NAB: From the Floor

I don’t know what you’ll see at the Las Vegas Convention Center the other fifty-one weeks of the year, but when NAB rolls into town, it’s all about the gadgets. Broadcast gadgets, to be exact. From massive, tricked-out satellite trucks to windscreens for the tiniest of microphones, you’ll find everything you need here to start your own communications empire. What else would lure 100 thousand TV and radio geeks to the middle of the desert every year? Well, there is the whole Las Vegas strip experience - a neon-drenched swath of gambling and debauchery that frankly left me wanting to take a weeklong shower. But that’s a subject for another post. Back to the show!

Step inside the Convention Center and you’ll soon find yourself twitching from sensory overload. Fancy-cams of every stripe bob and weave, voluptuous booth bunnies beckon with oddball freebies and every where you look, high-definition flat screen TV assault the senses with all that glorious pixilated detail. It was all Chris Weaver and I could do not to openly pant at all the electronic possibilities spread before us. Remember, we hail from a sector of the country more known for it’s dying textile mills and booming Nascar scene than its sophisticated ee-lectronics. Sure, we’ve both been in the TV game for more than a dozen years, but to lay eyes on all that naked technology was downright orgiastic. Try working that word into a sentence today.

Now where were we? Oh yeah - the gear. Unlike myself, Weaver seemed to immediately grasp the functionality of every new toy thrust in front of us. Whereas I tend to scratch my whiskers and nod a lot, Weave quickly recites the schematics, limits and implications of said doohickey with a Rain Man-like intensity. Plus, he’s a very good driver - but I digress. Among the notable thingamabobs was a hydrogen-powered camera battery. While it’s quite possibly a viable alternative E.N.G. energy source, it is quite certainly the most butt-ugly thing you’ll ever attach to the back of your Sony. Still, it’s nothing some matte-black paint and a few racing stripes can’t fix. I also enjoyed ogling at the ladies, er - I mean SteadiCam on a Segway. Watching some dude balance his pricey camera rig while zipping around on one of those space-age scooters was a hoot - in a ’let’s wait for the roedo clown to get speared in the throat’ sort of way.

There were a ton of more gizmos on display - some I even understood - but to be honest, even the most cutting-edge hardware leaves me a little underwhelmed. I’m just not a gadget freak. Sure, I dig my laptop, my digital camera and the way my VCR has flashed 12:00 for fifteen years now, but for me it’s never been about the equipment. While I like to think I can make my state-of-the-art Sony XDCam cry and sing, my eyes glaze over whenever the engineers in my life yammer on about the convoluted circuitry within. I guess that makes me less of a photog, but then again, I stopped adhering to the strict guidelines of shooter-hood years ago. I mean, come on - what other camera monkey uses words like orgiastic? Damn few, I tell you, damn few.

All in all, the National Association of Broadcasters’ annual electronic show was well worth the trip, if only because it brought me face to face with people I’ve long admired. Kooks, cameramen, conspirators - despite their many differences they’re all insatiable communicators, masters of captured detail and students of the moving image. As Weaver and I waded through the teeming mass of the chattering class, I realized that, for better or worse, these are my peeps. Now if only I can convince a tenth of them to buy the someday-available hardback edition of Viewfinder BLUES, I’ll truly be in business. Until then, I’ll keep coming back to NAB and keep pretending to understand as Weaver explains how the Panasony BlasterCam can bend space, fold time and save me up to fifteen percent on car insurance. Now that would be something....

NAB - Best Laid Plans

Well - so much for the live blogging of NAB. Both Weaver and I had ambitious plans of updating you on our inaugural trip to the world's largest electronic show, but between my finicky laptop, one surreal stretch-limo ride and a river of gin and tonics...well - it just didn't happen. Thus, I'd like to offer every one of my half-dozen readers a full and humble refund for promises unkept.

Simply visit www.whatdidyouexpectfromablog.com and a trained service tech from Lenslinger Global Enterprises will rush a check your way. Meanwhile, I implore you not to remove me from your 'Favorites' file, as I have an abundance of images and impressions to dole out over the coming days, just as soon as my head stops hurting.

