On the Shoulders of Giants

So how do you make a chronic smart-ass go all stoic? Simple, put a camera on his shoulder, shove a tiny speaker in his ear and start counting backwards. If he's half the photog Bill Welch is, he'll stop smackin' his gum to follow the action. Of course that action is often a carefully coiffed correspondent, an earnest young person trying to ignore the fact that the guy (or gal) beneath the camera is sweating, shivering or listing hard to starboard. I've often thought (as sweat poured down the crack of my tripod) that if the folks at home could see what the reporter sees, they'd realize just how devoid of glamour the act of broadcasting truly is. Trust me, there's nothing sexy about hoping your photog can put off that coronary long enough for you to toss it back to Team Dimples. On the other hand, there's no worse feeling than mentally willing your reporter to wrap up their diatribe NOW - lest that red blinking light in the corner of your viewfinder go solid, bringing you latest dog-lick live shot to a premature, battery-free end. Now, back to you in the studio - before my spleen erupts!