left Behind

If you’ve never pulled away from the shoulder of the road only to notice your tripod diminishing in the rearview mirror, you ain’t chased news long enough. If you had, you’d know that for every tool, there is a hiding spot. Me, I’ve lost, forgotten and misplaced more gizmos than that shaky clerk at Radio Shack. What do you expect to happen when you put a flighty writer type in charge of actual recording equipment? Don’t get me wrong: I’m buttoned up. But the act of inventory goes against my wayward nature, so I have to constantly remind myself not to leave a trail of television across the Greater Piedmont Googolplex. Most times I manage fine, but interrupt my rhythm and I’ll quickly turn my powers of attention elsewhere. SQUIRREL! Hmm? What was I talking about? Oh, right: creative gear dispersal. It doesn’t happen much, but when it does, it leaves a mark. Take Monday, when I raised the act of unpreparedness to the level of performance art.

It started early (as these things will), when my partner of the day Charles Ewing sidled up to me in the newsroom and said we were late for an unimportant meeting. Couldn’t he see I was regaling my fellow photogs with tales of my four days off? Apparently not, which is why I broke off mid-syllable and went to my gather my gear. Inside my camera locker, I found a familiar rig. I grabbed the fancycam and didn’t think to look around. It was a move I’d come to regret all day. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, let’s get to this meeting. It was an unremarkable summit on Fourth Street in Greensboro. I shrugged off Charles’ offer of directions as we headed downtown. Once we got there, I realized my adopted hometown numbered their streets in sporadic fashion and I was forced to reach all the way to the windshield-mounted GPS. Charles only chuckled, as this was not his maiden voyage on the Good Ship Lenslinger.

A few minutes later, we pulled into port. Actually, it was a county-owned parking lot, an apron of asphalt with marked parking and threatening signs. Picking out the prettiest one, I threw my unmarked car into Park and tossed a logo in the windshield. We got out and I gathered my gear, all while telling Charles how the day before, I’d sucked forest floor for a good ten minutes after half a hamburger failed to fuel me through nine miles of mountain bike trail. I was just getting to the part where I left my body when we turned toward the building in question, two video hit men schlepping toward their mark while engaged in the most of trivial chit-chats. Kinda like those guys in Pulp Fiction - but with A LOT less killing. Though to be fair, Charles probably wanted to throttle me - or at least he soon would. First though, we had to get inside, no easy feat considering the first four doors we tried were locked.

Eventually, we found a door equipped with a candy like button and once Charles pushed it, a female voice told us to wait. We did, until the door before us clicked open and we let ourselves inside. That’s where we found the owner of the voice, a portly receptionist with all the charm of a two truck driver. Hefting a thumb toward a staircase, she directed us to the basement, where our quarry waited unaware. That changed a moment later, when a PR lady looked up from her mind-crushing boredom and noticed a news crew about to enter the room. Apparently, this would not do, as she jumped up like her seat was on fire and ushered us back in the hall. She and Charles spoke as I raised my tripod to scarecrow level and sized up the light seeping from under the door. You ever drag half a TV station into a heated meeting already in progress? If you like dirty looks, I’d highly recommend it. Otherwise...

Hold your breath. Maybe then, you won’t choke on the disdain aimed your way by those charming policy wonks who wish not to be featured on the evening news. Me, I held my head high as I slunk to the rear of the room. As for Charles, he found a seat quickly, all the better to direct the panel’s attention to the furry photog making a racket in the back. But the pop and click of my tripod plate was nothing compared to the cuss I uttered when I turned the camera on and tried to hit RECORD. Nothing happened and for the first time in four days, I looked at the side of my camera. There, where two SD cards normally nestled, sat two empty slots. Suddenly, I remembered being told they were gonna use my gear while I was away. Apparently, they had and as a result I was now trapped in a kind of subterranean hell with absolutely no way to record all that fire and brimstone. That’s when I shot Charles a look, pantomimed my predicament and started the long walk back to the car, where I hoped I’d find an extra card or two.

