The Eagle Has Landed

Some days this job feels like a raptor on your back. No, really! When you hoist glass for a daily wage, getting torn to shreds by an apex predator ain't beyond the realm of possibility. Just ask this guy. But let me know what he says, would ya? Every since this mysterious frame surfaced on-line, shooters the world over have held forth on its origin... Is it a wildlife shoot gone awry? A pointless case of PhotoShop? A publicity still for the next Stephen King movie? Did the camera capture its very own demise as the Eagle(?) swooped in and snapped its neck? Or did it only capture the sound like in Grizzly Man? And how much for the bird to rip the eyelids off that rent-a cop? Okay, forget that last one. Just know that a(ny) lenslinger getting his clock cleaned by Mother Nature greatly pains me both personally and professionally. As self-appointed guardian of the photog nation, I'm duty bound - if not deluded - to uphold, protect and whitewash any unsavory incident involving my fellow cameraman. While the particulars of the above assault remain hazy, I'm tempted to issue a stern Schmuck Alert(!) to the entire animal kingdom - had that recent subcommittee not limited my dominion over reptiles, crossing guards and birds of prey. Oh well, I'll be under my bed if you need me...

Snowpocalypse NOW!

With the first flake yet to fall, newsrooms South of the Mason-Dixon line are already preparing to lose their shit. I know; I've been a hostile accomplice to these crimes against natures since Frosty was a frontal system. It's not our finest hour. Or is it? TV stations throw an awful lot of energy at snowstorms - even when there are blades of grass poking up through the open tundra. I myself have lit vaguely glazed parking lots like they were Rockefeller Plaza, thrust toothy coworkers on icy ledges and hitched more than one ride on the salt truck parade... It hasn't ALL been drudgery. Crystallized precipitation is a blast to shoot; so are the kind of ghetto beatdown snowball fights you can spark just by breaking the camera out in certain parts of town. I even like the way the passing cars lose traction and slide toward my live shot! But if it's okay with you and Snow Miser, I'd just as soon sit this blizzard out.

Hmm? What's that? How could I stand to miss the biggest weather story to come this way since that heatwave wilted all the dirtweed in Cannabis County? Oh, I'd find a way. I'd sit home and stir the wife's hot chocolate as the dog flipped out on his very first snowfall. I'd flip the switch the flip on the fireplace and bask in the memories of assignments past... all the riots I'm responsible for on the bread and milk aisle... the seven hours I spent on that overpass watching a junior colleague repeat herself every fifteen minutes, the time I urinated the station logo on that unfortunate snowbank... Yeah, I've gone snow-blind time and time again - without ever putting Unit 4 in the ditch. That's quite the accomplishment for a Southern-bred flatlander with a genetically bred lead foot. So I beg of you Zuess: grant me this one storm to stay at home and scrape the wife's windshield. Apollo knows I've earned it and besides, I'm officially off today! There's really only one problem... I'm ON %@&$* CALL all weekend.

See you out there...

Strange Thing to be Good At

Never exactly a model student, it's no surprise I ended up slingin' lenses for a living. After all, you only need three things to be a tee-vee stevedore: a keen eye, a firm grip and a glaring lack of career options. I possessed each and every one of those traits when I staggered into WNCT-TV in the fall of '89; maybe that's why Lori Scott looked past my dearth of real world experience and signed me up for an exciting career in broadcasting. Chances are she was just looking for a warm body to show up at four in the morning and dry-hump a studio camera. Either way, I was more than happy to be that schlub. Before better judgment could take hold, I told my car selling boss where he could shove his beamer and committed myself to the study of street-level camera management. It was such a rush. The magical gadgets, the access, those plastic jackets with the logo on it...I. Was. Hooked. Never before had I found a field of interest I couldn't royally eff up and while I blaze new paths in mediocrity at first, no one ever demanded I cough up my keys to the camera closet.

Good thing. I had no place to go.

Fast forward twenty years. Still in servitude to a licensed broadcast affiliate, I fill time for a daily wage. Two minutes. That's the average chunk of newscast I'm responsible for - five days of week. If I possessed the math skills of a community college student, I'd figure out how much that's added up to over the years. Then again, if I had a better grasp of mathematics I'd have no business driving around with tools in my trunk. As it is, I'm well suited for this distillation of misery, this processing of gossip, this truncating of tripe. Sure, there's something about afflicting the comfortable in there, but mostly I skim the list of morning story ideas for something visual. Normally I find it and without so much as scintilla of an agenda, I bag it, tag it and serve it up somewhere between the furrowed brows of tonight's tragedy and the frothy anchor crosstalk. For an undereducated yet fairly erudite slacker with a lot of pent up energy and the attention span of a junkie, it's an ideal way to while away a lifetime.

