License to Grill

Ever parked a billboard on the edge of misfortune and trolled for commotion? It’s not as fun as it sounds, but if you’re gonna be any good at this gig, you gotta ingratiate. Take today - all thirteen hours of it. What started as friendly hello at a reporter’s desk grew into an urgent journey, a feverish bee-line to a distant ‘burg, where reticent detectives, quivering witnesses and a halfway decent lunch made for a Thursday I’ll most likely soon forget. For now, though it’s on my mind, so let me knock this out so I can go get some sleep...

What makes a man stab a deaf-mute? It’s a question I hadn’t considered until fate placed in a speeding live truck this morning. Carter Coyle rode shotgun, a young reporter with a winning grin and considerable energy. She too had no clue why a guy would (repeatedly) plunge a knife into a stranger, but we both knew our lunch depended on nailing down the other four W’s. That may seem crass considering the crime, but when you data-mine calamity for a daily wage, you learn to do so from a distance. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, you gotta get up in it, which is why, after questioning a guy with a badge on his belt, Carter and I plunged into the heart of darkness. Actually, it was a rundown block on the West side of town, but you get the idea.

Twelve hours earlier, a young man with a history of violence did his best to end an old man’s future on this very spot. The old man was well known on these streets, a grizzled figure who didn’t let his inability to speak or hear stop him from begging for cigarettes. But bumming smokes was de rigueur in this ‘hood and the old man was much beloved among the saints and sinners that roamed its many yards and alleyways. How do I know Because they told us so. Five minutes after we’d parked the live truck in a side lot, a phalanx of aging neighbors lined up before our lens, eager to ask my glass why anyone would try to kill such a harmless old soul. We had no answers for them, only carefully crafted questions, designed to spawn responses in full sentence form. Oh, did they oblige.

“He ain’t ever done nobody no harm!” a man with deep creases on his forehead said. “I hope who ever did this suffers!” wished a woman with more fingers than teeth. Carter and I didn’t dare look at one another, for we knew better than to question such on-camera manna. This was the kind of emotional outpouring are bosses crave, soundbites to die for, if you will (even if you won’t). At that very moment, the young man with blood on his blade sat in a jail cell downtown. The old man was much further away, hooked to wires and tubes in a distant intensive care unit. His stab wounds were many, his chances few. Sad as that is, we didn’t really dwell on it there on the street.

We were on deadline after all, and with so many locals emoting on-cue, my focus was on the glowing red light in the corner of the screen. But the pitch and timber of all that anguish eventually seeped into my skull and as I edited the footage later in the day, I couldn’t help but think of my place in the world. Who am I to swoop in and demand answers? I hold neither a degree or warrant. I can offer the average bystander little more than a soapbox and a rickety on at that. Aside from my empathy, they will receive no cash or prizes for appearing in our show. But time and time again, people in precarious positions step before the glass and pour forth their darkest fears. Why? Is it just the chance to be on the Tee-Vee? Or is it just human nature to share perspective, hurl invectives and whisper things into a logo'd lens that they wouldn’t even tell detectives?

Don't ask me. I just drive the truck...

Any Given Live Shot

You know, I've carried more reporters than most parade floats. But try as I might, I can't ever remember knocking one down. It's not that I haven't thought about it. Any photog whose stood off-screen while their on-air partner crashed and burned has fantasized about ending it all. It would be as easy as pulling a plug, I guess, but taking a talking hairdo out at the knees is far more fun to fantasize about. But to actually do it, well, that's something only the network guys get to do. Until now.

Seems the talented staff at KARE 11 in Minneapolis-Saint Paul have a clause in their contracts, some special paragraph that grants them the right to knock a correspondent on their arse whenever the mood suits 'em. At least that's what I gathered after watching one of the most perplexing live shots I've ever seen. And that's a a lot coming from a guy who once convinced Garth Brooks to stick around for a little happy anchor chit-chat. But enough about my life as a faux-cowboy wrangler, let's go to the videotape!

It's a pretty exceptional seventy-some seconds. Lee Valsvik, a nice enough lady who doesn't seem to deserve what's about to befall her, chats happily with her morning show hosts before quizzing someone she identifies as a 'mixologist'.) Personally, I got the heebie-jeebies then and there, as anyone who goes by that title better pack at least two turntables and a microphone.) But music doesn't seem forthcoming as our intrepid reporter soon hands her guest a football and encourages him to hurl it. He complies and that's when the damnedest thing happens...

