Dreaming Under Deadline...

We were seconds away from our live shot when the drugs kicked in -- but, really, THAT'S a story for another post. What I want to talk to you about tonight are dreams. I have 'em all the time: irrational passion plays, nonsensical operas, psychedelic slide shows. Out of nowhere they catch my mind's eye and before I know it I'm scaling the drapery in some vexing quest that can never be fully explained to a spouse who has to be awake in a couple of hours. I blame my job - as most every scenario I end up wrestling the ottoman over starts off with me and my gear traipsing over some twisted news-scape. Look - those trees are holding a press conference! And if I'm not mistaken, the ribbon those aardvarks are cutting is made of frozen gravy! Good thing I can transmit it all back to the mother ship with this handy neon egg-beater suddenly growing out of my forehead! How else would I make it through that long plastic hallway in time enough to stitch all those eyeballs and diaries together?

Don't answer that. Just know that when I do turn in, the deadlines keep coming. Why else would I wander through dreamland with a hundred pounds of the finest recording equipment 1974 ever chose to forget? I mean, it's pathetic enough trudging through this realm with a viewfinder in my face. Must I do so from the sanctity of my thirty year old Shazam(!) pajamas? (Don't ask.) Better yet, get the hell out of my dream! Must I share everything with you people? Can't a fella craft paragraphs that go nowhere withOUT insisting tens of citizens waste their time trying to decipher what are merely finger exercises? Again, your input is far from needed, as I'm obviously just choosing which delusion I'll use to scare the therapist I'm not seeing. Otherwise, how's a guy like me supposed to sleep? You know how many times I've slept-walked from crack-house to palace with faraway eyes - only to end up in some edit bay haze with only a panicky page from a producer down the hall to me distort my sordid torp ----

ZZZZZZ.... (Thanks to Rad for the disturbing photo!)

Otherwise Known as Wednesday

You ever park in some professor’s spot, grab your gear from the rear and scamper across campus with your dignity and lens akimbo? I did just this morning and the inelegant sprint was indicative of the day to come. But I’m getting ahead of myself... Hey, have you ever burst into a small room to find a friend of yours grilling the ex-President of Pakistan? I did, about forty-five seconds after jacking that Reserved space in front of Elon University’s Alamance Hall. Pervez Musharraf was well into his response by the time my own camera kicked into gear. When it did, I fell into the eyecup, brought the former world leader into sharp focus and felt my own senses dulling. No bother, I thought. I’ll just capture everything that moves, drag it back to an edit cave and let some other neanderthal ponder its contents. After all, I had a reporter impatiently waiting back at the station...

You ever triangulate sketchy directions with your knowledge of the topography while a better dressed companion talked to a man about a (stolen) horse? I did, just after lunchtime and for a few minutes there, it felt like it was going to happen. See, when a fellow faxes over an ‘urgent press release’, you kind of get the feeling he wants to talk on television. Not always so, I’ve found. Hey, you ever bum-rushed three Mexicans and the horses they rode in on? Brandon Jones and I sure did, confident the gauchos before us were fully expecting a camera crew to come a callin’. Only after a few minutes of international shoulder shrugging did we discern these fine fellows didn’t know what the hell we were rambling on in English about. That was odd, as they were in the very pasture we were told to go to. One even handed me his cellphone, whereupon I listened intently to the man’s superior attempt to clear up the confusion by yammering to me in broken Spanglish. By the way, what IS the Spanish term for ‘mid-life career change‘ anyway?

You ever cold-call a furniture executive and tell him you’re about to put him on television? We did, right around three P.M. and before the gentleman could wiggle out of the idea, we were in his building’s elevator. That’s how it goes when your stolen horse story rides off into the sunset, leaving a big chunk of black in your very next newscast. Thus, Brandon and I stormed a High Point tower two hours before the story we were about to begin shooting was scheduled to air. Luckily for us, The Suit in question coughed up enough answers to feed our jones and within ten minutes we were back on the street looking for a backdrop to fill. We found it just outside a certain showroom. The sales staff was irritatingly giddy at first, but with a few heavy breaths they calmed down enough to speak in complete sentences. Good thing, that.

