Early TV: The Stupid Years

When I last saw my old buddy Dustin Miller, he pressed a freshly-burned CD in my hand and warned me not to watch it in front of the kids. I did as instructed and immediately understood why - for some of the uglier footage on that disc is hard enough to explain to rational adults, let alone wide-eyed offspring. Still, it made for stimulating if not wince-inducing television. Cobbled together from back in the day, it’s a quick-cut clip-fest of two young production dorks learning to use news cameras. I’d stick the whole thing on YouTube were I glutton for punishment, but alas, I still have some pride. So instead, I thought I’d feature a few dear friends of mine who were unfortunate enough to score a cameo. Let’s start with Dustin himself, seen here sporting more hair and more freedom than either of us are allowed to leave the house with these days. As for what’s really in that cup, let’s just call it the elixir of youth. That, or Bacardi 151.

I don't know what's more ludicrous: the fact that I used to appear on camera every night around dinner time, the way my shirt just happens to match that electric blue windscreen, or the way some bleary-eyed graphic operator mislabeled me as the geriatric checker player I was profiling that day. Either way, it's a classic screen-grab - one that takes me back to the distant Saturday on which it was first recorded ... Morehead City, circa 1991 - a gaggle of senior citizens holed up in some shoreside hotel for the mother of all checkerboard show-downs. I was but a rookie reporter schlepping an outdated lens from table to table and eyeing the newfangled defibrillators on the walls. When no immediate coronaries went down, I set up my sticks and mumbled something contrived into the camera, not knowing I'd one day riff from from afar on the very idea of shooting my own stand-up. Good times...

Look past the freshly arrested David Melvin and you're sure to catch a fleeting glimpse of my two earliest mentors. When cross-town competitors Andy Cordan and Carolyn Kusbit weren't eating my lunch, they were teaching me the finer points of street-level newsgathering. That's Carolyn thrusting her microphone forward, a formidable weapon in the hands of such a professional. It was she who first taught me to get it right, reminding me always that no amount of flashy video would make up for a lack of facts come broadcast time. Sadly, she's no longer in the biz, but I for one am a better journalist, thanks to her time in service. Behind her the great Andy Cordan can be seen tracking the bad guy's every move. Far less refined than Carolyn, Cordan was a whirling dervish of a one-man-band, cracking the VJ mold before Rosenblum ever got around to re-inventing it. These days, he's still quite the pioneer, and if I know Andy, still pretty ticked off.

As vital to my journalistic upbringing as Carolyn and Andy were, neither could hold a dying frezzi light to this guy: Paul Vernon Dunn. Part Principled Newsman, part Southern-fried Shyster, no one taught me more about the art of the grab than ole Vern. He could fast-talk a deputy, convince The Weather Channel into buying footage sight unseen and turn a cop-shop walkdown into a handcuffed confessional before I could even get my camera powered-up. Whatsmore, he could do it all with the most beguiling disposition, eliciting the most evocative responses from those in his crosshairs in a way that brought to mind Chris Farley interviewing Paul McCartney. To the loss of my industry, he too left the fold, employing his many skills in the private sector. That stinks, as no one's more fun to hang out with by the crime tape than Mr. Dunn. No wonder Carolyn married him.

I suppose I should stop right there, but as a special gift to my half dozen loyal readers, I leave you this: Me, with a mullet. Humiliating, yes - but what stroll down memory lane is complete without at least one unfortunate haircut? None, in my book. Speaking of my book, it's still f-a-r from a finished manuscript. Truthbetold, I haven't made alot of progress on it as of late, but when I do, I'll know where to start: The Good Ole Days - that wobbly launch of my working life when cigarettes coudn't hurt you, police scanners burped all through the night and everything that went down inside a dusty viewfinder was of great and noble import. If the last ten years of lenslinging has left me bent and embittered, it's only 'cause I'm still comin' off one hell of a start to my newsgathering career. Thanks for the flashbacks, Dustin. Now, destroy the masters...please?