A figure emerges from behind a table, catches the football and, inexplicably, begins running right for the camera! Problem is, Valsvik is blocking his path and though she seems unaware of the barrier she presents, the mysterious receiver seems totally okay with it. Then, before you can say, "Oh Shit! He's gonna plow right into her!", he plows right. into. her. As hits go, it's pretty spectacular. I could describe it , all right, but it's really the kind of thing you have to see for yourself. Go ahead... I have, like three dozen times!

But no matter how many times I re-rack that point of impact, I cannot for the life of me understand what they were trying to do. Then again, what little I know about football could be etched onto the side of a single Tic-Tac, but that doesn't stop me from thinking this play seemed wiser in the huddle. Now, sources close to the collision tell me the runner in question is a talented photog NOT known for body-checking correspondents. Perhaps, but with a hit like that under his belt, I can't help but wonder if dude didn't inadvertently invent a new sport... 

I'D buy tickets.

Just Screw It

Though I'm still a few weeks away from deciding on a New Year's Resolutions, I'm gonna go ahead and cross organized exercise off the list. After all, my job comes with its very own weight set. And who needs a personal trainer when petulant News Gods send me scampering up overpasses at midnight while wearing mismatched socks? Hell, I already twist, bark and cajole enough per shift to qualify as my very own aerobics instructor. See, I don't need to heave on some imaginary rope to 'feel the burn'. Not when I just pulled five hundred feet of camera cable up a smelly stairwell, all so some dude in a suit could address the allegations room the comfort of his conference room. And what's with that medicine ball? Come at me with that thing and you'll taste the rust of my Leatherman. Maybe then you'll understand that TV news photogs don't train, stretch or warm up. Instead, we curse and bellow while backpedaling down a fire escape with six sworn frenemies and a future felon.

Even DODGING work takes whole muscle groups not found in your average office park. Don't believe me. Let an assignment editor catch sight of me as the police scanner goes ballistic. I'll drop to my fingertips and low-crawl out of there before the ghost of Jack Lalanne can get his house slippers on. How fast I slither away depends on the nature of the call, of course. Explosion at the City Sewer? I'll crawl through a burning Mens Room to avoid that one. Strange flames over Colostomy Peek? I'll be hiding in the ceiling panels, if you need me. County Commissioner take a rival hostage? Let God sort 'em out. The water park's on fire? I gotta see THAT one!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, taking umbrage at the very idea I may wanna pay somebody to make me sweat. Have you seen me in Mid-July. I'm like one of the mutant superhero types whose special powers only make him more of a social outcast. Check and check! Now if you don't mind, I have a bunch of batteries to charge and that's NOT a euphemism for my new hot yoga class. Sooo, for the love of my shattered kneecaps, please refrain from implying I might be more comfortable in a down-dog position. I'm limber enough as it is, mainly from squeezing into cop car cockpits and worming my way out of any shoots involving county commissioners, cadaver dogs or flu clinics. It's there in front of the desk I expend my most energy -- from shrugging at the news of a Presidential pit-stop to shirking my responsibilities as weather video getter. Yet there are times I'm all about ridding my body of toxins... Really, wanna see me drop and squat? Come to a stand-off that last more than six hours...  

You'll never question my metabolism again.

New Year's Spray

"Congratulations, Ma'am! By giving birth in the wee hours of January One, your now the proud parent of the Upper Golden Homeland's First Baby of 2013! Not only do you receive a generous gift basket filled with rubber gloves and talcum powder, you get to be media darling of the day! That's right! At absolutely no cost to you, we're gonna smear pictures of your precious snowflake from the Capitol to the Coast! He'll appear in over the shoulder graphics, stand-alone promos, even those terrible tease thingies where the anchor lady tells you to hang tough through one more hemorrhoid commercial while they cue up video of your blessed event. No, not the ACTUAL event. We swear no cameras were rolling when you held that epidural tech hostage. In fact, we're willing to forget the whole episode with the ice chips and IV tube if you'll just do us a tiny favor...

See, we got three news crews cooling their jets in the lobby. There's not a lot going on in the Upper Golden Homeland today and the fact of the matter is they're not leaving until they score a sit-down interview with a baby that debuted between midnight and their morning shows. We've checked out records and as far as they know, little Junior here is the aforementioned newborn. Soooo, if you'll just sign this release we can have these news losers off the property before our security chief seizes up again. We've already sent our PR guy downstairs, but the most he can stall them is a few minutes so while that's happening could you just put your initials on this paragraph promising you won't sue us should your child attract his own fake Twitter account...

