Praising St. Thomas

That's no ordinary mortal perched atop that live truck; that's the great Thomas Cormier. Who's that, you (didn't) ask? Only the man who first allowed me to shoulder a fancycam, who patiently taught me how to edit tape to tape, who accompanied me to my first (of many) used car lot shoots, who regularly fed me from his very own crockpot, who once roped me into shooting three straight days of dance recital performance, who held the camera and behaved himself while I leeringly interviewed lingerie contest finalists, who rolled his eyes but his tongue as I butchered a series of early live shots, who convinced me to strap on a parachute and jump out of a rather rickety airplane.

Yes, Thomas and I had many a misadventure back in the day. He was a steady, reassuring presence; I was the consummate punk-ass. Without his guidance, I wouldn't have lasted more than a fortnight in local television. Normally, I'd make the standard joke about not knowing whether to thank him or punch him in the crotch - but I got too much respect for the man. He was my very first broadcast mentor; I was the shaggy little brother he never really wanted. Under his homespun tutelage, I learned how to compose, slo-mo and avoid serious jail time. These days, I don't see Thomas very much - but the next time I do, I'm gonna turn him on to this humble little website. Come to think of it, you can blame that on him too.