Confessions of a Commercial Hack

I'M BACK! Well, sort of. The meager belongings of my tribe are firmly wedged in the new hovel, but all is not well in the village: I don't know where the coffeemaker is, my digital camera is missing and there's a fair chance I'll perish in a crushing cardboard box collapse during an upcoming garage safari. Worse yet, the new digs still lack cable and internet. The boob tube I can do without, but unfettered access to the Great Electronic Unwashed is a must. Hopefully though, all will be well in a copuple of days, once the Time Warner fairy pays my new address a visit. Otherwise I may very well scale the new chimney and jump to the grassless knoll that is my new back yard. But my weekend plans aren't important right now. What is important is that I update my humble blog. Since I don't have any fresh adventures on deck, this musty confession will have to suffice:

I haven't always been a news man. I use to make...commercials. Really bad commercials. You know, those locally produced spots featuring bellicose car salesmen, odd farm animal cameos and the stilted vaudeville of a thousand cheesy lines. Crazy Eddie's Having a Sale, indeed. But before you string me up for unleashing all that bad TV on the hapless viewers of Eastern North Carolina, consider my circumstances. I was nothing more than a punk with a bad haircut, one lacking direction but steadily collecting hangovers. Dizzy from a fleeting stab at a Naval career, a brief stint as community college lothario and a memorable winter transporting psych patients from hospital bed to x-ray unit, I was lost and didn't even know it. Some young men wander into the wilderness to find out who they really are. I stumbled into an antiquated CBS affiliate and found myself in the reflection of an ancient viewfinder. It wasn't pretty, but then again, coming of age rarely is.

Back to the ads. They were awful; a gross combination of grand delusion, customer pacification and the cheesiest of line delivery. The station I worked for was so eager to sell ad-time, they rarely charged clients for the actual production of said commercial. For their (lack of) money, area businesses received the cinematic services of one ass-kissing, overdressed sales weasel and me - a camera flunkie with a mullet and a mild buzz. Throw in a merchant with a fondness for his or her image and you have the makings of one very painful thirty seconds. Visually dismal yet ingratiatingly effective, some of those regrettable sequences still play on a loop in the dollar theatre of my subconscious. I remember shooting smarmy beach music deejays in day-glo tuxedos, boozy, psychotic rodeo clowns and - I swear - a full-grown Texas Longhorn Steer inside a steakhouse restaurant.

But you don't have to crack open my melon to see what I'm talkin' about (I'd really rather you didn't). One of the dorkier no-budget campaigns I had a hand in developing still continues in some variation this very day. But since I still got family in the area, I don't wanna name names (let's just say it rhymes with Evans Ford). Quick, envision a chorus line of pudgy car salesmen sweeping a showroom floor in straw-broom unison as the owner of the place does a little soft-shoe and another middle-age white guy does the world's lamest sensation of then red hot MC Hammer.(Now find a way to scour the image from my brain, would ya? A new homeowner needs his sleep.) Yes, I was well on my way to a long career as the area's auteur of awful advertising when something utterly unexpected happened. A local bartender at the restaurant my wife worked at took a friend of ours hostage. Suddenly, I found myself staring through a news camera at a familiar frat guy waving a gun. What followed was a prolonged, intense police stand-off that is etched into recesses of my skull. After that, I'd never shoot another car lot again.

Temporary Dimness

As much as it pains me to do so, I'm going to have to pull the plug. Not on the blog, mind you - but on the computer that acts as its primary mind. It's all part of Operation Cardboard, that series of highly cumbersome maneuvers in which I relocate my every belonging 18 miles to the Northeast. For weeks now my lovely bride has spent each waking weekday hour compartmentalizing our humble abode into corrugated readiness. Now it's time for Phase 2, in which I tap my superhuman powers of photog schlepability to drag every box of books, every crate of Barbies, every trunk full of humiliating family photos into the herculean moving truck that's due in my driveway 12 short hours from now. All of this of course leaves little time for blogging.

But fear not loyal reader(s?), for I am far too hooked on this narcissistic form of communication to completely abandon its discipline. Through the powers of my itinerant laptop, the magic of free wi-fi and the graciousness of my lovely bride, I WILL be checking in to Viewfinder BLUES, even if the home office still is in shambles. Once I am ensconsed in my new lair, I'll have lots to tell you about including more G. Lee, less Idol and a return to the street-level think-pieces I've shied away from as of late. In the meantime, peruse the soon to be dismantled archives, check out the many other fine photog bloggers and know that your lowly lenslinger would much rather be bloviating on-line somewhere than running up and down these cursed stairs playing domestic stevedore.

Oh, and one more thing: Thank You. Writing is something I've found I have to do in order to sleep at night. Knowing that someone is out there reading my drivel is incredibly rewarding, so much so that, for once, I can't come up with enough overblown prose to express my feelings. I'd also like to voice my gratitude to Ruth and Carol, two generous souls who are patiently waiting for me to act on opportunity and achieve some level of near-greatness. That I can do, ladies. Just let me unpack a garage full of boxes, plug in a hundred gadgets and it's on like Donkey Kong. Now hand me that duct-tape, would ya...

So Nice, that Bo Bice

Having not really watched American Idol last season, I held no opinion of runner-up and fan-favorite Bo Bice. But that changed two weeks ago in Hollywood, when the southern-fried hippie did me a solid. Shannon Smith and I were scrambling to find a guest for a last minute satellite shot when the affable performer wandered up and chatted at length without even a cue. Impressed by his on-camera etiquette, I popped off a great still-shot of the singer and made a mental note to pay him some respect on-line. But later that evening, while fumbling with my Fuji in the dark, I mistakenly deleted the picture. Honestly, I was just trying to flush a shot of that lecherous boob Constantine when I fat-fingered the wrong button. Oh well, chalk up that loss to jet-lag, jittery digits and Jim Beam.

So imagine the fun today when I tore my attention away from a scintillating report on lottery tickets to stalk the very vocalist as he dropped in on the noon news. Working the local press circuit in support of his new release, Bo ambled mannerly through yet another building filled with excited strangers. Before he and his buds boot-scooted out the door, the Birmingham rock singer turned American Idol poster boy yucked it up with the talking hair-do's, plugged his new CD and even did a little green-screen weather schtick. This, is one cool cat. Somewhat humbled by his near-coronation as last year's Idol, Bo Bice seems to aggressively appreciate his fans. Either that or someone taught him a long time ago how to work a room. During his brief stop at El Ocho, the pony-tailed vocalist smiled for a hundred photos, be it with hyped-up account executives, swooning interns or just a lowly lenslinger who knows good blog-fodder when he sees it.

