Ever wonder what it's like to cover a PGA golf tournament? Me neither, but you gotta check out the calvacade of images my co-worker Chris Weaver brought back from his first trip to the Chrysler Classic of Greensboro. Rather than focus solely on the overdressed out-of-towners, Weaver turned the lens on his fellow camera-schlubs working the circuit. In doing so, he captured the real pros of the C.C.G. For example...
TIMMM-EEEEE! Meet T. Wayne Hawks, a man who could easily be called the patron saint of Piedmont TV sports coverage. Be it a Nascar race, a Final Four game or a Superbowl, you'll find Timmy on the sidelines, peering through his baby and capturing all the action with exactitude and flair. Not only is he the most experienced and gifted sports shooter I know, but Timmy also possesses one of the sunniest dispositions I've ever encountered. Over the years I've tried to emulate this man's bright outlook on life, but my curmudgeonly tendencies always get in the way. So while I may never unearth the cosmic wonders that keep this cat so happy, I really respect his attitude, as well as his camera acumen. Others do too - of all the people I'm asked about while cruising around in a marked news car, Timy Hawks is at the top of the list.
Yo Wrenn-Dawg! Kevin? Yoo-Hoo! Okay, we'll let this seasoned pro finish his edit. While he has a few choice words with an ornery laptop, I'll tell you what I now about this wiry Siler City native. He is the ultimate sports fan, a fierce competitor who's attended every kind of athletic event there is. Twice. Like all sports shooters, Wrenn takes his craft just as seriously as those on the the field - if not more so. All of this makes Wrenn pound-for-pound the strongest shooter I know. He also knows his news, feeling just as at home at a drive-by shooting as he deos on the sidelines of an NFL grudge match. A few years ago, Kevin and I huddled together at the foot a windlashed fishing pier and giggled like school girls as Hurricane Isabel did her best to drive an entire sand dune up our collective nostrils. Good times...
But of course life behind the camera isn't all fun and games. There's also an awful lot of hurrying up and waiting. Here, Chris Weaver demonstrates the proper press room ettiquette, wolfing down a free lunch and dissing the freebies with the competition. Though I wasn't present, I'm fairly certain there was a good amount of idle gossip and half-true war stories being bandied about over the picnic table. In fact, it was just these types of impromptu gatherings that first inspired me to start writing a few of my favorite tall tales down, for nothing is more interesting than chewing the fat with a bunch of battle-hardened lenslingers who've been there and back - even if half the stories are steeped in lies and embellishment. But enough of my babbling, head over to TVPhotogBlog for the real deal...
Via 
Little did I know then I would one day work for 
First produced in the late 30's for wealthy industrialists, the 
I know where they brought it, I thought as I poked around the neatly-lined engines, stacks of sheet metal and rows of rivets. In the center of the cavernous space, two Goose hulks sat on squat, dusty wheels - their trademark rounded hulls far from gleaming. At the far end of the warehouse a half dozen men in orange t-shirts worked in silence, scrubbing metal and bending rubber like the aviation surgeons they were. Despite my bright lights, they barely looked up. Instead they remained laser-focused on the procedure before them, intent on bringing an old bird back to life.
For all the mechanics' reticence, their avuncular CEO was more than happy to chat. With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Manuel filled me in on-camera and off about every facet of the quirkly aircraft. Halfway through his laidback pitch, I realized my steely newsman's exterior had melted into a big dopey grin. Not one to usually succumb to the lure of mere machinery, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to climb aboard a shiny new Goose and fly it off to some exotic, watery locale. When I told Mr. Manuel of my overwhelming desire, he laughed knowingly and leaned in close.
