Some Settling May Occur...

No matter where my fancycam takes me, I spend a good portion of each afternoon locked in a box. Okay, it's officially an 'edit bay' and I'm not even sure you can lock it, but it hardly matters for when your reporter of the moment writes you into a corner, then you Sir or Ma'am are trapped. Throw in a digital clock and a few goofy phone calls and you have the makings of a 24 episode in which Jack Bauer spends the entire time hunched over a candy-colored keyboard. Sound dull? You've never dragged and clicked your way across a still-forming time-line as gaping chasms of black threatened to collapse your very narrative... Why last week they dragged one guy out in a straight-jacket after he overdosed on excruciatingly slow dissolves! Then there was the lady who locked herself in with a bunch of sick celeb obituary scripts and a stack of file tapes. It was six days before they even found her body!

Yes, when it comes to the perils of news-gathering, I'd put the daily edit sesh right up there with the inner city stand-off - not because there's any gun play in those little broadcast closets, but because there's so many other ways to poke your eyes out. Take the underdeveloped but over-imagined documentary piece - you know, the one you got six shots of ketchup packets with which to flesh out a three minute report on climate change! If that won't make you gouge out your cornea, there's always that intern who wants to sit in so he can tell you how he would have cut it on his Dad's iMac. Me, I can stand that particular intruder, but so help me if that reporter insist on hovering over my shoulder so he can orally debate my every slice, I'm gonna commit some kind of journalistic fratricide! A-hem. Sorry to get all worked up like that, but too many people think the edit bay is a bathroom stall or a snack bar or a ballot box in need of stuffing. To those folks, I say LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!

Hmm? Was I shouting? A thousand apologies, but I get a little cagey after that kind of extended sequestration. Normally a bag of Funyuns and a lap around the weather center does the trick but today I spent much of my stretch trapped behind a stack of archive tapes. What are those exactly? Oh, just jumbo cassette recordings of every ribbon cutting, ride-along and rape accusation El Ocho has showcased in the last decade or so. Honest to God all I need are a few fleeting shots of Chinese people smoking cigarettes - you know, just the kind of thing a domestic television station collect in abundance. To be fair, I found what I was looking for - or rather Bob Buckley did - but only because I threatened to flesh out his thoughtful treatise on the tobacco trade with leftover sequences from Pee-Wee's Playhouse. That I got reams of, collected from a time when hallucinogenics and randy hand-puppets were thought to be the keys to a more universal understanding of our heartless orb. But I don't want really wanna talk about my senior thesis - I'd much rather discuss how you plan to get us out of the stifling little cube before that bean burrito I had for lunch melts the Windex residue off these TV monitors...

Don't say I didn't warn you...

Queens of the Rink

Ever spun in circles with one eye closed while a pack of tattooed women tried to take each other out at the kneecaps? I hadn't, until Bob Buckley and I jammed over to Capital City for a look at modern day roller derby. There we found a dark and dingy skating rink teeming with enough Grrrrl Power to kick-start another Lilith Fair - provided there was some death metal on the playbill. But I don't want to paint the Carolina Rollergirls as brutes, for many of these not so fair maidens are suburban moms. Moms who could pile-drive an entire Jerry Springer audience, but suburban moms nonetheless. Why only half a dozen times did I contract any stink-eye, a relatively small outbreak of criminal conjunctivitis, considering I was trampling through their under lit dojo.

Hey, speaking of light, can we get some incandesence in this joint? I know roller rinks are all about atmosphere, but I'm attempting cinema here! The last person who gave me heat for pointing a light their way was Rusty Wallace and everyone knows he's a putz. Next time don't reach for the throwing stars quite so quickly when the next cameraman fires up his sun-gun. But I ... digress.

Of course, one doesn't breathe the rarefied air of a roller derby practice session without taking a few precautions. I'm talking steel toed boots, protective eyewear, and the removal of any hoop earrings - lest that message therapist hurtling toward you become entangled upon impact. Why in the short time Bob and I surfed the perimeter we saw a finger run over, and angle banged up and more than one woman's dignity being gouged out. Was it any wonder I stuck to the sidelines? That is until one Mr. Buckley did his best Marlin Perkins impersonation, 'suggesting' I join the zebras milling about the infield. Having thrown down the man card, Bob backed away slowly, before taking a defensive position in the snack bar. I watched him there, eyeing Little Debbie, when a Tasmanian She-Devil nearly flattened me.

