Stress of the Press

I don't buy it. Sure, a photog's job is worrisome, but number 4 on The 10 Most Stressful Jobs of 2011? Surely, there's a submarine commander or tightrope walker or bomb squad technician under more pressure than those of us hoisting Sonys over our heads. Hey, how about air traffic controllers? They have to stay awake for nearly an entire shift! Oh, wait...

Honestly, I don’t stress out on the job like I used to. Sure, I kicked the shit out of that trash can in the edit bay the other day, but it HAD been leering at me for the better part of an hour. No, compared to how I used to wig out, I’m a regular Hari Krishna (as opposed to an irregular Hari Krishna). Back in the early nineties, before I had turned (most) every kind of story there was, I’d crisscross the region in my news unit, sucking down Marlboro Light after Marlboro Light as I wondered aloud how in the hell I was gonna have that story done by the time the anchor introduced it. Oh what a difference a couple of decades make. Now, I turn three o clock kerfluffles into winking five o clock reports without ingesting a single cigarette. It’s not that I don’t earn a few new wrinkles in the process, but I rarely ever question wether or not I’ll be able to hit my deadline. Why? I don’t know, really. Twenty years into the same gig have refined my ability to shoot economically, write scripts in a loud newsroom (earbuds and Metallica help) and edit at the speed of fright. There are, however, a few things that still stress. me. out.

Mysterious New Live Truck Buttons

I’ve never hidden my disdain for live trucks, as I believe they’ve accelerated the downfall of a once noble profession. Mostly though, I’d rather shoot write and edit than play truck tech. Thus, I avoid them like genital warts. Sometimes, though I can’t properly dodge such assignments and I find myself scratching various body parts as I stare at control switches I don’t remember. Since flipping the wrong switch in a live truck can fry you from the insides, I always call the engineers, but not before kicking up a few dirt circles first.

Phantom Press Releases

Hey, here’s a thought: If you’re a Public Relations person with a juicy story to peddle, don’t fax me all the details and then leave the country. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve done back-flips over a fresh, fluffy press release only to have the PR wonk that sent it totally stonewall me. Okay, I can: 982, 061. I don’t know whether they don’t expect us to respond so quickly or are just trying to torment us because they themselves washed out of the business. Either way, it’s stupefying. One local entity is notorious for the phantom fax. I won’t tell you the name, but their initials are GTCC.

Lollipops of Doom

I love Macs. I’m making sweet love to one right now. But for the life of me, I can’t fathom why the Cupertino crowd made their pre-crash distress signal so effing cheery. There I am, minutes before airtime with much more to edit when that spinning beach-ball of death thingie appears on screen to let me know I’m about to be screwed. Why not a skull and crossbones or lumbering Bigfoot avatar? Then I wouldn’t feel so silly throwing a tantrum over a symbol that should evoke memories of sandcastles and bikinis. Not that I’ve ever let such a discrepancy stop me from a good tantrum.

Oh, as to why photojournalists and newscasters ranked so high on The 10 Most Stressful Jobs of 2011? Weaver has a theory I like. He posits that we in the media are no more stressed than any other profession. We’re just extra whiny about it. Reading back over this post, I’d have to agree.

Schmuck Alert: Spit Happens!

So, you got popped stealing band instruments and the cops are about to walk you out in front of the TV cameras. How you gonna explain THIS to Mom? I know! As soon as you get within range of one of those media leeches, dig deep and hock up some of that crack-flavored spit you been saving! Let that puppy fly and you'll be the envy of all your fellow inmates, not to mention back in the good graces of your Mother. See, deep down inside, she knows you're a thieving parasite, but at least now she can point to the solid trajectory of your little phlegm-ball there to convince others you're finally on the straight and narrow. There's only one problem...