G. Lee Goes to Court

“Please place all metal objects in the basket….”

Garrett winced at the implication, then started pulling gear off and placing it on the pudgy bailiff’s desk. Betacam, fanny-pack, cell phone, pager and a few spare nine volts. Fishing out a fistful of change, he tossed it into the basket and let the clatter of the coins convey his contempt. The bailiff didn’t notice, instead he just stared at the newsgathering equipment and blinked in slow-motion.

“What’s in the bag?”

Garrett leaned over and unzipped a pouch. “Tapes, batteries, a few Tic-Tacs.”

The bailiff, whose eyelids seemed too tight, leaned in to get a better look at the potentially lethal breath mints. As he did, Garrett looked at the pockmarked ceiling and exhaled slowly before glancing over at the strung-out looking woman standing behind him. With great effort she looked at Garrett through a dirty curtain of spent euphoria. Sensing she’d be of no help to him, he scanned the crowd while the bailiff dug through his run-bag. That’s when he saw him.

It was a face he’d seen in his peripheral vision hundreds of times; at train wrecks, ribbon-cuttings and drive-by shootings. This time however, the shooter known for his walrus moustache and ugly tropical shirts materialized far across the courthouse lobby, deep in the process of squeezing into an already overburdened elevator. Poking a divorce attorney in the hip with his tripod, Casky turned around as the doors began to shut. When he spotted his fallen protégé staring back at him from the row of metal detectors, he grinned broadly and made sure he had his attention. Just before the doors met in the middle, the man who could easily pass for a younger Wilford Brimley winked and shot his more junior competitor the bird.

A full four minutes later, Garrett jabbed his own middle finger at the same elevator’s faded Up button. Above him a chipped number six shone weakly, telling him his ride was far from on the way. Mumbling under his breath, Garrett shifted the camera’s weight, trying to alleviate the stress of the heavy leather strap digging into his shoulder. When that didn’t work, he choked up on the tripod in his grip and, shaking his head in disgust, jogged toward the stairwell door. Two flights up a prominent orthodontist faced charges of indecent liberties with several female patients. For weeks, Garrett’s station had sprinkled their ten o clock newscasts with snippets of the diddling dentist and nothing short of a coronary on his part would excuse Garrett from missing the good doctor’s first appearance in open court. Taking two steps at a time, the 25 year old news photographer propelled his gear and body upward, putting off that heart attack for a good twenty, twenty-five years.

By the time Garrett made it to the third floor, the wide hallway was packed with victims, defendants and enough attorneys to exploit them all. Fat shafts of sunlight from the scratched-up windows made it hard to see at first, but when his irises contracted he spotted a familiar frumpy form in a powder blue suit. Making his way over to the assistant D.A., he squeezed by a clutch of migrant workers in matching cowboy hats and tapped him on the wrinkled shoulder.

“What courtroom’s the dentist in?” he asked without introduction.

“3A…” said the future judge as he juggled an overflowing folder and half-filled coffee cup, “but First Appearance started a half hour ago. You’re late, G.Lee”

With yet another painful sigh, Garrett spun on his heels and almost took out a couple of gang-bangers. Miming an apology, he slid past them and almost made it to Courtroom 3A’s entrance when the heavy oak door burst open and Casky’s ample backside threatened to run him down. On instinct, Garrett side-stepped, stashed his tripod behind a trashcan and powered up his camera. Blue light erupted from the viewfinder and the audio needles sprung to life as he pressed his face to the eyepiece. Inside, a one inch screen displayed the image of the tooth doctor himself, flanked on all sides by what looked to be four very pissed-off dental hygienists. The largest one, a severe looking woman with hand-painted eyebrows took her wrath out on the backpedaling Casky.

“I don’t know why you media people insist on getting’ in our face!” she spat as she thrust her purse toward the veteran photog’s lens. Garrett flinched a little as the enraged hygienist’s jewel encrusted handbag came near his camera, but Casky held his shot, allowing the woman to make a complete fool of herself as she tried to shield her boss from view and thus guaranteeing they’d both be kicking off the two different newscast’s opening segments in the process. As Casky stayed close and tight, Garrett pulled out wide and included his old mentor in the shot, careful not to show the competing station’s flashy logo. When Nurse Furious spotted a new lens, she turned on the scruffy young man with the camera stuck to his face

“A man’s innocent before he’s proven guilty!” she exclaimed, making her employer seem far more shadier had she not appointed herself spokesperson. “Until then, ya’ll can all go to hay’ll!” With that, she and her fellow over-manicured bouncers whisked their boss through the stairwell doorway and disappeared. When the door shut, Casky and Garrett giggled like smitten school girls.

“Man,” Casky said, as he played back the woman’s apoplectic image on his viewfinder’s tiny screen, “She’s sure earnin’ her bonus.”

“Should we chase ‘em?” Garrett asked as the older photog walked over to the window that looked out over the courthouse parking lot.

“Nah, nothin’ we’re gonna get will top that.” Casky said as he spotted a brightly decorated Ford Explorer pull into a judge’s reserved parking space below. “Besides, let Channel 4 get a piece of the action. Hoyle could use some of that love for his escape tape, anyway.”

Goofy, Gifted and Gallant

The last time I saw Rocky Covington, we were both swilling free drinks at a swanky showbiz party in Beverly Hills. Today I met him in a far more temperate environment: The Carolina Grill in Rockingham, North Carolina. It was there Shannon Smith and I ended our whirlwind tour of a town once known for Nascar and now renowned as the hometown of that lanky dude with the hefty twang on American Idol. While brother Bucky is polishing up his vocal repertoire in Hollywood, Rocky’s back banging out dents in the family’s Richmond County body shop. But don’t feel too sorry for him. Every time he pokes his ponytail outside, pre-pubescent girls grow faint, traffic snarls and grown men abandon their families to give him a hearty, off-center high-five. Most think he’s Bucky and no amount of protest will change their minds. Those willing to accept reality pump his hand nonetheless and tell him how much they’re hoping his identical twin makes it at least another week. Magnanimous to the core, Rocky aw-shucks and grins through it all, knowing that while American Idol won’t change the world, it’s already spun his globe off its axis.