Zed's Dead

The TV news business is a small one, with only so many media outlets per populated spot. That’s changing quickly of course as the laptop nation gets in on the act, but for now it’s still a pretty cloistered world of drama queens and A/V geeks. I was reminded of that today when I fell into easy conversation with a striking young woman who used to be in ‘the biz‘. Huddling by the door of a middle school’s gymnatorium, we cackled like hens about look-lives, vosots and re-cuts. As we did, the woman’s husband - a menacing hulk of a man with a close-shaven head and faded gang tattoos - worked the microphone, warning a bleacher full of bored adolescents against a life of crime, drug abuse and ill-gotten bling. Prowling the floor in blinding white Air Jordans and sleek designer sweats, the admitted ex-thug turned motivational speaker held the student body in the palm of his beefy hand. I’d been pretty enraptured too, until my well-honed photog senses told me I’d bagged enough shots for the buck-fifteen report that would air in a couple of hours. Dropping my sticks to their lowest position, I set my camera on the floor and waited for the burly speaker to complete his story arc - at which point I’d retrieve the lavaliere microphone I pinned to him and skulk off to an edit bay thirty miles away. That’s when his wife moved in.

Blonde, smiley and thoroughly lovely, the woman seemed eager to talk. She’d been a reporter/anchor at some hyphenated market in Ohio before leaving the trade to work with her husband. I congratulated her on said sound judgment; she quizzed me about the market size of our particular TV region. When I told her it was in the mid-forties, she expressed surprise. Apparently the clutch of Randolph County towns she’d traveled through hadn’t properly belied our broadcast tower’s reach. Next came a barrage of questions: How many hours of news do you crank out a week? (36, I think) How many live trucks does each station have ? (Too damn many). How often did I work alone? (Every chance I get!) No doubt the lady was just killing time, shooting the breeze with the latest in a long line of crusty cameramen while her virile hubby worked up a tip. I didn’t mind; until I got my microphone back I was a captive audience and what better way to spend ten minutes I ain’t got than in the presence of someone whose perfume smelled so good. At that point, sunlight pierced through the high gym windows and glinted off the speaker’s bald head, reminding me instantly who he looked like ... Ving Rhames, the actor best known for his role as a drug kingpin in Pulp Fiction. In it, Rhames character terrorizes his hyper-violent lackies, suffers righteous abuse from a hillbilly named Zed and - in a key plot point - throws a man off a ledge, for reportedly giving his wife a foot massage.

I spent the rest of the speech back by the bleachers, chatting up the school’s janitorial staff.

A Special Place in Hell

I was scouring a few sites for possible story fodder when Turd Polisher's latest entry stopped me in my cyber-tracks. 'Horror' is a bracing account of a roadside atrocity, an unthinkable scene our narrator doesn't particularly want to witness, even as he finds himself racing toward it:

A few vehicles parked akimbo on the shoulder of Interstate 110. Drivers and passengers lined along the retaining wall separating opposing traffic. All had clipboards. All were stooped over writing. I didn't want to become part of the scene, but the news desk is screaming for this non-event. So I shoulder the 700 and sprint across four lanes of northbound traffic...

What follows is an unflinching description of a completely evil deed. Far from easy reading, it contains imagery that will not quickly fade away. So, proceed at your own imagination's risk. Then consider the collective psyche of the cops, firefighters and yes, even TV news cameramen, who rarely have that option.

Horror, indeed.

Lights, Camera...Jackson!

I'm worried about the neighbor's kid. The last couple of times I've seen him he's had his Mom's old Sony pressed to his face, tracking his little brother's latest attempt at a daredevil career. Having grown up worshiping at the church of Evel Knievel, I'm all for ill-advised backflips in the cul-de-sac. But I gotta tell ya, Jack's fixation with the glass concerns me. It's just the kind of proclivity that can lead a lad to a life of wobbly lightstands and drive-thru lunches. Not the kind of career plan I'd lay out for the boy. But, that's his parents' business. I swear, though - if I see him twisting knobs on the car radio too hard, or rockin' a tropical shirt - I'm staging a drive-way intervention.

