Bromancing the Stone

Haul glass up and down the interstate and you'll stumble upon a ton of cross-country quests. I feel as if I've covered 'em all: cowboy preachers on horseback, junkies taking a run at redemption, wall-eyed drifter carrying a cross. Whatever led to their personal sojourn, they had one thing in common: they were all half a bubble off plumb. That's carpenter talk for 'avoid elevator rides with this person'. So far I've managed todo just that, but scaling a few floors in close proximity with one of these pioneers is nothing compared to back-pedaling in front of them on some lonesome highway for a few hours. Don't get me wrong: I've met some fine folk, but quite often I've left their presence with the bullshit detector in my brain clanging away.

Which is why my time with a group of cyclists from Buffalo was so refreshing, for they didn't come off as the least bit loopy. Instead, they seemed dangerously sane for a flock of forty-somethings pedaling from state to state. Then again, they've had a quarter century to think about it. See, these three friends began their journey back in 1986 and they'd have finished it then too, had a truck driver not fallen asleep at the wheel and plowed into their group. Two went down, hard. What followed can only be described as life: a couple of the cyclists grew up to be doctors while a third fell into a crevasse of addiction. That's usually where the story ends, but these Buffalo natives are simply made of stronger stuff. When they decided to embark on another cross-country trek, a sore-saddle lunge for closure, local media outlets swooned. That included Bob Buckley and me. We spent no more than two hours with the guys as they snaked their way through the Piedmont, but I'll have a hard time forgetting them, for they taught me A.) it's never too late to finish what you started, B.) old campers CAN be held together by duct tape and C.) not everyone obsessed with that next horizon is completely out of their gourds.

I'll try to remember that next time I roll my eyes at an assignment.

 

 

Sage of the Rodeo

You wanna talk Idols? Here's one of mine: Jerome Davis, bull riding icon, paralysis victim and long-term owner of a sunny disposition. I first met him in the Fall of '97, when sports goob Jay Shurling introduced him as 'The Michael Jordan of Professional Bull Riders. Had it not been for all the trophy saddles hanging on his living room wall, I made not have believed it. Legends don't come this humble - especially ones who make their money in eight second death-defying blasts. But Jerome was just that: mannerly, modest, mellow. Needless to say, I left his Archdale ranch impressed with the lanky cowboy's quiet vibe.

Then, it happened. An unlucky head-butt with a bull named Knock 'em Out John did just that, rendering Jerome unconscious before hurling him to the ground head first. In an instant, the young world champion's life changed forever. Broncing bulls and rodeo tours gave way to wheelchairs and hours of physical anguish. When I saw him next, Jerome couldn't even wear his cowboy hat. The metal halo screwed into his skull all but prevented it. But what struck me the most about the new Jerome, what absolutely floored me, was how his carefee attitude had survived that vertebra-shattering impact. He never planned to get hurt, of course - but now that he had, it was 'just one of them things..."

Since then, nine years have passed. Jerome's regained some use of his arms, but remains unable to walk, let alone climb aboard a two thousand pound leviathan and hold on tight. But he hasn't put himself out to pasture, either. Instead, he and his delightful wife Tiffany can be found on the family ranch - when they're not out on the road, trading bulls and motivating all those who aspire to ride them. Today however, Jerome was around the house and despite needing to cut an awful lot of hay, he huddled with me under a tree for a quick interview about his upcoming cowboy camp. As always, we had a fine visit - even when, while touring the eighty acre sprawl on his Kawasaki Mule, we plumb ran out of gas. Yippie Ki-ya...

The Forgettable Fire

Stop wasting time here and go check out the eye candy Weaver scored at an abandoned house fire yesterday. Not much is known about the abandoned structure or how it came to suddenly incinerate, but it drew a decent mumble of afternoon lookie-loos and not one, but two El Ocho photogs (some guys will do anything for overtime). Seems Castro and the Weave rolled up at the same time, exchanged Borat-like high-fives before falling into some sort of spot news photog synchronicity. The result is the most heavily documented shack fire this side of Waco, Texas.