Eventually, I did and made it back downstairs in time to document the closing seconds of the meeting we had to wrap a minute and a half of TV around. Charles gave me a funny look when I walked back in. He told me later he didn’t think I’d return. Truth is, I didn’t really want to, but knowing I had to salvage something from our morning, I trudged onward until the meeting ended and we cornered our prey of the day for an one-on-one interview. As Charles began coaxing soundbites from our nervous guest, I silently congratulated myself for saving the day. Sure, I pulled a few rookie moves before noon this day, but it would take more than mere neglect to unhinge a lenslinger of my vintage...

That’s about the time my only charged camera battery died.

Gazers to Stun

Like the red-shirted members of a Star Trek landing party, TV News photogs can be considered pretty expendable. But take on an alien landscape without us and you'll wish we were there to beam you up. Long before Kirk banged his first purple chick, rugged individual types were capturing what passes for life on this planet. It ain't always pretty, but neither is the atmosphere within range of Uranus. As for the view, it's the kind of horizon that blinds you to the absurdity of it all, until you find yourself processing atrocity with tact, alacrity and no small amount of smack-talk.

But don't take my word for it. Ask Joey Flash. That's him fronting in the photo above, a fine action shot taken by WSB reporter George Howell. It wasn't so long ago that Joey Avary was an El Ocho neophyte, a giddy hipster familiar with lenses but not yet fluent in news. That changed quickly. After a crash course in the art of the grab from the Lenslinger Institute, Joey left us for the funkier climes of Asheville. I, for one, thought the rarefied air there would suit this goober to a wrinkled T, but not long after scouring Western Carolina, dude ran like hell to the ATL. Now he races up and down the parking lot known as Atlanta traffic, reliving the grind in glorious sixteen by nine.

You could say I'm proud of him, but that would denote responsibility for his success. Not so. My tutelage consisted of little more than a few tall tales and a prime directive or two. Hey, here's one now: "Don't take yourself too seriously." That's something Avary's got in spades and it's a quality sorely lacking in certain camera circles. So while I change batteries in my tri-corder, take a moment to salute this early graduate of the cameraman academy. Just don't get between him and an assignment, or he'll threaten you with one mother of a mind-meld.

And judging from the way this guy's brain works, that'd be worth a dozen trips to the holo-deck....

Helluva Welcome Wagon

I have been cursed at by dirtbags, berated by haters, and yes, doused in King of the Jungle juice by one pissy predator. But never in my twenty years behind the lens have I been forced out of a car at gunpoint, made to kiss asphalt, the dismissed for not being sufficiently villainous. Jonathan Alcorn has. Thursday the Venice Beach lenslinger and a Bloomberg news crew were riding along with some paparazzi they were profiling when things went all 1991. Sirens suddenly sounded behind their SUV, choppers jostled overhead and rifles lined them in their sites. "Holy Rodney King, Batman, can't we all just get along?" Apparently not, as Alcorn and company were treated to a full-blown felony stop. It's an easy thing to joke about from the safety of my seat, but living through such an encounter had to leave a welt on your psyche. Just listen to Alcorn describe what it was like...

I lie down on the hot pavement face to the ground / “Spread your legs and Hands out!!” I look over to the cameraman next to me,”Turn your head to the left!” Helicopter circling overhead, more barking out of orders to the next “Perp” the sound man. He’s explaining he has audio gear plugged in, has equipment strapped to his waist. I think oh god, please don’t shoot him.

They didn't, but the LAPD did shave a few minutes off the news crew's life when they mistook Alcorn for an armed robber.In the end, the journalists were released unscathed, but as a penalty for wasting the cops' time, the whole lot of them were frog-marched to the nearest discount multiplex and forced to endure a matinee marathon of Reno 911... Okay, so I made that last part up.

NOW OUT OF THE CAR! (Photo by Brittany Joe via Twitter)

Stress of the Press

I don't buy it. Sure, a photog's job is worrisome, but number 4 on The 10 Most Stressful Jobs of 2011? Surely, there's a submarine commander or tightrope walker or bomb squad technician under more pressure than those of us hoisting Sonys over our heads. Hey, how about air traffic controllers? They have to stay awake for nearly an entire shift! Oh, wait...