NAB: On the Ground

The flight was long, crowded and more than a little turbulent, but Weaver and I landed safely in Las Vegas late late night. After a cursory glance of 'Old Vegas' (think Myrtle Beach with a bigger bddget), we found our way to the hotel, where we fed a few antiquated slot machines, took a quick stroll and promptly crashed.
Now we find ourselves facing aging gamblers in the smoke filitered sunlight of a Lost Wages Monday. Egads! At least we have our mission to think about: a hard target search of the world's largest electronic show. Check back in throughout the day for picture-heavy posts and a dollop of professional sarcasm. But for now, Weaver and I gotta pack up our toys, blow this Krispy Kreme stand and get to the convention center. Stay Tuned!

Bound for NAB!

By the time you read this I'll be wedged tightly onto a discount flight to Vegas, the Mighty Weaver at my side. Our illicit mission? Scour the reaches of NAB's electronic media show, an annual gathering of more than 100 thousand broadcast brains and TV geeks from 130 different countries. In short, Mecca for a couple of electro-dorks like us. With laptop and a few tiny lenses in tow, Weaver and I will comb the convention floor for old friends, new toys and other inherent weirdness. Other bloggers I know are promising blanket coverage of this mind-boggling summit, but ours will be more of the cocktail napkin variety. Look for down and dirty updates as we try to make up for our lack of heavy glass. W-e-l-l after sunrise Monday we'll rendezvous with Kevin Johnson and Andy Grossman to shoot some goofy segments From The Floor! Those clips should be up on b-roll.net pretty quickly (Check your Lenslinger's local listings). We'll also catch up with NAB vet Brad Ingram as well as the world's funniest photog, JL Watkins - otherwise known as Little Lost Robot. Speaking of lost, the fellows from Lost Remote are hosting a soiree we hope to hit, before crashing the B-Roll Bash and a half dozen meet-n-greets in between. The only thing we won't have time for is sleep, something I'm told is kinda frowned upon in Vegas anyway. Do me a favor - remind me of this enthusiasm later in the week when I'm back home, battling jet-lag in a sun-baked news cruiser. Until then...Viva Las Vegas!

Awaiting the Giant Scissors...

WFMY News shooter Chris Keimig strikes a pose familiar to anyone who's done time behind the lens: the Hurry Up and Wait. This time it happened alongside South Elm Street, where forward-thinking community leaders cut the ribbon on a new wi-fi hot spot - but not before making the press wait thirty minutes longer than originally announced. That may not sound like very long to you, but when you got a new deadline every ninety minutes, a half hour of downtime can mean the difference between highly finessed editing and meatball surgery. But this South Dakota native took it all in stride - whistling a tune in the cool Spring breeze as I paced about and fidgeted with my digital camera. No one likes a show-off, Chris...

The Social Fabric of Firefighting

Highway 109 was backed-up for miles and despite the shiny logos on my door, no one was getting out of my way. So I did what any good photog does when presented with such an impasse: I activated the flashers and pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. There I accelerated in fits and starts, working my way past stalled traffic and hoping the tall grass I was traversing wasn’t hiding any broken glass or unseen ditches. Luckily it didn’t and I managed to get to the head of the pack with only a few dirty looks from the stagnant travelers. ’Sorry’, I thought as I rumbled past, but those flashing lights in the distance are calling my name. More importantly, my bosses were hovering over laminated maps back at the shop, wondering why Stewart wasn’t at the house fire yet. Before long, I was. Pulling in behind a farm truck with red lights in the dash, I threw Unit 4 into park, grabbed my gear and made a trek I’ve made a thousand times before. As I stepped over hoses and dodged distracted firemen, the smell of freshly cut grass and burning furnishings transported me back to the early 80’s.

I grew up in a rural community that revolved a single church and a nearby fire department. Whenever the emergency whistle blew (and it did often), my older brother and I would drop everything and run as fast as we could for the church softball field next door. Once we scaled the outfield fence, we’d dig out our special key and officially unlock Saulston’s Volunteer Fire Department. By the time the bay doors had risen to reveal a few dilapidated fire engines, someone older would arrive - a farmer, a mechanic or any one of the dozens of no-nonsense men who fancied themselves first responders. If we were lucky, my brother and I could stow-away on one of the trucks as church leaders in turn-out gear cranked their antiquated keys. What followed was a screaming blast of adrenaline, a mad dash across Saulston proper that ended in smoke, crumpled automobiles and always, intrigue. For a couple of outcast kids doin’ time in the sticks, it was as close to adventure as we ever got.

