Barbarians at the Gate

Cindy Farmer and I didn't go to the White House just to get frisked by Secret Service agents. (Well, I didn't.) We went to tackle the tough issues. So we headed to the Rose Garden. There we found a few other news crews: selected anchor women from around the country invited to lob softballs at Michelle Obama. Each had a photog with them and as we sized each other up, I couldn't help but notice mine was the smallest camera present. A portly sports shooter type seemed to notice too and I didn't like his look. Inhaling sharply, I puffed up my chest and unsnapped the black leather microphone holster hanging. I was all about to go acoustic on a father of four from Phoenix when our twenty-something tour guide spoke up. "You guys came on a good day," she said "the boss is out of town." If by 'out of town' she mean Korea, then our guide was precise. Later that day, President Obama would garner headlines when he was heard whispering sweet nothings to Russian leaders. Yes, as the former community organizer navigated the shoals of nuclear brinkmanship, I was about to 'bow up' in his backyard. That's when the silhouette of snipers on the White House roof caught my eye and I remembered where I was. All around me, handlers dashed this way and that, Park Service employees watered  plants and unsmiling men in nondescript suits glared at anything that moved. Every few minutes, some guy in black fatigues cradling an assault rifle would pop out of a bush before disappearing again. It was enough to make any cameraman jumpy, let alone one with two pots of hotel coffee coursing through his veins.

So I focused. It helped that the command appearance was so well organized. Mrs. Obama would show her face later, when a group of school kids from around the country would need the First Lady's help in the White House garden. For now, our tour guide introduced us to the official beekeeper of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as well as the White House Chef. Apparently the Presidential plumber was indisposed, (no doubt busy removing old fishnet stocking from a drain pipe once favored by J. Edgar Hoover). No matter. Both the beekeeper and the bald guy were camera ready and gregarious to boot. Cindy too hit all her marks, as only someone who's spent a lifetime in front of a TV camera can.  Within minutes, we had all the interviews we needed and as I walked my tripod around in search of close-ups, I thought I caught sight of Cindy doing cartwheels on the White House lawn. It was a spectacular Spring day.

By two o clock it was still spectacular, though a blight had arrived in the form of the Fourth Estate. What had been a casual walking tour devolved into a stagnant photo op and as handlers shooed cute children into place, a phalanx of photographers formed on the prearranged spot. Suddenly all creativity vanished as dozens of different lenses captured the same image over and over again. Once that was done, small talk broke out as we waited for the First Lady to appear. When Michelle Obama finally did emerge in the distance, she ambled toward us like a monied housewife coming outside to entertain the neighbor kids. The sound of camera shutters erupted as Mrs. Obama drew near and I found myself fighting the urge to curtsy. As media swarms go, it was substantial, though the lifers that make up the Washington press community got nothin' on the Hollywood paparazzi.  Why, no one even screamed or genuflected like they do when Ryan Seacrest pops out of his box. Perhaps it's the presence of all those snipers. Certainly kept me in line.

Speaking of lines, Michelle Obama worked the crowd of school children like a pro.  When I turned to tell Cindy Farmer this though, my lovely anchor was nowhere to be seen. Then I caught a glimpse of her being escorted into the White House and I knew that the mission was at hand. A few minutes later some White House wonk snapped this photo of the one-on-one interview we'd been promised. I managed to worm my way near the blessed event and though I watched the whole thing I was out of earshot. Guess I'll hear what they said when I sit down to edit it, though I'm hoping they at least took a little time to chat about something more interesting than gardening and parenting skills, like, say,  Area 51 or Nicholas Cage shouldn't be allowed to shoot any more of those National Treasure movies. Whatever they discussed, I was for once grateful to my bosses for sending me here, I just hope the exit process involves fewer cavity searches than what it took to get in this joint...

The West Sling

If ever you needed proof that a fancycam can open any door, consider this: I wormed my way into the White House yesterday. Technically, we were even invited! Well, Cindy Farmer was. The Piedmont's perennial sweetheart, er, anchor lady was allegedly minding her own business last week when she received a phone call from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. "Michelle Obama would like to meet with you. Can you come to the White House?" Somewhat suspecting she was being punked, Cindy said yes and before long it was determined she would need a photog to document the event. Enter ME. No, really: I walked by the Chief at the right time and he asked me if I wanted to go. 'Sounds labor intensive', I thought, the kind of thing I usually avoid. "Of course!" I said. Hey, some things you don't pass up. 