Honestly, I don’t stress out on the job like I used to. Sure, I kicked the shit out of that trash can in the edit bay the other day, but it HAD been leering at me for the better part of an hour. No, compared to how I used to wig out, I’m a regular Hari Krishna (as opposed to an irregular Hari Krishna). Back in the early nineties, before I had turned (most) every kind of story there was, I’d crisscross the region in my news unit, sucking down Marlboro Light after Marlboro Light as I wondered aloud how in the hell I was gonna have that story done by the time the anchor introduced it. Oh what a difference a couple of decades make. Now, I turn three o clock kerfluffles into winking five o clock reports without ingesting a single cigarette. It’s not that I don’t earn a few new wrinkles in the process, but I rarely ever question wether or not I’ll be able to hit my deadline. Why? I don’t know, really. Twenty years into the same gig have refined my ability to shoot economically, write scripts in a loud newsroom (earbuds and Metallica help) and edit at the speed of fright. There are, however, a few things that still stress. me. out.

Mysterious New Live Truck Buttons

I’ve never hidden my disdain for live trucks, as I believe they’ve accelerated the downfall of a once noble profession. Mostly though, I’d rather shoot write and edit than play truck tech. Thus, I avoid them like genital warts. Sometimes, though I can’t properly dodge such assignments and I find myself scratching various body parts as I stare at control switches I don’t remember. Since flipping the wrong switch in a live truck can fry you from the insides, I always call the engineers, but not before kicking up a few dirt circles first.

Phantom Press Releases

Hey, here’s a thought: If you’re a Public Relations person with a juicy story to peddle, don’t fax me all the details and then leave the country. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve done back-flips over a fresh, fluffy press release only to have the PR wonk that sent it totally stonewall me. Okay, I can: 982, 061. I don’t know whether they don’t expect us to respond so quickly or are just trying to torment us because they themselves washed out of the business. Either way, it’s stupefying. One local entity is notorious for the phantom fax. I won’t tell you the name, but their initials are GTCC.

Lollipops of Doom

I love Macs. I’m making sweet love to one right now. But for the life of me, I can’t fathom why the Cupertino crowd made their pre-crash distress signal so effing cheery. There I am, minutes before airtime with much more to edit when that spinning beach-ball of death thingie appears on screen to let me know I’m about to be screwed. Why not a skull and crossbones or lumbering Bigfoot avatar? Then I wouldn’t feel so silly throwing a tantrum over a symbol that should evoke memories of sandcastles and bikinis. Not that I’ve ever let such a discrepancy stop me from a good tantrum.

Oh, as to why photojournalists and newscasters ranked so high on The 10 Most Stressful Jobs of 2011? Weaver has a theory I like. He posits that we in the media are no more stressed than any other profession. We’re just extra whiny about it. Reading back over this post, I’d have to agree.

Schmuck Alert: Spit Happens!

So, you got popped stealing band instruments and the cops are about to walk you out in front of the TV cameras. How you gonna explain THIS to Mom? I know! As soon as you get within range of one of those media leeches, dig deep and hock up some of that crack-flavored spit you been saving! Let that puppy fly and you'll be the envy of all your fellow inmates, not to mention back in the good graces of your Mother. See, deep down inside, she knows you're a thieving parasite, but at least now she can point to the solid trajectory of your little phlegm-ball there to convince others you're finally on the straight and narrow. There's only one problem...

You're a schmuck! At best, your face would have graced the airwaves for a few seconds. (Hey, stealing band instruments is pathetic - not unique!) But now that you launched a loogie in slow motion, your shame will play out across the Pelican State again and again and again - until everyone from your first grade teacher to the band of degenerates you now call friends is simply sick of your spit. But wait, there's more! Choice websites across this heartless orb will trip over the pixels pitting you on their front page! Here's one now! Se, we here at Viewfinder BLUES take special interest in balding eunuchs who spray their DNA. And that cameraman you tried to baptize? None other than Chris Sasser, card carrying member of the Lenslinger Institute! He kept his cool after your feeble stunt, but make no mistake: he'd like to shove that fancycam straight up yer pokey!

