Reasons To Stay

I clicked on this thread hoping to find reasons to stay in TV, for it’s an issue I’ve been struggling with lately. First though, some background:

I never planned to work in TV news ... never studied, never interned, never petitioned my local anchor for a fifty cent tour. Instead, I wandered into a tiny CBS affiliate on a dare and quickly fell in love with the lights, the cameras and the kooky characters that roamed those rundown halls. Before anyone could stop me, I wormed my way behind an unmanned fancy-cam and proclaimed myself a certified pho-TOG. Suddenly I found myself ferrying reporters across town in my very own logo-mobile, pushing past mere mortals for an up-close look at the latest sensation, atrocity or fender-bender. A deep kick indeed! Unconcerned with the lowly pay and long hours, I became rapidly addicted to the access my oversized lens afforded me. By my late twenties, I rightfully considered myself the weathered veteran of a thousand-plus newscasts, one who was all too aware that most of what I knew about the world came from looking at it through a tube. Like most young men, I equated who I was with what I did. And what I knew myself to be was a lenslinger, though it would be a few more years before I started using that word in public.

But that was long ago. These days, everything that is wrong with local TV news (and there is a LOT wrong) has pretty much eclipsed the moon-faced joy I used to feel while assembling all those ninety second video vignettes. Justified or not - rookie reporters, endless live shots and the mindless repetition of a million newscasts have turned this once eager scanner-hound into a volatile burnout prone to cubicle outbursts and news unit swearing matches. An all too predictable transformation perhaps, but it ain’t the guy I’d hoped to become when I first took up the glass all those years ago. Whereas I was once the youngest guy in the newsroom, I am at 38, something of an old-timer, a grizzled used-to-be who can deconstruct a damaged industry but still can’t quite figure out his place in it. So, literary aspirations aside, I began to look around for other ways to spend my workdays.

Trouble is, few lines of work compare to chasing news. I don’t want to fix stereos, sell real estate, deliver packages or any other skull-numbing gig out there. Why should I - when I’ve spent the better part of the last sixteen years focusing on something different every shift? As much as I detest the window-dressing and hollow glitz of local TV news, there is absolutely no more satisfying feeling than rolling up on a breaking news and kicking glass, or silently stalking citizens as they allow me (and a million viewers) a peek into their lives, or turning a small, seemingly unimportant event into water-cooler chat for the region’s masses. Recently, I had an opportunity of the cyber-variety, a chance to put down the camera and pick up the pixel. At first the idea excited me, until an interior voice I’ve learned to listen to began asking questions I’d yet to answer. Did I really want to hand over my Sony, move out of my beloved my news unit and pass up the chance to clamor at turmoil’s edge - all so I could ride a desk, take longer lunches and baby-sit a website? Hell no. I may as well turn in the keys to my storyteller’s soul.

Thus, it is with an inward grin and a hint of resignation that I once again admit a long-known fact. I’m a hopeless news geek. I’ve done this so long it’s engraved in my DNA. As much as I may bash my broadcast habit, so many other endeavors strike me as equally insipid, profoundly pointless, inherently empty. If that sounds overly negative, well, you got a point. But for me, this ingenuous outlook fits far better than a feigned disposition of optimism and light. Besides, I don’t intend to wallow in obscurity forever; instead I plan to become the Poet Laureate of the Photog Nation. A strange goal for sure, but it’s the only destiny I feel equipped to fulfill. For now however, I got a book to write. Lock up on your way out, would ya?

Back From The Slopes

No scathing diatribe here; just a quick note to explain why the blog has been so quiet as of late. Yes, I did indeed trek West for a brief but needed family ski trip. Though my still-twisted ankle prevented me from hitting the trails, I had a great time snapping photos of all the females in my life as they handily dominated the kiddie slopes. All in all, it was a great weekend of memory-making that had absolutely nothing to do with deadlines, laptops or super-times. Now that I'm back in Viewfinder BLUES Central, I hereby pledge to get back on the blog and crank out something of worth. I'll try to make it TV-related but allow me a book review or two, won't you? I've been tearing through other people's pages lately and, as always, I'd like to blather about it. Now if you'll excuse me there's a salt-encrusted station wagon to unpack and the wife and kids are looking at me like it's MY job. I'll be in the garage if you need me...

Propane, Oreos and Dynamite

While I wallow in a painkiller haze, the photograsphere echoes with voices old and new...

Just down the road, Bluedog Photog has stepped up his game of late. Whether chasing propane spills, reliving grow-room busts or deconstructing bureau life, Ken Cravens has been filing regular, readable reports. He even popped off a shot in MY cubicle recently, but don't hold that against him.

Off the Coast, a photog by the name of CJ checks in from her 'little red box' of an edit bay. Having recently left her native West Coast for the inland prarie sea, she regularly riffs on Sudoku, Spot News and life in the I-Team. Amazingly, it all comes together in the end.

Best new blog title goes to Oreo's Crumbs, the ever reflective site of one Mike Sellers. Though awful fond of his wife's native Denver, this Baton Rouge news shooter's heart is on the Bayou. Hurricane Katrina may have swept away his childhood home, but not his hopeful perspective.