A singer himself, Rocky also tried out for American Idol and admittedly choked during the first round of open auditions. Bucky, of course, did not and made it all the way to Hollywood, where he continues to impress people with his endearing drawl and surprising staying power. Meanwhile Rockingham is embracing the Covington boys the way they used to jump all over race weekend. In my short trek across town I saw ads for Bucky Burgers, Bucky Bucks and enough hand-drawn signs to deplete the resources of every office supply store for fifty square miles. All of which makes even a short trip to the grocery store a brain-scrambling sojourn for the brother left behind. All I can say is it’s a good thing Rocky’s such a nice guy. From halitosis-laden old ladies to touchy-feely first graders, he stopped, chatted, joked with and hugged more strangers than most people talk to their entire lives. It’s for this (and a few other inherenty Southern) reasons that I feel a special kinship with the Covington boys. Here’s hoping we get a chance to down a few more Hollywood highballs in the near future...

The Revolution WILL be Televised...Poorly

As Lord Cornwallis ordered his men over the ridge, I couldn't help but watch the Nascar Dad with the itchy trigger finger. He was no more than five feet from me, hunched over a garage sale camcorder and squinting in pain. Every time the distant cannons barked, he all but dropped his battered camcorder and I yearned to snatch it out of his hands. Instead, I rocked back from foot to foot as my nine year old squealed in delight as an army of out of shape Redcoats ran past. I should have enjoyed the show, but I just couldn’t keep my eyes off the backyard cinematographer to my left. With his twitchy digits, total lack of a tripod and zoom button addiction, he was making me more nervous than the gaggle of armed tax accountants and milkmen who were struggling to take the hill ever could.

But that’s the life of an off-duty photog. No matter where I take the kids on a Saturday afternoon, I’m more enamored of the camera cluster than the spectacle at hand. And in the past couple of years, I’ve had an awful lot to look at. Shiny Sure-Shots, tricked-out digitals, cell phones sporting tiny lenses. It’s enough to make this veteran videographer high-tail it back to the 80’s, when lens-caps still swung on stringy pendulums and the finest in consumer camcorders were still very much toys. These days the average citizen packs fancier gear than I worked with during my first five years in television. That’s cool by me - I just wish they’d learn to use them.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for Joe Six-Pack gettin’ his Scorsese on. But the total lack of camera acumen seems to have held strong, even as the cameras have shrunk and features extrapolated. Tiny lenses are now everywhere, and they’re coming to even more unlikely gadgets near you. But until Dad or Mom stop fat-fingering the controls, Junior’s birthday party footage is still gonna trigger spasms in two or out three family members - even if they did use the new Crock-Pot to shoot it. But I digress. I came here to talk about the rampant outbreak of First Degree Lens Abuse I witnessed at this weekend’s Revolutionary War re-enactment. Before the first fast guy in old clothes dropped from imaginary musket fire, all vestiges of proper camera-handling fell victim.

Record. Pan. Zoom. Check Shot. Pan some more. Stop Recording. I swear those instructions must come with every consumer cam these days. I watched one father of three simply hold his tiny camera over his head, swaying back and forth with it as the Redcoats and Continentals pretended to kill each other. Between the herk and the jerk, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to document the battle or deep in the throes of a Whitesnake concert flashback. He wasn’t alone. A few feet away, a little weasely guy leaned on his tripod with a camcorder jammed to his face, trying desperately to follow the action a quarter of a mile away. Past him, a Soccer Mom frowned at her darkened screen as the still-secured lens cap thwarted the best of her intentions. I wanted to reach out and pluck the tiny round shield off her lens, but I didn’t dare break the Prime Directive of Parenting: When gathered en masse, start no riot that could endanger your children. So I just stood there, biding my time while the t-shirted citizenry desecrated the very foundation of viewfinder virtuosity. Then I saw him.

Or it, rather. Above the crowd, a heavy lens panned slowly across the crowd. I wiggled out of the pack to get a better look at what colleague had pulled the weekend duty short straw and was shocked to see a sweat-suited Dad at the controls. With a sniper’s aim he peered upward into his eye-piece, never noticing the bearded guy running his eyes over his rig. Professional tripod, big battery, honest-to-God glass in the lens. The man himself looked pretty unkempt, which meant he could very well be a real photog. He may as well, as his equipment package bested that of a few stringers I know. As I stared at his camera, I felt a couple of eyeballs looking back. When I met his gaze, I got the overwhelming sensation I was weirding him out. “Are you shooting this for somebody,” I sputtered, “or are you just takin’ pictures?” “I’m just takin’ pictures.” He said as he glanced derisively at the undersized digital in my grip. “Oh...okay.” With nothing less to say, I slunk back to my spot in the crowd, feeling a little less of a man than before. I hate camera snobs.

Fumes at Eleven

At the risk of reviving some long dormant curse, I'll go ahead and say it: I have NEVER run out of gas in a news unit. That's not to say I haven't come unthinkably close. In fact, there have been m-a-n-y times in my sixteen years of electronic newsgathering where a furtive glance at the fuel gage has caused a sudden hitch in my breathing. The first time was back in the early nineties, around four in the morning. Speeding towards an early morning drug round-up, I had to bail out of a Highway 11 road rally to gas up my less-than-turbo Ford Escort. As the numbers flipped on the antiquated pump, my competitor and mentor Paul Dunn pulled up in his own logo-mobile and gently berated me for driving on fumes. I rolled my eyes as he dispensed the not so friendly advice. Then he peeled out to beat me to the pre-bust breakfast buffet.

Fast forward fifteen years. My good buddy Erik Liljegren and I were traversing the hills of Surry County, lost in some esoteric conversation when a quick look downward snapped me back to reality. The cursed needle was wedged so far below empty there was simply nowhere else for my imagination to pretend it could go. Sensing trouble through the newsman antenna hidden in his sculpted hair, Lilly spotted the remnants of the needle buried in the dash and cursed. Through the windshield, we both spotted a chronic lack of civilization: two lanes of blacktop, rolling hills and a few dozen cows shockingly devoid of gas cans. How we made it to the Exxon twelve miles down the road, I don't know - but it may have had something to do with my telling Lilly that Fords aren't really low on gas until the 'Check Fuel' light begins flashing.

