Erasable Roulette

Ah, the morning meeting - where the denizens of your local newsroom gather to decide what will appear on the news that night. It’s fast-paced, wide-ranging and without a doubt, my least favorite part of the day. Why? Oh, I dunno - that feeling of utter helplessness as some former intern pitches his opinion of how I should spend my day…that trapped-gas sensation in my lower abdomen as some producer eyeballs me while recounting the wino revival she passed on the way to work …the rising bile in the back of my throat as an indifferent manager banishes me to twelve hours in a far flung live truck with the flick of his well-oiled Sharpie. Yeah, most days I’d rather take a two-by-four to the face than watch my immediate fate ricochet around a small conference room.

Neither am I alone in this opinion. Four out of five station employees with double A’s in their pockets would choose six hours of painful constipation over twenty minutes of editorial orgy. Thus, many lensers avoid the morning meeting altogether, choosing instead to gather batteries, check b-roll or trade dick jokes while their perceived superiors wax all philosophic-like about viewer benefit, ‘big sticks’ and show flow. Though I’ve never counted myself among these stoic hold-outs, I’ve always kind of envied their Zen. After all, sauntering into the newsroom and accepting your assignment without rebuttal, rhetoric or retort is The Mark of a Pro, a sign you can handle anything the desk throws at you without letting it make you crazy. That’s bad-ass, but it ain’t me.

No, I usually slink into the morning editorial meeting before most photogs have even made it in to work. There I stand in the back of the room like a professional gambler deciding to which table to play. I don’t count cards, but I do examine the odds. Are there more photogs on the board than reporters? Are all the live trucks up and running? Are they still looking for some schlub to cover that licorice enema convention on the edge of town? Am I a good enough actor to feign explosive diarrhea should they want me to follow up on that disturbing discovery down at the landfill. Naah, I’d never fake a malady just to get out of a story, a live shot or unsavory partner for the day. I will however, blink Morse Code to the person manning the dry-erase board- in hopes they’ll gather from my facial tics how very much I’d like to avoid covering the hillbillies picketing outside the sauerkraut plant. If that’s wrong, don’t look for me to be right.

Now, were I smarter, more industrious and a little less addled, I’d swagger into each morning meeting with a list of air-worthy stories I’d already cleared for take-off. But frankly, I don’t start thinking about the upcoming news day until I throw my pick-up in Park and walk past the satellite dishes. Otherwise, I could hardly call myself a photog, now could I? It’s all I can do most days to scan the list of story ideas for something visual, then try to be in the right place when the managing editor tires of the chit-chat and starts hurling thunderbolts around the room. Thankfully, the show producers seem to value my reporter-free productions enough to lobby for me to work alone whenever possible - provided it doesn’t tear them away from their first bagel of the day too much. Of course if I'm lucky, I avoid the morning summit altogether. By the time the suits have laid out their battle plans, I’m already out somewhere, lining up my Sony’s sights and pulling the trigger.

Then again, there are too many times I wander out of my daydream and into a newsroom battle-zone unarmed, whereupon I quickly catch a mortar-shell of a story to the chest.

"Hey guy, load up in Live 13! We need you and Sue McNewbie out the door! We gotta play catch-up on that meth-lab massacre up in Orifice County!"

And they say you never hear it coming...

Double the Funk

What Turd Said. Hmm? Elaborate? I'm not sure I can...

Those of you still visiting this humble site may have noticed I’ve slowed down a bit in recent weeks. Sorry, but the portion of my psyche that cranks out self-satisfied diatribes has been waning as of late. This vexes me more than it does you. See, I write this blog for my enjoyment - not yours. Sure, it’s nice to get comments and I do enjoy being approached by the occasional stranger - but I’d still etch dusty couplets on my unit’s windshield - even if I couldn’t share them with a couple hundred generous visitors every day. That so many of you have reached out over the years and expressed an interest in what I past here has been a delightful surprise. It’s encouraged me to keep trying, to ignore my total lack of formal training and plow forward as if were really a Wri-TOR - not just some photog with an adjective habit. But before you admonish me for selling myself short, know that much if it just an act. Mama taught me to be humble. Deep down inside, I’m often convinced I’m the smartest guy in the immediate vicinity. Being that I spend a portion of every afternoon in a TV station newsroom, that ain’t sayin’ an awful lot. Speaking of not saying a lot, that’s what I logged in to talk about, isn’t it?