But before I come off sounding too high and mighty, let me assure you: Had I been in the area, I too would have run church buses off the road to lay a lens on the embers. I'm no pyro, mind you (though I have known a few), but the random assuredness that I'll once again cower in the glow of some front yard conflagration and go back to the station with smoke on my clothes is one of the seven reasons I still do this silly job. I wish ill on no man, but if the shithouse does go up in flames, I still wanna be there to see it. Guess there's hope for me in this business, after all.

Breakfast with Bob

Before I fully realized Weaver had deployed to Lynchburg, he was back - stubbled, exhausted and muttering something about there being no wi-fi at the Fallwell scrum. So we took his pager, restricted his Nascar intake and sent him home. Being Weaver, he noodled on-line before he collapsed, uploading a wealth of photos from his overnight jaunt. There are some ringers indeed, but my favorite is this frame of Bob Buckley enjoying a little fast food between satellite shots. Reminds me of another spot news entree...

The Edumacation of Joey Flash

When Joe Avery first joined our staff, he didn't have alot of newsgathering experience. But his journeyman camera skills, quirky exuberance and unmistakable tone intrigued the suits enough to offer him the job anyway. Knowing he was in for a whirlwind tour of gear-portage and drive-thru food, I congratulated him while trying to avoid any real eye contact. Ever since though, I've enjoyed watching this elfish young stranger transform into full-fledged photog (though I do reserve the right to deny any and all involvement should litigation ever come to pass). Consider this: In his three months at El Ocho, Joey has grooved in a room with Hall and Oates, roamed the grounds of fresh tragedy at Virginia Tech and, just this weekend, weathered a verbal attack worthy of a Stage 3 Schmuck Alert. Yes Sir, I see a real future for this kid...

Far Flung Friends

This Just In: I'm not in Blacksburg and from the looks of our manpower plan, I probably won't have to be anytime soon. For that I'm grateful, but it hasn't stopped me from falling victim to the malaise that has gripped this fair region. Then again, I love me some good malaise. So while my colleagues are crafting comprehensive team coverage of the Virginia Tech tragedy, I'm doing my part by not watching any of it. Instead, I'm holed up in my normal roost, tending to my hens and thinking of old acquaintances. Let's meet a few...

While I stew in my own juices, Little Lost Robot is traipsing around Las Vegas. He's there for NAB of course, the annual summit of broadcasters, pimps and shysters. No fan of Vegas myself, I opted to stay at home. Hey I'm all for wanton debauchery but one trip to the Skeeve Capital every three years is enough for me. Still, I wouldn't have minded attending the yearly b-roll bash again. Why? Fresh beer, tipsy photogs, a chance to win a free tripod - where else can you see Kevin Johnson drink himself into a six foot five stupor? It's not on Pay-Per-View. Not yet, anyway...

Years before I'd ever heard the word 'blog', then-partner Rashunda Tramble had her own website. Of course Rash also made homemade soap, tolerated my nightly wide-angle habit and paid membership dues to Mensa. Next to that, how hard could learning HTML be? No longer an entertainment reporter, Rashunda is now a soul sister in Switzerland . When she's not busy being geographically exotic, she web-publishes photos, reflections and conjecture that still make me feel like a dumb white boy from the sticks. Ain't technology grand?

One of the smartest things I did today was ring up my old buddy Vern. No longer a news photog, Vernon Paul Dunn's life still mirrors mine in many ways. We're both married to short, aggressive women, we both got girls we mostly chauffer and TV news runs in both our bloodstreams. Back in the day, we'd both lay back on the hoods of our news units and wonder what other gig on Earth could possibly be so exciting. Years ago, Vern left the business to find out. I never did. While the real winner has yet to be determined, I come away the victor everytime we talk. Love ya man.