So take a moment from explaining to the guards why you need extra gravy lumps and pat yourself on the back! Oh, wait, you're shackled at the waist. Let 'Razor' do it! He's got tons of time to kill, likes his bitches bald and can replenish you with all the spit a boy could need. Ask him nicely and he may even let you watch the news! Think how poroud you'll feel when all the fellas on the cell block stop and take note of your pursed lips and overall lack of hygiene. Imagine the dates you'll get! While you're at it, imagine this: that photog you lobbed saliva at is out and about in the free world while you fend off suitors, If that's not enough to make you stick your head in the toilet, maybe the image of your Mother denying she even knows you will do the trick.

Either way, society wins and you Sir, do not. Think how very proud you've made us all...

Schmuck!

One Goat, Gotten

I reeaallly don't want this blog to turn into some kind of bloated resumé reel, but a story I just produced turned into one of my most favorite assignments ever. It's not the writing, photography or editing I like so much and it damn sure ain't the journalism. No, it's the moments that ring true. That's Moment with a Capital M, the blend of instance we lenslingers look for to help sell the stories our reporters are telling. In this case, there were no reporters; just me and my fancycam doing something we rarely ever do... return to the scene of the crime. Day One was normal enough. Day Two, not so much. But don't take my word for it, watch the story in the box above and see if you can see where my cynicism began to crack. Here's a hint: currency is involved...

Parlor Schtick

A face full of predator urine does strange things to a fella. Take it from me. Just last week I was a highly distracted TV cameraman, flitting from one silly assignment to another with little more than lunch on my mind -- until a rescue lion cocked his arse in my direction. That's when it hit me: I gotta walk the Earth. No, I'm not going to wander from village to village dispensing frontier justice with slow-motion karate chops and monosyllabic nods. But I am determined to recast my role on this planet and I'm going to start by embracing NON-photog behavior. Why, just the other day I was spotted hovering over a weighty tome at a trendy downtown eatery. And not once did I shine a light in a stranger's face and ask them open ended questions! Well, there was that one time, but I was merely trying to find the little boy's room.

Relax, I was just attending the first ever BOOKUP - a local event in which interesting people gather around to read -- to themselves. If you think that sounds like your average Saturday night at Barnes and Nobles (minus the roving band of Goth kids), you'd be wrong. Hell, that's I thought when writing pal Joe Maeder (author of When I Married My Mother) invited me to attend the inaugural event. Of course, I'd probably wash Jo's car if she asked me. After all, she's a published author and as such possesses the kind of insider knowledge a constipated scribe like myself would stab a hobo in the throat to learn! Too much? Let me put it this way: If I don't figure out a way to squeeze my words into print, I'm gonna climb the nearest TV tower and start tossing down camera batteries. THAT will get me nowhere, so I feel it wise to seek a room full of higher counsel.

And what a room! Bin 33 was already filing up with the local literatti when I arrived. Hey there's Parke Puterbaugh, Rolling Stone writer also known for Phish: the Biography. And is that Brian Clarey? Editor of Yes Weekly and author of The Anxious Hipster (and Other Barflies I've Known)? Where's my free drink ticket? And why does my head hurt so? Must be because Brian dragged me out to help celebrate his birthday afterward, whereupon he pummeled me with alcohol and solid writing advice. I just wish I could remember it all. Here's what I do recall (and I paraphrase): "Ease off the adjectives. Good writing is all about the verb. Forget everything the jackholes with the MFA's and elbow patches have to say. You're a blue collar, Southern writer and they can't teach that shit in schools. Fiction, Memoir, you can write it all - but you CANNOT hold back. Readers will see right through it and you'll be stuck dodgin' lion piss 'til your back finally gives out..."

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my news unit...squeezing drops of blood onto a notepad.

The Lion Zing

Just when I thought I'd seen it all, a steaming stream of lion piss clouds my vision. Stick with me here... It was a gorgeous afternoon in central North Carolina, which is a good thing since by the time reporter Brandon Jones and I pulled into an undisclosed compound deep within the Piedmont, I'd already zapped a battery in the name of news. Still, none of that mattered to Brandon or my bosses. They just wanted us to bag a quick feature story while no one's looking. Mission Accepted. Not that I had a lot of choice. When you wander through life with a camera on your shoulder, people tend to tell you where to point it. That's cool. I consider myself a closer. Come up with something you'd like to see documented and I'll follow it into the tall grass and teethe on it 'til it bleeds. Today, however, another apex predator would call his shot and it would send me scampering away, bruised pride and spotted spectacles in hand.

