No Business Being a Photog

Real-World Criteria, with apologies to Jeff Foxworthy...

If you’re unable to walk backwards down a twisting stairwell with one eye closed and a shoulder in pain - or unwilling to apologize to those you trample in the attempt - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you haven’t taken the time to learn what every button on your camera is for - and figure out which ones you can afford to ignore without getting fired - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you’re appalled by the idea of missing hours of sleep because some cross-town psycho you don’t know shot his wife and is now waving his pistol at the SWAT team - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you don’t know how to color-correct a bad white balance, tweak audio from the comfort of an edit booth, or at least convince some uppity producer you’ve already done so - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If the idea of parking a rickety satellite truck right by the ocean as a Class 3 Hurricane slams onshore doesn’t strike you as most probably a damn good time- then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you don’t grow noticeably stoked at an unexpected reflection, a natural silhouette, the pleasures of compression or a well-placed backlight - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If a volunteer fireman with a walkie-talkie, a fancy flashlight and a small man’s complex is enough to convince you the road ahead is indeed closed - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you’re uncomfortable being the only person at a stuffy formal affair who’s dressed like they’re about to do a few upside-down keg-stands at a buddy’s picnic - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

If you’re afraid of being flipped-off in traffic, pawed over at football games, shunned at the shopping mall and heckled at the crime tape- all in the same shift - then you’ve got no business being a photog.

And finally...

If a giant mother-ship of a UFO swoops in on your ribbon-cutting and starts picking off local politicians with purple laser beams to the chest while the rest of the crowd flees in terror - if your first and only instinct isn’t to lock in and follow the action ’til you possibly catch a bolt of your own - then you, sir or ma’am, got no business being a photog.

Otherwise, you’re good-to-go!

Jorge, Smitty and eWink

There I was, locked in quiet combat with a blinking cursor when a great and terrible trembling overtook my upstairs lair. Suddenly, the lava lamp simmering to my left threatened to topple and before I realized it was hot I almost reached out to steady it. That’s when the first jolts hit me, sending shards of blue lightning skittering across my wrinkled Hawaiian shirt. Before I can think to react it is over and I find myself slumped in the dying light. It is then I realize I have just experienced a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

Okay, maybe I’m overselling it, but the truth of the matter is photog-bloggers are dropping like Imperial Stormtroopers and it’s getting this Jedi down. First, Jorge Guapo rides off into the sunset with little more than a discernible grunt, then the mercurial Erin Winking shutters his site amid a clatter of corporate posturing…now the formidable Smitty, an insatiable communicator and photog-vlogging pioneer announces he’s done with the practice of occasional dispatch. What gives? Why have these three once vibrant sites sputtered to such an unceremonious halt? The answers are as different as the three men themselves, but the end result is the same:

The Photogra-blogosphere is shrinking. For as long as I’ve operated this humble site, the ’Photogs Who Blog’ section has steadily grown - with news shooters from around the nation and globe adding their viewpoints to the mix. That didn’t surprise me, as most news shooters I know are excellent storytellers and it’s only natural that they take to the web along with every other sector of the planet. But to lose three of our more stalwart voices in such a short period of time, well, I didn’t see that coming. Now that I think about it though, I kind of understand.

Blogs are incredibly easy to set up, but somewhat difficult to maintain. While we all harbor noble intentions of adding to them often, little things like family, work, home and self constantly keep us from weighing in with any regularity. That certainly includes me - as the hens in my roost insist I play an ongoing part in their daily lives, thus keeping me from concocting as many narratives as I might wish. That’s how it should be, I guess but it does pain me to neglect this weirdly addictive process of adding to this site - even if I’m doing so in the name of family, health and fortune. A time or two I’ve considered pulling the plug myself, but have refrained due to my twisted literary ambitions and fragile ego.

How long I will feel the need to push-button publish remains unseen, but I suspect it will be a while. Hopefully, new and old voices will join me in the dissection and lampooning of my once noble craft. Turnover, I take it, is only natural. But to lose three vibrant sites in such short order is reason for pause - even if I have no idea where this discussion is leading us. Simply put, downsizing sucks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go scour the recesses of my day for something to blog about tonight: maybe an existential rant on the power of the press - or a goofy picture of me in a bad haircut - or a scathing expose on the number of ketchup packets in my news unit's floorboard - or a...well, you get the idea. Maybe those guys were right...

ConvergeSouth, Be There...

While the act of writing an online journal is by nature solitary, I for one, do not blog in a vacuum. Instead, I join you from that pinnacle of push-button publishing: Greensboro, North Carolina. That's right, Greensboro. Don't ask me why, but this somewhat sleepy burg boasts a cyber-life that is both diverse and boisterous. Professors and politicos, columnists and cartoonists, techies and truck drivers - all slather their wit and wisdom across a local blogosphere that rivals even the stretchiest metroplex. Though only a peripheal member of this teeming scene, I knew enough to attend last year's inaugural ConvergeSouth conference - a gathering of thinkers, geeks and vagabonds hellbent on exploring the vast series of tubes that makes up our area's internets. As profoundly dorky as all that may sound, the whole weekend was a stone-cold jam.

