On the Shoulders of Giants

So how do you make a chronic smart-ass go all stoic? Simple, put a camera on his shoulder, shove a tiny speaker in his ear and start counting backwards. If he's half the photog Bill Welch is, he'll stop smackin' his gum to follow the action. Of course that action is often a carefully coiffed correspondent, an earnest young person trying to ignore the fact that the guy (or gal) beneath the camera is sweating, shivering or listing hard to starboard. I've often thought (as sweat poured down the crack of my tripod) that if the folks at home could see what the reporter sees, they'd realize just how devoid of glamour the act of broadcasting truly is. Trust me, there's nothing sexy about hoping your photog can put off that coronary long enough for you to toss it back to Team Dimples. On the other hand, there's no worse feeling than mentally willing your reporter to wrap up their diatribe NOW - lest that red blinking light in the corner of your viewfinder go solid, bringing you latest dog-lick live shot to a premature, battery-free end. Now, back to you in the studio - before my spleen erupts!

Life, the Universe and Everything

Mention the number 42 to my wife and she'll instinctively roll her eyes. That's because I spent the first five years of our relationship nudging her every time those simple digits crossed our path. Bank statements, billboards, cereal boxes: I never failed to acknowledge the fact that the total sum of six times seven was haunting our every step. Blame Douglas Adams. In his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - a whole series of books I devoured throughout my early teens, he writes of a hyperintelligent race of beings who seek the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Building a supercomputer named Deep Thought, they wait seven and a half million years for the machine to spit out the damn answer. That answer it eventually comes up with, is 42. The Ultimate Question however, remains unclear...

I chuckled when I first read that, then proceeded to live an unenlightened life - until - I fell under the spell of these two jokers; half-mad cerebral hoodlums who more than convinced me 1) the Power of 42 was real, 2) Milwaukee's Best was rotgut suitable for any occasion and that 3) Oingo-Boingo was a band to be taken very seriously. Rick Dennis and Steve Bottoms were (hell, still are) two of the most brilliant guys I've ever pursued truancy with. Under their tutelage I escaped the small-minded shackles of my rural crossroads community, stretched my own burgeoning intellect and partied like it was 1999 - which it wouldn't be for a dozen more years.

In that time, life accelerated. Kids, college, military service, wives and new careers... all conspired to cast our group of brainy bon vivants to the farthest reaches of the contiguous U.S. Though I didn't see my high school gurus even as often as I could have, I wear their influence to this day - most noticeably in my undying affection for the sum of the totient function for the first eleven integers. I'm not saying the number on Jackie Robinson' retired jersey has any mystical qualities, or that it's followed me around all these years, but I can without shame tell you that 42 was, is and always will be my favorite number. What Rick and Steve think I ain't so sure; whenever I see them Rick bangs out endless Beatles tunes on his grand piano and Steve explains how organized religion is really just an opiate of the masses foisted upon mankind by a shadowy cabal of theological underlords - ENOUGH! Can't we talk about the funny numbers again?

Apparently not, for you can never go home again- which, when you're from the pitiable village of Goldsboro, North Carolina, ain't such a bad thing. But the damndest thing happened during my self-imposed exile...life. Like Gary Dean himself once warned, I went from being the youngest guy in the newsroom to one of the oldest. It's not been a wholly unpleasant trip. I still love my job (in theory), am excited about the seismeic shift looming in that chosen field and far more importantly, have a wonderful family that allows me to sleep inside nine out of ten nights. On top of all that, the ladies in my life abide my keyboard compulsion, knowing for whatever reason it keeps me less crabby. That means alot, for 2009 is well underway and I'm already behind on a few of key schemes. I want to be a better Dad and a more thoughtful husband this year, I wanna make potent television all by lonesome and once every couple of weeks, write something semi-important. Too often lately, I've allowed self-doubt to thwart my grander ambitions. If that's ever to stop, this is the year. After all, I just turned 42.

Hope the wife understands...