Hey, you ever popped the passenger side of a live truck up on the curb just so the mast you were about to raise wouldn’t lean over and crash into a fourth story plate glass window? It was the least I could do as I prepared to execute the live remote that would no doubt push our broadcast straight to the top of the never ending ratings war. Once both left sided tires rested firmly on the sidewalk, I commenced to flip a strategic series of switches while the tony Mr. Jones turned fresh soundbites into a script. Minutes later, I hunched over a steaming Mac, splicing and dicing random shots of pedestrians and settees into a haphazard news package. I’d like to say I did it all by my lonesome, but it wasn’t so. Knowing I’d not yet edited Final Cut Pro in a truck, The Mighty Weave materialized like some newly skinny Obi-Wan. Nary a Jedi was beheaded in the ensuing minutes, but without a few tips from Weave, I may very well have thrown myself on my light saber. Ya know, if I HAD a light saber.

Speaking of which, you ever looked back over your career and realized that, like a certain space trilogy, the script was stilted, the actors bad and the effects weren’t necessarily special?

Yeah, me neither.

Three of a Kind...

It's not often three TV News photographers get to take part in a sit-down lunch, but that's just what happened when Weaver and I made a mad dash to Lexington to break (corn)bread with the legendary lenslinger known as 'RAD'. Richard Adkins tends to traverse the state, creating potent television for the powerhouse affiliate WRAL. He's a fierce competitor; normally when I see him it's in the heat of battle. Which is why it was altogether pleasant to meet him on neutral ground, where neither of us had to worry about what shot the other guy was getting. We laughed, we whined, we hoarked down some righteous swine. But no sooner had we gathered than it was time again to go, for the three of us were, as always, on deadline. Still, the photog fellowship was refreshing: full of tech-talk, war stories and more than a little mutual admiration. If that's so wrong, I don't wanna be right, for I enjoy RAD's company almost as much as I enjoy his work.

Remind me of that the next time we're jostling for shots of the Presidential Christmas Tree, some celebrated wreckage, or the Governor's every utterance. Chances are I won't listen, but remind me anyway.

Gripes of a Lifer

Hey, I'm all for steady employment but to be honest, I've been at El Ocho for about a decade longer than I planned to. How that happened is a long story, one involving children, crabgrass and a wife's steady paycheck. But who am I kidding? I love it here! And as long as The Suits let me cover the news sans meat-stick, I'll gladly hang out (until I hit the lottery/get a book deal/witness The Rapture.) Still, even we lifers gotta wonder if we've stuck around too long. Thus, I give you...

THE TOP 10 SIGNS YOU'VE WORKED IN YOUR CURRENT MARKET TOO LONG...

10) You know the competition's live trucks by their in-house nicknames.

9) You remember taking that manager lady out on her first story - when she was an intern.

8) You've got six generations of logowear hanging in your closet and you don't wear any of it.

7) By the time you learn the new reporter's name, it's time for his going away party.

6) You give directions based on decade old crime scenes.

5) Former colleagues keep up with their old station by following your blog.

4) You remember when this place had a travel budget.

3) All the local sheriffs know your name, but they still forget it whenever the hot new weather chick shows up on scene.

2) You've seen scores of coworkers come and go - and you actually miss a few of them!

AND THE NUMBER ONE SIGN YOU'VE WORKED IN YOUR CURRENT MARKET TOO LONG...

1) You write about it on the internet.

Ever have one of those shoots...

...where you just wanted to hand out paper bags for everyone to breathe into?

...where you were haunted by vivid flashbacks of your less than illustrious commercial production career?

...where you really began to regret all that fun you had skipping class in high school?

...where you had to physically fight the urge to set the camera down, run run the room, climb the nearest utility pole and start bellowing nonsensical Doors lyrics?

...where you found yourself wondering if it was finally time to launch that pro bowling career?

...where you decided it would be more fun to be tazed in the crotch by an over-caffeinated SWAT cop than continue this little production?

...where you realized it's these kind of exasperating assignments that will finally convince you to start writing that book?