(Post title inspired by a certain defunct photog blog)

Tears for Fears

I...cried at work today. No, I didn’t break down behind the wheel, didn’t bawl my eyes out over a tricky edit, didn’t sob uncontrollably at the thought of another unjust deadline. But my eyes did emit liquid while squinting through the lens at the intimacies of others. It happened quick, and early. Before the sun even rose, I prowled the floor of the local airport, grumbling under my breath at the very idea of a pre-dawn shoot as I scanned the cavernous room for something significant to document. It wasn’t difficult. Square-jawed men in crisp desert cammos, weepy spouses clutching crumpled tissues and fidgety three year olds, teenage boys wiping their eyes when they thought no one was looking - the straggling formation of stoic soldiers and their red-eyed families made for a target-rich environment. So I went to work, setting my camera atop its tripod at the far end of the hall and using every bit of my glass to eavesdrop. Hey, it’s what I do.

Nor was I the only one doing it. A burly news shooter from another station sized up the room for himself before joining me at my isolated perch. There, beside the oversized pot of artificial plants, we chatted about new cameras and old light kits, occasionally breaking off in mid-sentence to zoom in on shots that deserved it. They were everywhere. A large mother in a wrinkled track suit sat and sobbed as her son tightened the straps on his duffel bag. A small brown woman in too-tight jeans babbled into a cell phone, her words blurting out between hitching, painful breaths. A red headed couple held each other tightly, their carrot topped infant swaddled between them. The child stared at the flashing lights of the departure grid, unable to comprehend a place called Iraq.

“Man, this’ll break your heart,” said the big bear of a man beside me. “It’s heavy shit,” I answered, never taking my eyes off my viewfinder. On screen, a Hispanic man in starched camouflage drew his family close. Glancing at my red tally light, I made sure I was indeed recording as the young soldier wrapped his uniformed arms around his wife and two small daughters. For a few long moments, they all huddled together, heads down, silent. Then, with an incredibly tender touch, the soldier kissed each of his girls on the forehead before releasing them from his final grip. That’s when he stepped back and hoisted a green bag the size of a dormitory fridge onto his back. Backing up slowly, he flashed his ladies a carefree grin and winked at them before turning and walking down the tunnel toward the waiting aircraft. By the time he schlepped out of sight, there wasn’t a dry eye on the concourse.

Mine included.

Top Pay, Exotic Locales!

As a TV News Photojournalist, you never know where you'll find yourself: hanging out of a chopper above a toxic floodzone, peering out of an unmarked van on a dangerous stakeout or hunched under a towel in a co-worker's shower(?) But before you call the police on my friend Kevin Wrenn, relax. I'm pretty sure he's just shooting a showerhead gadget for an upcoming consumer piece. That, or he's doing freelance work for a most unsavory website. Either way, this veteran of NFL sidelines, hurricane encampements and about a million ribbon cuttings will give it his all, knowing no trick-shot goes down without a little bit of back pain. Now pass me the soap, would ya?

Schmuck Alert: Men in Tights

Via the aptly-named Turd Polisher...

25 seconds of why I don't shoot football (that, and men in tights bore me senseless). Derron Dequano does, though. He was on sideline patrol at last Sunday's Saints/Packers game when a freight train by the name of Deuce McAllister jumped the tracks and flattened the freelance photog. Hey, is that a shoulder-pad in your face or did you just decide to eat your lens? Either way Dequano was sent sprawling, his camera losing a few vital gizmos in the process. O-u-c-h. I can only hope the NFL did something nice for him, but chances are they only berated him for helping to televise their global commodity. Schmucks!