Minister of Ingress

Were I a hip-hop impresario, I’d call myself Channel X. I’d swagger on stage in baggy station logo-wear, spit mad tracks into a ridiculously crunked-up Bob Barker microphone, pour out my 40 ounce Sprite for each and every one my dead camera batteries, while a pasty-white overnight editor turned deejay scribbled furious beats out of early-80 news music. Why, it’s just the kind of groundbreaking performance that could launch a whole new career, bring me valuable endorsements and send my children into permanent hiding. For their sake, I’ll hold off on a rap career until they’re off in college. By then, I’ll be a middle aged white guy with a bigger paunch, fewer hairs and even less rhythm. I'll be DOPE!

Okay, my act needs a little work.. But spend three days smelling deep-fried twinkies and prize-winning pig-shit, and you too will grow a bit punchy. Besides, this Channel X persona is one I’ve cultivated for years. Lemme ‘splain: Despite my parents’ best intentions, my given-name is pretty unremarkable. ‘Stewart’ (and it’s many unfortunate permutations) conjures up visions of turtle-necked board-game nerds or homicidal cartoon babies. “Pittman’, while a fine and noble surname, doesn’t exactly scream ‘Remember me!’. Together, the four syllables sounds like the name of your average I.T. guy. Until I get it etched onto the spine of a white-hot hardback, those fourteen letters won’t throw open a lot of doors. Not like Channel X will.

Just ask your local receptionist. Whether she’s fronting for a car dealership or a congressman, she’ll usually drop whatever she’s not doing and patch me right through to the boss, once I penetrate her first line of office-defense.

“May I ask who’s calling?” comes the oft-repeated, icy refrain.

“Sure,” I say, “it’s Stewart…from Channel X.”

Now, I don’t actually say ‘Channel X’. Instead, I mutter the highly-marketed moniker of my current employer, a catchy combination of animal imagery and whole numbers. But whatever the household name and numeric, it has the same effect. Instant ingress. Why? Well, lots of reasons. One is the ubiquity of the brand. You see, Channel X floats across the living rooms of much of the state every few minutes or so. People fall asleep to it, wake up with it, half-ignore it when they're making lunch. Also, there’s the Trumped-Up Authority Factor. Like midnight rubberneckers at an inner-city drive-by, front office folk will promptly clear a path for my logo under the assumption that I belong there. Couple that with fear of being over/underexposed and a walloping dose of personal vanity and you have but a few reasons why I’m pretty much welcomed just about anywhere. How else could a grumpy schlub in a rumpled shirt garner instant and extended access to the movers, the shakers, the con-men and the debutants of an entire region?

It ain’t my rappin' skillz.

Berated by Carnies

Of my particular profession, the astute author of Chewie World Order once noted:

"On a good day, it must be like being a rock star. On bad days, it must be like being the tax collector."

So true. There are times when a camera on your shoulder is equal to an “S” on your chest, like the many times I’ve waded into a mob of American Idol wannabes only to have young and old genuflect toward my lens. Then there are the times the reception is a good deal icier - say, when you wanna tour Death Row. Luckily, you get used to it. After a while you view both reactions with a healthy dose of protective cynicism - at which point you’re well on your way to becoming a veteran photog. Today’s reaction, however caught even me off guard...

I was wandering around the midway of the Dixie Classic Fair around lunchtime, scanning the crowd for interesting visuals and recalling a most enjoyable book I read this summer, Eyeing the Flash. In it, former carnival con artist Peter Fenton recounts his lifetime as a sideshow barker and, with his irreverent wit and gift for dialogue, paints the local midway as a cesspool of scams and debauchery. It’s a great read - if only for Peter’s self-deprecating descent into complete huckster-ism. But I digress, as I often do. In fact, I’d mentally checked out altogether when a familiar cadence snapped me back to reality.

