Fire in the Sky

Longtime readers of Viewfinder BLUES may be wondering why I haven't kvetched about the elements this summer - as it's my annual inclination to whine like a leetle girl every time the thermometer starts to throb. Truth is, it hasn't been that bad. Sure it's been warm, but we just haven't experienced the kind of lung-sucking sun butter so common to a Carolina Summer. That is, until now...

August is upon us and - judging from the way street signs are melting across the Piedmont - it's pissed! Like one of those cinematic spaceships that hovers over whole cities, an amorphous monster has settled over much of the state and it won't leave until pumpkins dot the fruited plain. Exactly how long that will be is still unknown - but it hardly matters, since time tends to creep when your underwear gains weight. If that's - ahem - too much information, understand I'm still still a little giddy from crisscrossing the county in search of sunstroke. It's a gig I knew I'd get before I ever left the air conditioned confines of my suburban lair this morning, for seasonal heat is just the kind of soft news best collected by a kind of hard-case. Yes, when it comes to turning froth into something watchable, I'm your voyeur of choice...

Actually Weaver's equally capable of harnessing the sun, though if the truth were known he'd rather escort a reporter to their very first Emmy than laze in the haze with with a loser like me. That's cool - we all have our personal thresholds. Besides, the big lug shot me a solid early in the day - interviewing a sign-wielding pro who sweetened my timeline with his year round cheer. If that weren't enough I stumbled upon a family of mulch-spreaders, some kindly Snow-Cone pushers and an eloquent chap in questionable bike shorts. Before I knew it, I'd committed it all to disc, including a few artsy sun shots I bagged in El Ocho's parking lot. Of course those who stack the shows were less than whelmed by my efforts - a condition I've only encouraged by accomplishing the improbable on a daily basis...

That's when it hit me. I'm the only viewer I have to woo. Unlike the producers who groom their Facebook pages or the assignment guy who only wants to know where I am should the Earth spin off its axis, I'm the guy with the wandering eye. And so too are you dear photog, for if viewers knew how much of what radiates from that box in their living room was put there by some schlub with stevedore's knees and perma-squint, well, they probably wouldn't care - as long as a disembodied voice they recognized led them through each and every soundbite. But here's to you anyway, pit-stained shooter, for your moxie makes the home audience squirm and not just because you've raised your arms in victory while packed into a crowded elevator. Yes, you deserve any false sense of pride you can possibly muster and at least a week or two of vacation come September. For now, hold your hands and head high and let 'em know who the real newsmaker is...

On second thought, lower your extremities. Either that lady beside you is working on a hairball, or her throat just closed from the impact of your stench. She hits the floor and there's a good chance you'll be an air-conditioned freelancer by week's end. Then who ya gonna sweat on?

(Photo by Sean Browning)