Ya know, I've put up with many a peril while standing under glass. Rogue waves, runaway trucks, extended city council meetings - I've dodged them all. Animals, too! Once upon a time I was a regular visitor to the North Carolina Zoo, profiling everything from cuddly puffins to dozing polar bears to the heftiest of elephants. I once even fed ostriches from the back of a pick-up truck and never once ran over any heads in the sand. But nothing I ever eyeballed from afar down in Asheboro prepared me for the outpouring of attention I received today. Which reminds me, when a nice lady with a bucket of raw meat says, "Watch out for that one. He'll spray ya!", don't think for a moment she's flattering you with small talk. She ain't - and I got the YouTube clip to prove it. So yeah, the lion keeper warned me - right before she suggested I cozy up to the fence for a closer shot. That's the kind of idea a guy like me can't resist. After two decades of camera management, I got "Zoom with you feet" tattooed on my soul.

So when Bucket Lady ushered me up to the edge of that big cat enclosure, I went willingly. How else you gonna get the kind of shot people expect from a fancycam? Besides, if I wanted to stay warm and dry all the time, I'd sell stereos or insurance or crack. I damn sure wouldn't be pushin' glass where it don't belong. As it was, I felt pretty safe there before the fence, so much that my mind began to drift. That's when it happened. Acting upon either deep seeded instinct or a hidden hand gesture from my host, that feline in question cocked his arse in my direction and let loose with a burst of urine that would put a drunk sailor to shame. I caught sight of the impending plume half a second before it showered my camera, my glasses, my face. Suddenly I was moving, vaguely aware that A) those weren't beads of sweat hanging off my nose, B) the camera caught it all and C) I just might have something to blog about tonight. And while it's not the kind of thing I'd stand in line to experience again, I knew immediately it was one of those encounters I'd enjoy living down forever.

But don't take my word for it. Witness the pissing for yourself.



Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower. Again.

Twisted Listener

In the exciting world of TV News photogery, you get to drive past the barricade, hobnob with the rich and broken, then splay their fate all over the tube. Mostly though, you attach microphones to people. For example, here I am pinning one on Kat Siladi, moments after interrupting her best carrot seed material. I had no choice. She was breaking photosynthesis down to toddler level, forcing me to lunge from the row of rutabagas row and indulge in a little cameraman charades... Sounds like, "I'm totally screwed if you don't put this thing around your neck." Actually, I was smoother than that. Not enough to avoid skeeving out a few of the Moms on hand, but smooth, I tell you! Actually, there is an art to microphone placement: knowing when to approach, properly telegraphing your intentions without bringing the room to an awkward halt, remembering to retrieve the damn thing when the interview is through. by the way, have you ever tried to track down a state trooper that didn't want to be found? Those jokers lay LOW - no matter what's stuck to their lapel...

Anyhoo, there's more to microphone management than knowing when to strike. There's proper placement. Do I run it up under their sleeve? Loop it around their collar? Bury it in their bosom? The answers, my friend, are blowing in the wind - but if you don't choose correctly, a little moving air static will be the least of your problems. Don't believe me? Sidle up to a biker bar and start playing pin the tail on the donkey. They'll never find your body. Or bum-rush a beauty pageant with talk of silicone rub and droopy acoustics. Some of those women are black belts. Hell, I nearly got a full body scan from the TSA while trying to stick a mic on a beefy flight attendant. How was I supposed to know lady was a dude? Don't answer that. Just know that I'll be more careful the next time I use the line, "from one sexy stew to another". I'm still not allowed back on that concourse!

