Down at the Brown

As haze-gray as a battleship, the Brown Building never did fit its name. But that’s what the local cops called the two story structure on the edge of town, so who was I to nitpick? I was just some young punk with a TV camera on his shoulder, surprised to be allowed inside the detective’s headquarters and always a little relieved to leave. It hadn’t been that many months since I was still pretending to be a college student and avoiding law enforcement every chance I got. Now, beefy dudes in short sleeve shirts and shoulder holsters ushered me into backrooms to gawk at bricks of weed, recovered guns or some schlub in cuffs getting his thumbs blackened at the fingerprint machine. It was the dawn of the 90’s and the hottest show on TV was COPS. Every Saturday night, the nation tuned in by the millions to watch real life police officers go out on patrol. The job itself was old, but that kind of access was something new. Suddenly, every small town cop, backwoods deputy and ham-bone sheriff was suddenly ready for their close-ups. That’s where I come in, a mostly sober 22 year old in love with the lens and the places I could take it. For the first couple of years, I took it to the Brown building, or at the very least, its parking lot.

 

A low slung gravel strip with just enough room for a dozen unmarked Crown Vics and two or three TV station news cars, the small parking lot behind the Brown Building was the scene of many a suspect’s perp-walk debut. Countless are the times I raced to that lot with the sole mission of putting some freshly arrested suspect on the evening news. Thirty years later, the sound of feet scuffling over rocks immediately takes me back to the Brown Building lot, where I learned the art of the grab and made some lifelong friends along the way. Andy, Paul, Carolyn and Woody were slightly older and far more experienced and together they taught me the way of the walk-down; how to bag as many different angles of a few short seconds while being in place should the shackled captive choose to confess on the way to the pokey. 

 

Don’t laugh. It happened.

 

Mostly though, the schmuck in custody bit their lip, remaining silent as me and my buddies swooped in with our logo’d lenses and leading questions. Accused murderers, suspected thieves and the occasional arsonist were regularly frog-marched into the Brown Building under a crush of local lenses. Some hung their heads, others shot angry glances and mumbled curses under their breath. A few of them still stomp through my subconscious: the hulking Marine in a torn hospital gown, accused of killing his family hours earlier. A scary biker in shackles and tats, who made it very clear he wanted to stomp a mud-hole in this cameraman’s candy-ass. The aging matriarch of a crack dealing clan who stared down my camera before hocking up a slow-motion glob of hillbilly spit that damn near landed in mind’s eye. Usually, though, it happened in a flash - with the ‘bad guy’ and a detective in tow disappearing into the Brown Building. Its heavy gray door would slam shut, a thunderous sound often followed by nervous laughter as we news crews critiqued each other's performance and played back our tape.

 

Those days are long gone. A few years after my time there, the city abandoned the Brown Building, moving their Detective Division to a shiny new fortress downtown. Now, curious camera crews have to call ahead and talk to shiny new Public Information Officers, slick individuals whose main mission seemed to be deflect and delay. Backdoor walk-downs are a thing of the past. Now officers bring in their suspects through a guarded sally port, well out of range of the Fourth Estate. Maybe that’s for the best. Even those accused of the most heinous crimes deserve a little dignity as they enter the Judicial System. Maybe. But I for one am so glad I got to cover the lurching parade of thugs, saints and felons with so few restraints, happy to have learned all that I did there, forever grateful I got the chance to sling a lens down at The Brown.

 

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find my heating pad.

Kevin O'Brien: A Remembrance

Kevin O'Brien used to make me so mad. He'd find my Betacam sitting on a desk in the newsroom and start flipping switches I didn't yet know about. I'd catch him in the act and he'd scamper off giggling, as I struggled to understand why the high dollar videocamera I'd been assigned no longer logged timecode or properly focused or recorded audio... 

Yeah, I cussed Kevin a time or two back then. But what I now know is that Eastern Carolina's Photog Emeritus was just doin' me a solid. By forcing me to figure out HOW he'd disabled my camera, he made me learn its every crevice. That was just one of the many backhanded favors Kevin granted me. I don't know why, for I was just some punk who'd conned his way into the hallowed halls of WNCT-TV. 

 When you're the Chief Photographer at a small market station in a college town, you put up with a lot of rookies. Kevin, or "K.O.", as he was affectionately known, did just that and in the process helped launched the careers of generations of TV journalists. That may not count for much these days, but to the thousands of young people K.O. helped and taught and coached, it means the world. 

 Kevin O'Brien died suddenly today. He left the world a better place - whether you watch TV News or not.

Ernest T. and Me

Somewhere back around the turn of the century, an elderly but energetic Howard Morris burst out of the back door of the Andy Griffith Museum in Mt. Airy, N.C.