I think it is. Truth is, I’m not really sure. All I do know is the words, ideas and opening lines haven’t come very easy lately. That’s a change from the norm. Having spent four years of weeknights brooding over a hot laptop, I’ve learned how to dictate from my head. ’Linear thinking’, Ernie Pyle called it: the ability to carry a notion from raw thought to a finished sentence without losing sight of everything else around you. I’m not sure I could do it amid the chaos of mechanized battle like Ernie did, but I’ve gotten pretty adept at planting myself in this godforsaken ’bonus room’ and conjuring up a trance. At times, it’s been so very easy: sit down with the vaguest of ideas and watch my fingertips flesh it out. Set the bar low enough and you too can succeed. I have, but then again I’ve always been good at intangible things like trivia, language appreciation and the Dewey Decimal system. You oughta see me arrange my personal library by genre, author and book size. I’m an animal.

Just the other night my bride and were watching ‘Castaway’ - that mildly serviceable Tom Hanks yarn in which he tap his inner Selkirk. Watching the everyman actor stumble around a deserted island, I found myself wondering how I’d fashion writing material out of all that saltwater and sand. Meanwhile, the wife drew out 3-D plans for a shelter that would make those Survivor yaks stab each other in their sleep. I love that woman - even if she does think I play Donkey King every night after she goes to bed. I try and tell her sometimes I‘m actually pouring my soul into a homemade website, but every time I do she threatens to be me a Wii and be done with it. I can’t afford that kind of distraction. Neither can I afford to stop posting parts of my brain here at this very web address. Professional therapy’s just too damn expensive and my sense of self-worth would surely plummet should I be forced back into off-camera seclusion. So bear with me dear reader; know that I’m as enthused about this little project as I’ve ever been. But much like the gifted Rick Portier, I’m making this shit up as I go.

Whadaya expect for nuthin’?

Hands Off the Android!

While I claw my way out of this malaise, check out the latest from a photog who never seems to get down. JL Watkins has worked his last day at WYFF. Seems the man-child known as Little Lost Robot is following his more conventional half to Houston where she'll helm another newsroom (when she's not busy explaining her kooky husband). Before he left however, Robot left us photographic evidence of just how they get down in the lesser of the Carolinas. Apparently, they "jump-out" the offending lenser, de-vesting the pooor bastard and very possibly driving him to the state line. Interesting. When someone leaves El Ocho we usually just take them to lunch, maybe give 'em a card. Then - when they're gone - we gather around their locker, talk maximum smack about their lack of shooting skills, then promptly pillage their gear. Not the 'bot. By now, he's probably rid himself of whatever Carolina accent he picked up and is busily reinventing himself. I can't wait to see what on Earth he'll resurface as. I'd be surprised if it were merely as a photog, though. Dude belongs in FRONT of the camera. Hell, he needs his own reality show.

As for me, well - I'm feeling better already...

Why My Wipeout Beats Geraldo's

So, Mr. "Rivera" thinks he can splashdown in Galveston and soak up half the Gulf in his big, floopy moustache, huh? Well, THAT'S NOT A KNOIFE! You call something a hurricane wipeout, you better burst through jagged lumber, breakdance with a few fiddler crabs, come up with sand dollars in your eye sockets, break something! Hell, I've used drive-thru wet-naps with more accumulated moisture! That's why I'm dredging up this fabled clip, a primary source of edit bay guffaws since a storm named Gordon kicked me so square in the keister some 14 years ago. It ain't pretty! But with Mr. Moustache (whom I once chatted up at a Hollywood press junket) congratulating himself for being so damned tough, I felt it was necesarry I set the record straight. So instead of presenting some smarmy litany of reasons my unscheduled dip is the bestest, I'll skip right to the end, with the number one reason why MY wipeout beats Geraldo's...

1) No Geraldo.



Be safe, Texas...

Sunday Night at 8

History Channel doesn't need my help promoting one of their specials, but 102 Minutes That Changed America deserves to be seen by all who can bring themselves to re-live that horrific morning. Using video from 100 different sources, this documentary pieces together mostly amateur footage of New York's 9/ll, from the first wounded skyscraper to the sight of dazed Gothamites stumbling through the fresh rubble of an American dream. If you think you've seen all the video from the aerial attack on the World Trade Center, you're wrong. 102 Minutes presents a chronological pastiche of that morning, expertly edited and unburdened by narration. The result is total immersion; even though you know exactly how it's going to end, you can't help but hurt alongside strangers as they stare up at the impossible and mumble new conclusions.

Of course watching others suffer could be considered ghoulish and if it 102 Minutes weren't so devoid of politics I might even agree. But cut as it is with no visible slant, this television special approaches the level of historical document. Arguably the most powerful moments are those spent inside a high-rise apartment as two girls react to the second plane's fiery impact. Their panicky camera and off-cameras screams bring to mind the Blair Witch Project, except it's much more frightening - because it's undeniably real. I was also struck by the mesmerizing street level close-ups ofshcoked citizens. Shots like that are hard to watch and even harder to shoot. Whoever knew to turn their back on the pyrotechnics and focus on the faces did history an invaluable service, for those simple images help explain 9/11's impact in a way that distorted memories and overblown prose cannot.