Which is why I'm happy to plug the upcoming 2006 edition - a slightly scaled back summit that still promises to be a swift series of kicks to the cerebral cortex. Going down at NC A&T State University in mid-October, this gathering of laptop addicts will focus on Web use and the future of journalism - two subjects I could blather on about for hours on end. As a session leader last year, I did just that, addressing a room full of stern-faced journalism students on matters blogging and broadcasting. Having never been a stern-faced journalism student myself, I found I enjoyed the sensation and as always tried to leave a few news unit skidmarks up and down their cloistered halls of academia.

This year I'm not scheduled to take the floor, but I will play a small part in unveiling a mysterious figure, a blinding light, if you will. Even if you won't, ConvergeSouth 2006 will be well worth its free admission price. Where else can you hob-knob with the architects of a place they call Blogsboro and still look at yourself in the morning? See you there...

Schmuck Watch: McKinney's Goons

File this one under Sore Losers. Minutes after being summarily drummed out of office, Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney and her aides made their way through a crowded press pack. When a boom microphone struck a of member McKinney’s entourage on the head, one of them went all Kenny Rogers on 11Alive News photojournalist Gary Stillwell, punching at him and pushing his totally tricked-out Hi-Def TV camera to the ground. That, ain’t cool. After the initial incident was caught on tape, WXIA staffers had to call 911 when one of McKinney’s goons followed them to their satellite truck outside to continue his rebuke. Security guard Steve Muhammad, who has a history of entangling himself with the press, claims photog Stillwell ’threw the camera at him’. The aforementioned fancy-cam - whose worth probably rivals either man’s yearly income. Yeah, those things get tossed around all the time. In the end, equipment was damaged, contusions were bandaged and a couple of new viral videos were born.

I wasn’t there, of course. But I’ve wrestled with the body politic a time or ten and I can tell you it ain’t always pretty. When telegenic newcomer John Edwards drove Launch Faircloth out of office, I spent the evening at the defeated Republican’s campaign headquarters. It started out a gala event, but as the precinct results poured in, it became obvious the grandfatherly incumbent was being swiftly trounced. A pall fell over the dance floor. As the vote margins widened, I began to feel most unwelcome. Old ladies who’d flirted with my lens all night picked through their hundred dollar plates and eyed my lens with open disdain. A few red-eyed fat cats, dizzy on cocktails, rubber chicken and fresh defeat, blocked my camera as Faircloth was wheeled out to the ‘concession stand’. No one took a swing that night, but the buzzkill of the event was palpable and it gave me one more reason to abhor politics.

As for former Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney, she escaped last night’s melee unharmed. No stranger to bellicosity herself, the defeated politician took to the podium with her usual delusional bent, proving to all that her maniacal ego and false sense of entitlement remained intact. Schmucks!

No Rest for the Sweaty

I love North Carolina - the mountains, the beach, the fact that so many people I know live here. But if I could change one thing about the land in which I reside, it would be the insufferable heat and humidity that sucks the very breath from my lungs each summer. I know, I know, I’m tilting at windmills here - but the supercharged heat molecules currently suffocating my native state are making it hard to focus on anything else. And I focus for a living - a tricky feat when the viewfinder before you is a shimmering curtain of falling forehead water. Perhaps I’d feel differently if I earned my paycheck inside, scribbling figures or pushing units while ensconced in the splendor of modern-day air conditioning. But that, dear readers, simply ain’t the case. I, like many others, venture out into the sweltering thicket on a daily basis, often leaving puddles of photog sweat in my wake. For irrefutable evidence, refer back to that picture of me and the lion. Then remember, I’m a lot better looking in my mind’s eye. Hey, who ain’t?

But I didn’t log in to mine the depths of my own vanity, I came to bitch about the heat! Let’s get started, shall we? I grew up in Eastern North Carolina, a region known for it’s scrub pines, lack of hills and triple digit temps come summertime. Funny thing, though - I don’t ever remember succumbing to the scorching conditions as a kid. Guess I was too busy reading, daydreaming or being ostracized by my peers to ever notice. Boy has that changed (the noticing, not the ostracizing). These days I can soak through the finest in cabana wear just by thinking about the heat. By the time I actually step outside, I’m sweatin’ like an escaped convict at a prison guard convention. And that’s before I even get out the parking lot! Maybe I’m just getting old, that or my interior thermometer is stuck on perma-sweat. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’m a furry mammal pushing forty who still slings an oversized fancy-cam in an ugly shirt. Mom was right... I should’ve tried harder in school.