Dressed as the character he made famous - Ernest T. Bass - Morris had grown bored disrupting the 'Mayberry Days' ceremonies inside. Looking around, he spotted a local cameraman he'd seen earlier and brusquely bummed a cigarette off of him.

I fished my pack out of my pocket and offered it to the man I'd grown up watching in grainy black and white.

"Mr Morris, it would be my honor," I said, offering him a light.

"You're damned right it is!" he said, leaning into the flame. As the end of the Marlboro turned orange, he held me in his gaze, his eyes bulging comically. Then he leaned back and with an air of satisfaction, blew smoke in my face.

For a native North Carolinian, it was nothing short of knighthood.

For the next few minutes we chatted about the squirrels scampering in the distance. I wanted to ask him a bunch of questions about Don Knotts, old Hollywood, production techniques I'd noticed on 'Andy Griffith', but I didn't dare break the reverie.

I've met A LOT of famous people. Most disappoint. But Mr. Howard Morris didn't. He was exactly what I'd hoped he would be. And while I'm proud to say I don't smoke anymore, I'm so glad I could spare a square the day Ernest T. needed one.

I just wish selfies had been a thing back then.

Two Minutes Out

"Two minutes out, guys…” Lars twisted the AirPod in his ear and nodded at the camera. The camera didn’t nod back. Neither did the shaggy man standing behind it. Lars barely noticed. All he saw were the concentric circles of the TV lens staring at him. He caught his reflection in it and thought about the tie he was wearing. As he did, he mumbled to himself. “That’s right, Nigel, those who live in this public housing unit are reeling in shock after a young girl…’ Lars’ voice trailed off as he kicked at a pebble with the toe of his Italian loafer. As he mumbled, he glanced up the street at a competing news crew. A striking blonde woman stood in her own puddle of light, holding a microphone by her side as a group of kids riding bicycles approached her. “You gonna move?” Huh?” Shaggy leaned into the light. “Are you gonna move? “Yeah, I’ll step out.” Lars looked back down at his phone and continued his monologue. “Police were first called here this morning when the mother of Beatrice Green found her bedroom empty…” “One minute…” barked the disembodied voice. Suddenly, the portable light Shaggy had set up off to the side went dark. Shaggy cursed and stormed off toward the car. Lars blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. As he did, he made out the silhouettes of kids gliding up on bikes. None were over the age of twelve and from the looks of their beat up bicycles, not very far from home. They stopped just short of Shaggy’s camera and stared at the slim young man in his snug suit. Lars nodded at them, his lips moving silently over his script in the dim street light. “What happened to Beezy?” one of the boys asked. Lars eyes darted toward the group, before returning to the concentric circles. “I heard she dead.” said another boy. Lars scrunched his forehead and looked upward, still mumbling under his breath. “This gon’ be on the news?” a third boy asked as Shaggy walked up. “Yeah, little man, hang on.” Shaggy reached in and changed out the battery on then back of the light. When he did, warm illumination fell upon the public housing stoop, Lars standing on the bottom step, looking out of place in his shiny suit. “Thirty seconds.” Shaggy stepped in close to the tripod and leaned on it like an old friend. Lars cleared his throat and listened to the opening news theme in his ear, the  concentric circles now rotating as Shaggy twisted the lens. Why aint you sayin’ nothin’? the first boy asked, as he straddled a bicycle two sizes too small for him. Lars looked at the kid, then at Shaggy, who seemed to be picking his teeth. “Fifteen…” Suddenly, the striking young woman down at the corner began speaking loudly, her cadence quite dramatic. The boys turned and looked, two of them slowly rolling away just by picking up their feet. In Lars’ ears, another booming voice drowned out everything else. In overwrought tones, main anchor Nigel Lyerly read aloud sentences he was seeing for the first time. “A troubling discovery in the inner city, as police search for the person who led a little girl down a troubling path. Lars Parson joins us from where it all happened.” Lars honed in on the now glowing circles. Shaggy, the other reporter and the annoying little boys faded from his view. “That’s right, Nigel, those who live in this public housing unit are reeling in shock after a young girl was found badly beaten in an a community laundry room. But neighbors tell me, they knew the young girl was headed for trouble.” With that, Lars fell silent as a director back at the station punched to his pre-recorded piece. Lars rocked back and forth in his expensive shoes as the boys whispered among themselves. Shaggy leaned in to his viewfinder as if in a trance. He sat there frozen until Lars began speaking again. “With so few clues to go on, police say they’ll be here all night. CityBeat 12 will be there too, with Lexie Steller bringing you live updates at Ten and Eleven. Nigel?” Lars held his most dapper expression as Nigel moved on to a report about a truck in a lake. Only when Lars was certain the camera was no longer hot, did he relax, before making a beeline for his car, a low slung roadster he’d never thought to pop the hood on. The kids on the bicycles watched Lars screech off into the night, then pedaled over to the other news crew, who were breaking down their equipment. Shaggy lit a cigarette and watched the boys roll away, before turning his attention back to his own gear. If he hurried, maybe he could grab a bite to eat before Lexie shows up and wants to start knocking on doors...