“That’s right any prize for any price. Just have land a disc on the ducks and you too will walk away a winner…”

The carny’s shtick was as wrinkled as his death-metal t-shirt, but I was entranced nonetheless. Something about the way his singsong delivery sounded coming through those tinny speakers held me enraptured, even if it did fail to ‘turn a tip'. An avowed recordist at heart, I fished a wireless lapel microphone out of a pocket and approached the ‘talker’, who at first seemed to welcome the attention. But as I drew closer and attempted to attach the tiny microphone to his shirt, the young man suddenly recoiled, scrunching his nose at my camera as if it smelled of elderberries. I, of course, didn’t relent. Years of staging spontaneous interviews have inured me to rejection; I can usually pin a wireless mic on a pickpocket before he has time to come up with a proper alibi. Some guy in a Slayer t-shirt and bad skin wasn’t about to give me the slip. Or so I thought.

“Naw man, I don’t want nothin’ to do with you.” he spat as he eyed the logo on my camera’s side. “Rupert Murdoch’s The Devil’.

With that, the young man turned on one combat-booted heel and retreated back into his sanctuary of plush yellow ducks. I remained frozen in space, hands outstretched, microphone in hand, slowly realizing I’d been politically rebuffed by a guy who didn’t have a permanent zip code or from the looks of it a working toothbrush - let alone a solid voting record. As I slunk off unceremoniously toward the livestock barn, I could still hear him mumbling obscenities my way. Halfway there, I remembered Chewie’s quote and began to laugh. This gig really can resemble that of a tax collector’s. Today wasn’t the first time someone mistook my station’s logo for that of the allegedly evil Fox News Channel. It probably wont be the last, either. Once, a student at Guilford College - wearing Birkenstocks, white-boy dreadlocks and pampered indignation - dressed me down for being a part of 'the world-swallowing cabal' that is FNC. I tried to tell him he had the wrong guy, but how do you discuss global broadcasting with a guy who, judging from his wardrobe and walking staff, is studying to be some kind of shepherd?

Too Legit to Quit

In a sure sign that the end is nigh, your humble lenslinger has been quoted in the American Journalism Review. Okay, so two months ago, I didn't know there was an American Journalism Review. Big deal, I figured it out when a lady by the name of Deborah Potter contacted me back in August. A former network correspondent herself, she wanted my thoughts for an article she was writing on the VJ Principle. Pretending as if high-minded institutions clamored for my opinion all the time, I agreed and we spoke by phone days later. I hope I didn't overwhelm her with my overwrought linguistic hyperbole, but she caught me after a couple of stout vats of the good bean. Besides, she was asking me about a sensitive subject: Should TV stations embrace the solo-newsgatherer model en masse? It's a question I got alot of answers to, and still don't know exactly how I feel. Thus I gave the lady an earful and promptly forgot about the interlude, until a week later when a 'fact checker' from AJR called me at the scene of an apartment fire to verify a few quotes. Funny thing, this journalism...

High Atop Hanging Rock

This post has nothing to do with TV news, other than the fact that I've schlepped heavy glass to this lofty spot on two separate occasions. Today's trek to Stokes County's summit was a pleasure trip, however. What else do you call a quick drive through rolling countryside followed by a languid hike led by your offspring? From the low-slung Window Falls to the quartzite apex of Hanging Rock, we scrambled up the ancient mountain range just so we could dig on the view. While we were there we met Mulligan, a Labradoodle of some distinction, whose owner gladly pointed out Moore's Knob to the bearded stranger and his panting children. Of course one does not drag a nine and twelve year old up a jumbled boulderfield without a bit of bribery. Thus, we did the only decent thing one can do after clambering up and down Hanging Rock. We made a beeline for The Hillbilly Hide-A-Way and gorged ourselves silly on high-octane country cookin'. Sa-LUTE!

The Week in Fluff

If you haven’t heard me complain about work lately, there’s a reason. I’ve exiled myself from “The A-Block”. That’s TV talk for the opening segment of your favorite newscast. You know, that nightly barrage of breathless live shots, over-coiffed gravitas and police blotter expose...B-L-E-C-H-H! I’d rather do my time on the far side of the commercial break, where gauzy close-ups and slow dissolves outnumber body bag shots by at least two to one. Judged on that criteria, the past week was a breeze...