No doubt. I don't remember getting this pumped by a inanimate object since I first discovered the betacam. By the time I left the Gibsonville headquarters of 
Though I've already spent way too much bandwidth on my recent hurricane trip, there is one piece of unfinished business jostling about the sandy floorboards of my still rather gritty news cruiser. Barely an hour into our satellite truck encampement at Carolina Beach, none other than 
It's fair to say I don't get golf. I get the 'good walk spoiled' bit , but I've always been a bit wary of a sport where the players look like their wives laid their clothes out for them. No, I'd much rather hit the single-track with my brilliantly weird mountain bike buddies than stroll to the next overpriced hole with a bunch of pastel-clad blowhards. If that's too broad a brush - sue me (it's MY blog!), but my blue-collar roots have never allowed me to feel all that comfy on the back-nine. Still, I've ridden in an awful lot of golf carts, usually in hot pursuit of some club-packing celebrity. Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Richard Petty, Richard 'Shaft' Roundtree and that 
In less than seven days, a ragged army of talented vocalists, overconfident hopefuls and starry-eyed psychopaths will descend on the Greensboro Coliseum, bathing the area in a white-hot spotlight of off-key ambition and way too much body glitter. When I covered the 
Most days I make the news. Today, I pretty much just watched it. Moments before joining Jeff Varner in a hard-target search for Rita evacuees lurking in the Piedmont, I was summoned to the conference room where a cabal of well-dressed news managers paced about like the hopped-up news junkies they were.
A few minutes later, I was firmly ensconsed in my station's 'Sat Center'. Okay, so it's just a corner of our tape room where the outdated beta decks hang out, but branding is everything in television, so allow me that. Whatever you call it, I took to my new assignment with considerable enthusiasm. With cold soda and notepad in hand, I leaned back in my low-sitting chair and stared up at the bank of monitors, wondering exactly which News God I'd recently appeased to score such a cushy gig. Little did I know then the Earth was about to spin a little slower.
Which is exactly what I proceeded to do. Utilizing the penmanship of a third-grader I scribbled times and tape numbers as reporter stand-ups and sweeping chopper shots fought for my diminished attention. Just when the horrible bus fire seemed like the top story, a breeched levee in New Orleans' ninth ward became the marquee event of the day. Almost instantly, shots of elderly people on stretchers vanished, replaced by slightly less disturbing footage of water gushing through man-made walls. Shortly after that, time...stood...still.
By the end of the day I'd filled several pages with my chicken-scratch vernacular, handing off cued-up tapes to colleagues in need of a certain shot. Overall, not a hard way to spend the day - but a damned depressing one, nonetheless. While nine out of ten newsdays aren't one -tenth as troubling, I'll know better than to rejoice inside the next time the suits want me to spend the day staring at the tube.
I opened my mouth and began talking, but didn’t really listen to what I had to say. I’ve found that, for me, there’s no quicker way to mangle a live shot than to over-prepare or concentrate too hard. Back when I first began going live in the early nineties, I’d make the rookie’s mistake of writing out a script, only to fumble on a word, lose my place and somewhere in the process forget to breathe. This rarely made for a good performance and as a result, I have nothing but painful memories of my earliest attempts at live reporting. But time heals all wounds they say - even botched TV remotes. By the time the proverbial red light came on last Thursday morning, I tackled the assignment with nary a nerve on display. As I scrunched my toes in the sand and talked to Wes Barrett’s camera some two hundred feet away, my only real regret was that I’d rushed out of the hotel room without visiting the Little Photog’s Room. As a result, it was all I could do to stand and deliver the news without dashing offscreen to go desecrate the nearest sand dune.
Instead, I stayed on my mark and filed live updates for my own station, as well as Fox affiliates in Orlando and D.C. There really wasn’t too much to tell: Ophelia had taken her sweet time moseying through town the day before, toppling signs, ripping up shingles and flooding streets. But as anyone with functional vision could tell, that had all changed. With the sun poking through the clouds, a light breeze rippling off the ocean and seagulls swooping down on crustaceans, the day after Ophelia had all the markings of a beautiful day at the beach following a bad storm - which is exactly what it was. I’m not sure if it’s solely a matter of comparison, but the immediate daylight hours following a hurricane are some of the most tranquil displays of dazzling nature you’ll find on this heartless orb. Too bad you’re usually ready to pass out from sleep deprivation by the time it arrives. This time though, I was pretty well rested. Having made a beeline for the hotel as soon as I got my orders the evening before, I endured an ice cold shower in a pitch black bathroom before crawling on top of the covers for a fitful night of feigned rest in a humid room. By hurricane coverage standards, I was livin’ large!
News Flash! The twisted circus that is the American Idol Audition process is coming to Greensboro! Memphis was the original location, but when that city went into Katrina Relief overddrive, Idol Producers wisely backed off. Now, through luck (and a little synergy) thousands upon thousands of karaoke champs and divas-in-waiting will invade the Gate City beginning October 2nd. Those in the area can expect no hotel rooms and busy restaurants, not to mention a roving army of delusional songbirds up and down High Point Road. For me, it means I haven't got to crawl into a pressurized tube to once again witness and record the madness of American Idol up-close. Stay Tuned...