All of which explains why I showed up at the White House security gate yesterday with camera gear, credentials and one perky morning anchor. The oak tree in a uniform took a look at Cindy's beaming face and waived her through. Then he stared at my press pass for a good sixty seconds before pressing an unseen button, at which point two gun-wielding ninjas popped out from behind a bush and dragged me away to an underground bunker. Okay, it didn't go down exactly like that, but I was poked, prodded, almost tased and damn near engaged before being finally ushered inside. My gear suffered a similar fate. Guards removed all 74 items I had jammed into my backpack  and when they were done I had about 15 seconds to put it all back in. I finished in time and the guards seemed pleased. Wonder what their over/under was?

First stop: the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room. You know, that vaulted space where the Press Secretary of the moment faces cameras and deflects questions. It all looks so grand on C-Span but in reality it's about the size of a stout double-wide trailer (with all the charm). We residents of the Fourth Estate are used to this phenomenon, as all studios look smaller in person. But this deception is so striking it belongs right up there with Area 51, which, I suspect, has alien examination rooms bigger than this rinky-dink theater where the official spokesperson for the current administration quite literally faces the nation. Speaking of which ... it's next to impossible to hang out in a room with that kind of Presidential podium and not eventually take the floor. Why, during MY time at the lectern, I called for an end to the War on Drugs, declared Stevie Ray Vaughan's birthday (October 3rd) a national holiday and proudly named The Hillary Step as our 51st State. Of course my exhortations barely raised an eyebrow and as I looked out over the hardened press corps, I realized I wasn't the first rookie they'd watched go rogue...

NEXT TIME: Lifers, Snipers and Bo, OH MY! 

Schmuck Alert: Sight of the Gun

TV News: the only profession where you place yourself in volatile situations, then wheeze like a banshee when trouble erupts. That said, there is ABSOLUTELY no excuse for pulling a gun you don't plan to use, let alone menacing a news crew with it. But there's no denying that's exactly what happened in Joiner, Arkansas the other day, thanks to the magic of video...

"Excuse me, Cameraman? Yes, you - the one I'm threatening with bodily harm and a firearm... you're not recording this, are you? 'Cause if you're, I'd be be pretty thick to keep whipping out my piece like this. Maybe I'll just hold it by my side and walk away like I have to pee. You keep rolling while your lady friend goes all Isiah Carey up in this joint..."

Okay, so it's easy to poke fun, but if someone pulled a heater on ME, whatever audio that followed would be so draped in profanity, Ozzy Osbourne's kids would file a complaint with the FCC. Truth is, reporter April Thompson and photographer Ben Short did a lot of things correctly when an angry young man pulled up and broke out his best Boomhauer. Thompson remained chill and got out of the camera's way, Short kept rolling and centered his lens on their surprise guest. It was all rather textbook until Dude smacks the camera, then runs back to his pick-up for more than a little ordnance. At that point, mere hindrance turned criminal.

Critics can fault WREG for pimping the incident out of proportion and they may have a point, but the fact remains that jack-ass brandished a weapon in front of an innocent news crew and no matter the showboating that followed, that shit ain't cool. So ease up on the Monday morning quarterbacking, fellow media members! I've seen a few of you soil your action slacks whenever a bug flies into the car. Who knows what dialect you may affect once somebody pulls a hand-cannon on you! Me - I'd reach for a word understandable in any language...


SCHMUCK!  


(By the way, the subtitle of this particular Schmuck Alert is a lame attempt to salute David Carr's The Night of the Gun, quite possibly the finest junkie memoir you'd ever want to read. A Lenslinger Library Favorite!) 

Backdrop Not Included

When young Stephen Clapper left El Ocho for his beloved Texas, we just knew he would do well. But from the looks of it, he's rippin' the lid off the joint! Okay, so that was lame and not the least bit funny. But neither is Mother Nature when she decides to put her foot down on an innocent village. That appears to be what happened here as Clapper explains:

We had a couple tornadoes touch down in a couple small towns just south of San Antonio. This was probably the worst damaged home. We did a bunch of live shots from where I'm standing. The Weather Channel was on the other side of the house.

Ahh, The Weather Channel. Ya know, your mother-in-law's favorite station is a beast on the scene of a natural disaster. I know it's their bread and butter, but a little less self-importance would go a l-o-o-o-n-g way when dealing with people who can put their home in a wheelbarrow. But since I didn't log in to talk about that, I'll move on... Just keep Cantore away from me, would ya? HE knows why...