Six months after we visited him in the studio, Bucky Covington's debut CD drops today. Though my country music collection consists of one well-worn Hank Williams Jr. album, I'll gladly plunk down my cash for this Rockingham native's freshman release. How come? Bucky's got chops, tone and wit. He's by far the most deserving survivor of the American Idol ordeal and quite possibly the sweetest hillbilly you'll ever meet. Now a citizen of Nashville and the world, I'm still hoping we can get together someday and drown some more of that good brown likker.

Next time: Something else...

The Organic Cameraman

Kevin Gallagher will be the first to tell you he's no news shooter but he does cut a striking figure in his crunchy earth-tones and retro film-cam. Seen here careening atop a Habitat for Humanity roof, this seasoned promotions producer works his high-end lens in muted, earth-friendly fashion. Then again, no one rocks the neo-hippie lenslinger look quite like Sir Gallagher. From the old school battery belt to his homemade skull cap to that scraggly chin cabbage, Kev's got a look that says' "Sure, I'll shine twenty ozone killing spotlights on your sponsor's doodad, but those chicken sandwiches I see on the Craft Services table over there HAD BETTER BE FREE-RANGE!" Okay, so perhaps I'm projecting a little, but the truth is I've always dug Kevin's look - even if he did once try to kill me with my own mountain bike! I just wish someone hadn't given him those kick-ass Dale Earnhardt gloves. Dude's hands were so warm and toasty up there, he took FOREVER! Thought it would never be my turn...

The Wizard of IZ

While I spent the morning chatting up Hip-Hop C-lister Fonzworth Bentley, an old cohort of mine picked his way through a war-zone. Steve, a mild-mannered newscast producer, is in Baghdad. Apparently life in a Florida newsroom wasn't stressful enough, so this young family man followed a whim and applied for a position with the US Embassy in Iraq. Much to his surprise, he got it and after some training, found himself huddling on the floor of a sleek black chopper with a couple of nervous new cohorts as the sand-blasted rooftops of Baghdad hove into view...

The Blackhawk drops into the LZ (landing zone) like a stone, but lands like a feather. We scrambled to heft our luggage to the ground and move quickly away from the whirling blades of the chopper. We were all wearing 35 lbs. of body armor and helmets and trying to lug a year's worth of gear across the tarmac. The Blackhawk lifted off again and the thud-thud-thud-thud-thud from its rotors faded into the sky.

As the silence washed around us we started looking around the LZ. It was just a giant paved parking lot surrounded by tall cement barriers (T-Walls). So there we stood. We'd come halfway around the world in 4 days. We finally made it to Baghdad and there was no one even waiting for us. Never one to overlook the obvious I said, "Where the hell are we supposed to go?" There were no guides, no one to ask for directions, not even a sign with a big arrow saying "This Way ===>". So we moved toward what looked like an opening in the T-walls and hoped for the best.

Read the rest of his unnerving arrival in Iraq at his already amazing blog. The Steve I know is clever and capable. I trust he'll keep his wits about him and make it back to the states safely. While he's there though, I 'll look forward to every one of his trenchant missives from a most perilous locale. Just be careful...

New Media Jim

There's a new blogging photog on the scene and he's got a truckload of opinions. Why shouldn't he? Jim Long's been honing his photog chops for 18 years, mostly as an NBC cameraman. In that time he's seen alot pass through the glass, but it hasn't seemed to soften his focus one iota. Instead, Long zeroes in on emerging trends with a sniper's eye, displaying an enthusiasm for our ever-changing craft rarely found in journeyman lensers. I think I have a new hero. Well, maybe that's pushing it - but I do so dig Jim's prolific output. Every time I pass by his slick-ass site, he's posting videos, floating concepts, taking on Rosenblum and generally tilting at whatever windmills pop up on the electronic horizon. Who can keep up with that? I won't even try, but I will keep a close eye on this shrewdest of news shooters. Check him out yourself. His vigorous missives are far tastier fare than the warmed-over angst casseroles I've been serving up lately...

Next Up: A.man.I -- The Urban Reporter

With Great Dread

While I craft winking features on marathon basketball games, Ken Corn covers the kind of story that keeps you up at night...