You're a schmuck! At best, your face would have graced the airwaves for a few seconds. (Hey, stealing band instruments is pathetic - not unique!) But now that you launched a loogie in slow motion, your shame will play out across the Pelican State again and again and again - until everyone from your first grade teacher to the band of degenerates you now call friends is simply sick of your spit. But wait, there's more! Choice websites across this heartless orb will trip over the pixels pitting you on their front page! Here's one now! Se, we here at Viewfinder BLUES take special interest in balding eunuchs who spray their DNA. And that cameraman you tried to baptize? None other than Chris Sasser, card carrying member of the Lenslinger Institute! He kept his cool after your feeble stunt, but make no mistake: he'd like to shove that fancycam straight up yer pokey!

So take a moment from explaining to the guards why you need extra gravy lumps and pat yourself on the back! Oh, wait, you're shackled at the waist. Let 'Razor' do it! He's got tons of time to kill, likes his bitches bald and can replenish you with all the spit a boy could need. Ask him nicely and he may even let you watch the news! Think how poroud you'll feel when all the fellas on the cell block stop and take note of your pursed lips and overall lack of hygiene. Imagine the dates you'll get! While you're at it, imagine this: that photog you lobbed saliva at is out and about in the free world while you fend off suitors, If that's not enough to make you stick your head in the toilet, maybe the image of your Mother denying she even knows you will do the trick.

Either way, society wins and you Sir, do not. Think how very proud you've made us all...

Schmuck!

One Goat, Gotten

I reeaallly don't want this blog to turn into some kind of bloated resumé reel, but a story I just produced turned into one of my most favorite assignments ever. It's not the writing, photography or editing I like so much and it damn sure ain't the journalism. No, it's the moments that ring true. That's Moment with a Capital M, the blend of instance we lenslingers look for to help sell the stories our reporters are telling. In this case, there were no reporters; just me and my fancycam doing something we rarely ever do... return to the scene of the crime. Day One was normal enough. Day Two, not so much. But don't take my word for it, watch the story in the box above and see if you can see where my cynicism began to crack. Here's a hint: currency is involved...

Parlor Schtick

A face full of predator urine does strange things to a fella. Take it from me. Just last week I was a highly distracted TV cameraman, flitting from one silly assignment to another with little more than lunch on my mind -- until a rescue lion cocked his arse in my direction. That's when it hit me: I gotta walk the Earth. No, I'm not going to wander from village to village dispensing frontier justice with slow-motion karate chops and monosyllabic nods. But I am determined to recast my role on this planet and I'm going to start by embracing NON-photog behavior. Why, just the other day I was spotted hovering over a weighty tome at a trendy downtown eatery. And not once did I shine a light in a stranger's face and ask them open ended questions! Well, there was that one time, but I was merely trying to find the little boy's room.

Relax, I was just attending the first ever BOOKUP - a local event in which interesting people gather around to read -- to themselves. If you think that sounds like your average Saturday night at Barnes and Nobles (minus the roving band of Goth kids), you'd be wrong. Hell, that's I thought when writing pal Joe Maeder (author of When I Married My Mother) invited me to attend the inaugural event. Of course, I'd probably wash Jo's car if she asked me. After all, she's a published author and as such possesses the kind of insider knowledge a constipated scribe like myself would stab a hobo in the throat to learn! Too much? Let me put it this way: If I don't figure out a way to squeeze my words into print, I'm gonna climb the nearest TV tower and start tossing down camera batteries. THAT will get me nowhere, so I feel it wise to seek a room full of higher counsel.

And what a room! Bin 33 was already filing up with the local literatti when I arrived. Hey there's Parke Puterbaugh, Rolling Stone writer also known for Phish: the Biography. And is that Brian Clarey? Editor of Yes Weekly and author of The Anxious Hipster (and Other Barflies I've Known)? Where's my free drink ticket? And why does my head hurt so? Must be because Brian dragged me out to help celebrate his birthday afterward, whereupon he pummeled me with alcohol and solid writing advice. I just wish I could remember it all. Here's what I do recall (and I paraphrase): "Ease off the adjectives. Good writing is all about the verb. Forget everything the jackholes with the MFA's and elbow patches have to say. You're a blue collar, Southern writer and they can't teach that shit in schools. Fiction, Memoir, you can write it all - but you CANNOT hold back. Readers will see right through it and you'll be stuck dodgin' lion piss 'til your back finally gives out..."