As the slow-motion hurricane scoured every crevice of Carolina Beach, we TV geeks got our broadcast on. Riding point was Chad Tucker, pushed out on a rain-lashed balcony bathed in electric light. As streaks of water strobed behind him, the young reporter held a finger over his earpiece as Wolf Blitzer asked him a question. Just inside the third story room, Wesley Barrett reached from behind the camera and wiped the lens. In his ear, Blitzer moved on to CNN’s meteorologist for yet another look at the radar. ’Not bad, Chad...’ Danny said, breaking into the line from the satellite truck parked downstairs, “Next up is Fox News -”. A series of telephone beeps and boops followed as Chad wept water from his brow. Inside, I was drying off too, back from another excursion through quickly flooding streets for images to accompany Chad‘s narration of the storm. Taking off my windbreaker, I flicked water on Joe McCloskey, who - still wrapped in bedcovers - manned the motel’s remote control. When Fox News Channel popped up on the TV, I grabbed my digital and waited for the right moment to click the shutter. Seconds later it arrived, with Chad’s image filling up the motel’s 19 inch set. The resulting image captured the satellite delay and satisfied me greatly. Unfolding my laptop, I plugged in the camera and uploaded the picture. A minute later it was on my blog. “Is that cool or what?” I asked the others, excited about what I may post on-line throughout the day. I did then realize we were about to lose power for the next twenty hours.
But humid hotel rooms, long hours and lousy food are hallmarks of hurricane coverage and Ophelia did not fail to hold up these long-held traditions. While only a Class One, the swirling Cyclops of wind, rain and debris inched through town at a wino’s pace, tipping over gas station canopies, downing power lines and sending heavy manhole covers floating down the streets. Through it all, I plowed through the flash-floods in trusty Unit Four, parking strategically into the wind and using the Explorer’s tailgate lid and overstuffed cargo bay for cover. As dim morning light shone through the thick layer of clouds, I was able to find humans to interview. All around the island, stalwart locals hunkered down. A hunched over old hippie behind the only open counter in town scoffed at Ophelia as he counted back my change. At his suggestion, I drove to the marina to interview his fishing buddies, but the gruff men standing in a circle under a fish shack’s roof and sharing a lumpy cigarette didn’t seem to want to talk. Three blocks away, a woman in a pick-up proved far more gabby and I soon had her in the crosshairs of my lens. A few minutes after I left her idling in a rain-swollen parking lot, her answers to my questions ricocheted through outer space.
As did Chad’s drenched image. Throughout the morning, the King, North Carolina native’s face appeared on TV sets across the nation. From L.A. to Orlando, viewers stopped to watch as the young man told in dulcet tones of the worsening conditions along North Carolina’s Crystal Coast. But by noon the producers and suits back at the shop had tired of Chad’s third story high wire act. From a fleet of soggy pagers came the terse order: 
By six o clock, we were firmly ensconced in our new locale. The wind and rain still roared but not quite as ferociously as before. It could still send sheet metal flying through the air, but it probably wouldn’t drive a pine needle through your skull like they used to talk about on those grade school filmstrips. We even got chance to break a little bread, in the form of frozen ham sandwiches and Pringle’s purloined from the hippie’s convenient store freezer down the road. Having been up and wet since 4 a.m., we were all delighted to hear our bosses’ plans of letting us sleep in the next morning, while our crews in Atlantic Beach covered their portion of Ophelia’s path. This news lifted everyone’s spirits, as while we all prided ourselves as swarthy news warriors, a little downtime in a pitch black hotel room that smelled of sweat socks was more than welcome. With only the ten o clock show to execute before we could all go get some sweaty shut-eye. I was hunched down by the sat truck ladder, catching rainwater while polishing off a Ham-sicle sandwich and a few soggy potato chips, when those glorious plans changed.