Peacocks and Eyeballs

It was a random bend in the road, until that dump truck plowed through the fence and into the old folks home. 88 year old Eustace Musgrave took a juice cup to the eye socket, but luckily, everyone else escaped injury. Still, the upended dump truck made a fine picture, sitting there in the front window with daffodils sticking out the tailpipe.

Someone must have made a few phone calls, 'cause before ya know it, little white cars splashed in all kinds of colorful peacocks and eyeballs showed up. They parked all this way and that, got out and popped their tailgates. Some were quite pretty, most all 'em young. The older ones among them didn't seem to be in charge. Anyway, they all pulled out their three legged stands and oversized cameras. With not a hint of urgency, they all trundled up to the edge there, chatting amongst themselves as if the conversation was already an old one.

I sat and watched them for some time, these strange interlopers from as far as forty five minutes away. They seemed neither happy or sad to be there, kind of like morning shift workers waiting on a bus. Only twice did they scurry around like in the movies, once when a young police fellow came out and another time when a 63 year old volunteer fireman walked by and was momentarily mistaken for an escaped resident of the old folks home.

Other than that, it was pretty dull. The dirtier ones fiddled with their gizmos as the pretty ones paced about and recited lines out loud, as if they were hearing their own private update and were just trying to keep up. Most of them disappeared into their cars until just before the top of the hour, when they sprung out all frantic like, the pretty ones now reciting all the louder as the ugly ones twisted lights and grumbled about "head-nods".

It all got quiet as four sets of 'em lined up with their cameras side by side. Suddenly the pretty ones all started babbling at once, the same strange cadence of their overly inflected speeches jangling with one another. It was like a strong gust blew through a wind chime store, just nowhere near as pleasant. Anyway, just as suddenly as they all started talking, they all stopped, then started again before dramatically stating who they were, where they were and whatever peacock or eyeball sponsored their trip.

Once they were done with that, the pretty ones stomped off as if in an argument with voices in their heads and the ugly ones started moving faster than I'd seen them move all day. Those fellas manhandled that gear like it owed them money, tossed it in the back of those little cars and peeked out of here without saying a word to anybody, as if their next mission was to get away from this little bend in the road as fast as their underpowered little cars would take them...

Strange folk.

Some night shifts you don't forget...

Covering Covid

"We could probably get two packages out of THAT.”

Whatever my assignment editor was trying to milk for two stories in one day was lost on me. Sunk low behind the wheel of my news unit, I shifted in the seat and squinted at my phone, which currently showed a quad-box of bored coworkers. Through the windshield, I could see the big bristling TV station none of us were allowed to enter anymore. Back on the phone’s grimy screen, I caught my own reflection in one of those Brady Brunch boxes. Instinctively, I reached up to scratch my face, then pulled my hand back when I remembered I shouldn’t be touching my face.

Welcome to News: Pandemic Edition

A couple of months ago, I would have told you I’d shot it ALL. Hurricanes, homicides, forest fires, floods, riots, pomp and squalor. Like most folk who read this magazine, I’ve been blessed with the kind of access to intrigue that would have boggled the mind of my seven year old self. I have floated through a sea of dead cattle, backpedaled in front of guilty Senators and sullied the edges of more homicides than I can recall. But I have never covered anything like the Coronavirus.

Who has?

At the local level, we’ve adjusted to the unique demands of a global pandemic in ways that were nothing short of unthinkable just a dozen weeks ago or so. Reporters cobbling together material without ever leaving their apartments. Directors punching shows from the comfort of their couches. Anchors hosting whole newscasts from their backyard. Gotta say, I’ve been white-balancing since the first Bush Administration and I didn’t see ANY of this coming. (Had I, I’d have invested in Zoom!) Now that it’s here, though, what’s left for the photog nation to do but adapt and survive?

Never before have local television photojournalists been so challenged to remain relevant. With social distancing comes the understandable acceptance of app-derived interviews. Couple that loss of camera-play with the proliferation of easily accessed file video and you have a combination of factors that could further take the ‘crew’ out of ‘news crew’. Don’t get me wrong: TV News will get rid of photogs only when you pry the fancycam from my leathery, middle-aged grip. But with MultiMedia-Journalists doing phenomenal work and ad revenue taking a biblical hit, now is not the time for the cranky photog to stage a hunger strike. You want to be a part of this splintering business? Get versatile.