Oh well, too late for that now. The best I can do is slather on the deodorant and keep an eye on the calendar. Pretty soon, the seasons will change and I’ll find myself huddling with others in shiny logo-wear as the crime tape flutters in the clutch of a delightful Autumn breeze. I’m pretty sure I’ll find something to whine about then, but it damn sure won’t be the weather. Not that my brethren will mind. You see, those of us who squint for a living are intimate with unease - bouncing along in a cramped police car cockpits, jockeying for shots in a swirling press-pack, backpedaling down stairs with twenty five pounds on your shoulder and one eye glued to a tiny screen. It can be a blast, but it’s not without it’s bumps, bruises and unfortunate pit-stains. All of which should serve as a warning to those considering my career path. Unless you’re a restless gadget-freak with attention-deficit disorder, a student of the moving image who‘s not afraid to get smelly, and a well-balanced contortionist with an elevated threshold for discomfort, you might wanna reconsider taking up the lens.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I hafta go towel off...

Hurricane Stew: YouTube

As one who makes TV by day and scribbles on the internet by night, you'd think I'd be a natural born 'vlogger'. But like the dairy farmer who's lactose intolerant, there is but so much video I can stomach. (These days, I'd much rather milk the written word than wrangle more moving images.) That's where my buddy Weaver comes in, a self-admitted footage junkie who'd gladly tattoo TV test patterns to the inside of his eyelids if he could only figure out how. To hear Weave tell it, a revolution is at hand and if we don't start posting things to youtube, we'll be about as cutting edge as that Fleetwood Mac 8-track you can't seem to let go of. So look for the occasional vlog to pop op on Viewfinder BLUES in the coming weeks, provided I can find subject matter that trips my trigger enough to aim and edit on my off time. Until then, enjoy our inaugural youtube clip - that celebrated camera-baptism I've written so much about in the past. Come on, let's get viral...

Gatekeepers of the Fourth Estate

The bright lights and big egos of my first television station held me entranced for much of my twenties. Back then, the anchors were prophets, the local newspaper scripture and police scanners burped the voice of God. How incredibly important it all seemed. As I aged however, my appetite for the artifice of modern day broadcasting waned considerably. Sure, I’ll always love the visceral thrill of combining sights, sound and words to tell stories big and small. But the canned banter, the infatuation with feigned urgency, the whole crime and grime paradigm…those newscast facets I can live without. Which is why I’m so excited about what the internet. Far more than a confusing series of tubes, Al Gore’s greatest invention has the power to save TV news, by forcing its myopic practitioners to reinvent it. Hear me out...

Since the first test pattern was beamed into living rooms, viewers at home have watched the world through a rigid template. Avuncular anchors clamoring for gravitas bring us the days’ events in predictable patterns: breathless headlines, a smattering of hard news, Commercials, super-duper dorked-up weather, Commercials, big board sports!, More Commercials, then back to the studio for a wide shot of the Channel X elders chortling over something inane. Viewers knew the blueprints, but they still had to be led by hand from room to room before they found what they were looking for in a back closet. No more. Now the audience can wander around unencumbered, explore hidden crevices and cross well-traveled corridors - all while marveling at the architecture. Or better yet, deciding where to re-decorate.

My own employer is a good example. A charter member of a global communications dynasty, we have benefited from our uptown cousins with a powerful new website. Now, viewers who were once resigned to looking from the outside in can fling open the cyber-doors and poke around the property. Weather geeks can peruse radar and satellites without having to wait for a dapper meteorologist’s smarmy permission. News nerds can cue up that story they missed when the dog soiled the rug - without having to sit through endless teases rife with close-ups and clichés. Best of all, newscast consumers can file a complaint, register a request, or add to the subject matter at hand with wisdom and insight once deemed unworthy of inclusion. The end result: a deeper, more detail-oriented news product - one that boasts the immediacy of moving images, the analysis of long-form print and the interactivity found only in a hyper-linked world. And we’re just getting started.

But the metamorphosis won’t come without a few growing pains. Despite our claims of cutting edge abandon, your local broadcast newsroom is really a rather staid place, a highly segmented landscape where job descriptions form borders and individual disciplines rarely mix. Reporters write, photogs shoot, anchors gesticulate and never the twain shall meet. No more. Technology is breaking down age-old walls and forcing both scribes and technicians to learn new skills. No longer married to one particular medium, the denizens of newsrooms everywhere will soon have to learn the skills of their co-workers if they want to stay in the game. Not everyone will survive, but in order to survive the great unbundling of media, we must all abandon the priesthood of our particular tools and learn how to tell stories in a smattering of formats - before a newly empowered audience decides the self-appointed gatekeepers of the fourth estate are little more than crumbling statues of a pompous age.