The Places You'll Go!

Congratulations! Today is your day! You're the photog on call! You’re off and away...

You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes. We only need six minutes of news! You’ve got gear in the rear and slots in both shows. But WE’LL be the ones who decide where you go!

There’s goo on the highway. And poo at the zoo. Stop by the station and grab a hair-do! Lex will be waiting. Rex will be too. Just don’t take Larry. That dude’s a muh-ROON! Now get off the horn and get here real soon. You’re late for a meeting! We need a new promo and a phoner at noon!

 The scanner just burped! It horkled and hacked! We’re gonna need you two to come back! Pick up a live truck! Head straight out of town! An unpleasant something has just fallen down! It jumped from its perch with a couple of jolts. We’ll get the sidebar. You do nuts and bolts!

You can’t lag behind! But please do not speed! There’s no time for lunch! You’re now THE LEAD! Producers are juicing! A manager stammered! I’m pretty sure, our sports guy is hammered! But that’s not important! In times like these. Hey, make sure you feed back some kind of tease!

We know you’re not there yet! And busy as hell. But we need to know just HOW this thing fell? Did it wiggle in space? And fall on its face? Did something else push it? Did it just take a dive? Was it feeling depressed? All out of jive? Let us know when you find out. We’ll do it LIVE!

You’ll round off the bottom. In a box off the top! We’ll come back after weather. And probably not stop! We’re still in the book. So try not to flop! Now put down that phone and know you’re the best. And whatever you do, wear that damn vest! Tweet when you get there. We’ll flesh out the rest!

You’ll come to a place where the streets are not marked. We don’t really give a damn where you parked. Just get on that guardrail. The countdown’s begun. Fire up the camera. Set it on STUN. There’s no time to focus. You’re up on the bird. Stand by for grandeur…

Let’s polish this turd.

Red Bull Rising

 

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you ODD." 

Flannery O'Connor said it, and while we 'slingers probably weren't who she had in mind, I can't think of a better breed to illustrate this observation. Consider the following:

Ten minutes into a cocktail party and I'm reminding the wife how much I don't like people. Put a camera on my shoulder and I'll high-five my way through a leper colony.
 
A friend of mine can field strip a twenty-thousand dollar videocamera, parallel-park a live truck covered in duct tape and slam together a minute thirty report during commercial breaks. Yet he still needs help filling out his time sheet every week.

Loose women and fast cars don't do a lot for me, but break out a fat shaft of daylight or a conveyor belt full of mason jars and I grow visibly titillated. 

I've got buddies who can name every shade of gray visible in the average TV test pattern. But don't expect them to match their pants with their shirt. 

Life coaches, priests and financial advisors I got no use for. However, I keep a body language expert on speed-dial and a discount chiropractor on stand-by.

I myself have hung out of homemade helicopters, nodded off during hurricanes and interviewed a murderer or two. What really scares me are dying Double-A batteries and nighttime assignment editors with my phone number on their lips.

As far the above photo, It's only young Robert Hollins plowing through another workday, one in which provocatively dressed women paddle the rumps of color-coordinated pedestrians while a certain Emmy award winning journalist wishes for invisibility... Nothing odd about that.

Massacre Glassed

Think the Colorado theater shooting got inside YOUR head? Try being on scene. I wasn't, but Phoenix photojournalist Gibby Parra was. Within hours of the massacre, Parra and veteran reporter Mike Watkiss found themselves prowling the grounds outside the Aurora theater, interviewing witnesses, shooting video and filing reports. Surely, first responders have it worse. Cops, firefighters and paramedics don't just see tragedies up close, they pick up the pieces. But news crews, too, encounter things that cannot be unseen. It's something I learned years ago at a place called Campus Walk and it's something Gibby Parra knew long before he landed in Aurora. He and Watkiss were there as family members begged anyone who would listen to explain this senseless act. They couldn't, but in giving the distraught an electronic forum, they tried to give this atrocity a little perspective. As for Parra's perspectives, it's probably a shade darker after seeing firsthand just what evil can do...

"When you're there and you're hearing these stories, you try to block them out but you can't 'cause at the end of the day, they start playing back in your head."

An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

Despite being a heterosexual Southern male, I don't know a lot about NASCAR. Sure, they run big time races just down the road, but until they outfit those 'stock' cars with flamethrowers, I probably won't tune in. That said, I'm a huge booster of my home state, which is why even a Luddite like me happily got up early to go hang out with certified living legend Junior Johnson. Don't know Junior? Why, he's quite simply the embodiment of NASCAR's moon-shining roots, a man who tore up the back roads with a trunk full of hooch l-o-n-g before grown men appeared in public wearing day-glo jumpsuits. If that wasn't enough, dude owns North Carolina's only legal distillery! It's a fine establishment I've profiled a time or two and the product that pours out of that Madison tap will, as my late Father would say, "knock your dick in your watch-pocket".