From there, it was a blur, the fragmented snapshots of a slinger in survival mode. Sure, I eventually made it to the center of the floor, but not before playing 3-D Frogger with a half dozen tattooed ladies. As with most trauma, time began to bend, until I was engulfed in a swirl of striped knee socks, chrome helmets and enough shoulder ink to blot out the ancient disco ball slowly spinning above my head. You know, come to think of it, it was there - forging the ruts of the local Roller Dump - that I first became engaged in our assignment that day... Then again, it's hard not to pay attention when a woman by the name of 'Karma Suture' is tucked into a battle-crouch, coming in fast and aiming staright for your appendix. Just sayin'..

Death by Presser

I don't know what YOUR idea of Purgatory is, but from my slice of the risers, it looks a lot like a press conference. Maybe that's because I've attended more electrified gatherings than most capitol punishment junkies. Sure, they're often thrilling in the movies: tense debriefings in which someone thinner, better dressed and more diabolical than any actual podium jockey reveals information crucial to the gauzy montage that soon follows. Not so in real life. No, most pressers pack about as much excitement as your last trip to the restroom. And unless you take a really wide stance, that's nothing to wrap a screenplay around. So while you zip up, allow me to unfurl the following Tenets of the Scrum:

Feeling a bit adventurous? Wanna look 'Continental'? Wife hide the iron? Go to work wearing something garish, wrinkled or reflective and you've guaran-damn-teed yourself a ticket to the undertaker's luncheon.

98% of the self-congratulatory pap uttered into a bank of microphones never. airs. anywhere. But let those batteries in your wireless die and dude with the suit's gonna start reciting coordinates to Osama's hidey-hole.

You can sneak into a theater. You can sneak into church. Pay the right people and you can even sneak into rehab. But strap half a TV station to your back and try to enter a press conference in progress unnoticed. Cannot be done.

After a few soundbites, one photog will invariably wiggle out of the scum and begin working the edges of the room for wide shots, reversals and cutaways. Ask us and we'll tell you we're just doing our job, but mostly we're just effin' with ya.

Most semi-circle summits are hastily-convened affairs; cop-talk confabs with scribbled digits and bare-bones production. To pull off a high-tech happening - complete with bad back-light, countless shout-outs and highly distracting background noise - you're going to need a highly-paid consultant.

Speaking of consultants, See You in Hell!

Gratuitous Review: Madhouse

For years, ace reporter Chad Tucker has told me the racing scene at nearby Bowman Gray Stadium was a reality show waiting to happen. He wasn't kidding. 'Madhouse', an pretty slick look at the world of Southern-fried modified racing, debuted on The History Channel Sunday night and if the premiere episode is any indication, it's gonna be a deliciously bumpy ride. Understand, I ain't much of a race fan. That makes me all but queer in some rusty Camaro circles, but it's my (rather hetero) opinion that one need not possess a patch-covered jumpsuit to enjoy this TV outing. I sure did. The unbridled horsepower, the coiled testosterone, the thick but authentic accents... what's not to love? Bowman Gray Stadium is only ninety minutes or so from Charlotte Motor Speedway, but it's light-years away from the corporate orgy that is modern day stock car racing. At Bowman Gray, the men who climb behind the wheel on Saturday nights are the very same souls bangin' out dents the next day in some cluttered garage. Throw in an inter-generational rivalry, ample editing and a stadium full of fans who would bow up and beat down any Jerry Springer audience and you have White-Trash Pageantry... Unvarnished NASCAR... Tee-Vee GOLD!

That's right: GOLD. As much an anthropology study as a reality show about low-level motorsports, Madhouse (lousiest. title. ever.) features the kind of blue-collar yearning and pit crew euphoria that propelled generations of bootlegger wannabes into the NASCAR stratosphere. The linguistics alone are an embarrassment of riches! In fact, I volunteer to screen the very next episode with a bunch of snooty New Yorkers - provided they let me translate. Maybe then, I can impart some fancy book learnin' on the Yankee set; explain to 'em that twisted syntax notwithstanding, what they're hearing is AMERICA, in all its unwashed glory. It's the same kind of rural verve that made NASCAR one helluva show and the exact ingredient that could put the bite back into a spectacle that's pretty much been defanged. But don't hold your breath. Big time racing will taste more antiseptic with every swig while the unscripted action of Bowman Gray will grow more potent with every sideswipe, sucker-punch and pit-stop. Which is why I'LL be watching Madhouse - every time they fling the doors wide open.

Just don't ask me to go down there and watch it in person. Sorry, Chad.

(Photo Credit: Bruce Chapman, Winston-Salem Journal)

Warping the Fourth (in 3-D!)

