The Covington Update

Say what you will about Bucky Covington; he sure makes the country girls scream. Recently the former American Idol finalist blew through his hometown of Rockingham, N.C. for a victory lap, some homemade cookin' and a free concert. When I caught up with him he was fending off a group of women at a charity event. It was no less than a hundred degrees inside that warehouse, the masses were in full-on cackle and Bucky made them all feel good about being so excited. Sure, it didn't hurt that a video crew from GAC was documenting his every move - but that's just me being cynical. In fact, I probably risk a little crusty credibility every time I gush over this gangly good ole boy, but what can I tell ya? He impressed the hell out of Shannon Smith and me the moment we met him on a Hollywood rooftop some three years ago. While other Idol contestants were working on their scowls and falsettos, this former body shop worker was happily stunning the West Coast staff with his genu-wine Southern drawl, turning a simple showbiz junket into an anthropology exhibit.

Since then, Covington's excelled where many Idol winners have failed, releasing an album that debuted at number 1 on the country charts and spawned three hit singles. Heck, I even listened to it once! But Bucky doesn't need a lenslinging schlub like me hanging on his every warble. He's got a legion of female fans clamoring for his sophomore CD, a reportedly potent disc that even boasts a cover of a (GULP!) Nickelback tune. That aside, it should sell very well, for Bucky's done his due diligence, crisscrossing the country, performing with industry giants, even going on tee-vee to prove he was 'Smarter than a Fifth Grader'. Dude's come a l-o-n-g way from bangin' out dents in Richmond County. When we chatted on the day of his return we picked up on a conversation we'd last had in a Nashville recording studio. He remains the same giggly hillbilly and for that fact alone I consider myself a fan. Those outside country music may not get his appeal, but it hardly matters. Bucky Covington will still be wowing crowds with the music he loves long after the likes of Simon Cowell have choked themselves on too tight t-shirts and trendy bitterness.

And many thanks to Jimmy McDonald for use of his photo. Check out his other stuff!

Grifter's Epiphany

"People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be." — Abraham Lincoln

Don't know if you've noticed, but I've been awfully constipated as of late. Not the type that Pepto-Bismol helps, but more of the Ican'tgetthewordsout kind. As afflictions go, it's pretty benign - but for someone with a full blown writing compulsion, it ranks right up there with a case of the bends. I should know; I've been blogging steadily since the Fall of 2004 and in that time have endured dry spells, writer's block and explosive diarrhea of the keyboard. If it's okay with you, I'm gonna move away from the gastrointestinal analogies - if only because I live with three females and access to a bathroom is never guaranteed. So while I search for another way to express myself, know that you have my complete permission to stop reading this right now, provided you promise to stop back by later for my usual TV News poop. Oops, there I go again.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, lamenting my lack of output and asking you NOT to feel sorry for me. See, the very fact that someone other than myself is reading this provides its own kind of solace, though I'm at a loss to fully explain why. I suspect it has something to do with that basic need for human connection, albeit the kind where you or I never have to look at each other. I'm cool with that. I spend my every working day getting up close and personal with reporters, elected officials and reprobates, only to rush back to an edit bay and stare at their mugs on tiny TV screens. Yep, I get plenty of face time. What I need is a little distance, a sequestered spot where I can put my feet on the desk and my mind on a shelf. I've been doing that for damn near five years now and the approaching anniversary is weighing on my frontal lobe. Maybe that's why I can't think straight...

Premature Admission (ewww...): I was going to pull the plug on this blog come November, hole up in my dusty lair and hammer out a self-publishable version of The Book. I even called up a few dear friends and floated the idea past them. Most liked the idea of me finally twisting my treasure into something you could take to the can, but most warned me not to suspend the website without a lot of thought. PFFFT! I wake up at night thinking about this website, what it was, what it now is, what it can someday be. You might view this place as a guilty pleasure every now and then, but to me it's the living preamble to the hardback I want tossed in my casket someday. If that means I'm possessed, so be it. From what those in the know tell me, it's exactly what you have to be to get your name on a library spine.