It took the motel alarm clock several beeps to convince me to open my eyes. When I did, I wasn’t exactly sure where I was. But the rumpled co-workers shaking off sleep in the lamplight along with the freaky howl of the wind triggered some inner synapses and it dawned on me I was finally inside Ophelia. Then a colleague clocked me with a pillow and someone snapped a towel, setting the tone for the rest of the day. The four guys I’d rendezvoused with the night before - seasoned professionals who took their craft very seriously, were like myself equally capable of Grand Larceny Grab-Ass. I wouldn’t have it any other way personally, but I don’t always get a say. This time though I felt lucky, as all the jokers assembling gear and cracking wise around me were most agreeable - even at this ungodly hour in the morning. With the first of Ophelia’s Class 1 winds lashing the balcony, Wes squeezed through a gap in the sliding glass door to power up the lights he’d bungee-corded to the railing the night before. When he did, the a curtain of horizontal raindrops lit up like a theatrical backdrop - which of course it was. When Danny opened the hallway door to head for the sat truck downstairs, a slicker-clad Chad Tucker entered the room rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Meanwhile I donned my own protective suit of shorts, shirt and sandals. Joe, not due to run the truck for several more hours, lay in bed and questioned everyone’s lineage. Sensing all was well with my colleagues, I jammed a soggy ball-cap on my bed-head and hit the stairwell.
The heavy metal door on the ground level almost broke my nose when I tried to push it open. It gave way at first before a sudden gust of saltwater and warm air slammed it back in my face. I cursed as the driving rain soaked one side of my face, pointed my chin to my chest and jogged across the dark, wind-scoured parking lot. As I did, Danny poked his hooded head out of the sat truck’s rear door, half eaten Pop Tart in one hand, the other wrapped around a cell phone. He shouted something, a smart remark probably, lost in the din of the approaching hurricane. I answered with a one-fingered salute as I ran past, before stopping in front of trusty unit four to fumble with the car keys. By the time I climbed behind the wheel, I was soaked from head to toe. Jamming the key into the ignition, I thought of how I used to dress for hurricanes: heavy boots, two piece raingear, hood pulled tight. Since then, I learned that trying to stay dry during sideways rain was as annoying as it was futile. So I embraced a certain minimalism, choosing a wardrobe much like that of any other beachgoer. It was all gonna cling to me like a second skin anyway I reasoned as I dropped the Ford Explorer into REVERSE and backed out of the spot. Besides, I thought as I pulled out onto the deserted, rain-choked streets.
It didn’t take long to find them. Stop-lights wobbling in the wind, fountain-worthy water formations arcing off the corners of shuttered buildings, flashing traffic signals swaying on their wires like laundry snapping on the line: everywhere I looked I saw the images I needed, so I parked my news unit’s nose into the wind and with a just a tinge if hesitation, leaned into the door. Outside, stinging darts of rain peppered my face and legs as the screaming wind tried to rip the raincoat off my body. Under the tailgate, I found solace, as well as quite a bit of camera equipment. I grabbed my tripod, plopped it down in the fives inches of stormwater swirling around my feet and placed the Sony on top of it. With a flip of a switch, light erupted from the viewfinder, bathing the camera’s eyecup in a soft blue haze. Leaning in, I squinted through the lens, trying to decide which water droplets were on the front of the lens, which were pooling up in the eyecup, and which were streaming down my fogged-up glasses. I twisted the focal tube and dabbed the lens with a balled-up t-shirt. As I did, a loud metal screech rang out behind me, snapping my head in that direction.
I cant really explain why I like chasing hurricanes, as it is a thoroughly miserable endeavour. But whenever one of these churning monsters takes aim at the Carolina coast, I jones to be there when it slams ashore. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel this way if I fixed copiers for a living, but after fifteen years of habitual storm coverage, I’ve developed quite the nasty hurricane habit. Like a junkie who knows he ain‘t living right, I could barely look at myself in the rearview mirror of my news unit Tuesday as I made one more mad dash into dirty weather. Bright sun in the Triad disappeared by Raleigh. By the time I reached the edge of Wilmington, a long line of evacuating traffic choked the oncoming lanes while angry raindrops turned my windshield into an abstract painting. It was then I realized just what I’d volunteered for again and I spent the last few miles to Carolina Beach squirming in my seat with adrenaline and regret.
Outside, shimmering curtains of rain showers undulated across the deserted intersection. I kept my head down, but still took on quite a bit of water in the two seconds it too me to pop the tailgate. Crawling into the overstuffed cargo stash, I grumbled under my breath and fumbled with Velcro straps. Only when my Sony was encased in tailored blue canvas did I venture back out, knowing all the electronic bravado I brought would all be for naught if water got inside my camera. As I poked my head out of the back of the truck, two shirtless surfers pedaled by in slow-motion, their tattooed necks twisting shaven heads toward the emerging newsman.