...where you yearned for the monastic existence, comparative glamor and hip wardrobe of a lighthouse keeper?

...where for the first time since the Reagan Administration, you actually prayed for spot news?

Well, I have - and judging from the above photographic evidence - I'm not as good as hiding my thoughts about it as I used to be.

One in Every Herd...

I cannot begin to explain why this young fawn decided to move in with a herd of neighborhood cows, can't fathom why someone would actually call a TV station to report it, can't come up with a good reason why I pounded a half gallon of Guatemala's finest coffee on my way out there. All I can really tell you is that the Ginns family of Stokes County are indeed lovely people, that it somehow pleased the News Gods for me to be there and that a forty-three year old television news photographer can shoot a pretty passable story all while doing a wicked 'Pee-Pee Dance'. See if you can spot the moment where my sclera turned yella...

Crashing ConvergeSouth

Once upon a time I led a session or two at ConvergeSouth, the semi-annual web-head summit that takes place right here in Greensboro. This year, I just showed up and started rolling. It was a lack of tactics on my part; having meant to attend but never bothering to register, I promptly forgot about the damn thing until Friday morning. That's when a series of newsworthy events failed to happen and I found myself surrounded by producers annoyed that I was still in the building and blocking their view of The View. It was then I glanced at my Twitter page and saw news of the steepening think tank at North Carolina A&T State University. Knowing I’d have to somehow squeeze ninety seconds of TV out of a room full of computer geeks, I headed over anyway. After all, these are my people!

Or were they?

Once my eyes adjusted to the cavernous classroom, I found myself staring at a bunch of strangers. They weren't staring back, of course. Rather, their collective gaze was fixated on their laptops, their Blackberries, their iPads. Hey, this IS a tech conference! Giving the speaker one's undivided attention is Two Thousand and Late, anyway. Besides, what fun is it to hang with the techno-crowd if you can't electronically notify your disciples that you are in fact, hanging with the techno-crowd. Don't answer that. Just know that as I scanned the crowd, I did spot a few familiar faces. Polinsky, Wharton, Ainbinder, Hwang... Fine folks all the way around, but barely a fraction of the insatiable communicators that founded this gathering five years ago. 'What happened to the old gang?' I wondered as I trudged up the stairs. Did politics ruin the fun? Did infighting trump future-speak?

Is the McRib really back to stay this time?

I never found out, for no sooner did I grow bored with making smart people nervous than the keynote speaker captured my attention. More on him in a minute, but can I just tell you potent a tool even the crappiest TV camera can be? For example, an auditorium full of forward-thinking early adopters with heavy disdain for mainstream media and a raging gadget habit will STILL run their fingers through their hair whenever a fancycam is pointed their way. Anarchists, assassins, ar-teests ... no matter the mindset it's just human nature to sit up a little straighter whenever some camera-schlub cranks up the ole vanity-enhancer. If that weren't enough, nine out of ten audience members were absorbed in their Twitter feeds. Cradling my own mobile device (once called a "phone"), I knew that with a single hashtag I could plant my thoughts on the screens of the very folk who were clocking me out of the corners of their collective eye.

'Is it just me - or is the cameraman gassy?', I wanted to tweet, but sadly lacked the grapes to hit SEND.

Besides, it was too late for my tomfoolery - for by now the keynote speaker was really hitting his stride. Looking down at the program, I saw his name: Brent D. Payne, SEO Director. 'Cool', I thought - not entirely sure what SEO stood for. Turns out, it's Search Engine Optimization, a concept a needy narrator type like myself can really get behind. So could everyone else in the auditorium apparently, for folks actually started glancing up from their screens every now and then, before muttering to themselves and changing their status updates for the twelfth time in so many minutes. Not that Brent D. Payne minded. Dude was used to it. Listening to him run through surefire ways to increase your web-traffic, it occurred to me he'd been semi-ignored by classier crowds that this. Then I started tweeting tips myself, knowing that if I followed my new hero's every rule, I'd be overseeing a media empire to rival Howard Stern's, instead of sitting here nursing a cocktail and talking to you...

Not that I don't value our special times. Really, it's isn't you. It's me. I need some time to work on ME...