Okay, I'm being told they're in the elevator telling off-color jokes, blocking gurneys and offending visitors. When they get here, look only at the pretty reporter types. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT gaze directly at any of the camera people. They are most likely ravenous, hungover and pulling down double-time on a day like this. Any attempt on your part to encourage conversation with said camera staff will render any future prescription discounts null and void. Trust me, the LAST thing you want to so is spend the next six hours listening to a schlub like that give you parenting tips. I once saw one of those guys pimp his kid out for a 'To Catch a Predator' ad. SHHH! Here they come! Remember -- the baby is beautiful, our patient care is top notch and you DO NOT need any further video services and/or lifestyle advice from men who wear fishing vests to fancy ballroom dinners...

Now, hold the baby and smile."

Squirmin' on the Mount

BACK IN MY DAY we didn't have fancy little lenses strapped to fishing poles! If we wanted to shoot something way up on a mountain we man-hauled a camera the size of a baby grand piano straight up the face of Old Baldie! BOTH WAYS! I'm serious - I once crushed three vertebrae just so Roger Mudd could one-up that Charles Kuralt show-off!

We didn't have those newfangled cell phone transmitters, either! If we wanted a live broadcast, we did it the old fashioned way! With heavy cables, lots of overtimes and enough cigarettes to choke a bus full of orphans! Nor did have those fairy iPhones! We used bulky two-way radios and when we did we used official police ten-codes! THE WAY GOD INTENDED!

And another thing! We didn't dress so damn comfortably! We wore heavily-starched dungarees or action slacks! None of this cargo-pants crap for my generation! Up top we favored an ill-fitting station golf shirt and/or a proper utility vest! You simply can't pack the correct number of back-up camera batteries in a pair of skinny jeans! NOR SHOULD YOU TRY!
 
Oh, while I have you - nix all that infernal twittering! Was a time a grown-ass photog wouldn't be caught dead snapping pictures of his ham sandwich, let alone posting status reports on Faceplate! And what's with all these opinions? YOU'RE A #^@% JOURNALIST! Go grab the facts and leave all that bad tap-dancing to the lady-boys back in the booth!   

You're a man ... ACT LIKE IT! And while I'm on the subject, who let two girls on the set at the same time? I tuned in thinking it was some kind of baking segment and do you know they were discussing something called 'the fiscal cliff'?  I figured it was some new kind of desert topping, but as far as I could tell, they won't even wearing aprons!

Then they pitched it to some little tech news worm and his pants weren't even pleated! For the love of Cronkite's expense report, IS NOTHING SACRED? I remember when a newscaster wouldn't even go on camera without a little Bryl-Creem and a bird bath! I tell you, the lack of respect on display today is enough to make this newscaster spray Boone's farm all over his TRS-80!

And those never ending crawls at the bottom of the screen! WHO WRITES THAT CRAP?  I know Ham radio operators with clearer syntax!  And what the hell's a "hash-tag", anyway!?! Sounds like something those wretched stoners at The Learning Channel would turn into a reality show....

Disclaimer: The preceding rant was the sole opinion of the author and does not in any way reflect the views of The Lenslinger Institute and/or its worldwide subsidiaries. Any POV cam enthusiasts, under-dressed photogs or registered lady-boys who took offense at the aforementioned bile should contact their therapist immediately and demand a full return because let's be honest here: You're reading the mice-type at the bottom of a blog post and feeling pretty smug about it. Consult your physician if self-satisfaction lasts for more than four hours. No portion of the above paragraphs may be reprinted, sung about or etched in peanut butter without the express written permission of the National Football League. All Rights Reserved. Kneel before Zod. It's better to burn out than to fade away....  

Marauders Anonymous

With so many innocent victims to be found in Newtown, Connecticut, I’m not about to pretend The Media is among them. But in the wake of unspeakable tragedy, my profession has suffered a few slings and arrows it does and does not deserve. More on that, later. First though, wanna stop the kind of atrocities that befell Sandy Hook? Unplug that violent video game! Throw down your weapons! Hit your knees and beg that guy in the sky to show mercy on this heartless orb. Maybe then, the clouds will clear and we’ll return to a world where school kids are safe behind brick and mortar. Just don’t look to The Media for answers. We got nothin’ but questions, anyway. Clumsy, ugly, hurtful questions, the kinds of inquiry you can’t imagine asking yourself, but the kind fully expect to see answered in full when you lean into your screen.

It’s an ugly piece of business, one that those of us on the ground would like to do without. But until the moon cracks in half and mankind is left staring slack-jawed at a new kind of eclipse, horrible things are going to happen. When they do, rest assured my kind will be there, breathless, vexed and at the ready. Think what you will of The Fourth Estate, but no one I know wants to be on scene when children die. I myself ain’t exactly the praying type, but even I appealed to my maker when I heard the news. First I thanked him (her?) for keeping my own children safe. Secondly I offered my eternal thanks for keeping this latest piece of savagery far from the place I call home. Selfish? Youbetcha. But the unrelenting scrum that forms around this level of bloodshed is the kind I can only stomach once or twice a lifetime. Virginia Tech was more than enough.