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Stephen Clapper, the prodigal photog. Dude left us many months back and I for one miss him. Not only was he professional beyond his years and totally chill, he's a talented musician! More importantly, he was a grown-ass man. Wish I could say the same for every young photog I know. They'd be wise to emulate Stephen, though with a last name like 'Clapper', we never, ever, ever called him Stephen.

Now, back to the debris field. Of all the twisted vistas we third responders show up at, nothing sticks with you like a broken home. Then again, if you can traipse through a pile of scrap that used to be someone's home and NOT come away with permanent mental images that will never leave you, you are one stone cold news shooter with an eroded soul. Most of us can cite chapter and verse the times we've shown up to find some neighborhood missing in action. Me, I could write whole books on just the demolished trailer parks I've toured.

But as Amanda Emily points out, I probably never will.

Riveters to the Spot

Ever have that dream where you explore some murky world? Maybe it starts out at the office all normal-like, then suddenly you're alone and driving, confused as to where you're going but determined to beat The Others there... That's when colors swirl and time takes five as what should be a simple devolves into a punishing conundrum of scanner hiss and easily missed alleyways. It's only then your eyelids twitch and you begin to think you've been sleeping all along, not lurching headlong into the void at the whim of some fickle, unseen master... Or are you? Suddenly it seems you're where you were trying to get to all along, yet the tempest is spent and all that remains are the fluttering yellow strips of futility. A part of your submerged mind thinks to look around and you're not at all surprised to see there are now three of you staring into the abyss....

Wait a minute! That's no dream! It's just the Night Shift! I know because I've worked about a dozen of them in nearly twenty years. And those who have endured even more evening shifts tell me there's more to it than just beefing up your light kit. There are tighter deadlines, fewer managers around and a steady stream of crime scenes to brighten up your day night. Just a few of the reasons I keep my sunny ass off the clock come dusk. Better to leave it the younger set, like these three fine specimens pictured above (Jared Rose of KMSP, Jeff Ganahl of KSTP and Nate Anderson of KARE)! Together I'm sure those three will get to the bottom of it, whatever it is. Me, I'll be at home not watching my set and feeling bad about that camera battery I scarfed from the night guy..

Or was THAT a dream?

Schmuck Alert: Attack of the Hardhat!

If the list of reporters honored by The Lenslinger Institute was any shorter, we might get around to writing it down. At the moment though, only one name echoes down these hallowed halls: Stormin' Bob Norman. He's the Miami reporter who didn't let a dude in a plastic hat get away with manhandling his partner Mario Alonso. The back-story is a bit dense; something about garbage company contracts. But what's important here is that the journalists were well within their rights when they set up on a public street to shoot video of a recycling plant in Pompano Beach. Enter one furious foreman. "You can't take pictures of the plant!" he barked as Mario trained the camera on him instead. That's when the foreman got all grabby with the glass, prompting reporter Bob Norman to give the smaller man a friendly SHOVE! A tussle ensued, until the apoplectic hardhat scooped up the crew's wireless microphone and stormed off with it, (presumably to launch his own TV network centered around short, angry men in safety gear). This doesn't sit well with our new buddy Bob, who demanded the microphone be returned, then waited calmly while the foreman called 9-1-1.

"Hello, Police? I just attacked an innocent news crew and stole their microphone. Can you come out here and remind me what a bitch move that was?"

Okay so the foreman probably worded it differently but it doesn't really matter because once authorities did arrive, they listened to both sides, watched the video and suggested Mr. Ass-hat return what was never his to begin with. In the end, the foreman even shook hands with the WPLG crew and at last check all seemed rosy in the Sunshine State. Normally, this is where we step in and issue an official Schmuck Alert for crimes against the camera. That we're happy to do (Schmuck!), but it's what Bob Norman did during and after the episode that has this esteemed panel awkwardly trying to high-five itself. Norman didn't have to push the man away, but he did. The investigative reporter explained why in a wry slide show that appeared on his station's website shortly after the incident.


"Mario is completely vulnerable at this moment and the camera itself, which is ridiculously expensive, is also in jeopardy."


"In defense of man and property, I push him back. As you can see his hand is still on the camera."


"I'm thinking, he's short, but he's pretty strong ... and it looks like we're going to go at it. Space is my friend with this little bull."


Norman's station could have saturated the airwaves with looped footage of the whole goofy affair, but for a while they held their fire. The slide show and its more than apt captions drew a few eyeballs without mangling the mission at hand. Norman's eventual piece wisely centered on all that he uncovered and treated the attack of the hardhat as the mere curiosity it was. Well played, Bob Norman. Well played. As for that other guy...

SCHMUCK!