You never know what to expect when you're a photographer working the night shift on a Saturday night in a city as large as Charlotte. I've pointed my lens at riots erupting in uptown after a New Year's Eve countdown. I've witnessed the aftermath of a shoot out between two rival gangs at a neighborhood block party. I've seen more twisted metal and broken glass piled high in city streets than your average tow truck driver. Yeah, you just never know what kind of images you will record when covering the news on a Saturday night.

Reporter Frances Kuo and I had just wrapped up an eleven o'clock live shot at a DWI checkpoint when my cell phone started ringing. Our work shift usually ends after the eleven o'clock show. But more often than not, we have to visit another crime scene or two before we can turn in the live truck keys for the night. Knowing the ringing box on my hip probably meant there was a scene somewhere waiting for us, I hesitated to unclip it from my belt.

I did not expect the words that flowed out of the electronic speaker pressed to my ear.

"We have a cop shot, up off of Milton Rd."

News photographer auto pilot kicked in when my brain registered the magnitude of the sentence I just heard. I handed the phone over to Frances so she could write down the details while I looked for the next exit off of the beltline. I could feel adrenalin seeping into my blood stream making my foot heavy on the gas petal. My mind started running scenarios of what we should do when we arrived on scene. We needed to find witnesses to interview. I needed to capture officers and other emergency workers rushing to the scene with my lens. Frances needed to find the public information officer to confirm the information our assignment editor had heard over the scanner. We needed to be on the scene right now instead of twenty minutes away.

Continue reading With Great Dread...

Colonel Corn's Mission

Those of you familiar with your Viewfinder Blues field manual will recall a deep operative by the name and rank of Colonel Ken Corn. A decorated veteran of the newsgathering front, this Charlotte photog thinks and writes as well as he shoots. For awhile the good Colonel issued weekly intel reports, tipping friend and foe to the motives of a Queen City news-shooter. Sadly, some fragile egos were shattered by friendly fire and Corn deep-sixed his blog - lest any more collateral damage render him ineffective. But this road-weary sniper hasn't hung up his glass. Instead he's using his lenslinging skills for good instead of evil - spearheading his church's video recon into the hearts and souls of Kenya. So report there immediately for a complete debriefing and if your stipend allows, cough up a greenback or two. You'll know your helping a special ops photog do some real good in the world, instead of playing grab-ass with some schlub who spews military metaphors. Dismissed!

Call Him Lightning

When a rare photojournalist position came available at El Ocho, we launched a hard target search for an up and coming photog to join our staff of alleged veterans. Somehow, we hired this guy. Don't get me wrong, Joe Avary's capable enough. While not technically a news shooter, this quirky young journeyman obviously knows his way around a lens. He proved that quickly, streamlining his cinematic skills to fit the accelerated pace of logos, live trucks and cranky-ass laptops. But I gotta be honest; this cat's exhibiting symptoms of eccentricity grossly undisclosed in his initial interview. Quiet and mannerly at first, it's becoming obvious to everyone that this guy is anything but shy. That bushy terrorist beard, the wisecracking patter, the weird lack of southern drawl that makes us rednecks scrunch up our unibrows and breathe through our mouths. He's even got a fresh blog - one with a title I really dig - even if I don't quite grasp the meaning. I guess the same could be said for young Avary himself - who I'm told prefers to be called Joey. In time, my Belushi-esque new friend. For now though, we shall continue to call you Al. Al Quaida.

Planetary Mal

Don't let the calm demeanor fool you, this guy's an Operator. Seen here in rare repose, Australian Mal James is strangely at home in sandier climes. Cairo, Baghdad, the Gaza Strip - wherever his lethal lenslinging is needed. That's the life of this international cameraman of mystery - a dude who dodges RPG's the way I dodge late-day live shots. Sniper fire aside, Mal still seems to dig his gig though. Something about the visceral thrill of 'acquiring under fire', I believe. But the bloodshed that floods through Mal's lens can't help but stain his psyche at times. He takes no joy in the tragedies he records, not the images etched onto his soul or the saturated echos that make the evening news. No Mal remains a pro. He was seen least leaving a Hostile Environment Training course for frontiers unknown. I can easily imagine him blending in with the folks, laying low and brooding on the future. Why, were it not for his insatiable writing itch, we might lose track of this one altogether... Now classify this document!

