Froth to Atrocity

Once upon a time I worked the antemeridian quadrant, processing more froth and atrocity before breakfast than most people did all day. Head-on collisions and toenail conventions, charity auctions and horrible arsons, luxury boat shows and bloated floaters; I pointed a live lens at 'em all for a four hour morning show that never seemed to end. But that was many moons ago, long before I proved to the suits how cogent I can be after the sun comes up. These days I avoid those bleary-eyed live shots like airport bathroom stalls - and not just because of I take such a wide stance. See, I'd rather race after deadlines than stand under a Sony. Throw in the techical acumen of a stoned shepherd and you got more than a few reasons why I deny my pre-dawn qualifications (except when under oath). Still, I'm not in total control of my day and with our regular early-bird photog at home building his ark, it's inevitable I get tapped to fill the time between the empty-headed anchor babble and the orange barrel update.

All of which goes to explain why I was hunched over a mob of hopped-up cloggers while you were still wandering around the house in your boxer shorts this morning. By the way, ever listened to Cotton Eyed Joe twenty-three times before your first cup of coffee? That'll put pep in yer step - which you'll need once the fiddle solo fades and you find yourself slogging down the shoulder of some country road as a trailer bakes in the distance. That's exactly where I ended up a mere ninety minutes after the above snapshot was captured. No sooner had I bid my high-stepping friends a bitter adieu than my cell phone began dancing a jig of its own. Eight miles later I paused there in the high grass as a deputy with a big pistol and a small man complex insisted I go no further. He consulted the walkie-talkie on his shoulder; I threw up my sticks. Through the viewfinder I watched as paramedics wrestled a soot-faced woman onto a gurney. She didn't want to go and I didn't want to be there...

Just like old times.