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my news unit...squeezing drops of blood onto a notepad.

The Lion Zing

Just when I thought I'd seen it all, a steaming stream of lion piss clouds my vision. Stick with me here... It was a gorgeous afternoon in central North Carolina, which is a good thing since by the time reporter Brandon Jones and I pulled into an undisclosed compound deep within the Piedmont, I'd already zapped a battery in the name of news. Still, none of that mattered to Brandon or my bosses. They just wanted us to bag a quick feature story while no one's looking. Mission Accepted. Not that I had a lot of choice. When you wander through life with a camera on your shoulder, people tend to tell you where to point it. That's cool. I consider myself a closer. Come up with something you'd like to see documented and I'll follow it into the tall grass and teethe on it 'til it bleeds. Today, however, another apex predator would call his shot and it would send me scampering away, bruised pride and spotted spectacles in hand.

Ya know, I've put up with many a peril while standing under glass. Rogue waves, runaway trucks, extended city council meetings - I've dodged them all. Animals, too! Once upon a time I was a regular visitor to the North Carolina Zoo, profiling everything from cuddly puffins to dozing polar bears to the heftiest of elephants. I once even fed ostriches from the back of a pick-up truck and never once ran over any heads in the sand. But nothing I ever eyeballed from afar down in Asheboro prepared me for the outpouring of attention I received today. Which reminds me, when a nice lady with a bucket of raw meat says, "Watch out for that one. He'll spray ya!", don't think for a moment she's flattering you with small talk. She ain't - and I got the YouTube clip to prove it. So yeah, the lion keeper warned me - right before she suggested I cozy up to the fence for a closer shot. That's the kind of idea a guy like me can't resist. After two decades of camera management, I got "Zoom with you feet" tattooed on my soul.

So when Bucket Lady ushered me up to the edge of that big cat enclosure, I went willingly. How else you gonna get the kind of shot people expect from a fancycam? Besides, if I wanted to stay warm and dry all the time, I'd sell stereos or insurance or crack. I damn sure wouldn't be pushin' glass where it don't belong. As it was, I felt pretty safe there before the fence, so much that my mind began to drift. That's when it happened. Acting upon either deep seeded instinct or a hidden hand gesture from my host, that feline in question cocked his arse in my direction and let loose with a burst of urine that would put a drunk sailor to shame. I caught sight of the impending plume half a second before it showered my camera, my glasses, my face. Suddenly I was moving, vaguely aware that A) those weren't beads of sweat hanging off my nose, B) the camera caught it all and C) I just might have something to blog about tonight. And while it's not the kind of thing I'd stand in line to experience again, I knew immediately it was one of those encounters I'd enjoy living down forever.

But don't take my word for it. Witness the pissing for yourself.



Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower. Again.

Twisted Listener

In the exciting world of TV News photogery, you get to drive past the barricade, hobnob with the rich and broken, then splay their fate all over the tube. Mostly though, you attach microphones to people. For example, here I am pinning one on Kat Siladi, moments after interrupting her best carrot seed material. I had no choice. She was breaking photosynthesis down to toddler level, forcing me to lunge from the row of rutabagas row and indulge in a little cameraman charades... Sounds like, "I'm totally screwed if you don't put this thing around your neck." Actually, I was smoother than that. Not enough to avoid skeeving out a few of the Moms on hand, but smooth, I tell you! Actually, there is an art to microphone placement: knowing when to approach, properly telegraphing your intentions without bringing the room to an awkward halt, remembering to retrieve the damn thing when the interview is through. by the way, have you ever tried to track down a state trooper that didn't want to be found? Those jokers lay LOW - no matter what's stuck to their lapel...

Anyhoo, there's more to microphone management than knowing when to strike. There's proper placement. Do I run it up under their sleeve? Loop it around their collar? Bury it in their bosom? The answers, my friend, are blowing in the wind - but if you don't choose correctly, a little moving air static will be the least of your problems. Don't believe me? Sidle up to a biker bar and start playing pin the tail on the donkey. They'll never find your body. Or bum-rush a beauty pageant with talk of silicone rub and droopy acoustics. Some of those women are black belts. Hell, I nearly got a full body scan from the TSA while trying to stick a mic on a beefy flight attendant. How was I supposed to know lady was a dude? Don't answer that. Just know that I'll be more careful the next time I use the line, "from one sexy stew to another". I'm still not allowed back on that concourse!