Backache at Eleven

Sure, your little Namby-PambyCam fits in a purse, but once upon a time videosmithing called for a strong back and a wingman or two. Take Steve Flyte and the ubiquitous David R. Busse. Way back in '80, they roamed the mean streets of San Bernardino as a newsgathering team: a bulky but mobile crew of two bristling with battery-belts and bad moustaches. Just try and outrun them: they'll jump in their souped-up Nova idling just off screen and smoke your disco-ass. But I digress; something I'm wont to do when pressed with so much retro-tech. The hubris, the gadgetry, that totally bitchin' three-quarter sleeve network shirt... those guys were operators.

As for the corduroys - hey, YOU chase pablum and tragedy with half a Radio Shack strapped to your back ... Action-Slacks are out of the question. Just ask Busse...

"Steve Flyte and me on assignment in San Bernardino, Calif., sometime in 1980. He's using a BVU-100 3/4" tape deck rigged with an external battery so he can get double the battery life out of two gel cell batteries on his belt. I'm shooting with an Ikegami HL77 powered by the oddball Cine 60 +/- six volt batteries required to power this camera. I purchased electrical linemen's suspenders and rigged them to clip to the belt, spreading the weight and making the belt easier to wear. We were overjoyed when the newer HL79A came along a few months later."

Right on...

Salt in the Wound

Man, look at the size of that thing... No, not my bald spot! I'm talking about that barnload of rock salt I'm pictured pondering. I must have stood there for a good fifteen minutes, waiting for enlightenment to wash over my lowly photog form... Nope, nuthin'. Still, there must be some kind of elemental magic in this county-owned space - for no sooner does a weather guy uses the 'S-Word' than some doofus in a suit insists we haul ass to the nearest pile of sodium, dirt and rat droppings. Why? To look for meaning, I guess. That and to prove to viewers that their municipalities really do have a plan for inclement weather. Basically, they're gonna season it. Why that's such a news sensation each and every year I don't know, but I have no more control over my assignments than I do over my eleven year old's opinion of the Jonas Brothers. Some things mortal men just ain't supposed to grasp, no matter how long they linger over spilled spices. So, instead of dropping to the floor and busting out a 'salt angel' I'd regret all day, I wandered outside...

...where I found no less than four TV News outlets setting up their electronic encampements:. trucks, tripods and enough logo'd parkas to choke a sasquatch. Speaking of whom, the abominable snowman himself must have been at the bottom of the salt pile, for all the lenses pointed at it - and judging from the breathless voice in my own earpiece, he's got Osama Bin Laden in a headlock under there. Otherwise, there's no way to explain why half the Piedmont's live truck fleet is idling down at the county yard. Sure, every weather bunny from Murphy to Manteo is calling for some kind of wispy precip, but does snow in January really require continuous team smotherage?

Apparently, it do. Early on, the TV vehicles outnumbered the brine trucks. That is until the evening shift rolled in: burly he-men in Carrhart jumpers, carrying heavy lunch pails under their arms and less than delicate words on their lips. I don't want to alarm any well-meaning meteorologists, but there's a whole bunch of county employees who really don't appreciate their MLK Day plans for quiet reflection interrupted by the flagellations of the Fourth Estate. Okay, they didn't put it exactly like that, but this is a family blog. Besides, I'm afraid if I repeat the exact sentiments of the salt crews, I'll awake to find Unit 4 encased in a frozen block of truck driver urine and county-owned brine. That kind of funk won't towel off, ya know...

Still, there only so many lamentations the fellas could muster before they had to load up and get in line for the salt parade. As luck would have it, that's when everyone's live shots started and while all the movement made for a great backdrop, I could have done without all the hairy eyeballs and air horn blasts. Hey, don't blame me, Bandit. I'm just another schlub who drives around with tools in the truck and spreads muck across the greater Piedmont Googoplex. We got a lot in common, you and me. As long as their are AMS certified scientists with raging weather woodies and a general population that can't keep it between the ditches on a good day, you and I got a job. So don't spray me in slop when you pass my tripod spot on the interstate, Love the Cameraman! After all, we're the hardworking lifer of the TV news lot; we'd no sooner sound a false alarm than put our top-heavy logomobiles into an uncontrolled skid. On second thought, everyone should be allowed to sling some nasties once in a while. Look at it as job security...

Or don't - just watch where you spray that stuff, wouldya? These shades are prescription...

