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Say what you will about Charlie Sheen, but the dude gives GREAT sound. I should know; I've spent the better part of twenty years hunched under an eyepiece as some functionary or another droned on (and on) in monotone. It's enough to make one wish a twitchy sitcom hack would burst through the door and begin ranting about his antelope dope or his super cool Kung-Fu grip or his bevy of fem-bots waiting with palm fronds. Actually, that would be kind of freaky, but it still pales in comparison to the operas I've concoct in my head while a better dressed co-worker goes all '60 Minutes' on some poor policy wonk. It's the kind of delusion we leave on the editing room floor, for Sally Jo Housecoat has no room in her den for the mental gymnastics performed by a cameraman at rest. Did I say rest? Make that coma, for that's what I tend to slip into when the time-code starts to blur... And that's just what happens after the location is chosen. Getting there is half the battle...

Drag a fancycam into any office building and someone's gonna try and shove you into a conference room. Don't go. Oh sure, the occasional corporate headquarters will have a cavernous glass palace worthy of exploration, but more times than not the dusty summit space down the hall is just that: a forgotten box bathed in beige paint and fluorescent rays. Wedge in a table that's clearly three times too large for the room and you have a pretty good idea why I dodge conference rooms the way most men dodge baby showers. "Lead me to thy writing surface," I say. Okay, I never say that, but if I did they'd no doubt take me to a chamber far more pleasing than some sterile cube where middle-managers plot, coddle and doze. Besides, how am I gonna get into the interviewee's head if I can't gander at his sheepskins, let alone add to my stapler collection...

Naaaah, I'm not gonna abscond with anyone's Swingline. I am however, going to do everything I can to stay lucid while the red light glows. Otherwise, I might miss a hitch in the voice, a tic of the lip, or some other cue for me to reach for the zoom button. Sure, there's little chance any self-respective executive will eek out a tear or two, but if he does it's my solemn duty to document it's descent. Otherwise, you'll find me parked squarely on my glass, scanning book titles behind my subject's head as I hearken back to my high school days when I first tried on that thousand yard stare. Just don't try this at home and while you're at it kids, stay away from the boob tube altogether. Before you know it, you'll be hunched under a camera you don't own, strung out on the next seven syllables that will spill forth onscreen while wondering why in the hell you didn't pay attention better in Algebra 1.

At least that's what I think about...