I don't know that he believed me, but the lie made us both feel better as we rolled up the windows, held our own gas and tried to drive casual. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go top off the tank.

One Frame at a Time

"Hey, how do you get all those cool pictures for your blog?"

Well, I take them. Inspired by the self-portraiture of the great beFrank, I've been stretching the abilities of my modest digital camera for quite a while now. As a result, I spend as much time with my one good eye jammed into its tiny viewfinder as I do dissecting the professional imagery of my fancycam's high-tech eyepiece. Is it any wonder my vision's so increasingly weak? Probably not, but then again skewed eyesight is just another occupational hazard of the photog set. Actually, it fits in quite well with the jaded life perspective and abundance of logowear, but that's another blog-post. Speaking of which, thanks to Ken 'bluedog photog' Cravens for snapping this pic at the recent El Ocho lens summit and giving me something to share on an otherwise mundane hump-day. But, c'mon Kenny - couldn't you have at least photoshopped in a bit thicker hair before sticking it on-line? See if I share my granola with you at the next hurricane...

Stalking a Talker

Most people think of TV journalists as highly obtrusive, deeply addicted interlopers with an overwhelming jones for the Big Story. Some are, certainly, but my favorite news gatherers have an acute appreciate of the little things in life. You know, like the lowly tale of a mangy mutt hovering over the remains of a fallen friend. A scenario like that won’t top anyone’s line-up, but when properly documented, it can connect with viewers in a way that over-hyped, undercover expose never will. Those of us with enough time in the trenches recognize this salient fact and will bludgeon each other with our wireless microphones to be the first on the scene of a story with water-cooler chat potential. Such was the case yesterday when I dropped a stack of American Idol discs to race to the side of the canine in question.

Too bad a pair of powerful storytellers were already stalking the perimeter. Intrepid White and resourceful Weaver preceded me by only about ten minutes, but by the time I rolled up the master hunters already had their quarry in sights. I knew immediately the spoils would be theirs and dug out my digital camera to better record the recorders. Whitey and Weave barely acknowledged my presence. Instead they focused on the reticent cur in the distance, a mysterious animal who’d attracted the attention of news crews and pet lovers alike with his insistent vigil over a decomposing companion. With every furtive move my colleagues made, the poor mutt cowered and retreated, reluctant to leave his post but mistrustful of human encroachment.

But my friends meant no harm. They merely wanted to chronicle the act of loyalty at hand, capture it from every angle and mine them all for any emotion. To that end, Team W had a great deal of assistance from a curious passerby who just happened to be an impassioned advocate for animal rights. As the kindly woman spilled lucid sound-bites into my co-workers’ microphones, I thought of all those days I’d spent chasing far less memorable fodder to absolutely no avail. On this day however, the News Gods smiled, blessing those of my logo with unlikely visuals, repetitive action and enthusiastic sound. And though they never made eye contact with me, I saw a look of quiet satisfaction on Weaver’s face. When I crawled back in Unit 4, I wore my own smile, sorry only that the masterpiece in the making wasn’t mine.

So I drowned my sorrows in red carpet soliloquies and syncopated sound. I guess Idol’s good for something.

More than Caddies to the Nearly Famous

Here's a group of fellas you don't see together very often, the FOX 8 Photojournalists. Normally, it takes a Presidential visit or a storm with a nickname to cause us to gather en masse like this, even then we're not known to cluster in more than fours. It's not that we're antisocial ... WE'RE BUSY! You would be too if you raced through life with one eye pressed to a viewfinder and the other one on the clock. 32 hours of high-quality news a week doesn't get to your set by itself, ya know. It's hand-crafted daily with sweat, back-ache and artistry by the guys to the left. As always, I'm proud to be among this group of news pirates - especially since we're being recognized by the National Press Photographers Association as Medium Market Station of the Year. Ruh-SPECT!

Okay, so normally I don't go for contests. The whole selection process seems so arbitrary as to be suspect and I really don't care for a prize I gotta nominate myself for. But my colleague Chris Weaver is of a different mind-set. Recently he took it upon himself to assemble a compilation tape of the photog's finest offerings from the past year. Am I ever glad he did - and not just because I got to wear a station parka in eighty five degree weather for the resulting publicity shot! No, I'm happy because, for once, the people who very often care the most are getting a little credit. Credit - that's something we who turn the spotlight on others quickly learn to live without.

We're not complaining, though - for the low profile is the price we pay for all that freedom we spend so recklessly. Be it a sat truck circus or a crime-tape summit, we get around, deciding in the process how much of it you'll see while sitting on your couch. As a result, every member of our wildly different group knows the ins and outs of the oddest of scenarios; whirlwind election stops, zombified ground-breakings and the occasional meth-lab takedown. These experiences won't buy us summer homes, lavish trips or even fancy cars. But neither will we lie on our deathbeds and reminisce about working on the Simpkins Account. No, we'll recall that time we noshed on frozen ham sandwiches as a Class 2 hurricane lashed our sat truck home. We'll remember chasing hysterical kids through a public housing project as they hurled ghetto-snowballs at our lens. We'll reflect on solemn moments as first responders held white sheets between us and the freshly dead. On second thought, maybe that Simpkins Account doesn't sound so bad after all.

Then again, all that deathbed talk is a tad premature. We still got alot of adventures to shoot - some of us more than others. I for one, am dedicated to at least five more years of this silly job, a veritable eternity when you measure time in hourly deadlines. Personally, I know of no other way, and of no other group I'd want to hang out with than the rugged individuals who take in life through a tube. We may not have the fattest compensation packages, but we got stories - the kind of street level tall tales that would be unbelievable if we didn't have the videotape to back it up. So say congrats to the people I work with, the guys I lunch with, the flesh and blood photogs I so very often write about on this humble site. Just don't tell 'em where you live, for they'll surround your domicile in high-powered logo-mobiles if they think for a moment you got a story to tell. Then they may very well eat you out of house and home.

Bucky Covington: On the Red Carpet

"This is more you can even hope for, just hope it keeps kickin'."