Soooo, to make a five year long story even longer, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I'm NOT shuttering the blog. My plans, my sanity, my ego will not allow it. These pages - and you fine folk who have seen fit to drop by now and then - have helped set in motion something I would have never done by my lonesome. That's really kind of pathetic, as it's been MY dream all along. Still, you work with what you got and I got a wealth of material, some generous friends and a book proposal to write. I may indeed SELF-publish someday, but first the professionals are gonna have to tell me I suck. Until then, look for this site to thrive - though I do reserve the right to go dark once in awhile. Just don't think I'm all that tortured about it. I'm not. In fact, I've found my early forties to be quite satisfying. No longer so unsure of myself, or overly concerned with how others see me, I am attaining a level of Zen simply by pretending to be enlightened. Try it sometime: you'd be amazed how good not giving a shit feels.

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta hit the latrine.

Bravado Under Glass

Funny thing, the fancycam. It can throw your back out of whack and strengthen your spine at the same time. Take last week for example, when I found myself standing watch across the street from what can only be described as a crack infested hovel. Okay, so officially it was a convenient store, but according to frightened neighbors and a years of police reports, it was an outlet of ill repute. Hours earlier, it had been a crime scene. I forget the details exactly; Citizen A took offense at Citizen B and chose to settle matters with a sidearm. The particulars didn't concern me. All I knew is the nice ladies who lived next door seemed to fear for their lives from the violence surrounding the store and for once they were willing to talk on camera about it. This of course enabled reporter Roxanna Haynes and I to spotlight their plight and after convincing the desk were were on to something juicy, we set about to do just that.

My heart went out to the neighbor ladies. In sad, matter of fact tones, they told of nightly gunshots, open air drug deals and conjugal visits on their children's swing sets. This of course I founds repellent, but since I lack an S on my chest I relegated my role to that of documentarian. In other words, I shot video of the locked-up shop while Roxy coaxed the dope from the two brave ladies. According to them, the business was but a front for a thriving crack trade - a claim made all the more believable when the -ahem- gentleman who rented the store arrived to open up for the day. Needless to say, he wasn't happy to see your friendly neighborhood news crew interviewing a concerned citizen outside his sordid emporium. But rather than openly protest, he simply glared,until I pointed the lens his way -at which point he draped a jacket over his head and unlocked the door. Hey, nothing says innocence like cowering under outerwear as you fumble with a padlock key...

To her credit, Roxanna and the neighbor lady followed him inside as I stayed in the parking lot and listened in on the microphone she was wearing. Through broken English he explained he was a victim too, then vehemently declined the offer of an interview. Back outside, we conferred with the neighbors before thanking them for their cooperation. That's when the citizenry of Summit Avenue began rolling up in tricked-out caddies and beat-up Escorts. Most only threw me the stink-eye as they parked and entered the store, but inside a pep rally of sorts must have been underway, for to a pimp they emerged invigorated. I'll spare you the salty syllables (my Mom reads this blog!), but let's just say they all urged me to indulge in a brisk round of carnal shenanigans, before thrusting forth certain digits and questioning my lineage. I merely informed them I was doing my job, had every right to remain on public property and politely declined their offers of parking lot copulation.

It then occurred to me, for not the first time, that a brightly logo'd videocamera is both a weapon and a shield. With it, I can stroll into a gubernatorial press conference in progress without ever worrying about the fact I'm dressed like a zookeeper. I can backpedal in front of frothing protesters and know that, whatever it is they're pretending to be pissed about, they'll slow up enough to wallow in my gaze. And yes, I can stand my ground before a vexed parade of mid-morning gangbangers - provided they don't reach down their baggy pants and whip out a gat. Even if they did, I'd probably unwisely freeze in disbelief that they'd dare to do so in front of a rolling TV News camera. Mind you, I'm no bad-ass. far from it. My interests are reading and walks in the woods. I got a hell of a Barbie collection in my walk-in attic and on the right day, a really good orange juice commercial can reduce me to tears. Dirty Harry, I ain't. But grant me my fancycam of choice and there are damn few places I won't tread.

Except a kindergarten class, of course. A cameraman's GOT to know his limitations.

Remains of the Day

It's been said that TV News is the only business where when it's five o clock, you wish it was FOUR o clock. That's not to say we broadcast yaks never want the day to end, but rather we could all use just a few more minutes before putting on the news. Alas, that great digital clock in the sky waits for no one, not even those of us who haven't worn a wristwatch in a couple of years. Who needs one - when your company-provided fancyphone keeps you in constant contact with a cadre of house cats whose job it is to call you up and count backwards?