At least that’s the view from where I sit, which lately is the driver’s seat of a Ford Explorer that’s packed to the gills with lights, scrims and all manners of hurricane gear that won’t help me in the least to cover a pandemic. Far more useful is my trusty laptop, a prehistoric model that until recently didn’t see much service. These days, it’s my only portal to a wider audience. But as much as I may have mastered my tools as of late, how exactly I was going to get my storytelling jollies in a sterile environment such as this? How was I going to get past the social distancing and surgical masks to make any memorable television?

The answer didn’t come for another week. A local food bank had organized a give-away and the faces in the morning Zoom meeting wanted me to turn it into television. Grateful not to be assigned another health director’s press conference, I shot my phone a thumbs-up and dropped the transmission into Drive. Minutes later, I arrived on scene. It was just a random vacant lot and even though the cases of fresh fruit and canned goods wouldn’t be handed out for another twenty minutes, cars were already rolling in. A few drivers saw me and my oversized camera and scrunched down behind their steering wheels. I let them be and went to find a food bank official to interview.

An hour later, I leaned against my tripod and watched the line of cars snake through the line, before passing right behind me on the way out of the no longer vacant lot. Occasionally, a driver waved as they drove by, but most averted my camera’s gaze. Reluctantly, I let them pass. As depressed as most of the drivers seemed, it had been a fruitful shoot. After interviewing one of the organizers, I put away my homemade boom pole and pretended to be invisible. The visuals poured forth: a low slung wide shot of tires crunching gravel, a tight frame of bananas before their pulled out of view, a silhouette of a driver’s profile as he patiently waited. Yes, I had everything I needed for my ninety second report.

Everything, except a soundbite from a non-official.

Maybe all the social distancing was getting to me. Whatever it was, I just didn’t have the heart to harass any of the folks as they popped their trunks for a few free groceries. ‘Maybe I can wrap my pictures around that one organizer’s interview, I mean, she WAS pretty good.’ Deep within my frontal lobe, I did the storytelling math and came up with an equation that convinced me I could turn my camera off NOW and still have enough for a pretty tight package.

That’s when I saw her. An elderly woman behind the wheel of a slow rolling sedan. A paper mask covered her mouth, but I could tell by her eyes that she was smiling. I moved in, camera rolling. In a sing-song voice, she gladly told me all about getting an e-mail about the food drive. Then she graced me with the kind of soundbite that told me I was done shooting for the day.

“God has helped me today.”

‘You and me both, lady’, I thought as I lowered the camera.

You and me both.

If you've ever...

If you’ve ever been boxed in between an angry band of masked strangers and a hundred cops in riot gear, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever cradled your TV camera and stared at the red light as people ran past you like Godzilla was chasing them, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever tasted tear gas in the back of your throat and instantly flashed back to the last time you tasted that shit, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever been pulled backwards by the belt loop through an angry crowd as you squinted into a jostling tube, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever stopped to marvel at what kind of irresponsible person would bring a child to a city-wide protest, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever ignored seven people screaming at you at once while a loud BEEP in your earpiece told you that the card in your camera was almost full, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever seen protestors shatter plate glass windows, hurl chunks of concrete at cops and through car windows, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever tried with your eyes to tell your reporter that his live shot is about to be interrupted by a guy lighting fireworks behind him, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever squinted into your viewfinder and tried to bring into focus the face of a man who had just fallen thirty feet through a grate in the sidewalk, you may have had a night like mine.

If you’ve ever suffered through an evening of danger and discomfort in the belief that Democracy does indeed die in darkness, only to have some schmuck on Facebook tell you you’re an enemy of the American people, you may have had a night like mine.

Blood and Plunder

I make my living off the evening news

Carry ‘round a camera, everything’s in view

I watch a lot of people lose,

Call it blood and thunder

I coulda been a drifter, but I learned to shoot

Got a lotta pockets, but I don't own a suit

Man I wish I made more loot

Selling blood and thunder

Website's up

Revenue down

Website's up

Revenue down

We got the toothpaste model

Who comes on at five

She can tell you 'bout the virus with a gleam in her eye

Still people will say she lied 

They want blood and thunder

Can we stream the operation?

Is the GoPro set?

Yeah, the kids in digital got a running bet

Keep the drone from getting wet!

We need blood and thunder

Dirty little live shots

Every other crime

We’ll scratch your eyes out for a piece of the pie

Nobody gets out alive

Without blood and thunder

Riot in the streets,
outbreak on a cruise
no matter what we show
they'll say say it's fake news
It all gives me the Blues
Take your blood and thunder.