Jurassic Lark

Okay, so it's no radioactive spleen, but there ARE occupational hazards to long term lenslinging. I'm not talking ham hocks and eyeballs either. You can throw out your shoulder or screw up your vision earning all kinds of paychecks. No, I'm more interested in what unfettered access to the good, the bad and the ludicrous does to your noodle. Take your sense of wonder. While you're at it, look for mine. I haven't been bowled over in the line of duty since a sinister semi tried to flatten us. (Not that I'm complaining.) But every once in a while, I do worry about my deep-seeded aversion to being in awe. It's not that I've seen it ALL. But having processed an awful lot of broadcast operas, I fear it's ruined my ear. These days, I wander from shoot to shoot with a certain insouciance, an urgent apathy borne of a million deadlines met. It's not my prettiest feature.

But please, don't take that lack of surprise in my eyes as a sign of cynicism. That I keep in another coat. What I bring with me every day is a heavily concealed appreciation of the absurd. I keep it buried in my run-bag, right next to the spare nine volts and Homer Simpson Pez dispenser. That way I'll have to dig for it the next time something insipid this way comes. I found doing so leads to the most unlikely exchanges...

"They're erecting animatronic dinosaurs all around the Zoo? Will there be refreshments?"

"The forest service is dropping flammable ping-pong balls onto bone-dry woodland? Do I get to wear a funny hat?"

"Bigfoot got caught in a prostitution sting and is asking for me? Those pills aren't mine, Officer."

Anyway, I'm not particularly proud of my prosaic state of mind. Twenty years ago, I'd get excited at the sight of color bars. These days, a space alien could appear hovering over my bed one night and what I'd wanna do the most is sit him down for a triple-lit interview, maybe get a few shots of him and the other grays as they prep whatever anal probe they brought along for me. Only after I woke up three days later with little memory and no underwear would I allow myself to be surprised. Even then I'd squelch my alarm until I got a good look at whatever footage I captured. If I got a lot, I'm bum-rushing the set with a carousel of color slides. But if I came away from a close encounter with no media  to speak of, I'd most likely keep my mashed potato sculpture to myself - for every good photog knows if you didn't capture at least part of it on video, it simply did not happen. But that's a story for another day. I'll tell you all about it sometime, but when I do, please ---

Don't act surprised.

Crouching Lifer, Hidden Hernia

Seen here in its natural environment, the Lenslingamus Maturicus is known for contorting its form to feed itself and others. Note that sensible hoof covering, the belted thorax, the dime store wristwatch ... all signs of a fully grown photogopod. But don't let the everyday markings fool you. This species is a cold blooded killer, no matter how feeble or bitter they may appear in advanced stages. The undomesticated news shooter can stun its enemy with a panoply of offensive maneuvers... the overhanded lens launch, the spinning microphone drop-kick and, most grotesquely, the Darth Vader duck walk (pictured above). Considered the most vile member of the broadcast stratum, the seasoned slinger can project a noxious bile from damn near thirty yards, stun its prey with rambling war stories and assemble cogent timeline even when fully hibernated. Most lose their distinctive markings as they mature, but just because a 'Freebird' t-shirt has been replaced by a bland, blue button-down doesn't mean you should approach this most ornery of scavengers unarmed. Known for their odorous hides high tolerance to pharmaceuticals and general disdain for meaningful human interaction, black-market tranquilizer darts have been sanctioned by governing bodies in all fifty states.

Approach with caution, if at all...

The Announcement

Doesn't matter what it is: draft pick, nervous jury verdict, new sherbert flavor. When camera crews collect in corridors waiting for something solid to be said, one can almost taste the inquietude. Hey, you'd get antsy too if the only thing standing between you and a late breaking live report is a constipated bailiff or weak-ass wi-fi or some other such obstacle about to derail your deadline. Why it's enough to make you punctuate your displeasure with microphone jabs or at the very least look up from your game of Angry Birds and ask when the hell we're gonna light this candle. Me, I stick to fidgeting, 'til my verbal tic surfaces and I begin using thirty dollar words when any old utterance would do.  

"These miscreants don't grasp the concernment of my dispatch!" I'll blurt out to no one in particular. 

That's usually when someone rolls their eyes or suggests I go wait by the urinals until word comes down from the town elders as to where they're gonna build that new moratorium. It's a mental rash no ointment can quell and one nicely crystallized by Lenslinger Institute graduate Geoffrey Levine. When I asked him what the hubbub was all about he mentioned something about UNC officials facing sanctions from the NCAA. I dunno, must be some kind of code talk. Guess that's how they do it in Capital City. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tie my competitor's shoelaces to his tripod. Otherwise he won't tuck and curl properly when I push him down that stairwell we're gonna pass in the mad dash to the satellite trucks. Hey, ALL'S FAIR in love and journalism, right?