Of all the contestants at the American Idol party, it was Bucky Covington I looked forward to seeing the most. Shannon and I had bonded with the Rockingham car painter on our last trip to L.A., when he pointed out the Hollywoood sign from our posh Beverly Hills hotel balcony. Since then, we'd both been rooting for the laid back good ole boy. Why, just an hour earlier, I almost ran the rent-a-car off Rodeo Drive when Shannon's husband called to report that Bucky had made it into the Final 12, but not before Ryan Seachrest and the producers tortured him with the possibility of ejection.

"I tell ya they're good at playin' games but whatever makes good TV show makes makes good TV show, so I'm up for it, I'm up for games."

Long-limbed, witty and f-a-r from urbane, Bucky reminds me of my dear childhood friend, Jon Harrison. Both men radiate an easy-going, Southern sensibility that I personally find appealing and their shared accent reminds me of my youthful days Downeast. Of course to most of America, Bucky no doubt sounds like a hick, but he's far`savvier than he appears on-screen and holds no illusions of satisfying Simon.

"I play to these," he said, pointing to the many lenses pointed at him, "'cause that's where the people are that count."

About the unlikely journey he's found himself on, the 28 year old Richmond County high school graduate is downright philosophical.

"California, I think, is known as chasin' dreams and I almost got it, ya know, I'm that close there's the door , I got my hand on the door knob just gotta get the right key to get it open."

One gets the feeling that Bucky doesn't expect to be the next American Idol, but he doesn't have to leave Hollywood a winner.

"Worryin' don't solve anything, I'm so close now if I gotta play bar to bar across America that's what I'm gonna be doin'."

He'll have a hell of a head-start when he does but he shouldn't count himself out just yet. By making it into the Final 12, he'll have access to a new level of dream fullfillment, but I get the feeling he's not letting himself look too far into thr future. Over and over again, he thanked Shannon and I for traveling to Rockingham to interview his father, friends and twin brother Rocky. We were happy to do so and enjoyed our brief visit to Covington's Body Shop, but to Bucky the act seems to have made an indelible impression.

"To hear what ya'll have done for me back home," he said without a trace of his goofy grin, "I can't express the words to thank ya'll for it."

'Don't mention it,' I said to Bucky and Rocky over a round of after-party adult beverages, 'hanging with you guys beats the hell out of my normal gig.'

Chris Daughtry: On the Red Carpet

The Chris Daughtry that approached my camera Thursday night was positively electrified. That hasn’t always been the case, as off-stage, the diminutive bald rocker can sometimes look like he’s waiting on a bus. It’s that working class humility that so compliments his stratospheric vocals, even if it does vex the guy in the black V-neck from time to time. When I first met Chris that day outside the Green Bean, I was summarily under-whelmed. Then he cocked his head back and rattled the restaurant’s windows with his turbo-charged howl. Since then, I’ve delighted in watching him impress everyone else who hears him sing. Many others have joined me in the conversation and to them Chris has this to say:

"Everybody that’s doing that, writin’ about me, I’m readin’ it. Thank you so much and thank you for voting for me."

So far in the competition, the former automotive service writer has been able to stick to his blue collar rock and roll roots. That will soon change, as now the producers have total control of song selection. Chris is confident he can get through this week’s Stevie Wonder canon, but he admits the songs in his immediate future scare him a bit.

"If they do show tunes that might be a little weird but I’m just gonna try to keep my style infused into every song I do and do it my way and stay true to what I do. And as long as I do that hopefully people will keep voting for me and keep me around a little longer."

That shouldn’t be a problem, as Chris is a front-runner. So far he’s the only contestant whose recent performance caused the band he was covering, Fuel, to beg him to be their new lead singer.

"They called me yesterday. It’s crazy when you got a band that you’ve been listening to ever since you were like 14 and you respect them as songwriters and they inspire you as a musician and they’re calling you offering you the job as their singer..."

But Chris ain’t leavin’. How could he? He’s on his way to becoming the next American Idol. At least that’s what you're friendly lenslinger is becoming growingly convinced of, as I cover this unassuming young bald guy with the bored-out vocal pipes. Chris might not be quite as confident as I am, but he does seem to realize the possibilities before him for perhaps the first time. Here’s hoping he won’t stumble on his path to global rock stardom, what with frayed nerves, unblinking satellites and divine intervention.

"I pray to God that I don’t hit a bad note that I don’t hit a bad note, you know, do something stupid or fall - you’re on national TV and anything can happen so I always just hope not to be one of those embarrassing moments."

Careful with the show-tunes, dude...

Kellie Pickler: On the Red Carpet

"Hey ya’ll!" Kellie Pickler hugged Shannon and waved to me. The other news crews leaned in around us and stuck their logo’d microphones into my shot. Perched on a stepstool above the others, I leaned precariously leftward and zoomed in a little as the pack of cameramen held me in place. Though Kellie was standing in front of me, I could barely hear her true voice over the chattering masses. Instead, I picked up her audio through my earpiece, her country drawl coming through in waves.

"Ya know, I didn’t just wake up with this accent, I kinda was born with it so anything I sing I’m probably gonna have that little southern t-w-a-n-g but us I’m just gonna be real and consistent and bring everything to the table."

Shannon asked Kellie how it felt to be in the final 12. We’d first met the Albermarle roller-waitress back in August, when she rendered the judges smitten with her voice, looks and charm. A hard-luck back-story didn’t hurt either, of course. But her endearing spirit and drop-dead appearance - as much as her pipes - that got her to the red carpet.

"Look at this, I gotta touch it to make sure it’s real" Kellie dropped to the carpet and flattened her palm. Popping back up, she twinkled into my lens. "It’s real… I’m here."

Like the rest of the contestants to follow, Kellie was pumped, grateful and focused. While still the down-home sweetheart I watched pace around a conference room of the Greensboro Marriot, she spoke with a conviction I hadn’t heard her use before. Even if she was nervous as hell each time she took the American Idol stage.

"I say a little prayer, take deep breaths and just try to give it my all. I’m goin’ from the shower to singing for millions of people, its incredible."

With a leading spot in the Final 12, the pressure is on for little Miss Pickler. She must conquer a soundstage, connect with a much larger studio audience and suffer the woes of high minded stylists. Luckily GrandDaddy Clyde, the man who was always there in her jailed father’s absence, is flying in to Cali to lend her a hand. It’s hard to imagine the kindly old man I visited with in Rockingham traversing the pitfalls of Hollyweird, but I get the feeling his beloved Kellie is gonna hook a Grandpa up.