Website's up

Revenue down

Website's up

Revenue down
Website's up

Revenue down

Website's up

Revenue down


(With apologies to Don Henley.)

A less than polite request...

You there, bashing "the media". Couple things...

1. Blaming "the media" is like hating hurricanes, but constantly harping about "the weather", as in "I was having a great summer until 'the weather' blew my pick-up into a ditch." Technically accurate, but vague enough to make you sound lazy at best, ignorant at worst. Be specific! Words matter! Chances are what got your undies in a bunch was a certain media outlet that had the gall to say something you didn't like. We used to call that 'journalism', but decades of irresponsible cable punditry have sadly sullied the term.

2. If blaming "the media" is the best you got, do us both a favor and scratch me off your friends list. I've been a TV News nerd since 1989 and am extremely comfortable with the content I produce. For the past few weeks, I've put my own health at (minimal) risk while churning out dozens of "feel good" stories for our nightly newscasts. I do it because it's my job and because I still believe in the power of the free press.

You, of course, have every right to disagree with me. Some of my family members do. All I ask is the next time "the media" is on your lips, select a modifier. A simple adjective does wonders to clarify your message. In the meantime, I'm going to keep producing responsible television, knowing that History will be a harsh judge of us all in the time of the Coronavirus. I, for one, am sleeping like a baby.

Rant over. I'll let you get back to blaming the messenger...

WHAT I WONDERED WHILE SITTING IN MY NEWS CAR THIS WEEK...

1. Where the hell am I gonna pee?

2. How much Lysol does it to take to kill that gelatinous mass on my dashboard?

3. What part of social distancing does my reporter NOT understand? All he wants to do is sit in my passenger seat and chew his food ten times louder than every other human on the planet.

4. How many sporks can I hoard before authorities get involved?

5. With producers and editors working from home all week, how long before TV stations bulldoze their newsroom and replace them with more anchor lady dressing rooms?

6. Now that I’m no longer allowed in the building, would it be okay to set up shop in that abandoned Cheesecake Factory?

7. Can the old hippie with THE END IS NEAR sign just do a Skype Interview? Surely, he’s got a cellphone in that macrame fanny pack.

8. Does the ‘work from home’ mandate apply to photogs? Gotta say, not a lot of news goes down in my den.

9. Is this IT? Thirty years of learning to pull nuance from noise only to be excommunicated to the parking lot? Three decades spent sticking a lens into some felon’s face only to be struck down by some invisible germ? Umpteen hurricanes under my belt only to be force-fed granola bars in perfectly good weather?

10. Where the Hell AM I gonna pee?

Hi there!

It’s me, your local TV News çameraman - a small but very important part of "The Media". You know, that constitutionally protected entity so many of you were blaming for stirring up panic over that latest hoax: the Coronavirus. What was that, last weekend? Now it seems even our President is buying into the hoax, er, virus. Crazy, huh? It’s almost as if a global pandemic was closing in on every corner of our country. You’d think that kind of thing would have made the papers…

 Anyhoo, hope you’re taking the proper precautions to keep your family as as safe as possible. All those suits at the podium say the smartest thing to do is to just stay home, maybe monitor a current events broadcast for helpful information. Me, I wouldn’t know. See, while you’re sheltering in place and cursing your least favorite news anchor, I’ll be crisscrossing the region, interviewing experts, FaceTiming victims, shooting video of hopefully empty streets. Crazy as it sounds, I’m no longer allowed in my own newsroom. Instead, I spend my days scrunched in a cramped company car, darting this way and that until I pull over and make my many deadlines through a cranky, overworked laptop.

I’ve covered a lot in my career. Hurricanes, homicides, forest fires, floods and almost everything in between. I’ve floated through a sea of dead cattle, backpedaled in front of guilty Senators and been to more murder scenes that I can possibly ever remember. But I’ve never seen anything like the Coronavirus. And before it’s over, I’ll see it up close. As much as my station tries to protect me, sticking my lens into other people’s business is kinda what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.

See, I believe it matters.

 I believe our nation’s forefathers understood the importance of an independent press so fervently they included it in the FIRST amendment to our Constitution. I believe that Democracy does indeed die in darkness, that no matter what plague envelops our land, our great citizens won’t suffer from too much exposure to the truth. Ahhh, the truth. Never before has it been so slippery, so slight, so subjective. One person’s birthright is another’s abomination, depending on which channel you happen to land on. Pity, that.