“Sure” I said, not knowing who the‘ yacht guy’ was. Six minutes later I stepped aboard the vessel in question; it sunk a bit under my weight, making it more of a boat than a yacht. Inching along the narrow walkway outside the cabin, I held my camera in a death grip and thought about a 
I looked up and squinted through the deluge. Three stories up a small group of young locals loitered and grinned outside the condo’s covered porch. Cigarette smoke hung over their heads, mingling with the smell of a nearby grill’s sizzling contents. Low voices and raucous laughter rang out from behind the screen, punctuating the sound of the wind howling through the breezeway. Climbing the condo‘s steps, I smiled and waved, grateful to have found a bonafide hurricane party to put on the ten o clock news. When I stepped onto their landing, the inebriated foursome clapped and cheered, welcoming me to their gathering like a guest of honor. As they all began talking at once, I pinned a lapel microphone on the soberest one’s shirt and peppered him with questions. Through fumes borne of an Old Milwaukee can, he spoke of how the boats berthed below would float up over their slips should the water level rise enough. I made a mental note to check back later on the area as drops of rainwater slid off my eyebrows and straight into my upturned viewfinder, distorting the drunk man‘s image. I was wiping off the water with a rain-soaked sleeve when my cell phone rang for the fifteenth time that day.
“Yeah...good stuff too”, I said, fumbling through my run-bag for the feel of my small digital camera. Across the screened-in porch, the guy I‘d been interviewing convulsed with tipsy giggles as his friends fought to high-five him. I ran my fingers under the soaking wet station ball-cap and pressed the old phone to my ear. “Lemme say goodbye to my new best friends and I’ll be right there -”
With my own sudden jaunt to the coast this week, I’ve neglected updating you on the ‘
It may look like a pimped-out moving van, but this vintage satellite truck is just as much a character in our story as any of her smelly occupants. Lovingly referred to as the ’
But first let me introduce you to one Wesley Barrett. Originally from Roanoke Rapids, N.C., Wesley is everything I’m not: highly-organized, laser-focused, nattily-attired. Hell, the guy dresses like a pro golfer, for cryin’ out loud! That’s no slam, as I’m almost certain it beats the loser-photog cabana loungewear I so favor. When not out bedecking his fellow lensmen, you’ll find him feeding his lifelong obsession with the 
Speaking of coffee, you’ll find none of my beloved blog-juice inside the old Sat Truck. What you WILL discover are hidden caches of snack foods, coolers of bottled water and an illicit supply of assorted tobacco products. Somewhere among all this contraband you’re sure to stumble across one intently-distracted Truck Op, in this case the battle-proven yet baby-faced Joe McCloskey. A solid shooter himself, lately Joe-Joe has taken it upon himself to learn the Ways of the Satellite - a mysterious discipline rewarded only with a steady succession of sudden road-trips and some seriously righteous overtime. That the young newlywed would embrace this monumental task in the first place brings me great joy - for there’s nothing more valued than a cool cat who can tune in 
Last but not least, it is my pleasure to present you with a local legend among sat truck clusters. I give you Danny Spillane. At first glance you may think the guy washing the Santa Maria’s windshield is a mere truck driver. Not true. Highly experienced yet under-appreciated, this veteran of a thousand media circuses cut his teeth shooting every kind of news there is before joining the Sat Side many moons ago. Since then he’s logged a staggering amount of miles in a variety of dish-bearing vehicles. Think of a major news story in North Carolina and the surrounding states over the past ten years or so, and chances are Danny was not only there, but he probably held the day together with his calm yet volatile leadership style. He’s saved my bacon a number of times, from fixing my attempts at fancy lighting to loaning me pair of dry socks once a storm named 
Ophelia is still just a tropical storm spinning off the Carolinas' coast, but the suits here at the shop feel it warrants up-close coverage anyway. Ater a hard-target search of their top-shelf talent, they've come up empty and decided to send me. Thus, I'm hurtling toward the shore even as you read this, with plans to blog about it along the way, (provided I get a wee bit of down-time and a little wi-fi). Stay Tuned...