Okay, so we've covered the troubles of being your own sound guy. We've talked about when to do it, how not to do it and why you should always check for an Adam's apple when considering where to bag a few soundbites. What we haven't discussed is lineage. Think of it as Six Degrees of Amplification. See, I only got one lavalier microphone. And since I blanch at the sight of those King sized overly-logo'd hand(held) jobs, I use my lav A LOT. Thus, the microphone I clip to the neat freak CEO may very well have just come off the homeless guy he stepped over on the way to his Benz, the same one I used to record some American Idol wannabe crucifying Whitney will soon snuggle up the powder blue baby-T Simon Cowell's stylist picked out for him. Oh, and the Governor wants to know why the thingie I attached to her designer scarf smells so funny? It's just a little cadaver dog. Okay, so it was a BIG cadaver dog, but he had the most plaintive howl, so I ran the microphone up his collar and chased him up a river bank. Like YOU'VE never done that.

Sooo, what have we learned? Simple. Microphones are intrinsic but clumsy. The people you most want to pin rarely submit, but that truck driver's more than willing to step out of his Carrharts if it'll get him on the tay-vay. Oh - and batteries only die when the speaker is inaccessible, famous or about to say something so cosmically wrong, they'll open an investigation as to why you didn't properly capture it. I just wish some engineer type would invent the ever-hovering invisi-clip(less). You know, some naked to the eye electronic bug that floats just above the subject's sternum. I myself have mad a few sketches of such a device, but if I were smart enough to develop it, I wouldn't be laying in wait beside some egg plant, untangling the same cord I ignored the day before as a Horticulture Major eyes me with growing disdain...

I guess that goes without saying.

Splinterquest!

It doesn't take much talent to point a camera at a pile of sticks, which is probably why I'm so good at it. Then again, I've had a lot of practice. For two decades strong, all manners of calamity have passed through my glass. Minivans flipped by wind, homes broken open up by fallen forests, flimsy splinters driven into sod -- I sometimes think I've shot it all. I haven't. Nor have I swarmed around every type of storm victim, a lesson I learned today when I stumbled upon one Terry Lawrence. But more on him later. First, the news: I don't know if it made the papers up your way, but Mother Nature took an unexpected dump on North Carolina Monday night. I was lucky enough to sleep through much of it, but I arose this morning with the certain knowledge that I'd spend the day paying for that uninterrupted slumber. Was I ever right.

It seemed like hours before I hit pay-dirt. In fact, it had only been eighty minutes since I tore out of the door at the TV station, a cameraman on a mission. "Go find Randolph County damage," someone said as I peeled out of the parking lot and onto the interstate. Several miles and a few phone calls later, I was deep into said county and altogether lost. Oh, I knew where I was; I just didn't know where I was going. The overnight storm had raked across the region, leaving isolated pockets of toppled trees among otherwise unscathed neighborhoods. But without solid intel as to where the destruction was, I was forced to drive blind, scouring the passing countryside for any signs of downed branch, tangled power lines or drunken wildebeests. I guess two out of three ain't bad.

Eventually, I found just the kind of carnage we needed to keep the commercials from bumping into one another - but it wasn't due to my stunning hunting skills. No, it was social media. Folks like Terry Lawrence flooded the station with photos, tweets and clips of what nature hath wrought, providing with he street addressees needed to harass them accordingly. Which is why I was so impressed with Terry. Cordial to a fault, he took time away from staring at the tree in his kitchen to show a photog all the best angles. Had the fallen tree trunk not blocked access to his fridge, I do believe he'd have offered me refreshments. And I would have taken them too, for you don't turn down a man with a red oak in his breakfast nook and AC/DC for his ringtone...

'Hell's Bells', I think it was...