But you’re smart. You’ll figure it out. Chances are you’ll have time to mull it over as you huddle with your family and watch your broadcast of choice. Me, I’ll be out in the thickofit. There’s an old journalism saying “News doesn’t happen in the newsroom”. Neither does it go down in my den. No, to tell what may turn out to be the biggest story of anyone’s career, I’ll have to travel to places I really don’t wanna go. But that’s my job, dare I say, my calling. I’m cool with that and I really don’t care if you are. Just do me one favor: In the coming weeks, as information becomes vital, do take care and make sure you’re not getting any virus-survival tips from some enemy of the American people.

 That'd just be embarrassing.

Do me a favor...

This may sound strange coming from a guy with a TV camera permanently affixed to his shoulder, but do me a favor and TURN OFF THE NEWS. No, not the local stuff - the folks who work on that live in your community and, contrary to popular belief, often care about it. No, I’m talking about those other broadcasts, the ones that don’t even pretend to be neutral, the ones that wallow in boosterism, the ones that ruin family gatherings.

You know, Cable News.   

Now, before you label me a heretic (I’ll wait for all you haters out there to look that word up), hear me out: I’m talking ALL Cable News. CNN, FOX, MSNBC - whatever combination of capital letters makes you hate your fellow American. Turn. That. Shit. Off. You’ll be happier when you do, not to mention just as  informed about the world as you would be if you depended on some blown-dried anchor to assure you opinion is the only correct one.

I know quite a few blown-dried anchors. Some are dear friends. Some are nuttier than squirrel turds. When it comes to forming important opinions, you’d do just as well to consult that PTA President you know, or even that kooky neighbor who blows their grass clippings onto your driveway. 

Okay, now that our TV is off (remember, turn it back on for the LOCAL news. There’s a story coming up featuring a dog in a funny hat that you will NOT wanna miss), do me another favor. Get in your car, drive to a neighborhood nothing like yours, park it, get out and strike up a friendly conversation with someone who looks different than you. It’s okay, they’re not gonna rip your eye-lids off, no matter what your favorite pundit has told you. In fact, they may turn out to be the kind of person you really like, despite the fact that their hair, clothes or skin isn’t what you’d be comfortable wearing. If you’re not careful, you might even find yourself nodding in agreement over some universal truism. (It’s okay, I won’t tell your friends in whatever echo chamber you call home.) Of course, some of the things these strangers say will strongly contradict your world view, but that’s fine. In fact, I  have it on good authority that that’s supposed to be way our country works.

Then again, I’m old enough to remember when Republican and Democrat were opposite sides of an American coin, not two warring factions that couldn’t wait to roll a grenade into each other’s villages. How we got to where we are is something our robotic overlords, er, history books will one day have to decide. Me, I’m just worried about survival. Mine, my children and this nation that’s been so very good to all of us. This country, this sprawling, scary, schizophrenic country is all we Americans got and it deserves better than to be destroyed in the name of partisan politics. Say you wake up next November to find your side won. That neighbor with the grass clippings who’s sure YOU’RE the one who’s nuts will still be there. Or will you set his house on fire for thinking differently than you? Asking for a friend…

Thanks for reading this. I don’t expect it to change any minds. But it’s been on my mind lately, largely due to social media. What a wonder social media is. Several times a day, I glance at my phone and stare slack-jawed at what one of my ‘friends’ posted. ‘How can they believe THAT?’, I ask myself, but no one ever answers. All I can come up with is that they’ve surrounded themselves with only like-minded folk, that they subsist on a media diet consisting of nothing but the kind of lies and distortions that pleases their particular palate. 

As for me, I’m just a simple cameraman. For nearly three decades I’ve dropped in on every kind of person there was and somehow convinced them to be on television. It hasn’t made me any smarter than you, but it has widened my worldview and taught me that no one side is completely correct. If a guy who drives around with a tripod in his trunk can figure that out, surely the rest of you can.

Now if you’ll excuse me, this piece about the dog in the funny hat ain’t gonna write itself.

What Charlotte News Crews Already Know

I’m not sure if you've noticed, but Charlotte is crawling with news crews. I know, for I count myself among them. The Queen City is a hard news market; chases, blazes and slayings dominate the day. It’s a meat grinder, all right, and if you're not careful, it'll slowly chew you up. So the next time you pass that camera crew on the corner, consider what those crusty souls behind the glass have been through and what they've learned along the way… 

They know all the places to go for that killer view of the city’s skyline, but they made me promise on my zoom lens not to tell you where there they are.

They know that strip of sidewalk outside the Mecklenburg County Courthouse where a marked news unit can hop the curb and park. It’s a longstanding practice, but it still feels weird doing so with all those cop cars around.

They know Greg Olsen will always give them a decent soundbite in the Carolina Panthers locker room - after a big win, or following a soul-crushing loss -- because Greg Olsen is a standup dude.