But it's a young man's game.

And while I'm not exactly a senior citizen, I'm well past the age when most photog-types seek more fulfilling employ. Yes, I've lost a ton of buddies to corporate video, fledgling freelance or pursuits more noble than news, like, say... strip club management. When each of them went, I died a little inside - not just over the loss of a friend, but because every departure reminded me of the deal I signed with the devil in the closing days of the '80's... 'Teach me how to make Tee-Vee and I'll do it 'til I'm bloated and floating down the river Styx.' I know, I know" I should have held out for some chance of advancement, but when you're rockin' an acid-washed jean jacket and a mild buzz, long range planning doesn't figure into the equation. A rush does, though. Knowing I'd have a backstage pass to life molded to my shoulder and keys to news cars of varying vintage, I plunged headfirst into a pretty shallow line of work. Do I regret it? On occasion. I have a right elbow that throbs 'round the clock and the respect of my superiors - as long I bring em something fresh every twenty four hours...

Oh - and I got stories.

Tons of 'em - even more than I've shared over five years of blogging. Every news shooter does. That's what keeps us coming back. It damn sure ain't the pay. No, what the hooks the average photog is unfettered access to tripe, tragedy and triumph. We're not ghouls, mind you. We just get used to being ushered in past the crowd, be they screaming teens at a boy-band concert or addled crackheads at a prostitution sting. Live that life long enough, an eternal outsider with an inside hook-up and the very idea of videotaping widgets or capturing commencements for a living turns your blood to sludge. Not that there's any shame in the private sector. No if reasonable workloads and every holiday off is your idea of a vacation, there's a rhubarb processing plant in dire need of video guru. Just don't call me. I'll be busy out in the field, chasing fresh felons, dozing off at groundbreakings, or holding court at some sat truck encampment as twenty-something news shooters roll their eyes at the ramblings of the badly aging gas-bag. I can live with that.

Can you?

Yer Cheatin' Part

It came to light the way many dalliances do these days: Facebook. Someone attached my name to a photograph, I saw it and noticed it wasn't me. Well, that's a lie. Truth is i took one look at that photo and froze - for there was my baby in the arms of another. I...I knew it was possible. After all, I've been working short weeks lately. Perhaps I've even been a little inattentive. But to see some young punk poke my honey in a homeless woman's tent; well, it's just about more than this cameraman can stand.

Understand, we've been through a lot. Hurricanes, Hollywood, homicides. I've dragged her chassis through blizzards, floodzones and a couple of Southern jungles. I've pushed per past security, into the face of felons and through a burned-out window or two. Together we've scrambled down ditchbanks, run up training tower stairwells, even loitered just beyond the body-drop. Through it all, we bonded like only a fool and his tool could. I've fondled her in cockpits, took her on a submarine once and banged her into more doorjambs than either of us care to admit. Once we were following a bunch of Boy Scouts through their campsite. I twisted my ankle on a not so steady stepping stone and sprawled ass over kettle. She slipped from my grip that day and we lay there together in the mid morning dew laughing at our misfortune... And now this.

Some would say I'm overreacting. They'd point to the many shops where gear is shared among many; like some weirdo religious sect. They'd remind me that fancycam is no -more mine than Boris Yeltsin's (which is a odd-ass reference, by the way). But no matter what exhortations they picked, for logic has no power over the broken-hearted. So put a sock in it, Dear Abbies, for the truly jilted have no time for platitudes. I just want things back the way they were, before high school football kicked me to the curb every Friday night and lesser lenslingers tickled and pawed my soulmate. Hey, I realize it's gonna happen. I can't be on call all the time; there's goona be a day when another man whisks her away on his own beefy shoulders. But we're going to have to have a frank discussion, Sony and I. Otherwise, I'll never be able to look straight and true through her lovely lens again...

Which could really make shooting news a bitch.

Morning Stretch(ed)

Of all the flotsam I've clogged up the internets with, I don't think I've ever posted a time lapse video. Sooo, tonight in lieu of anything terribly incisive I'm sharing a sped-up version of my Thursday morning, courtesy of the ever resourceful David Weatherly. But first some background: Here at El Ocho, we're serious about our holiday toy drive. We appeal to the public to drop off bicycles, toys and games at area Lowes stores and they always respond with enough brand new merchandise to choke a Costco. Anyway, when the bins fill up, the good folk at Lowes bring all that schwag to the station in a company tradition known simply as 'Truck Day'. Which is why Weatherly bent space and time in Studio B this morning. Look closely and you'll see El Ocho's finest breeze in and out of frame - including a certain wordy camera nerd who - when not shooting video or wolfing down donuts -tends to hover in the upper left part of the screen while wearing a tan jacket. Hey, every post can't be some cogent diatribe! Once in awhile, you just gotta roll that beautiful bean footage and hit the hay. Good Night...