Okay, so we've covered the troubles of being your own sound guy. We've talked about when to do it, how not to do it and why you should always check for an Adam's apple when considering where to bag a few soundbites. What we haven't discussed is lineage. Think of it as Six Degrees of Amplification. See, I only got one lavalier microphone. And since I blanch at the sight of those King sized overly-logo'd hand(held) jobs, I use my lav A LOT. Thus, the microphone I clip to the neat freak CEO may very well have just come off the homeless guy he stepped over on the way to his Benz, the same one I used to record some American Idol wannabe crucifying Whitney will soon snuggle up the powder blue baby-T Simon Cowell's stylist picked out for him. Oh, and the Governor wants to know why the thingie I attached to her designer scarf smells so funny? It's just a little cadaver dog. Okay, so it was a BIG cadaver dog, but he had the most plaintive howl, so I ran the microphone up his collar and chased him up a river bank. Like YOU'VE never done that.

Sooo, what have we learned? Simple. Microphones are intrinsic but clumsy. The people you most want to pin rarely submit, but that truck driver's more than willing to step out of his Carrharts if it'll get him on the tay-vay. Oh - and batteries only die when the speaker is inaccessible, famous or about to say something so cosmically wrong, they'll open an investigation as to why you didn't properly capture it. I just wish some engineer type would invent the ever-hovering invisi-clip(less). You know, some naked to the eye electronic bug that floats just above the subject's sternum. I myself have mad a few sketches of such a device, but if I were smart enough to develop it, I wouldn't be laying in wait beside some egg plant, untangling the same cord I ignored the day before as a Horticulture Major eyes me with growing disdain...

I guess that goes without saying.

Splinterquest!

It doesn't take much talent to point a camera at a pile of sticks, which is probably why I'm so good at it. Then again, I've had a lot of practice. For two decades strong, all manners of calamity have passed through my glass. Minivans flipped by wind, homes broken open up by fallen forests, flimsy splinters driven into sod -- I sometimes think I've shot it all. I haven't. Nor have I swarmed around every type of storm victim, a lesson I learned today when I stumbled upon one Terry Lawrence. But more on him later. First, the news: I don't know if it made the papers up your way, but Mother Nature took an unexpected dump on North Carolina Monday night. I was lucky enough to sleep through much of it, but I arose this morning with the certain knowledge that I'd spend the day paying for that uninterrupted slumber. Was I ever right.

It seemed like hours before I hit pay-dirt. In fact, it had only been eighty minutes since I tore out of the door at the TV station, a cameraman on a mission. "Go find Randolph County damage," someone said as I peeled out of the parking lot and onto the interstate. Several miles and a few phone calls later, I was deep into said county and altogether lost. Oh, I knew where I was; I just didn't know where I was going. The overnight storm had raked across the region, leaving isolated pockets of toppled trees among otherwise unscathed neighborhoods. But without solid intel as to where the destruction was, I was forced to drive blind, scouring the passing countryside for any signs of downed branch, tangled power lines or drunken wildebeests. I guess two out of three ain't bad.

Eventually, I found just the kind of carnage we needed to keep the commercials from bumping into one another - but it wasn't due to my stunning hunting skills. No, it was social media. Folks like Terry Lawrence flooded the station with photos, tweets and clips of what nature hath wrought, providing with he street addressees needed to harass them accordingly. Which is why I was so impressed with Terry. Cordial to a fault, he took time away from staring at the tree in his kitchen to show a photog all the best angles. Had the fallen tree trunk not blocked access to his fridge, I do believe he'd have offered me refreshments. And I would have taken them too, for you don't turn down a man with a red oak in his breakfast nook and AC/DC for his ringtone...

'Hell's Bells', I think it was...

Fritter and Waste...

TV News. It ain't ALL high speed chases and breathless live shots. Quite regularly, the pace of the hunt slows to nearly unbearable levels. Nowhere is this phenomenon more common that when engaging the judicial system - where cameras aren't always allowed in court. It's when the committed lenslinger has to tap into the powers of inattention that landed him such a silly gig to begin with. Don't believe me? Just ask Paul Martin, who demonstrates the proper loitering technique all the way from across the pond. Of course NOW we all just stare at our Blackberry, iPod or Droid, but you get the idea...