But that’s how it was when I was young. A bastion of good ole boys and good intentions, the volunteer fire department was as much about socializing as it was saving lives. Whenever the whistle blew, an impromptu town square formed around the conflagration in question. Hoses were pulled, water was summoned and grown men gossiped under the sweat of their helmets as they matter-of-factly extinguished the blaze. I was just a kid of course, scampering around the edges of these gruff assemblies with my buddies and always, always watching. I wasn’t alone. Everyone too old, young or (then too) female to join the fire-fighting force would amble up, loiter and chat - giving the emergency at hand the air of a church picnic. Those endless roadside scenarios held me enraptured for years. Eventually, I graduated from voyeur to participant. Following in the fotsteps of my older brother, who was embarking on a lifetime of emergency response, I joined the department as a junior firefighter of sorts. It was all my 15 year old buddies and I could do to 'can the grab-ass' and listen to our elders as they indocrinated us into the world of blaze containment. I may not have been the greatest firefighter in the world, but I got one hell of a kick suiting up.

As I leaned on my tripod yesterday and watched Wallburg's Bravest roll up their hoses and sweat under their protective clothing, I realized little had changed in rural North Carolina. Blazes still break out in unwanted places, taciturn men still race to the scene and the community at large still turns out to watch. In my broef time along Highway 109, I saw pretty girls hanging out of pick-up truck windows, neighbors with dirt under their fingernails comforting the distraught and young boys and girls in oversized firecoats staring mesmerized into the sooty abyss. One fireman with a walrus moustache approached my camera, curious to know what the guy with the fancy-cam and the loud shirt was up to. We chatted for a moment, talked about scanners and weather bunnies and kids in the department. When a helmeted figure on the horizon beckoned him, my new found friend walked away with a weariness that can only be earned. I stayed and stared at the gutted structure, wondering how much longer I'll surf on the edge of inferno.

Quite a while, I'm guessing....

Victims in the Periphery

The Duke rape case is a salacious cocktail of cable news excess and I for one want no part of it. Already the 24 hour news beast has swallowed this dirty morsel whole, churning out a fetid buffet of steamy details for the Great Unwashed to feast on. And to think it's just an hour or so down the road. Luckily I've avoided that particular bivouac thus far; the soft news outfit I find myself embedded in keeps me off the front lines for the most part. Others who share my logo haven't been so lucky. As a media event, the electronic nucleus swirling around Durham is of proportions unthinkable a dozen years ago. Now, however the slightest combination of sex, lies and race can spark a sat truck summit faster than you can say "Camp O.J."

If you can't tell, these vulture fests ain't my scene. I'm all for extended team smotherage, but when sordid accusations are the coin of the realm, I tend to wanna go wash my hands. Blame it on my early years. I was barely competent behind a camera when I found myself sitting ringside at a hideous display of accusation, hysteria and questionable evidence. Covering the Little Rascals Day Care trials were surreal experiences for the grizzliest of TV vets. To a young news punk like myself, it was a lid-blowing lesson in handcuff charisma, depraved testimony and bent justice. I've been chasing harmless fluff ever since, even though I still get sucked into the hard news skeev-a-thon more often than I wish. In fact, I wouldn't even be talking to you about this broadcast blight were it not for something I want you to read.

David Hoggard, a local blogger and world-class raconteur, found himself in the Durham County Courthouse and files a bracing report of electronic interlopers gone askew:

"About fifteen minutes into my stay, a rustle of activity began as videographers started shouldering their cameras and reporters pulled out their stenopads. They all started heading for the elevators inside the courthouse, so I did what any self respecting blogger would do...I followed them."

What he witnessed on the other side of that elevator ride had little to do with strippers or lacrosse, but it stayed with him all day until he forged a first-person narrative worthy of its own documentary. In it, he tells of a mother and daughter seeking justice against an abusive father, while the chattering classes loitered and scratched.

"The mother told of the many years of desparation and suspicion leading up to the day when she finally asked one of her daughters if what she suspected was true. She recounted, in great detail, all of the verbal and physical abuse that she endured until she finally mustered the nerve to call the police. Then the daughter spoke as my heart broke into little pieces."

Go read the whole incredible thing, then do me a favor: The next time you see the cable TV ghouls picking apart the Duke rape case carcass, turn off the blasted set and go hang out with your kids. The world, will be a better place.