Morning Stretch(ed)

Of all the flotsam I've clogged up the internets with, I don't think I've ever posted a time lapse video. Sooo, tonight in lieu of anything terribly incisive I'm sharing a sped-up version of my Thursday morning, courtesy of the ever resourceful David Weatherly. But first some background: Here at El Ocho, we're serious about our holiday toy drive. We appeal to the public to drop off bicycles, toys and games at area Lowes stores and they always respond with enough brand new merchandise to choke a Costco. Anyway, when the bins fill up, the good folk at Lowes bring all that schwag to the station in a company tradition known simply as 'Truck Day'. Which is why Weatherly bent space and time in Studio B this morning. Look closely and you'll see El Ocho's finest breeze in and out of frame - including a certain wordy camera nerd who - when not shooting video or wolfing down donuts -tends to hover in the upper left part of the screen while wearing a tan jacket. Hey, every post can't be some cogent diatribe! Once in awhile, you just gotta roll that beautiful bean footage and hit the hay. Good Night...

Born to be Mild

What sort of man reads Viewfinder BLUES? An insider; a guy who parks where he damn well pleases - provided the rent-a-cops can see his door logos. He's a bold enough soul: draped in technology but unburdened by personal style. You'll find him wherever danger lurks, felons smirk and poorly paid waitresses work. But don't try to keep up. This predator hunts alone. Unless of course a reporter needs someone to shoot a stand-up. But after that, the VFB reader will always return to the open road - free to chase down the happenstance that haunts him. Meth lab takedown, kindergarten sing-along, Bass Boat Show. There's nowhere he won't go - as long as the assignment desk says it's cool. You can love him ladies, but don't ever expect this brand of cameraman to settle down. His heart throbs to a different beat, and no amount of pillow talk will cure the allure of a scratchy voice drowning in a sea of static. Yes, the Viewfinder BLUES peruser may have no fancy letters after his name, but he's got a M)asters in Murder and Meetings, a Doctorate in Duct Tape, and the kind of weary leer that you just won't find in the pages of our competitors (whoever they are). So don't bother searching for this lonesome nomad; with the glass he's packin', he'll find you first - and then WHO'LL be deciphering my tripe?

(Special Thanks to Amanda Emily)

The Perfect Swarm

Sometimes all you have is a title; a pleasing twist of syllables that quickly eclipses any new digits you were trying to remember. Dwell on it well in hopes that title will grow into a notion. Feather your focus, steady your perspective and iris up until the idea shines in your mind like a neon sign. Jot down a thought during red lights and you just may drive off with the jist of an epistle, a linear little ditty with a chorus you can hum ‘til you slump down in front of your keyboard that night and pound it into a post. Those are the good days. Lately, there haven’t been enough good days. But I’ve been at this writing thing long enough to know a little dry spell isn’t any real reason to fret. If I could control the clouds that hinder my vision, I wouldn’t be chauffering a camera around town. I’d be some blowhard on a podium, a pasty cat in elbow patches referring to my own turgid text as if it some kind of sacred scroll worthy of time capsule inclusion. I hate those guys! They’re why I never got serious about higher ed; that and that whole showing up to class on a predetermined schedule concept. What up with that? I’d much rather jump into a crusty news car, document trauma by day, fashion tripe by night. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for quite some time now and while I have no immediate plans to cease or even desist, you should know I’m not exactly in control.

I love to write. I hope that it shows. But while my adoration for prose knows no bounds, I’m less than enamored with the manner in which the words come my way. Take right now for instance. I’m not really sure what the hell I’m here to talk about tonight. I kinda know my closing line and the voice in my head is famiiar enough that I can sometimes finish his sentences, but for the most part I’m dictating whatever pops in my head. That anyone reads this undiluted poop is both a travesty and a treasure for if I were more prudent about what I publish, my site reader would be quite higher and just maybe I wouldn’t cringe every time I parse my archives. As it is, even the most cursory review leaves me crestfallen, for what felt damn good upon delivery doesn’t always age so well. I suppose that’s only natural and were I more mature, I might just learn to rewrite. For now however, I can only seem to stare into the void, figure out a way to hit my imaginary deadline and keep moving before that pest on the assignment desk figures out there’s a photog lurking about with nothing much to do. All of which makes me a natural born shooter, I guess. We who must not be named on-air aren’t ones to loiter. We’re much more at home behind the wheel of some lacquered hoopty, racing from molehill to imbroglio with little more than scanner codes and a growing jones...

Speaking of the Joneses, I’m through keeping up with them. Instead I’m gonna remain at my own pace, contributing to this living compendium just as often as I can muster without letting it make me bat-shit crazy. Generous visitors of some vintage will recognize this text as my semi-regular promise to do better in the future. No doubt they’ll roll their eyes when they realize I’m writing about not writing again. That is their every right, as is forsaking this very address for time better spent perusing the hoochie parade the likes of TMZ . That’s cool. Hell, I visit ew.com every week for the sole purpose of guffawing along with their always cheeky Survivor recaps; who am I to judge? Besides, those who’ve endured my purple prose for the worse part of the past half decade know I got their back. Soon after I lift the curtain and bitch about how hard all these levers are to pull, I usually rally with a few paragraphs I’d strap to the back of a flying monkey if only it allowed me to mangle one more metaphor. So here’s to you steady web traveler. Knowing you poke your head in here once every fortnight leaves me humbled, stoked and more than a little tortured. But what does all this have to do with the marqueed melee, the acclaimed gang-bang, the number one scrum? I dunno...

Sometimes all you have is a title.