Valor On Tap

In a world where television journalists are considered to be lower life forms than lawyers, it's refreshing to see reality trump perception. Case in point: Rob Cook. Wednesday night the WLEX photojournalist was driving his station's satellite truck to Houston for the Final Four. Just outside that city, Cook witnessed a fiery car crash up ahead. A car hit a median; a fire ensued and smoke soon filled the interior. That's when Rob Cook acted on instinct and in doing so, elevated our profession. He approached the burning car, ripped out a window and pulled a woman to safety. Another Good Samaritan managed to free a second passenger. Soon after, flames engulfed the car. Both occupants of the car received minor injuries, but thanks to Cook and others, they lived to tell the story. Heroic? Youbetcha. But of the photogs I know, 3 out of 4 would have attempted the same. That makes us no better than any other wage earners, but it does make us decent human beings with our compassion intact. Sadly, that's a news flash to some. So here's to YOU Rob Cook. We've never met, but I know your type. I work with and compete against them everyday.

Dichotomy's Rot

Okay, this is the part of the show where I pull a few fresh photos and assign some irony to them. To be honest though, it's Sunday night: in the past two days I've ridden 18 hard mountain bike miles, quelled a few sibling insurrections and changed the cat box a time or two. I'm tapped out. Still, it's my self-appointed duty to provide cogent cameraman analysis, so here goes...

Anoop Desai is a nice guy. (Hey, that rhymed!) He's also the smartest American Idol contestant you'll run across at Charlotte's Freedom Park. That's where Shannon Smith and I met him Thursday morning, not quite by accident. See, we're putting together a 'Where Are They Now' piece on some North Carolina Idols and that kind of thing would simply be incomplete without a visit with everyone's favorite UNC Grad student turned R&B singer. Anoop (Dawg) is done with Idol, of course, but he's still making music. Currently unsigned, he's living in Atlanta and shopping his tunes around town. It can't be easy. Don't get me wrong: Anoop's got serious vocal chops and a helluva brain to go with it, but fame is a fickle bitch. What was so fresh and new two seasons back is often but a distant memory to the twelve year olds and asexual shut-ins who hang on Idol's every ingenue. I just wish Anoop would a write a book about his post Idol experience. Contractually, he probably can't - but dude's got some sober-eyed observations on what it's like to step OFF that global merry-go-round. Me? I'd be holed-up in some bad hotel lounge reminding anyone who would listen just who the hell I used to be. Not Anoop. He's got too much savvy, class and talent to go that route. Look for his music soon. Hell, use the twenty you were saving for that Adam Lambert disc and buy from the one American Idol contestant on the planet who could explain the social implications of our state's urbanization without using all his fingers...

Speaking of fingers, I'd just wrapped mine around a most righteous hamburger when I got my next assignment of the day: Babysit the plane crash. Okay, that's not a direct quote, but you get the idea. Some eighteen hours earlier, a small plane had crashed into a High Point neighborhood, killing the pilot and a passenger. Tragic, yes and big news to boot. Before neighbors could even grasp what had happened, a squadron of photogs, reporters and even a few management types were assembling on scene. I myself was lucky enough to miss it, as other duties pulled me out of pocket. But a debris field waits for everyone. Which is why, a full day after impact, The Suits dispatched me post-haste. It was not my first plane crash scene and most probably not my last. But unlike other crash locales, this one was occurred in a neighborhood much like my own. Trees clipped in descending order, fuselage wedged in a house, intact engine sitting in the street...let's just say you had to be there. And the media WAS there - print, TV, even a radio reporter or four. By five o clock, we'd gathered in a semi-circle, each crew vying for an unobstructed view of the destruction. Did we stop to gawk at the plane parts, wax emphatically on the frailty of life, vow to never board a stump-jumper again? Not really. We were all on deadline, you see. We were far more concerned with editing, audio and IFB. The fact that the backdrop was a debris field was sad, but not particularly distracting. If that makes me a jackal, well, you know where to send Animal Control.

Now, about that irony. Honestly, there is none. Interviewing a pop-star wannabe in the morning and shooting a fatal crash in the afternoon is about as unique as that burger I barely finished. Or maybe I've just become numb to the vagaries of the chase. Do anything for long enough and it becomes the norm - be it looking at life through a tube or feeling compelled to write about it (most) every night.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a beveled reflection I must avoid...