"It’ll be his first time in L.A.”, she giggled. "I’m gonna get him to try that cala-mauri."

Gauntlet of Adulation

The Pacific Design Center was buzzing before the first psuedo-celebrity ever arrived. Camera crews from Entertainment Tonight, E!, MTV and countless FOX affiliates flanked the long red carpet as publicists and stylists checked their look in each other's designer sunglasses. Amid this sea of gliteratti, Shannon Smith and I staked out our territory - a lowly strip of duct tape emblazoned with our station call letters. Unfolding a step-stool I'd carted cross-country, I planted it in the name of WGHP. On either side, other photogs jockeyed for their own spot, most avoiding eye contact as they too settled for a 12 inch swath of red carpet. Shoulder to sore shoulder we stood, our cameras locked and loaded. From behind, our well-coiffed better-halves slithered into place, filling in the tiny gap between the lenses and the velvet rope. A wall of flashbulbs erupted down the way and we craned our collective necks to see just what semi-famous face was making the still-cams go crazy. The velvet barrier strained as we leaned forward and I suddenly smelled onions. As something dug into the small of my back it occured to me why they call us the Press.

At the top of the red carpet, Bo Bice bathed in the klieg lights. Last year's runner-up had just made a triumphant return to the American Idol stage, performing his new single while this year's contestants wondered if they were about to be voted off the show. With that now decided, only a gauntlet of adulation seperated the Final 12 from one mother of a private party. I too planned to toss back a few highballs before the night was through, but not before earning my keep with a disc or two full of giddy soundbites. With that in mind, I tweaked an audio channel dial by feel as Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell filled my viewfinder's one inch screen. "Kellie and Chris got a good shot..." Randy said without calling anyone 'Dawg'. Shannon asked Simon why he was so rough on Chris and I looked at my watch - itself a monumental effort under the crush of showbiz hounds around me. 7:05 - a half dozen minutes before we due to go live for out station's ten o clock news. As always, were serving two masters: the diety of E.N.G. and the angry live shot gods. Shannon and I had spent almost six hours wedged into a pressurized tube to get here. Chris, Kellie and Bucky were our primary targets - anything less than extended interviews would be a mission scrubbed. But for the moment we had to risk losing our spot for a satellite hit with the folks back home. As the guy in the muscle shirt yammered on, we extracted ourselves from the media pack and sought higher ground.

"This is your video connection, here's your IFB." The Fox News Channel truck technician looked bored and a little constipated. I had no time to offer him a laxative however, as back East a news desk full of colleagues was about to direct the Piedmont's attention to my lens. Huddled over my camera, I plugged in cables and wrestled with the headphones. A roar of approval rang out to the far left and I stood to see the Final 12 contestants posing at the top of the red carpet. Like a group of singing superheroes, they paused and glistened as shouts and flashbulbs burst all around them. They had arrived - beating out 93 thousand other auditioning hopefuls to secure a spot in America's imagination. Soundstages and teams of stylists would now be at their disposal, once they got through their first ever red carpet affair. 'That's gotta be a brain scrambler' I thought as I cranked the headset volume until I heard a very distant Neill McNeill. In front of the camera, Shannon gave me a longtime partner nod. It seemed we would be able to go live without missing our N.C three after all. With the magazine shows swarming the dynamic dozen, we'd be back manning our duct tape before they moved an inch. First though, there was a sat shot to be nailed. Knowing a guest would be best, Shannon reached out to a certain long-haired pedestrian.

"Can you chat with us?"

"Yes Ma'am," Bo said and stepped happily into frame. Pulling out to a wide shot, I feathered my focus as an expected refrain emanated from my earpiece.

"Shannon Smith now joins us live from Hollywood, where the American Idol contestants are celebrating. Shannon, who ya got with ya?"

Punch-Drunk from the Junket

As much as I'm diggin' these trips to L.A., ping-ponging across time zones has left me a little fuzzy around the edges. Not that my kids care; they only know that Daddy's back home and he's a bit more unshaven that usual. So while I attend to their every need, check out the cavalcade of red carpet images I've uploaded and know that a full post is on the way. Meanwhile, I'll be shaking off the jet-lag, chauffering my offspring and sheathing everything I own in cardboard. Oy.

Ode to the Road

"News doesn't happen in the newsroom." I don't know who said that, but I'd like to buy him a drink in a low-lit dive far from any TV station. It's not that I harbor any disdain for cluttered cubicles bathed in flourescent light; I'd just rather make my broadcast bones in the Great Unkown. Besides, the newsroom's too damn dangerous. Lurk too long in an edit bay hallway and you'll soon find yourself running teleprompter for a jittery anchor candidate hopped up on shiny lip gloss and outsized ambition. No, I feel safest when traversing the region's perimeter, where only inclement weather, impossible deadlines and amped-up rent-a-cops pose any real hazard. Best yet, I'm never alone - as a tattered army of fellow news hunters roam the highways looking for a new point of view on recycled human drama.

So consider this your lenslinger's ode to the open road - the only place I feel in control, out of range and unencumbered. That said, I suppose I should wash my ride. A cross channel camera scrum could break out at any moment and I'd have to explain to my general assignment buddies why the American Idol hack's company car looks like it just came from covering a tri-county tractor pull. Now if you'll excuse me I have to catch a cross-country flight, and leave my mud-caked sled to bake in the sun. Anybody got a chisel?

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Usually when I'm called into work early, it's either because some jackhole shot his wife, rampant flames are redecorating a home or a parking lot is breaking out on I-40. Today however, I had to scramble into the studio because a statuesque blonde was demanding my lens' attention. I know, I know - tough gig. Five days after being eliminated from American Idol, Heather Cox dropped by El Ocho en route to her parents' Jonesville home. I was pleased to see the composed young lady I met in Hollywood last month was still sporting her winning grin and infectious energy. Heather may not be the American Idol, but she's received one hell of a kick-start on an on-camera career. With her looks and personality, I'm gonna go out on a limb and predict unlimited success. As for your friendly neighborhood lenslinger, remind me not to grumble so much the next time my pager goes off.