Right?

The Shilling Floor

Ahh, Hollywood. You can backpedal down a spiral staircase with a fresh death-row inmate and four photogs you don't even like and STILL not suffer the concussion that is a red carpet event. I knew that going into my latest American Idol mission and aside from stopping to buy a protective cup, it didn't really slow me down. Maybe I'm a masochist. Maybe I just like the view there on the rim of eminence, where farm girls twirl and crooners moon until celebrity judges nudge each other and ogle another ingenue. Maybe I'm too old for this shit. That's what I was thinking last week, anyway, as Shannon Smith and I wedged our way into an unforgiving wall of glass. A strip of masking tape marked our spot inside the rented tent perched atop that parking deck, but with dozens of other camera crews vying for a similar view, it was all I could to hold my ground. But hold it I did, thanks to grit, fortitude and a handy step-stool I'd brought along. This ain't my first rodeo - or even my first red carpet. Idol taught me The Way of the Rug long ago. Hell, I was there the night Hasselhoff cried. But that's not important right now. What is important is that someone pry that microphone cube out of my spleen, 'else I'm gonna climb down from this wobbly perch and choke a certain dandy. LOOK OUT!



Oh, it's just the judges. From the way those print photographers started yelling, I figured a cloud of anthrax just blew in. That, or somebody knocked over a box of rattlesnakes. Hey, I'm no apologist for the pretty people, but you've never felt bad for a movie star until you've watched a guy who looks like he slept in a urinal click his camera and yell "J-LO!" forty-seven hundred times. It's enough to make Celebrity Rehab seem appealing. Or even American Idol. Fact is, the faces have changed since I last rode the red (blue) carpet. Not behind the camera, though. For all its global reach, Idol seems to be staffed by the same six people. There - that dude pushing Randy Jackson into place, wasn't he the one  with the bullhorn in Atlanta? I'm pretty sure I remember him hurling frozen water bottles at a coliseum full of caterwauling wannabes. Anyway, back to the talent. That Jennifer Lopez sure is pretty. We were just about to go LIVE(!) when she stepped into the tent. Both Shannon and I wanted badly to include Jenny from the Block in our little remote, but it was not to be. A competing crew ensnared Lopez moments before our hit and, despite a variety of hand gestures, I was unable to free her in time. I'm sure it's not the first time J-Lo's watched camera crews fight over her. Nor the last.

Hmm? What's that? WHO am I wearing? Uhh, at last check, it was an entertainment reporter from Tulsa. She's been digging her heels into my shin ever since Seacrest entered the tent. By the time he gets over here, I figure she'll have climbed me altogether. Where does an overly made-up mother of two with jet lag get that kind of energy? And is that really her cameraman's pancreas hanging from her key-chain? Man, those aging anchor ladies sure know how to unpack an elbow. If she digs one more body part into my sternum, someone's gonna have to change their last name. I just hope I can write off a week of chiropractic visits on my expense report... but enough about me.

Let's talk about him. Steven Tyler, that's who! Despite the presence of J-Lo's famous, uh, entourage, the lead singer of Aerosmith was by far the biggest spectacle on the carpet that night.

Now, I can't vouch for what he told Lara Logan, but during our time together, Tyler was gracious, patient, almost lucid! He may be lacking a few synapses, but, hey, who here isn't? Yes, before his handler could pry him away, the better half of the Toxic Twins mused on this year's contestants, serenaded some reporter chick's little girl and remained wholly appropriate. Only twice did he cock his head to the side and listen, as if a radio station only he could her just dropped the needle on 'Sweet Emotion'. Truth is, Tyler could have started making shadow puppets and I'd hold my lighter up high. Dude's an American Bad-Ass. Sure, his band mates balked when he signed on for American Idol, but when's the last time Tom Hamilton puts asses in the seats, eh? The way I see it, Tyler's not only aging gracefully, he's giving a few folks the middle finger along the way. How Rock and Roll is that? Like I telling my 4th grade classmates, Aerosmith's way better than those morons in KISS! They dropped 'Big Ten Inch (Record)' on an unsuspecting planet, helped bridge the rock to rap gap in the early 80's, even pulled off one of the finest Beatles covers ever! Yes, for all the gasbags that passed through my glass that evening, I was happy to share the rarefied air with this living legend. Besides, for a guy who still dresses like Doug Henning's mushroom dealer, he seems to feel intrinsically hip.