A word on housecats, otherwise known as producers, editors and assignment folks. I give them a lot of grief here on Viewfinder BLUES, but deep down inside, I hope they know I appreciate them (the good ones, anyway). For without them I'd be forced to order my own graphics, write my own teases and watch whole episodes of Oprah lest her ratings plummet. I couldn't take that, so while you won't hear me say it often, I'd like to take this opportunity to dip my lens in reverence for all my news-roomies who've endured my wisecracks, sullen glares and occasional warbling spitballs...SOAR-EEE!

Now, when was I? Oh yes...TIME, the one thing that runs out quicker than that camera battery you stole from your buddy's charger. Whether I spend my late afternoon licking nab wrappers in the sanctity of an edit bay or pacing the perimeter of a dreaded live shot locale, I more than inured to the sensation of losing time. Friends of mine outside da biz talk of idle chitchat while waiting for the clock to hit 5, but it sounds like bad fiction to me. No, my day ramps UP, the minute hand gathering speed as I hunch over a timeline, a mangled spool of live truck cable or just some ornery bag of Funyuns that someone back at the chip factory hermetically sealed.

So where am I going with all this? Ya got me. I just know that if I don't recommit myself to this once sacred space, I'm going to lose focus like that fancycam I once took for a dip in the briny blue. I desperately don't want that to happen, for while this blog has yet to finance an armful of Rolexes, it has provided me with more therapy than I could ever fit into my average workweek. See, it's been nearly five years since I first logged in here with equal parts pith and vinegar. Who knows how much longer I'll continue to do so, but whenever I consider quitting, I find myself wondering how else I'd spend every evening. It won't be spent watching the news, that's for sure. Have you seen how the people who put that stuff together run around all day?

Who has time for that?

Farewell to Fergie

No doubt about it, I've worked with some gorgeous women over the years. But all too often their beauty is marred by arrogance, affectation or smothering self-absorption. Not so with Nicole Ferguson. For two short years this humble stunner has sweetened the Piedmont's airwaves with a telegenic presence and a grace than cannot be faked. But it takes more than looks to earn my ardor. Intelligence is a must, as is the ability to work a breaking news scene without doing any harm. In this, Nicole is equally gifted, pursuing news stories with grit, determination and a firm handle on the human condition. Which is why I gladly set aside my anti-social tendencies whenever we were assigned a story together. A presidential stump speech, a state park profile, the region's seediest taxicab yard; we survived them all and shared a joke even when we shouldn't have. But then, Nicole's laugh is legendary; a raucous, spiraling thing that is nothing less than a comedian's dream. But now we'll have to settle for its echo, for darling Nicole is leaving us. Soon, she'll begin gracing the TV screens of Nashville, where the royalty and riff-raff of Music City will quickly sit up and take note. No doubt it's the next step in a brilliant career, but her departure can't help but darken the hearts of all of us at El Ocho, even as it brightens the horizon of central Tennessee.

So good luck, Nicole. Something tells me you won't need it...

TV on the Radio

L-o-n-g before I conned my way into broadcasting, I listened intently to Allan Handelman. Back then he was delightfully subversive; interviewing rock stars, whack-jobs and the kind of interstate drifters that always made for intriguing radio. Many a Sunday evening I'd teased my budding mullet as the strains of Handelman deconstructing some conspiracy or another filled my teenage bedroom. Little did I know back then that one day I'd be one of those weirdos myself, holding forth not alien abduction or weed legalization but something equally squeamish: local TV news. Yup, I tweeted him a while back and pitched a segment on the future of the tube. Apparently desperate for guests, he bit and today after work I sat down for an extended conversation with the voices in my head. The resulting hour of airtime won't bag me a Marconi, but I did manage to keep it relatively snark-free - even if I did use the phrase "dare I say" three times too many. Oh well, there's a reason I stick to the ass-end of the glass. But don't take my word for, listen for yourself. Meanwhile, I'd like to thank Allan for doin' me a solid. Now, about those crop circles...

Calm Before the Swarm

It's the part of the news story viewers never see: that interminable period of time when shooters slump and reporters loiter. Depending on how long it last the downtime can be delicious or deeply unsettling. After all, the show's gonna go on no matter what. Just because your defendant, detective or nearly dead celebrity remains cloistered out of view doesn't mean the director isn't going to punch up your shot at the top of the Six and expect something newsworthy to ensue. Almost always, we field workers make it happen but it doesn't come off without a lot of strife, grumbling and enough gossip to choke a hairdresser. That's not unique to broadcasters, I know - but in what other industry can you swap scuttlebutt one moment and trade elbow blows the next? Outside of pro wrestling and Mary Kay sales, that is...