Crass colloquialisms aside, I was the picture of sophistication as I drove into Johnson's 150 acre estate. Of course the property itself was the reason I'd come. After all, you don't put a six million dollar spread up for action without first having a bunch of news crews over to get the word out. Of those interlopers, I was crew number two. News 14's ever dapper Ed Scannell barely cocked an eyebrow as I barged into the foyer, a reaction not nearly as exciting as that rumble scene in 'Anchorman'. Still, it was all we could do circle each other warily before returning to our individual mission. That mission: videotape everything interesting in the rambling mansion before the place filled up with reporters, cameramen and (GULP!) newspaper people. Yes, even the Print ourists showed up for a forced march through one legend's living room. There, in the pantry, isn't that the lady who hurls morning forecasts every other weekend? She's not at all taller in person!

But enough about people I make uncomfortable with my baleful stare. Let's meet our host! While strangers rifled through his dream home, Sir Junior Johnson lounged in his race shop down the driveway. That's where fellow TV News survivor David Whisenant and I cornered the former race car driver. Seated in the shadow of his prized 1941 tractor, the eighty one year old was frail but friendly. Without a doubt, Junior Johnson has peered into more television cameras than I've yet to lift, which is why I plopped mine on its tripod and took a seat.  What followed was a breezy three way conversation between a man destined to be remembered and two schlubs who can't seem to remember why they got into this business to begin with. Oh wait, I know: it's because this silly gig allows to me to meet the occasional folk hero, not to mention a fellow journeyman like the good Mr. Whisenant.

You know, with all this talk of palaces toured, I'd really like to show you the result of my visit, but since my station didn't post the story, I'll have to show you David's version instead.

Probably better, anyway.

Everything I Know...

...I learned with one eye shut. Seriously, I paid ZERO attention in high school and even less afterwards. In fact, it wasn't until I first fixated on that tiny screen at the end of the eyepiece that a few truths came into focus. Important stuff, too, like...




It's not enough for surgeons to save lives, they got to be the coolest guys in the (operating) room. Honestly, I've sat through enough procedures to spot extreme douche-baggery with or without a sterile mask. Theme music, frigid temperatures, dried ice: it's amazing the props some surgeons need to cut a fellow open. And talk about playing to the camera. I know reality show cast-offs with less of a lens fixation. I had one doctor get so excited at the presence of my glass, I thought he was gonna pantomime 'Sister Christian'. So the next time a nice hospital lady ask if the local TV station can videotape your bunion-ectomy, do yourself a favor and hobble away to the other end of the lobby.

If your first three story ideas fall apart upon impact, you are doomed to a day of fruitless phone tag. I don't care how many gold statues you bought and paid for, some days shit just doesn't come together. And there you sit, workin' the horn for all its worth while news managers bang into your cubicle like angry sharks. Of course that's the exact moment a press release touting incredible news lands in your in-box. You rejoice, flip off your least favorite producer, do an awkward victory dance and call the number on the press release - only to find out the PR flack just left for back surgery but will happy to help you once he's finally cut free from his body-cast.  

The smaller the constituency, the grander the delusion. Let's face it, the guy within reach of the nuclear football is really quite reasonable. It's that dude on the local school board you gotta watch out for. Chances are, he's nuttier than a barrel of squirrel turds. At least that's MY finding after witnessing some of the nimrods who hold a gavel over our fine communities. Hey, you don't HAVE to be nuts to serve in city or county government, but it will sure will help when you and your esteemed colleagues are holding an entire town hostage over the color width of this year's parking tickets. Me, I'll be sitting by the door, one hand on my camera, the other cradling a can of mace. Don't think I won't use both of them.

No matter how many times you tell the desk that A) unicorns don't live under that overpass, B) there's no way a steaming pile of egg noodles can resemble Kurt Cobain, or C) you don't even remember HOW to square dance, understand this: All you really have to do is get in the news unit and GO. I'm not saying minotaurs will be waiting there to guide you through some house-cats fantasy, only that if chain-smoking gremlins are in fact taking over the city sewer system, they'll most likely come out and talk once they see you circle the block a few times...

Tell 'em Lenslinger sent you.

Crashing the Factor

While my reliance on a stipend prevents me from divulging ALL that I saw this past week, I can tell you that I ventured deep into the heart of artifice. That's right, I crashed The X Factor. Actually, it crashed us. For three days, Simon Cowell's circus camped out at the coliseum, drawing finalists and fans alike for a surprisingly strong string of performances. I sat through a couple of the live tapings and while I'd watched not a frame of the show's first season, I found myself unreasonably entertained. Maybe it was the way Demi Lovato kept putting Simon in his place. Or the way Britney glimmered. Or how L.A. Reid never once said "Dawg". Whatever it was, I'd like to apologize to my daughters for any spasmodic arrhythmia I exhibited once the Captain and Tennille medley started. What can I say? That scuba diver could really sing.