They know what it's like to hover over the city in a helicopter as something beneath them burns; and they know how it feels to watch the same chopper fly toward that blackening plume, while they're stuck sit in traffic on I-77.

They know what tear gas smells like. Many last tasted it in 2016, when the Keith Scott protest turned deadly and Crown Town came undone. By the way, the footage you’ve watched of the madness that week exist solely because some loners with lenses chose not to run.

They know whether to race to the seventh level of the Daily Parking Deck or across the way to the Airport Overlook Lot, depending on what runway the troubled airplane is trying to land on.

They know how long it takes to get from the Spectrum Center's semi-secret Media Entrance all the way to center court. (Five to fifteen minutes, depending on your attitude, how much gear you have with you and the chattiness level of the metal detector lady.)

They know that if they work a Friday night shift, misfortune will be their plunder. They’ll end up somewhere along Beatties Ford or Sugar Creek or Albemarle roads. They know when the cop cars leave the scenes, they should, too.

They know that, for whatever reason, the sunrises at Charlotte Motor Speedway are nothing short of spectacular. Ask any morning crew that’s done a Speed Week preview there and packed up a little slower than usual. 

And they all know that in fifteen months or so, the Republican National Convention is going to slam into Charlotte and that they'll be there, riding the chaos that will surely come with it.

We just don't wanna taste any more tear gas. 

From Our Personnel Department...

 SIGHTED NOMAD WANTED

Must have firm grip, a pair of sniper's eyes and a knack for gadgets.  

Endless missions await. 

Will supply with aging weaponry, middling assistance and new demands daily. Must like ugly weather and attractive gasbags. Motoring skills mandatory. Penchant for pockets a plus. Will train. Won't coddle. Shoulders eroded. Spines maligned. Empty stares lengthened. Bad attitudes validated. Abuse a certainty. Respect sporadic. Worldview widened. Anecdotes amassed. Swagger magnified.

COME JOIN OUR TEAM!

(Applicants assume all risks.)

Oh, The Places You'll (be forced to) Go!

Congratulations! Today is your day! You're the photog on call! You’re off and away! There’s poo on the highway. And goo at the zoo. Stop by the station and grab a hair-do! Lex will be waiting. Or maybe take June. Just don’t go with Nigel. That dude’s a buffoon! 

The scanner just burped! It horkled and hacked! We’re gonna need you two to come back! Pick up a live truck! Head straight out of town! An unpleasant something has just fallen down! 

You can’t lag behind! But please do not speed! There’s no time for lunch! You’re now THE LEAD! Producers are juicing! A manager stammered! I’m pretty sure our sports guy is hammered! 

We know you’re not there yet! And busy as hell. But we need to know just HOW this thing fell? Did something else push it? Did it just take a dive? Was it feeling depressed? All out of jive? Let us know when you get there. WE'LL DO IT LIVE! 

You’ll round off the bottom. In a box off the top! We’ll come back after weather. And probably not stop! We’re still in the book. So try not to flop! Now put down that phone and know you’re the best. Whatever you do, wear that damn yellow vest! Tweet when you get there. We’ll flesh out the rest!

You’ll come to a place where the streets are not marked. We don’t really give a damn where you parked. Just get on that guardrail. The countdown’s begun. Fire up the camera. Set it on STUN. There’s no time to focus. You’re up on the bird. Stand by for grandeur… 

Let’s polish this turd!

A Little Less Conversation...

They may smell like a bucket of wet gym socks, but I've found most college mascots to be pretty reasonable creatures. Sure, they're misunderstood. But how can you not be when you're a spherical fruit with stubby blue arms?  Where can a tiger with cereal issues go, without someone yelling "You're G-r-r-r-e-e-a-t! And who can blame a horse-headed playboy for pickin' up digits on the road? I can't! Which is why I jumped at the chance to speak with a number of them at an industry function the other day. Well, actually I was the only one speaking. Mascots are pretty quiet. In fact, they don't talk at all! Don't know why, really. Anyhoo, sitting there, listening to the minutes of the meeting not be read, I got to thinking...

Ya know, mascots and photogs aren't all that different. Both species sweat profusely, both suffer from poor peripheral vision and both know how to whip the natives into a frenzy with just the roll of a shoulder. Maybe that's why I always identified with these taciturn assassins - even Shadow Satan over there. Normally, I try to avoid fallen angels, but I gotta say, for an agent of the underworld, he's good people. I just wish he'd share some sordid road stories with me, but all he ever did is stare. Then he pantomimed my execution, much to the pleasure of the cleaning crew. Once I even asked a cheerleader WHY these creatures are so quiet all the time. She only shrugged and said the mascots didn't like to talk about it. 

I guess I should have seen that coming.

An Important Message To Families...