Born to be Mild

What sort of man reads Viewfinder BLUES? An insider; a guy who parks where he damn well pleases - provided the rent-a-cops can see his door logos. He's a bold enough soul: draped in technology but unburdened by personal style. You'll find him wherever danger lurks, felons smirk and poorly paid waitresses work. But don't try to keep up. This predator hunts alone. Unless of course a reporter needs someone to shoot a stand-up. But after that, the VFB reader will always return to the open road - free to chase down the happenstance that haunts him. Meth lab takedown, kindergarten sing-along, Bass Boat Show. There's nowhere he won't go - as long as the assignment desk says it's cool. You can love him ladies, but don't ever expect this brand of cameraman to settle down. His heart throbs to a different beat, and no amount of pillow talk will cure the allure of a scratchy voice drowning in a sea of static. Yes, the Viewfinder BLUES peruser may have no fancy letters after his name, but he's got a M)asters in Murder and Meetings, a Doctorate in Duct Tape, and the kind of weary leer that you just won't find in the pages of our competitors (whoever they are). So don't bother searching for this lonesome nomad; with the glass he's packin', he'll find you first - and then WHO'LL be deciphering my tripe?

(Special Thanks to Amanda Emily)

The Perfect Swarm

Sometimes all you have is a title; a pleasing twist of syllables that quickly eclipses any new digits you were trying to remember. Dwell on it well in hopes that title will grow into a notion. Feather your focus, steady your perspective and iris up until the idea shines in your mind like a neon sign. Jot down a thought during red lights and you just may drive off with the jist of an epistle, a linear little ditty with a chorus you can hum ‘til you slump down in front of your keyboard that night and pound it into a post. Those are the good days. Lately, there haven’t been enough good days. But I’ve been at this writing thing long enough to know a little dry spell isn’t any real reason to fret. If I could control the clouds that hinder my vision, I wouldn’t be chauffering a camera around town. I’d be some blowhard on a podium, a pasty cat in elbow patches referring to my own turgid text as if it some kind of sacred scroll worthy of time capsule inclusion. I hate those guys! They’re why I never got serious about higher ed; that and that whole showing up to class on a predetermined schedule concept. What up with that? I’d much rather jump into a crusty news car, document trauma by day, fashion tripe by night. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for quite some time now and while I have no immediate plans to cease or even desist, you should know I’m not exactly in control.

I love to write. I hope that it shows. But while my adoration for prose knows no bounds, I’m less than enamored with the manner in which the words come my way. Take right now for instance. I’m not really sure what the hell I’m here to talk about tonight. I kinda know my closing line and the voice in my head is famiiar enough that I can sometimes finish his sentences, but for the most part I’m dictating whatever pops in my head. That anyone reads this undiluted poop is both a travesty and a treasure for if I were more prudent about what I publish, my site reader would be quite higher and just maybe I wouldn’t cringe every time I parse my archives. As it is, even the most cursory review leaves me crestfallen, for what felt damn good upon delivery doesn’t always age so well. I suppose that’s only natural and were I more mature, I might just learn to rewrite. For now however, I can only seem to stare into the void, figure out a way to hit my imaginary deadline and keep moving before that pest on the assignment desk figures out there’s a photog lurking about with nothing much to do. All of which makes me a natural born shooter, I guess. We who must not be named on-air aren’t ones to loiter. We’re much more at home behind the wheel of some lacquered hoopty, racing from molehill to imbroglio with little more than scanner codes and a growing jones...

Speaking of the Joneses, I’m through keeping up with them. Instead I’m gonna remain at my own pace, contributing to this living compendium just as often as I can muster without letting it make me bat-shit crazy. Generous visitors of some vintage will recognize this text as my semi-regular promise to do better in the future. No doubt they’ll roll their eyes when they realize I’m writing about not writing again. That is their every right, as is forsaking this very address for time better spent perusing the hoochie parade the likes of TMZ . That’s cool. Hell, I visit ew.com every week for the sole purpose of guffawing along with their always cheeky Survivor recaps; who am I to judge? Besides, those who’ve endured my purple prose for the worse part of the past half decade know I got their back. Soon after I lift the curtain and bitch about how hard all these levers are to pull, I usually rally with a few paragraphs I’d strap to the back of a flying monkey if only it allowed me to mangle one more metaphor. So here’s to you steady web traveler. Knowing you poke your head in here once every fortnight leaves me humbled, stoked and more than a little tortured. But what does all this have to do with the marqueed melee, the acclaimed gang-bang, the number one scrum? I dunno...

Sometimes all you have is a title.