Flee, Glee and the Rise of G. Lee

Despite a surplus of things on my mind, I come to you with precious little to say. It’s not that I haven’t set the stage: my feet are up, Robert Johnson’s on the CD player and I have so much of the wife’s good coffee on board I can feel the blood changing gears as it races through my veins. Still, the words won’t come. Perhaps it’s the myriad of unrelated issues that are ruling my every thought these days; disconnected incidents that are joining forces to form one mother of a blog-clot. Whatever the reason, I have sat here being taunted by a blinking cursor long enough to break down and just blab. I’ll understand if you bail now, for I can’t promise any reader satisfaction is in sight. However, if you’re really bored, settle back for a moment while I tap my inner Kerouac. But be warned, it may not be pretty.

We’re moving! Me and the fam, that is. It’s a long story, but let’s just say all public schools are not created equal. We’ve known we had to leave the immediate area for quite some time now but couldn’t very well do so until we off-loaded our current domicile. Now that the sign in the yard finally sports a fancy ’SOLD’ crown, Operation Cardboard Box is in full swing. A few weeks from now, I’ll load my every possession into a moving truck (or two) and set a Northeast trajectory. Fifteen or so miles later, I’ll reverse the operation, put things where my wife tells me and try to get used to a longer commute. One bright spot: my new home is less than a mile or so from ‘Owls Roost’, one tri-state killer of a mountain bike trail that will greatly assist me in removing the half-inflated spare tire that now connects my waist to my chest. I told you this would get ugly.

American Idol keeps occupying much of my working life. With three North Carolinians still in the nationwide cheese-off, I’ll continue playing caddy to A.I. correspondent Shannon Smith as she documents every facet of the hopeful vocalists’ former lives. Doing so has had had a weird side effect, however . Every day some burly male co-worker or another will corner me, quiz me on my insider opinion, then sheepishly admit they and their families are now watching the show religiously. I usually let ’em off easy by telling them it’s okay before swearing their less than manly secret is safe with me. Occasionally this backfires when their enthusiasm quadruples and all they want to talk about is Chris Daughtry, Buckie Covington and of course, the adorable Kellie Pickler. I don’t dare tell them I’m just days away from jetting back to Hollywood for a star-studded red carpet event, lest they begin to hyperventilate and lose any last vestige of heterosexuality.

Enough Idol, please! What’s far more important to me is the book I’m trying to write, or to be more exact, the book proposal. I’ll keep most of the particulars to myself, but just know this: 18 months or so of constant blogging is starting to pay off. Powerful and generous figures have contacted your lowly lenslinger and convinced him that an anthology of short stories is indeed a marketable possibility - if only he’ll hammer the work into shape and promise to stop referring to himself in third person. He - sorry - I have started to do just that, though I gotta tell ya - re-writing sucks! I’d much rather pound out my thoughts in a rush of creativity and hit the ever so therapeutic ’Publish’ button, than sit and groom my words for maximum coherency. Still, I’m doing it and can honestly look you in the monitor and say, “It’s going to happen.” That’s a bold statement for an underachieving pessimist like myself.

Speaking of thwarted literary ambitions, I’m doing my best to fulfill them all. A few posts back, I unveiled a fictional character that has lived inside my head for a very long time. Garrett Lee Whitaker, or “G. Lee” as I’ve come to think of him, is an alter ego’s alter ego. Through him, I seek to illustrate the sketchy world of street-level broadcast journalism I love to loathe. By fictionalizing some of my misadventures, I can amalgamate my myriad of experiences in a way that won’t get me in the kind of superheated H20 that beleaguered memoirist James Frey now finds himself in. Look for G. Lee to pop up every now and then to add a little color when the real world goes gray. Otherwise, consider him the main character in a long line of exciting novels I’ll probably never get around to writing.

That’s fair, isn’t it?

Three of a Find

This past Friday was devoid of any sweeping themes, unless you count the inherent schizophrenia of general news...

I kicked off the first of my three brief stops in the Blue Room of the Guilford County Courthouse, loitering by my tripod as representatives from five different architectural firms tried to convince the assembled wonks they should be the ones to build the new County Jail. Despite a number of eyebrow maneuvers on my part, I could not break the poker-face of Sheriff B.J. Barnes - who was either deeply engrossed in the monotone sales pitches, or merely sleeping with fake eyeballs painted on his lids.

A half hour later I found myself shivering by a dilapidated mailbox as a few of Sheriff Barnes' deputies and a dozen other sworn officers paced outside a non-descript home. The assignment desk hadn't been sure just what was going on when they dispatched me, only that a small army of police and firefighters were descending on the unremarkable address. Fifteen minutes on scene, I was none the wiser, but the way the grim faced first responders kept gesturing toward an overgrown path beside the home told me they weren't there to compare badge numbers. But there wasn't much time to investigate, as impatient lunch-buddies were idling in their own news units at a pre-determined locale.

Too bad I never made it to them. Before I could fulfill my culinary rendezvous, higher forces colluded to send me elsewhere. Which is how I wound up standing in my sock feet in the middle of a crowded mosque while a couple of hundred Muslims bowed in deep reverence to Allah. Through my viewfinder, I zoomed in on the turban-wearing speaker who was railing against the local newspaper's choice of cartoon. As the heavily bearded man worked the faithful into a quiet frenzy, I thought about competiing religions, global politics and a the heavily accented call for tolerance. Well, that's not entirely true. I was still pretty much focused on lunch.

Hey, a photog's gotta eat...

Vistas of Demolition

Having lurked in the shadows of an edit bay for the better part of a week, I was delighted today to bathe in the rays of a glorious Piedmont morning. It was no walk in the park. Rather, it was a pleasant enough schlep through the dismantled wastelands of what used to be one mother of a textile plant. I'll get to the details in a minute, but first check out the trippy landscape in the picture to the right. If that doesn't bring to mind a certain Pink Floyd album cover, we must not have traveled in the same rusty Camaro circles back in the day. But with enough with the flashbacks, I'm here to talk hard hats.

I hate 'em. Not the look so much, but the way the strangely perched headgear bumps into the side of the camera when I shoot. It's a trivial enough matter I suppose, but ask any cameraman to list the most impeding shooting garb and the lowly construction helmet ranks right up there with the frozen-stiff winter mitten. Nonetheless, I was more than happy to don the molded chapeau today - if not for the fashion, at least for the access. You see, David Griffin wouldn't let me on the multi-acre remains of the Kannapolis Pillowtex Plant without the damn thing. A real stickler, that guy.