So skip the popcorn, but watch 102 Minutes That Changed America. It's footage that simply shouldn't be forgotten and perhaps the strongest case for citizen journalism I've yet seen.

All That Spaz

Sure, Maurice was a sports photog. But deep down inside, he was a DAN-cer. It had aways been that way, But in the rough and tumble Northwest, male pattern pirouettes were often frowned upon. So Maurice hid behind the lens and kept his Jazz Hands to himself. It wasn't always easy. At practices he found himself yearning to storm the gridiron in streamers and tights. When traveling with the team he studied the angles and coveted the spangle of all those bitchy cheerleader routines. The games were the worst, however. The crowd, the music, the lights! Maurice knew it was only a matter of time before his inner demons would win out and he'd take the field for a few impromptu hip-hop moves - or if the mood struck him - perhaps a little Cameraman Cabaret...

He only hoped the security goons would go easy on him.

Requiem for a Scene

Standing in the doorway of my office, I thought about what I’d just done. For Sale. How long would that sign sit in my yard before my bosses started asking questions? I did not know, but as I watched the late day sun stretch down the hallway, I found I did not really care. Just then the newsroom door burst open and a pretty young producer rounded the corner in her high heels, headed for the studio. I followed her, um - form, until she ducked left under the red ON AIR sign and disappeared. How in the hell had I become so miserable inside a TV station? I asked myself for the seventeenth time that day. Was a time I’d lick the wallpaper of a local affiliate‘s break room, if I thought it would share its secrets with me. But after two years of churning out weak station promos for an impetuous overlord of a boss, I was ready to flee this backwaters broadcast shack - even if it meant chewing my way through the sheetrock. Or worse, shooting news.

Shoo. Ting Nooz. Did I really wanna go there? Back to the scanners and the pagers and the ass-hats? Back to the structure fires, incumbent liars and funeral pyres? Did I really want to wear a groove in the driver’s seat of some wheezing news unit as I ran down yet another case of smoking sheet-metal? Hadn’t that been the exact kind of drivel I blamed for everything just two years before? The insane pace, the lack of respect, the soul-eroding tone of living life by the newscast … these were things I truly didn’t miss - even if they did surround the coolest job I ever had. Still, I hadn’t climbed my way up this wobbly corporate stepladder to back-flip off of it without at least looking first. This promotions gig wasn’t all bad. There was the office and the assistants and the business card with ’Manager’ on it. Down the hall, another manager stepped out of the office he’d held for twenty years and rock back and forth on his heels as he eyeballed the bulletin board he’d read earlier that morning. Yeah, I was ready to shoot news again…

That was 1997. Eleven Septembers later, I rarely ever regret my decision to come back to news. Sure, there are days when I’d rather smuggle pinecones under my eyelids than shoot another bloodmobile, but overall I’m glad to be living life out in the open. Studios and newsrooms are for people who want to trade movie quips all day. That’s cool, but I’d still rather merge into the breakdown lane of life and snake my way up to the flashing lights. So, yeah - I guess I’m glad I spent the turn of the century chasing silly news stories, I don’t even regret all those Y2K horror stories I foisted on the public. Well, there was that one with the survivalist and his homemade trail-mix. I’m telling you, those weren’t chocolate balls. But I digress - something I’d do a lot of were it not for the fresh set of deadlines I face every day. I know - YOU got deadlines too - but do you turn on the car radio to hear some yak urging viewers to watch a story you’re not even finished shooting yet? It’ll make you run a stoplight…

Speaking of stoplights, I don’t run them and, as far as you my 14 year old know, I never have. What I will admit to is not enjoying every shift. Any reporter I’ve ever worked with has watched me rage at the machine before falling into a sullen funk. Usually it’s the kind of thing a good story or Chinese food can fix, but on occasion I’ve leaned into the wheel and through gritted teeth, dared the News Gods to smite me once more - just because some producer wanted me to swing by an impound lot and shoot video of some crunched up church bus. Sorry about that. You should see me other days - when I’m all alone and walkin’ the Earth like that guy from Kung-Fu, looking for kooks and imbroglios to put on the evening news. It ain’t the priesthood, nor is it as noble as your average city bus route, but it is what I feel good doing and that cannot be said of the time I spent shilling tripe, lies and videotape for the fat man of Chocowinity.

Not that I'm bitter...I'm bitteriffic!