Yearning to Burn

I’m not saying there’s a pyrophile in your station house, but some of the firefighters I know pack matches in their turn-out gear. I’m not saying there’s any sickos in the mix; no rain-coated strangers out by the woodpile, clutching their jollies while the abandoned orphanage they’d just poured gasoline on starts to crackle and pop. No Sir, I’m not saying that at all! So get your twisted nose out of my imagination and know that of the first responders I come into contact with, ALL are heroes in waiting. Hell, even the women got bigger grapes than me! I’m just saying there’s an unspoken affinity for incineration among Your City’s Bravest. Why else would they constantly think up news ways to burn old shit down? Yeah, yeah - I know: TRAINING. Whether they’re sticking firecrackers in a mannequin’s mouth, lighting hay bales inside some old barn or weirding out high schoolers with their DUI theater, you’ll not find a gang of grown-ups more apt to torch a crackhouse than those cats with nicknames for their favorite axes.

Thus, it was only by employer mandate that I attended Friday’s Fire Expo at the Lawrence Joel Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum, a trade show of sorts for folks with red lights permanently mounted on their dash. I counted a couple dozen showroom-ready fire engines when I arrived - which incidentally was just after 5 AM! Hey, how did I know I’d end up outside during the coldest dawn in four years when I agreed to work an upcoming morning shift? I didn’t, but as (my lack of) luck would have it, I ended the work-week all a shiver, cursing the distant rising sun as guys with last names stenciled on their helmets threw the switch on an LP tank and created a roiling tower of fire and smoke just so they could have fun putting it out. Did I mention it was less than 11 degrees?

That’s what the thermometer read, though I’m assured by the meteorologists sipping coffee back on the set that it felt much colder. Thanks, fellas! If I could feel my fingers, I’d use one of them to express my appreciation. Instead, I’ll just huddle here in the sub-zero freeze and try to remember just how much I hate the heat. Luckily, I’m not the only camera-schlub out here fighting frostbite. Two of the other stations sent crews too and together we’ve all rued the day we didn’t pursue fields like library science, golf course management or video game design. That way we wouldn’t be out here in the elements, extremities tingling and twenty something show stackers counting backward in our red, raw ears. For God’s sake, just look at me and George Harrison here… If Batman had a cold, camera-handling nemesis named, I dunno, Lenslinger, we’d be his bumbling and clumsy video henchmen. This has been fun and all, Chief, but the next time you want to scare the homeless with your little LP gas-blaster, can we do it a little later in the day?

Like June?

Understanding Idol

The American Idol auditions are back and for once, I'm not obligated to watch 'em. Sure, El Ocho still proudly airs this broadcast juggernaut - but unless local boy Chris Daughtry has a cousin who sings love songs in a lilting Irish brogue, I don't forsee any more free plane rides to Hollywood for me or Mrs. Smith. Still, the Idol shadow looms long; as soon as some caterwauling waitress takes center stage, friends and acquaintances hit me with the same old questions...'Do those people really think they can sing? Do they line up to be humiliated? Is Simon Cowell really that big a dillweed?'...to which I can offer an unequivocal "YES". But I find short answers don't suffice, so here's a few obligatory thoughts from inside the World's Cheesiest Sing-Off - in hopes that nice neighbor lady will stop asking...

Sure, a few of the folks who assemble outside the auditions only want their fifteen seconds of shame, but the vast majority are quite convinced they're on the precipice of global stardom. This belief has little to do with vocal ability, and more to do with unwise parental encouragement and in-car acoustics. Hey, YOU sing along to the radio while driving, right?

Whatever doubts a contestant may have about their singing talent quickly dissolves when herded together with thousands of other delusional crooners. With worldwide adoration seemingly minutes away, gangbanger bonds with sorority chick, metrosexual high-fives redneck. I've often thought if we could only capture the harmony of an America Idol audition crowd, we could bring peace to the Gaza Strip.

Show producers do NOT spike the crowd with weirdos, actors or ringers. Those folk show up on their own with costumes and imaginary friends in tow. Producers DO scan the assembled masses for the freakiest, the geekiest and the super-hot. What they have no use for those singers who are 'pretty good'. Pleasant, sane, adequate? NEXT!!!!