Polygraphing Chad

Please give it up for my co-worker Chad Arndt, who sacrificed his time and perhaps his dignity late yesterday - all in the name of news. The late show producer even maintained his composure - despite pinchy fingertip sensors, silly questions and profuse giggling from the cheap seats. He must have realized he was upholding a long TV tradition: Warm Prop Assistance. Yes, over the years I've subjected friends and colleagues to all manners of on-camera torture, mostly so whatever cheesy franchise piece I was working on wouldn't have gaping black holes in it. Come to think of it, Chad got off pretty easy. Back during the re-enactment craze of the early 90's, I remember rolling a certain tape editor off the hood of a parked police car over and over again until I got the back-light just right. Makes passing a fake lie detector test seem pretty cushy...

Colonel Corn's Retreat

One of the few things most push-button publishers can agree upon is this: Don't blog about work. It's sound advice for sure, but as a TV news photogra-blogger, it's virtually impossible. I blame beFrank. Since May of 2004, the L.A. news shooter has filed ceaseless reports from his many twisted gigs - proving you could blog about The Job without finding yourself shaking a tin cup full of chewed pencils down by the bus station. Inspired by his continuous Zen, many a TV geek launched their own sites - including Yours Truly. Soon the blogosphere was crackling with off-camera voices: many wry, some goofy and one or two that were completely unhinged. Individual afflictions aside, all sought to share what it was like to trudge through life with a deadline and a lens - all without cheesing off the boss in the process.

I always thought Ken Corn pulled that off particularly well. Unlike, say - yours truly - his sober accounts of the televised chase never delved too far into industry critique. Mostly, his weekly missives centered around his journeyman's pursuit of fairness in a business that's f-a-r from balanced. What could be offensive about that? Well, apparently something, for the good Colonel has shuttered his site without so much as a parting shot. Troubling, indeed. Details are sketchy, but after considerable counsel with the Charlotte shooter, I've come away convinced he's serious about this early retirement. Personally, that's a real drag - for I always learned from and enjoyed his weekly work. 'Tis a shame he feels so pressured to quit blogging - regardless of whatever bloated ego he apparently poked.

Our only solace is the hope he'll someday return. After all, Ken's a writer to the core. I'm sure he'll find a new muse before even he knows it. This time though, perhaps he'll pick safer subject matter, like whose religion is better or the exact location of our nation's nuclear football. Sheesh...

Thanks, Fellas

While Weaver was picking up something shiny for his mantle Saturday night, I was enjoying a most delightful birthday gathering in the Queen City. Whisked away by the Old Goat, we held up in a smoky Blues bar in hopes that Blind Chitlin' Somebody would soon make his gee-tar cry and sing. It was not to be. Instead, a thrash metal combo poured on the testosterone in a display of off-key angst I probably would have found fetching twenty years ago. No matter - as the company was Top Shelf. From Greenville, South Carolina came reformed Portlander JL Watkins - mercurial goofball of Little Lost Robot. Far more complex than his on-line persona would have you believe, JL's got a brain I always love to pick. Equally intriguing is Colonel Ken Corn - whose broadcast chops and love for writing makes him nothing short of a blood brother to your not so humble lenslinger. A photog-blogger I'm less familiar with is Adam of This Blog May or May Not Suck - a hilarious Charlotte native who's bound to brighten any crime tape he babysits. (Think Jim Breuer meets Doogie Howser). Together we dined on the finest chops, guzzled lots of hops and probably talked to much shop. All in all, it was a highly restorative weekend and I thank you all. Mostly though, I'd like to thank the instigator of this event, Dick Carney - a man whose very presence I yearned for as a kid and still savor as an adult. Let's do it again - soon...