With all this talk about 3-D TV coming to a cable channel near you, it's not a s-t-r-e-t-c-h to think your nosey neighborhood news crew might want in on the action. How that might further warp the Fourth Estate remains to be seen, but I'm willing to whip up a Top Ten list - if you promise not to assign me a camera the size of a Hemi!

10.) For years microphones have gotten smaller. Look for that to change as field reporters refuse to wade into even a minor scrum without one of those skinny Bob Barker numbers. How else they gonna joust for sound?

9.) 3-D could singlehandedly (triplehandedly?) save that most endangered commodity: local TV sports. Who else is gonna bring you team coverage of the high school cheerleader pyramid? You know, besides those pay-websites...

8.) Mark my word: The first time they cover a hurricane with 3-D cameras, some reporter will finally get their head cleaved off by a flying trash can lid. It should be spectacular.

7.) What good is an extra dimension without some schwag to fling into the void? Look for carrier pigeons, floppy discs and station flamethrowers to make an immediate comeback.

6.) Will that giant, acrid plume rising from the warehouse fire on the edge of town set off smoke detectors across the tri-county region? And what happens when a single marijuana extraction story gets half the Heartland high? Rhetorically speaking, of course.

5.) Journalism. It's all fun and games, 'til someone gets their eye poked out.

4.) High speed chases will get a whole new look as news choppers shoot 3-D camera drones into the cockpit of some hopped-up Nova for proper fly-around footage of whatever drunken mullet's behind the wheel.

3.) Hostage stand-off, street riot, tsunami, kindergarten Easter Egg hunt. Introduce a three dimensional news crew into either if these scenarios and somebody's goin' down!

2.) With field crews having all the fun, expect the anchor teams to demand management build them a 3-D set... Aquariums, dried ice, scepters, and over the shoulder graphic boxes that spin in and out of frame like expertly thrown Ninja stars. Look out!

and finally...

1.) Think the Weather Guy's got a God complex now? Wait 'til he can hurl logo'd thunderbolts across your rec room.

Licensed to Ill

My plans to post only polished insight this calendar year have already been derailed, thanks to a giraffe with one scratchy, spotted throat. Okay, so I don't precisely remember walking through the cloud of crystallized giraffe spit, but the fact remains that I spent a good twenty minutes ambling through the North Carolina Zoo's African Animal paddock and limped away feeling like a lesser life-form. From all that I can gather, the microbes entered through my auditory canal. Maybe that's why one ear feels like it's smuggling apricots while the other feels like it's been thoroughly blow-torched. Hey, I'm no doctor; I didn't even stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night. For all I know, whatever crawled in my hed and dies did so long before I ever made it down to Asheboro. But as long as I have a half-imagined inter-species sneeze to blame for my maladies - well, that's my story and I'm stickin' with it...

Pity, if you will, my wife. A tough little woman with a decade of ER shifts under her belt, she must contend with a husband who can smother a simple head cold in hundred dollar words. In fact, the only reason I'm able to communicate with you now is due to the fact that The Missus has pumped me full of multi-colored, magic pills. I'm not sure what they were exactly, but after swallowing them I played air guitar in the closet for an hour and a half. She say's she'll give me more in the morning - if only I refrain from complaining so much. You got a deal, honey, but if you load me up too much I may very well play Purple Haze behind my back again. But enough of my delusions. I really just checked it to check out. See, I don't feel so good. Whjetehr I wake up with a hankerin' for tree leaves remains to be seen. Just do me a favor, eh? Send someone over to check on me in a day or so. I'll be right here, licking my ankles with my new purple tongue or trying to scratch out The Star Spangled Banner on the family cat...

You may wanna knock first.

Class Under Glass

Tonight on Quantum Leap, Sam jumps all the way back to 1972 for a rollicking turn as Horace Riprock, a beefy news-gatherer with an eye for fashion. Can he win the ratings and save his station? Or will the sleazy owners turn it into a disco? Before he can find out, Sam/Horace must rescue Holo-pal Al from an aging oscilloscope, convince a bumbling consultant that film will last forever and stave off the affection of a boozy noon anchor (special guest star Morgan Fairchild), who has a well-known thing for 'slingers... 'Oh boy', indeed... (CC) 60 Min 9PM

Next Week: The behind the scenes hi-jinks continue as Dr. Sam leaps into the all black threads of alleged visionary Michael Rosenblum, moments before he takes on arch nemesis Nino in a fight to the finish cage match! Warning: Some scenes may disturb viewers too young to care...