But cushy seats amid a sea of 'tweens was only the beginning. The publicity people really outdid themselves, granting Shannon Smith and me staggering access to the show's contestants, crew and, yes, celebrity judges. Much of what I witnessed was erased from my memory banks the moment I turned in my press-pass. All I remember is some goon in a windbreaker sticking a flashy laser thing in my face. Next thing I know I'm outside in the parking lot, fumbling with my live truck keys. Still, I've soaked my forehead in bourbon long enough to bring a few memories to the surface and while I still can't explain why I have an incessant urge to sing karaoke, a few truths ring clear...

America's youth is still greatly persuaded by a certain prickly Brit in a too-tight t-shirt. Kids of every age credited the middle-aged millionaire for 'keeping it real'. As for Simon himself, the man seems far happier running the show, instead of just fondling his lighter while Paula Abdul breathed into a paper bag. I even saw him smile once. Once. 

Britney Spears' name looks great on a marquee, but Demi Lovato is the real scene stealer. Granted, I didn't know who the hell she was before this week, but after watching her part a sea of teenagers with the bat of a single eyelash, I consider myself a fan. Most of all, I enjoyed watching her bust Simon's chops while coming off as the biggest star in a very crowded room.

The lust for highly-contained fame remains at epidemic levels. Many years now after Idol convinced a nation of children that warbling outdated show tunes was really kind of rock and roll, the Millennials are still in lock-step with these now fully ordained taste makers. In better news, your favorite Jazz club is now more spacious than ever.  Be sure to tip the waitress.

Well, there you have it: more than I planned to write about my latest brush with prefabricated talent show cavalcades. What will it all mean now that American Idol is shedding celebrities faster than those Deadliest Catch captains go through greenhorns? Ya got me. All I know is America's obsession with disposable fame is still going strong and no matter the name of its latest incarnation, the folks who sleep in their cars so they can massacre some overdone dirge in the morning still exhibit that same blend of starry-eyed ingenue and head-on collision victim.

What better recipe for television?

Rolling Chunder

Their hides may be slathered in bluster, but the interior of a TV station live truck has al the charms of a bus station urinal. I should know. I've done more time inside these rolling dumpsters than I have in church and while my soul may suffer for it, it's that goo on my shoe that really worries me. It could be anything... Dried up mudslide. Petrified press release. The brittle husks of a thousand hambones' hopes and dreams. On second thought, I think it's guacamole dip. Or at least it used to be. Whatever the case, it's more than this neat freak can abide, which is why I keep my socks dry and my skivvies tight whenever I pilot one of these lumbering news Hueys. Look there, on the floorboard. Are those raisins? I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise, I'm taking the closest car wash nozzle to this, ahem, mobile newsroom.

'Mobile news room'. The very term is as dated as it is hated, now that technology has shrunk the office equipment needed to collate the day's events. Seem, what used to be a wall of high-end video decks held together by tubes and clamps has been replaced by a single Mac book and an external hard drive or two. What used to resemble a miniature mission control now looks like a holding cell with a laptop chained to the counter. Pretty soon, we'll all be transmitting live data from our eyelid implants and the idea of a trundled-up mini-bus stuffed with moving parts will seem as antiquated as the news reel ephemera Amanda Emily unearths. Me, I'm more heretic than historian, which is why I like to wear a surgical mask whenever I find myself tossing tools into one of these fetid vessels. I'd just as soon lick a Cineplex floor than hunker down among the remnants of deadlines spent. It may sound sexy, but until you've written an entire script in chicken nugget crumbs, you'll never know the unmistakable musk of a million made slots.

So if you don't mind, I have specimens to collect. I'm working on a pilot idea and I want that  special blend of neglected spit cup and pot bust flotsam to seal the pitch. The way I see it, I'll hire two tattooed lunkheads to travel around under the auspices of broadcasting. They'll hassle rent-a-cops, get into adventures, solve crimes and thoroughly gross out any and everyone who happens to peek inside their rolling news lab. Think 'Lou Grant' meets' Dexter'. Or 'The Newsroom' as interpreted by those guys from Jack-Ass. Either way you'll know I'm onto something when everyone knows the icky thump of a treasured tripod covered in Chex-Mix, road dust and desperation. Meanwhile, I'll try not to look at the floor the next time I wake up inside of these war-wagons, for if that's not the rotting carcass of an intern's brittle ambition over there in the corner, I'll stop spritzing the place with holy water.

Now hold this crucifix while I drive...