PARENTS,

Does your young teenager think camera crews are cool? Does he only stop fondling the remote control when the local news is on? Does she hold her phone strangely sideways when snapping a selfie? WE CAN HELP. What seems like a passing interest in TV News can lead them down a road filled with potholes, potholes that your son or daughter will be expected to stop and put on television. That’s no life for anybody. Which is why we here at the Lenslinger Institute have established a unusual youth intervention program to discourage kids from even considering what was once the world’s most interesting dead-end job.

HERE’S HOW:

We blow up your kid’s phone at 3 AM, tell ‘em there’s a circus train derailment on the edge of town and we need their help. They’ll be excited at first, but that feeling will fade once our crack team of washed-up photogs arrive and throw them into the back of our very own live truck (the one with the blacked out windows!). From there we run your son/daughter through a gauntlet of real world news gathering scenarios, from the soul-draining tedium of a simulated city council meeting to virtual hurricane immersion! The shift is long but it usually ends with the kind of panic attack that will send your little hipster running straight for the nearest Coast Guard recruiter. Hey, look who’s making America great again!

OUR COMMITMENT:

Our rough but loving crew of photog-expats and rogue sound recordists are determined to make sure your little buttercup doesn’t make the same mistakes they did. Which is why we have no problem abandoning them in a Wal-Mart parking lot until they can score fresh sound on the Battle of Gallipoli. Truth is most of our staff emotionally shattered, if not estranged from their families. But that’s not important right now! What IS important is that your child understands there’s no simply future in covering yesterday’s news. So don’t get all weirded out if they come home talking about being strapped to a wobbly stepladder and handed a red-hot handycam. I can personally assure you that the Waffle House sausage grease we spray on them during the plebe period IS 100% Gluten-free.

YOUR MOVE:

Sure, our tactics are a bit unconventional, but we guarantee your snowflake won’t be pass a local news car in traffic without getting the vapors. They’ll thank you later. And considering they’re gonna be the ones picking out your rest home, it pays to maximum their income potential NOW. Ya know, studies show that every time a young adult pursues a career in TV News, a future venture capitalist dies. Our country can’t withstand that. So do what’s right and cough up the seven payments of $49.99! The sooner you do, the sooner we can frog-march your little smart-ass through the longest workday of their young lives. They’ll come back with a weird eye twitch and a major better attitude. Most importantly, you’ll rest easy knowing your children’s future is a little bit brighter - and for far less cash than even a decent reform school…

Speaking of which, did we mention the extra charge for the souvenir video?

Bum Rush the Show

Carry a TV News camera around long and someone will tell where you to stick it. Usually, you see it coming. Body language is a steady tell, pack mentality can get you killed, even your own logo can turn on you in the flash of a bigot's eye. Yup, it's dodgy out here in the shit. Which is why a seasoned news crew tries to avoid dangerous places whenever it can (9 out of 10 times, it can't).

Biker gang hangout, active crack-house, any Chuck E. Cheese: there are plenty of places I'd rather not take my gear. But when the train carrying secret government lunar juice jumps the track, crashes into the psycho hospital and creates a new breed of murderous moon zombies, someone has to try and score a sit-down with 'em.

Luckily, the television camera is a powerful weapon. It's got a pistol grip, a rolling barrel and crosshairs to spare. Aim it at the right person in the wrong way and you could instantly alter their life. Folks know it, too, and whether they admit it or not, the mere sight of a casually carried camera can affect their every behavior.

Don't believe me? Roll into a water park with your lens aloft. You'll see Soccer Moms who can't swim throw themselves in the deep end - all so you won't put their least favorite body part on the evening news. Walk through a reality show audition tent with thing on your shoulder. You'll come out of there with whole new relationships! And the urge to shower.

But you don't have to head to Hollywood to feel the white hot hatred on display at the nearest political rally. (Sad!) Or the steaming resentment coming off the early morning workout crowd, just because you barged into their gym with a live TV camera and a reporter dressed like some kind of weird love elf.

"You there, with the bulging eyeballs and barbell on your neck, put that silly thing down and come tell the good folks of the Upper Valley Heartland Crescent just what Valentine's Day means to you!"

 Looking back, we were lucky to get out of that one alive.

Found Footage: The Lost Interview

I was - AHEM - googling myself the other day when I stumbled across this previously unseen clip. It's an excerpt from last year's podcast with Christian Parkinson, a ten minute dirge in which I prattle on about hoarding Granola bars and driving through mud puddles. It's pretty meta, alright, but if you're into bleary dissertations about keeping cameras dry from a guy who clearly needs more sleep in his life, who am I to judge? I just wish I'd splashed my face or something before firing up the Skype thingie.

I look like my Dad on a bender.