Who am I to hate on THAT?

Grilling the Messenger

'Sir, do you have permission to be up here?"

"Permission?"

"Permission."

"Like written permission?"

I was stalling and the rent-a-cop knew it. He'd popped out of the stairwell door and caught me watching the sun rise over the Hollywood hills. A few feet away, Shannon carried on a conversation with my camera. Thanks to the cell-phone suitcase at my feet, her voice and image were appearing on TV screens some three thousand miles away, with only a second or two of delay to confuse the anchors. For half an hour, we'd been joining our North Carolina viewers live from some eight stories above Los Angeles. Now a small Filipino dude in a Smokey Bear hat was threatening to shut my production down.

"You need to come with me." he said. I smiled as if there was nothing I'd rather do than abandon the reporter and gear I'd flown five hours across country with the night before. Which is what I did. Shannon was answering an anchor's question when she noticed me walking toward the elevator with Lil' Smokey. I gave her a look that said, 'Keep talking. We're just gonna go get some ice cream.' She gave me a look that said, 'If anything happens to me up here, I'll haunt your every descendant.' I could only smile weakly as I followed the shopping center security guard into the elevator. The door shut behind us and I visions of Han Solo frozen in Carbonite filled my mind's eye.

As our capsule plummeted down the nine floors, Lil Smokey stared holes into my sternum. Our faces were only a foot or so away and I thought I smelled a distinct lack of coffee on his breath. He looked back up at me as if I'd mooned his Grandmother. I could only stare back and fight the temptation to offer him a Tic-Tac.

After what seemed like a very long time, the elevator reached the basement floor. When the door opened, my uniformed escort motioned for me to follow him.  I did, and walked deep into a dim labyrinth of concrete and steel. Then a door opened and I was suddenly in a very small room. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw a much larger man in the same Smokey Bear hat standing in front of a wall of LG flat-screens. On one of the screens, I could see Shannon standing before my tripod and camera, apparently still making happy talk with our anchor team back home.

That's when the interrogation began.

"Who are you? What are you doing up there? Did we know about this?" Big Smokey seemed even less pleased and I again got the distinct impression I was delaying everybody's breakfast. Veins were beginning to appear just above his starched collar and as he demanded answers, I asked myself another question... 'What would Fletch do?'. I didn't really know, so I put on my most unconcerned expression and made sure not to lie.

"We're here for tonight's red carpet. Just doing a few affiliate remotes. You know, like a morning news preview. We'll be done within the hour..."

This only seemed to infuriate Big Smokey and he leaned forward into my personal space.

"Yes, but did you arrange this with us beforehand?"

"Did I arrange this with you beforehand? No, not me personally, but I, uh, can't imagine my bosses back East didn't follow the, um, appropriate protocol..."

With a huff, Big Smokey turned on his polished heel and plopped down at a nearby desk. Grabbing an over-sized binder, he began flipping through the plastic covered pages and asked me my name. I told him my name, utterly certain no such moniker appeared anywhere in that binder. The sound of those plastic pages being flipped with such force drowned out every other sound in that small room and I had to look away. My eyes landed on an endless bank of walkie-talkie chargers, so many I began to question just what kind of fortress we had scaled. So far, neither Big or Lil Smokey had asked me HOW we'd gotten past the parking garage's many stop-arms to get to the top, and in the excitement of the morning I myself had momentarily forgotten. All I knew is I'd been sent cross country to establish an electronic beachhead in semi-friendly soil and we didn't pack like sardines into a pressurized tube for five plus hours just to give up when some traffic arm wouldn't lift on its own.         

I was trying to decide how best to verbalize that when Big Smokey slammed the binder on the desk and reached for what I could only assume was the direct line to Commissioner Gordon. As he punched buttons, I turned toward a nearby the bulletin board to see if they kept track of many camera crews they pepper-sprayed each month. Behind me, Big Smokey spoke into the phone.

"Chief. Real sorry to wake you. We got some  joker on the roof doing live shots. Says he's here with the network promoting that red carpet event tonight...

A great silence followed as the security office's clock hands ground to a halt. I rocked back and forth on my heels and wondered about my new friends' police on Tazers. Up on the flat-screen, I saw Shannon put down her microphone and inch nervously toward our rented red Impala. 'Did I even leave the car unlocked', I asked myself as Shannon walked off screen.  Then Big Smokey's voice snapped me back into the present.