But then again , what would you expect from a man whose family business oversaw the clean-up of the World Trade Center? These cats didn't become a globally-known demolition giant by cutting photogs slack in the safety department. Besides, who'd wanna catch a flying rivet to the forehead on a pretty day like this? Not this camera dork. I gladly made like Barney Rubble to Griffin's Fred Flinstone as the demolition bigwig took time out of his busy schedule to give me a personal tour. Not bad for a guy who could level my house in seven seconds. But Dave (I'm sorry ... Mr. Griffin) would never do that. He knows me far too well from stalking him at the semi-recent Burlington Industries Implosion.

That structure drop was quite impressive but it pales in comparison to the methodical take-down he's staging at this old textile fortress just north of Charlotte. For 18 months he and a crew of 80 tough guys will spend six days a week carefully dismantling six million square feet of former factory floor space. Along the way, they'll recycle 75 percent of what they recover - from hundred year old brick to steel beams to giant maple planks, these guys throw precious little away. My one hour excursion was a videographer's dream: unfettered access, repetitive action, staccato sound. To top things off, Griffin even insisted I keep the hard hat at the end of the tour - a bean pod I'll proudly sport at the next rubble pile, or maybe even around the house, now that my hairline's receding. I figure the kids'll dig it more than the mullet.

The Right to Play Dumb

Shiny station logos provoke a variety of responses from the public at large and most of them I'm more than prepared for. Take the other day for instance: Idol Expert Shannon Smith and I were enjoying the most glamorous of sandwiches in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant when a young man with nothing much to do poked his head into the driver's side window of Unit Four.

"Hey, what'chall think of ole Van der Sloot?", he asked, revealing a mouth that may very well have never hosted a real-life toothbrush.

"Huh?" I asked, not knowing what the hell the man with the scary mouth was talking about.

"Van der Sloot..." he said, looking past me to the pretty news lady sitting in the passenger seat.

"You mean the guy in the Natalee Holloway case?", Shannon asked.

Indeed he did, for when Shannon locked eyes with him, he leaned in even further into my lunch-zone and layed out a rambling theory as to why the jetsetting teenager was clearly innocent of all charges in the salacious Aruban murder case. Throughout his dissertation I never looked up; instead I cradled my four dollar cheeseburger and hoped Mr. Yuck-Mouth simply wouldn't breathe on it too much. Shannon wasn't so lucky, though. Ever the professional, she humored our skeevy inquirer until he finished his nonsensical rant and wandered off to weird out some other hapless lunch-eater.

"Way to hang me out to dry back there," Shannon said a little later. "You got an opinion on EVERYTHING, but when Mr. Stranger Man walks up, you slip into 'dumb photog mode'."

"Aw, c'mon Shan," I said through a guilty grin. "It's not like I was gonna let him drag you out of the car or anything..."

We both chuckled and soon forgot the incident, but Mrs. Smith's insightful accusation stuck with me. For the record, photogs AREN'T dumb - but the viewing public often assumes our intellect pales in comparison to that of our far-better-groomed partners. I, of course, enjoy dispelling this myth on this very webspace, but come at me with an off-the-wall question and I'm gonna play lugnut so fast it'll make your head spin. Is it right? Probably not, but it sure beats spending my lunch-break trapped in a protracted discussion of cable news fodder with someone who has little regard for my time and even less concern for proper dental hygiene. Is that so wrong?

Man in the Box

Normally I use this space to tell you of my day's adventures - surreal episodes of lens-tripping in the great wide open. Lately however, I've spent an awful lot of time sitting in a small box, mumbling incoherently and brooding over timelines. No, I haven't embarked on some ghastly scientific experiment; I'm merely editing American Idol. Not the show, mind you. Somewhere in Hollywood a team of cappuccino swilling Californians are taking care of that. As for me, I'm busy assembling in-depth profiles of the four North Carolinians still vying for the title. Bucky, Heather, Kellie and Chris... I've come to know these hopeful vocalists quite well, and not just because I jetted to Cali a couple of weeks ago for breathless, one-on-one interviews.

Since returning to the Old North State, I've spent most of my time interviewing their friends, families, co-workers - even a mailman or two. From Jonesville to Rockingham to Albemarle to Haw River, I've visited parts of North Carolina I'd only heard about - all in the name of the world's cheesiest talent search. But I'm not complaining - though I'm sure it sounds like I am. No, I did this to myself. I walked in to the suit's corner office and declared myself 'Idol Boy'. A few fellow photogs raised their unkempt eyebrows at my plans, but they may be reconsidering their derision now that I've spent weeks avoiding the never-ending parade of ribbon-cuttings, murder scenes and contentious school board meetings. The only downside...I spend alot of time in The Box.

Okay, so it's a fancy-schmancy non-linear edit suite, but log enough hours in it and it feels like the most torturous of prison yard sweat-boxes. When I'm not staring into the abyss of a blank monitor, I'm whittling down soundbites, scavenging bits and pieces from the show tapes and stretching dissolves until they render just the right tearful response. If none of that made sense to you, don't sweat it, it's merely TV geek talk for editing - that tedious yet highly rewarding process that goes into each and every frame of vapid television you watch. I'll spare you the technical details, but understand this: few things on-screen happen by accident. A two minute profile of a giddy singer contains more (visually) editorial decisions than a three-column newspaper article. Of course, if the viewer at home thinks about the editing, then we as timeline jockeys have failed. (Personally, when that happens to me, I go home and watch my 'Jaws' DVD for slice and dice inspiration.)

So while I filet footage of starry-eyed ingenues, know that this won't last forever. Before either you or I know it, I'll be back out on the general news hunt, zooming in on defendants and grumbling under my breath at the stupidity of it all. So please, bear with me through this difficult time. At least you haven't got it as bad as my fellow photogs, who visibly cringe every time they hear some soaring, overwrought vocals emanating from my booth. 'Turn that crap down!', they hiss as I stare back at them behind droopy eyelids. I try to explain that I've grown impervious to the screeching show tunes, immune to the over-blown vocal emotion on display, invulnerable to the treacly disco hits contained within. So just HOW have I achieved such aural bliss while drowing in syrupy, doe-eyed ditties, you ask? I can explain it all away in two simple words...

Beastie Boys.