There's a New Guy In The Shop and he'd like to blog about it. With the ink still wet on his EKU sheepskin, Andy Pollard is currently making his bones on the mean streets of Lexington. But this rookie's got a second persona, He's "The Voice of the Indians" in Kentucky's local radioland.

Finally, from the outskirts of Sin City itself, Erin Winking brings us the implosion of an old casino in full Technicolor glory. With a station video link, expertly sequenced stills and a steady string of F-bombs, the endearing eWink provides extensive, one-of-a-kind coverage in a way that only a grizzled photog can. Having blogged the Burlington implosion earlier this year, I'm impressed how easy eWink makes it look. A synchronized event, a thoughtful execution, a Tour de Force.

Lenslinger Down!

Life hasn't been interesting enough lately so last night I twisted the heck out of my ankle - you know, just to liven things up. I'll spare you the grisly details but let's just say I'm getting too old to run up a tall staircase at sinking-sailor speed. The last time I missed a step like that, klaxons were sounding over the ship's loudspeakers. But that was long ago. Right now I got a throbbing foot, a funny walk and something else to complain about. Did I mention I was supposed to go skiing this weekend?

A Million Little Embellishments?

"Dude, one more thing. You MUST read 'A Million Little Pieces'. IN-credible." I bid Danka adieu and made a note of the title. This was after all, the man who turned me onto 'The Things They Carried', a wrenching tome that's become a treasured part of my overflowing library. A few days later I picked up a copy of 'Pieces', breaking my personal rule of staunchly avoiding Oprah's Book Club choices. But before I could get around to cracking it open, The Smoking Gun accused author James Frey of making up some of the more salacious details of his celebrated memoir. Suddenly I was intrigued, and not just as a potential reader.

As anyone who's read a few of my posts can attest, I'm something of a struggling memoirist myself. This whole blog thing has been a kick, but I'd planned to document my existence long before Al Gore invented the Internets. So it's with great interest that I watched James Frey on Larry King Live last night. Though Frey stood by his book (as did call-in guest Oprah), he didn't deny embellishing parts of his life story. Hmmm. I'm not really sure how I feel about that. Working off memories, compressing time, re-creating conversations you kinda remember; these are things anyone who writes at length about their own life does. But to trump up events to the point of dishonesty strikes me as more than a little skeevy. After all, a memoir is by definition an personal acount of one's time on Earth. Though I think authors are allowed a certain amount of creative liberty, changing the fundamental facts transforms the chronicle into a work of fiction, albeit one closely based on true events.

So here's the deal: Keep reading my drivel and I promise to stick to the facts. I reserve the right to compress time, mind you - but I hereby vow to adhere to (dare I say it) journalistic standards. Hell, if I could write fiction, I would. At least that's what I plan to tell Larry King's cryogenically frozen head, should I ever get the chance. Hey, that reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I stumbled onto the zombie farm on the outskirts of High Point? It was a calm autumn evening, I remember the way the moonlight glinted off my steely pectorals as I cut down the brain-eaters with nothing more than a tripod leg and half-dead camera battery. It was about that time the Pod People showed up...

With Apologies to Bud Light...

Today we salute you Mr. Parabolic Microphone Holder Guy. (REAL AMERICAN HE-ROES!) You show up game after game, sportin' orange, blue and that transparent umbrella thingie. (TRANSPARENT UMBRELLA THI-I-INGIE!) Why? So back home we can hear the spare change rattling in the referee's pocket! (A BUCK FORTY NI-INE!) And when your team scores, you don't let an army of cameras stop you from throwin' up the devil horns and barking out an encouraging "Woo-Woo!" (YOU'RE ON TEE-VEE, DUDE!") So crack open a Bud Light, Mr. Parabolic Microphone Holder Guy, for You Sir know when to capture authentic gridiron sound and when, to represent! (MR. PARABOLIC MICROPHONE HOLDER G-U-U-U-Y!)

{Via b-roll, with thanks to Warren...}

Anything but THAT

Okay, this IS disturbing. My third grader, a child of considerable charm and immeasurable wit, has expressed an ongoing interest in broadcasting. She's always been enamored with my profession, but lately she's exhibiting symptoms that are causing worried glances between her Mother and I. Just the other day, she peered in the back of my news unit and exclaimed, "WOW! This is cooler than a LIMO!" When I came to, the wife was spraying me down with the waterhose and demanding I remove the pimped-out logo-mobile from our driveway.

Now THIS. When Hannah told me her latest masterpiece was chosen to hang in the local art museum, I was thrilled and told her so. Then I got a look at said rendering and reconsidered my enthusiasm. Told to draw a picture of herself flying over a place she found interesting, my youngest daughter chose (gulp!), El Ocho. Now don't get me wrong; I'll support her in any honest endeavor she chooses, but in the name of all that's sacred, NOT TEE-VEE NEWS! Luckily, she's very young. There's still time to steer her toward more honorable pursuits, like pharmaceutical sales, real estate or taxidermy. I suppose it's too soon for an intervention...