But I’m not here to remove myself from the shadow of Blacksburg. Back then, The Media caught a lot of heat for ghastly tactics and a questionable bedside manner. Of that we were guilty and maybe more but it’s hard to keep score when Geraldo is running loose. Me, I kept my nose relatively clean - but grab-ass just naturally breaks out at the sat truck farm and if I can be convicted of anything, it’s enjoying my work too much. One thing I don’t enjoy is traumatizing kids. l got two of my own and while they’re not so little anymore, I remember when they were. Hurting even the feelings of a youngster still in shock and ain’t exactly on my bucket list and neither is defending that action to any half-mad Dads. But while much has been made of news crews interviewing kids in the minutes (and hours) following the massacre, I just can’t grab a pitchfork this time. Had I been cursed enough to be on scene, there’s not a doubt in my mind I’d have quizzed any one who would have offered my lens even half an explanation.

That make it right? Probably not. But an effective press is an energetic one and even a nat-pack slacker like myself knows enough to shoot first and review the tape later. Considering all the misinformation that flowed out of Connecticut last Friday, a little more review may be in order. Don’t hold your breath, though. In a time when lies and misconceptions hosts their own Twitter accounts before the Truth can clear its throat, urgency trumps analysis. Now that very idea of a deadline is growing quaint, you can look for assumptions and conjecture to be passed as fact. Just don’t think The Media pack was enjoying itself that day. Many of us have kids of our own and most of us still know how to feel. Quizzing strangers of any age about the very worst day of their life ain’t the way we want to spend our day and even with their parent’s permission, grilling children about things they’d be better off forgetting is fraught with peril for all involved and never, never easy.

 I’m guessing nothing in Newtown was easy that day.

Pass the Mic

FAR BE IT FROM ME to pop out a plastic fern and pin a microphone to your smock, but I couldn't help but notice you were getting your hair did! Which is quite the cowinky-dink since I’m doing a story on that very thing for our late breaking action packed newscast! Ya know, childhood hairstyles has been issue I’ve been pondering every since my assignment editor shoved a crumpled print-out of an e-mail the night guy saved into my Cheeto-stained fingertips about thirty minutes ago! Now, I know what you’re thinking: What’s a fella with a feathery melon like me know about haircare? Nothing a thirty year old can of mousse crust wouldn’t fluff up, I assure you! But from all that I gathered after reading some press release during that last long stoplight, pubescent grooming is first and foremost on the minds of men and women age 18-49! That may make precious little sense to a young lady like yourself, but I can assure you that someday when you grow up and are lucky enough to get a job you used to want that there will come a time when one of your many bosses will come up with some cockamamie idea that will instantly become your own personal manifest destiny. Manifest Destiny, that’s old school for ‘you gotta pick up ALL the socks in the rec room before you can even expect to watch Sponge-Bob or Breaking Bad or whatever the kids today zone out in front of just for fun’. Hey, speaking of television, do you ever watch the news? I don’t but I have it on very good authority that every night around 6:08 those pretty people run out of bad things to talk about and suddenly wanna sell some soap. Once that’s over, they’re usually in the mood to tease the weatherman but not before chortling over some banal piece of videotape featuring cute kids, old folks or woodchucks in tuxedos. Well, today you’re the woodchuck and back in the live truck I got some ruffle-fronted monkey suits that are gonna be all the rage once your friends see you sporting one between weather and sports! That is if your friends watched the news! Chances are they don’t! But see back in the say there were only a few buttons on the remote control and even those were hard-wired to the back to TV sets the size of bank vaults! Back then, we’d trudged halfway across the room to just to find out what some other uncle looking fellow had to say about hog futures! Most times it was the exact same thing the only other two guys on at that time had to say so very often we’d do the unthinkable and turn the TV OFF! Yeah, no kidding! I once spent a whole summer outside! Over the course of two months I watched only about three fifths of a Mork and Mindy episode and that was without ever realizing that Robin Williams was jacked out of his gourd on the kind of stuff that could make a grown man stay up all night talking to the kind of people he wouldn’t even look at in the light of day, but, HEY - How I spent the better part of that one lost summer isn’t important right now! What IS important is that I get your inner most feelings on the role of personal aesthetics in the post millennial renaissance. Now, I now that’s a mouthful, but we’re getting paid by the syllable here so if you don’t mind, just say and spell your first and last na-- What’s that? ... You don’t want to be on camera?

Never mind.