"What's that Chief? Yeah?"  
       
Here it comes, I thought. Ten more minutes and I'm gonna be a guest of the LAPD... probably say something stupid and spark a beat-down. By lunchtime, I'll be known as the new Reginald Denny. Most likely lose a few teeth, might get lucky though and score my own cable show.... 

I was working out the particulars of my first book deal when Big Smokey grunted into the phone receiver and hung it up hard. I turned toward him and clinched for the thwack of the first baton.

"YOU..... can go."

I did and we went live there on the roof two more times before our morning show signed off for the day. As far as my bosses knew, it was never a problem -- which I'd like to think is why they sent me on such a silly mission in the first place. Now, back to you....

Schlepper's Creed

In the third act of the most important film of our time, protagonist Navin Johnson hits rock bottom. Bankrupt and homeless, he abandons his beloved Marie, scoffing at the material possessions he once treasured.

"I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need. And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control and the paddle ball. And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game and the remote control and the lamp and that's all I need." 


Navin continues to collect the detritus of his broken life until he waddles off awkwardly with an armful of random objects. So what's my point? I don't know that I have one. Nor do I have a clever sharecropper family that turned my Opti-Grab earnings into an impressive stock portfolio. Thus, I crack open each weekday with a fresh assignment and in doing so, invoke the ghost of one Navin Johnson, It usually happens early in the day. A reporter and I will arrive at some less than glamorous locale and since my they'll have their hands full of iPhone, notepad and the occasional stack of 8 by 10 glossy head-shots, it will be left to ME to round up the rest of the television station we brought along. "Are you ready yet?" my partner will ask between status updates. "Almost", I'll answer as I stare blankly into the abyss of a Ford Explorer liftgate.

"I don't need this or this. Just this camera. And this tripod, the camera and the tripod and that's all I need. And this microphone. The camera, this tripod, and the microphone, and that's all I need. And these lights. The camera, and this tripod, and the microphone and these lights. And this SD card. The camera, this tripod and the microphone and these lights and this SD Card and that's all I need..."

The reporter is, of course, twenty-five and doesn't realize I'm re-enacting a seminal scene from a film that helped shaped my psyche. Eventually they abandon me for the inside of whatever office building we're visiting and I can usually count on a dirty look when I follow them under heavy load, muttering antiquated movie lines all the way. Kids these days. They may consider themselves the most plugged-in media consumers ever, but they sure don't appreciate my love of the classics.

Wait until I show them my special purpose.

Chris Daughtry: Behind the Glass

Before jetting West, there was one other thing Shannon Smith and I had to do: catch up with our old pal Chris Daughtry. For weeks we'd been trying to rendezvous with the hometown hero, but February Sweeps and a rock star's schedule kept pushing it back. Now, as we prepped for our trip to California, word came that Chris was up for the interview. Happily, we dropped our bags.

Shannon and I were bystanders to the rise of Chris Daughtry, having interviewed him the day before he auditioned for American Idol. Back then, he was a quietly confident local singer with simmering looks and a propulsive vocal style. Today, he's a Grammy-nominated, platinum-selling, globally known recording artist. Yet from all that I can tell, he's the same guy. After Idol helped launch him into the stratosphere, Chris landed pretty close to home. These days, he can be seen running errands around town - when he's not criss-crossing the globe under a white hot spotlight. Nice work if you can get it. Chris can, and he's jammed with his heroes in distant ports as a result. But a strong family and a vibrant wife seem to keep him grounded, no matter how high his talent may take him. For us Earthlings, it's kind of a kick to spot him roaming around Target. It's like living near Batman -- if Batman had a voice that could melt metal, instead of a fly ride and that weird cowl thingie... Now, where was I?

Oh yeah, at an undisclosed location somewhere in the Piedmont. I won't tell where, but the old warehouse where Daughtry and his band spent a month rehearsing for their upcoming tour was anything but remote. When Shannon and I rolled up, only the sight of a few tattooed roadies milling about outside gave the location away.  

Inside, we found band members and sound techs eating sandwiches. For weeks, the West Coast-based musicians have been cooling their jets in Carolina, fine tuning songs before they launch their “Break The Spell” tour. We found a place to set up and as I started rearranging the seriously seedy sofas, Chris popped out of nowhere and gave Shannon a hug. From there we were off, settling into a wide-ranging interview that covered everything from his new music to his new toddlers. I must say, Chris has improved greatly on camera. Once upon a time his reluctance to say something he'd regret tamped down his on-screen demeanor. That guy is gone. Having survived through the gauntlet of talk shows, video shoots and award telecasts, Chris is as comfortable on camera as anyone you've seen (not) jump on Oprah's couch. Don't look for him to allow reality show cameras in his home, but he seems to have grown more at ease with the medium that helped make him a household name. It helps that he and Shannon have such rapport. After all, he used to be her service department write-up guy at the local Honda dealership. Funny thing, life.
 