Weaver's Well-Earned Win

While I'm congratulating colleagues, let me extend Big Ups to my cohort Chris Weaver, who just won his first of what will no doubt be many Emmy Awards. Now, I've never been the biggest fan of the TV News accolade circuit, but if anyone deserves recognition for enthusiastic newsgathering, it is The Mighty Weave. Whereas I skulk about news scenes ensconced in melancholy, Chris dives in with a vigor and passion that would grow tiresome, were it not so incredibly genuine. So give it up for tvphotogblog himself, who freshly-bagged talisman represents an awful lot of thought, effort and good ole fashioned photog sweat. As for what he'll do with his new trophy - we're still taking bets at the office. My guess is it's already welded to the front of Unit 15, where it will fly through the Piedmont as one shiny-ass hood ornament. Look for it in a rearview mirror near you.

Son of Shannon

A belated congrats to my friend and sometimes partner Shannon Smith, who's probably home right now smooching on her newborn son. Sure he's cute now, but if I know Shannon's husband John, that kid will be a chiseled He-Man by the time he's 13. Then who'll be gettin' em some sugar, hmmmmmmm?

I met Shannon on her very first visit to El Ocho. Then just a job candidate, she rode with me on a story assignment as a kind of test. Needless to say, the willowy Clemson Grad passed - quickly proving herself to be alot tougher than she looked. After taking the job, she soon assumed the punishing mantle of 'quarterback reporter'. You know - the one who goes LIVE! from the late-breaking news scene every night? Why, Shannon even allowed herself to be lashed to a seaside patio without so much as an umbrella while Hurricane Isabel pummeled her and her merry band of photogs. I still got sand in my ear (and gear) from that long week. Not that Shannon complained. Instead she impressed her crack team of smelly fellows by displaying a trait not often found in the female TV news species: The woman, is low-maintenance.

And smart - for when the chance to work on our marathon a.m. newscast presented itself, she traded the gritty dinner-time crime scene beat for the frothy squeal of early morning live shots. There she remains, having made quite a name for herself as the region's favorite on-scene sweetheart. Of course, readers of this blog may know Shannon from her other role: Miss American Idol. Ever since she chatted with an unknown Fantasia moments before her first audition, Shannon has owned the local Idol beat. A year later I joined her and together we've since documented the froth from every conceivable angle. Local finalists, countless trips to L.A. and thousands of delusional wannabes later, Shannon and I have shared many a giggle at seeing the lunacy up close. Which is why I'm eager for her to return from maternity leave. I'd be her photog ANY day - and that, I assure you, is not something I say alot.

Stuck Behind the Lens

Proving that parallel universes do exist, yet another news photog has taken up the blog. Meet Aaron K - a Salt Lake City shooter who's hit the scene with tales of school lockdowns, camera orgies and house fires. Man, what a kick-ass job that must be! Seriously, young Aaron seems to have everything he needs to sustain an insightful site: unfettered access to the Daily Goop, a shiny new digital camera and the undying urge to over-communicate. I like him already...

(SLC, huh? Wonder if he knows Fields Moseley?)

Christmas Wish Fullfilled

Rarely am I rendered speechless, but the Mighty Weaver nearly accomplished that very feat a couple of days ago at work. Summoning me into the production studio, he presented me with an oversized Christmas present and wielded his nifty new stealth-cam as I hesitantly removed all that shiny paper. Imagine my delight when I uncovered a certain doppelganger, courtesy of a few on-line buddies. I'll let the above YouTube clip tell the rest, but first, let me extend a sincere Thank You to Kevin Johnson, Billy "The Blogging Poet" Jones, J.L. Watkins and Newshutr himself for their generosity. Of course a special thanks to Chris Weaver, who not only engineered this act of kindness, but also shot and edited a frighteningly thorough video of the whole gift-giving process. Thanks fellas, look for the little guy to pop up in his own series of blog-posts coming soon. For now, I have to rescue him from the grip of my youngest child, who's, as expected, enamored with 'Daddy's new Barbie'. Sheesh!