MONDAY: The Chatty and the Absent

Here’s something I bet they don’t teach in J-School: How to shoot a news story on a theory or a myth. It’s exactly what certified meteorologist Charles Ewing and I were up to in Asheboro as we looked for a good place to shoot a proposed greenway. Our search led us to a swanky neighborhood quite near the Zoo, where after panning the horizon for invisible sidewalks, we spotted a Soccer Mom out for a jog. Moments later she was fanning herself in front of our lens, offering opinions she didn’t really hold. God Bless the Talkative.

TUESDAY: Cameraman Crunch Time

Then there’s the Quick Turnaround. A skill borne of sheer repetition, it’s the ability to turn a 3:30 event into a 5:30 lead. No one likes to do it, but performing meatball surgery can save more than your bacon. It can preserve the sanity of a tortured show producer, who’s already promo’d the Ghetto Preacher six times and doesn’t want to hear one syllable about how the guy has postponed his speech. Trust me, it’s easier to bend space and time than take on a show-stacker hopped-up on office popcorn.

WEDNESDAY: Feats of Charity

On Hump-Day, I journeyed to Pinnacle Elementary School - where, besides one hell of a view of Pilot Mountain, they got a national treasure named Charity Richardson. Wearing bulky hearing aids and a dazzling smile, the second grader helped me put a face on Deaf Awareness Week. Sure, her parents, the administrators and even her interpreter kicked in a few sound-bites, but nothing trumps an on-camera exchange with a child so unafraid to be herself. Piece of the Week!

THURSDAY: Hectic Erection

“Think Extreme Makeover: Playground Edition.” The foreman was right. Minus the male model with the hair gel and megaphone, the Boys and Girls Club of East Burlington looked just like the Sunday night schmaltz-fest. An army of hard-hat volunteers in bright yellow t-shirts, pre-fab jungle gym pieces and a mountain or two of designer mulch. Throw in an orchestra of power saws, drills and hammer hits and you have a television photojournalist’s wet dream. Sorry, Mom.

FRIDAY: Mums on the Move

File this one under S-T-R-E-T-C-H. How else do you turn 700 measly mums into ninety seconds of compelling television? Simple, you play up the fact they’ll soon be beautifying the White House lawn, overshoot the repetitive action and poke a little fun at your old pal Steve Troxler. Before you know it, you got a glistening chunk of B-Block gold, complete with petal-popping visuals, conveyor belt sound pops and for the folks in the cheap seats, a few patriotic overtones.

Somebody roll credits, it’s Bourbon-Thirty.

Senior Citizen Media

Hey, here's a piece of push-button publishing I can really get behind:Port Orange Images, a crime news website lovingly crafted by 69 year old Hank Springer, retired cop turned hyper-local media mogul. Though he doesn't walk a beat anymore, this veteran of the force can't get the spot news out of his system. Why even try? Hank didn't; instead he launched POI - a little place on the interweb where he could share photos, spark conversations and post enough car crash porn to make a Driver's Ed instructor run off the road. Up and running since 2002, the site attracts between 800 to 1,000 hits per day. He's even getting some attention from the antiquated press - but who still reads newspapers anyway? I don't.


Okay, so maybe I flip through the N&R every morning, but it's a cursory search for strange images and familiar bylines. I spend alot more time skimming the internets for blogs, vlogs and other citizen-centric sites. Port Orange Images is a living, breathing example of just that: a user-generated, niche-specific localized data stream - one that can be can be as easily embraced by the surfing public as it can be derided or ignored. Surely some will call it a kooky way to spend one's golden years. Others will cite Port Orange Images as another example of The Long Tail.

But maybe it's not so new after all. From family newsletter overlords to ham radio hermits to your smelly cousin who lives to scrapbook ... we all got relatives with information compulsions. Only now, locking them away in some upstairs bedroom won't silence them. Not unless you slice their broadband. And who would do that to a loveable old guy with so many gizmos around his neck? I vote we give him a few free clicks instead. Who knows what the MySpace/FaceBook generation will come up with when they retire? Sure, we'll be disembodied heads in some scientist's jar by then, but a cameraman can dream, can't he?

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?