Yo, soundbites are tight, But I WANNA ROCK!  Chris soon accommodated my needs, running the fellas through two new songs while I shot off-shoulder and tried not to rip anyone's guitar cord out. Live music is one of my favorite things to shoot and I have a few dorky band videos from the 80's to prove it. This time, however, there was no time for a cocktail napkin storyboard. I had one take to get all the footage I could, otherwise I'd have to dance around gaps in my timeline later in the day. Luckily for me, Chris sensed this and shooed away his handler who was trying to wrap up our shoot. When the first song ended, the band burst into another and I dashed between instrument positions in an attempt to get cutaways. Still, the mind wanders...

It certainly has its perks but rock stardom looks to be a righteous hassle. People like me sticking lenses in your face, old friends acting weird, total strangers with strong opinions about your every whim... give me that good ole an-o-ny-mi-tee! No wonder dude likes to wander down the home improvement aisle in an unassuming skullcap. Even then, he's known to chat up fans when recognized. (Just ask my wife!) It's only on stage, or in this case, a dusty warehouse floor, that Daughtry gets to relax. He fires up that blowtorch of a throat and singes everyone's eyelashes before the song is through. Watching him through that shower of sparks, one gets the felling he'd be belting out the same kind of thunderous melodies even if he was still filling out work orders for Civics and Accords. Rock on, Chris, and thanks again!

The Brenner Principle

Much has been written about the passing of Rich Brenner and deservedly so. In his time on this planet, he defended freedom, inspired excellence and cut great swaths through mundanity. Most folks knew him as the consummate sportscaster, a commanding presence in the center of their TV screens. But he was so much more. An innate communicator, Rich Brenner's fierce intellect and oratory horsepower brought refreshing depth to a sometimes shallow field. There was simply no subject he couldn't speak to; just ask anyone who tried to pass him in the hall. Most of us however, were happy to stop and talk, or more often than not, listen. When I arrived at El Ocho nearly fifteen years ago, it struck me that Rich was the very heart and soul of the place. TV stations, by their very nature, attract a lot of wayward souls. Over the years, many of those souls looked to Rich for guidance and they got it in spades. He was a father figure to many of my friends and a tireless supporter of everyone he met. That's just how Rich Brenner rolled. Good luck keeping up.

He was known for stinging commentaries, powerful screeds in which he held the sports world to his own high standards. But he didn't engender loyalty among his young admirers with lofty speeches. He did it with comedy. Rich Brenner possessed the gravitas of the Marine Captain he once was, but he often displayed the giddiness of a nerdy school girl. Known station-wide for his encyclopedic recall of Seinfeld lines, Winston Churchill quotes and Austin Powers dialogue, Rich reveled in pop culture and wasn't afraid to express it. His spot-on impression of Dr. Evil will simmer in my brain pan forever. I didn't spend a lot of time in the Sports department. But my lack of acumen there didn't stop him from becoming MY friend. Someone must have told him early on that I was a history buff, for he always came to me with World War II trivia. He seemed impressed that I knew about the fall of Corregidor and we'd riff endlessly on the Pacific Theater. THAT was Rich; he'd find a way to connect with people and make them feel smarter in the process.

After Rich retired, he started popping up on local radio. It was a medium he was made for and his appearances often surpassed the people he was subbing for. I called into those shows whenever I could. He'd put me on the air and we'd talk television. When I'd said my piece, Rich would never fail to heap accolades upon me. It was often over the top and I think we both knew it. But it's awfully pleasant to have a local living legend sing your praises on the radio. In fact, one of the highest compliments I've ever received came from Rich OFF the air. He'd read a recent blog post of mine and went out of his way to tell me how much he liked it. "You're sure not afraid to tell it like it is," he said. High praise indeed from such a gifted commentator. Today, co-workers, friends and family gathered to pay final tribute to this larger than life figure. Outside of my own father's recent funeral, it was the most moving memorial service I've ever attended and I felt honored to be in that room. In fact, I left there feeling downright proud to be a broadcaster, something I didn't think was still possible.

So thanks, Rich, for that one last lesson. As for that higher standard of yours, mission accepted.