Backstory trumps all. Above all else, Idol is a TV show - not a talent search. A person with a tragic background, inspiring history or cute accent will advance faster than the generic choralist. Example: Long before Kellie Pickler uttered a word, I - and every other heterosexual male - was clocking her every move. When she opened her mouth and delivered a serviceable vocal and sad biography all wrapped in a ditzy Southern drawl, the television Gods took notice too.

By the time, contestants make it to the celebrity judges, they've sung several times for producers, waited d-a-y-s in line, made new best friends, hyperventilated a time or two and ogled Seacrest up close and personal. That any of them maintain a modicum of sanity (let alone talent) when shoved into a room full of lights, lenses, Randy, Paula, Simon and crew is a true testament to the human condition.

Most of course fail miserably. Camera crews from Idol and the occasional FOX affiliate hover around Ryan (a really nice, Southern boy at heart) and family members as they make their egress. Seachrest is the only one (on camera) who knows if said singer triumphed or choked and conceals his hidden knowledge well. Most singers slink out, heart in hand and walk away mumbling. Some emerge apolectic over their dismissal and curse a blue streak - which of course attracts even more cameras - at which point we chase them to their car, their bedroll or their parole officer.

So there you have it, a glimpse into the circus that is early-season Idol. Though it's certainly lost soem of it intial oomph, critics pronounce this phenomenon dead at their own peril. While I would never encourage my own kids to try out for the show, it has proven a successful career path for a scant few and dashed the dreams of thousands more. Love it or loathe it, it is still brilliant television.

Then again, so was Hee-Haw.

A Year of Fear

Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated? It’s more than the coda of an endlessly overrated punk rock band; it’s the mind frame of many a broadcaster these days. Those of you in the business know what I mean. Those of you who aren’t can still play along at home. Mind you, I’m not asking for pity. ’The Media’ - that faceless entity blamed for everything from global warming to Sarah Palin’s shortcomings is not the kind of thing people easily feel sorry for. I get that. But, then again, I’m not talking about the pompous cable news screeching heads with the chauffer and sense of entitlement. No, I’m speaking of the hard-working men and women whose skills and nature make up the very underbelly of the nightly news-beast. Photographers, editors, associate producers; the folks who bust their collective humps not for treasure or glory, but for a humble stipend and a chance at an interesting career. For years on end, it was possible to pay (most of) the bills by mastering a single craft and learning to live without the credit you so richly deserved. Even that now, seems to be coming to an end.

Lay-offs, buyouts, unpaid furloughs. 2009 is barely two weeks old and already the business of TV news feels like it’s in freefall. Pundits far more prescient than I have predicted this for years, mostly due to the extrapolation of a dozen newfangled gadgets. Magic laptops and diminutive lenses were the opening salvo, but the keelhauling economy is what’s about to sink this ship. Sure, there will always be television and newscasts aren’t soon to shake their mortal coil. But the methodology behind them is already splintering, because the technology makes it possible, because the lack of money makes it a must. Still, knowing this seismic shift was coming makes it no simpler to stay on your feet. Neither does it make it any easier to watch good people hurt. I have many blogger friends who rue the day ’corporate media’ gained power. They’re often the same ones who hang on their local newscasts’ every breathless syllable - if only to gleefully disparage the messengers. Hope those folk get as much pleasure from watching old Mork and Mindy re-runs…

When I first began slinging lenses in the fall of ’89, I knew I would witness breathtaking upheavals. I had no idea they’d take place within the hallowed halls of broadcasting. No, this ain’t the process. In fact, a job at a TV station ranks somewhere between computer repair and a really good milk route. Unless it’s your face on the billboard, it’s pretty damn thankless. Now however, the crazy pace, oddball hours and total lack of gratitude looks downright fetching. People who have made bellyachin’ about their jobs into performance art are simply grateful for the latest paycheck. Oh, how the surly have fallen. That includes me, of course; I can bitch with the best of them. But what used to set me off now just fills me with dread, for all bets are officially off. Luckily, I’m pretty versatile. If logic should prevail, I’ll be fine. That’s what worries me the most - especially when I see people more talented than I accepting less between gritted teeth. Simply put, dark clouds on every outlet's horizon. Those dire conditions may not last forever, but I'm beginning to wonder who’ll still be standing when - and if - this perfect storm passes.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a shelter to erect.