Beak to Geek

Every once in a while, something unexpected wanders into frame and drains the moat around my soul. It usually happens at soldier homecomings, Special Olympics or certain City Council meetings. Okay, so I'm lying about that last one, but the fact is we TV stevedores ARE occasionally capable of human emotion (like those conflicted cyborgs of Science Fiction, who bring civilization to a grinding halt with their incessant meddling). Lately, I've strained in vain to keep my pathos under wraps. What can I tell ya - parts of my life continue to suck. But since I hold no patent on that predicament, I choose to lose myself within the lens. That I do, puttering around the eye-cup like some creepy lighthouse keeper.

Then along came Brenton.

A seabird of some distinction, Brenton met me at the back door of the Greensboro Science Center's new penguin exhibit. Unlike the rest of her colony, Brenton wasn't as interested in the bucket of fish as she was the cameraman who came with it. I was flattered, if not a little weirded out, at the creature's curiosity. Like a cat, she rubbed against my ankles, then stopped to stare up into my eyes like a homeless Basset Hound. So I returned the favor, twisting the macro ring on my lens until my new girlfriend snapped into focus. Brenton didn't flinch. Instead she met my gaze with deep black eyes that seemed to flicker with wisdom. Chances are she was checking her reflection, but as we stared across the great divide, the glacial malaise of these last six months melted away and for just a moment the present felt better than the past. That's when I heard someone laughing and realized it was me.

Don't worry, though. I'm sure the feeling will pass.

Dreck at Eleven

News crews have it rough. They're overworked, underpaid and labor under a false sense of relevance. All of which makes me very reluctant to ridicule them - even from afar. After all, I'M one of them and when it comes to putting dodgy content on the air, there is blood on my hands as well. But never in my rashest hour have I foisted the kind of foolishness willingly broadcast by certain employees of WJAR-10-NBC in Providence, Rhode Island. Perhaps you've seen it: A young reporter caps off her live shot on a bear attack with a few helpful attempts on how to stave off a similar incident. What followed was an abomination. The reporter (we'll call her Julie Tremmel) cavorts, overacts and generally displays behavior better suited for a game of stoner charades than an actual newscast. While not privy to the logic behind this ill-advised addendum, I do believe I recognize the the sordid core of this report. Sooo, at the risk of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy (I prefer 'curmudgeon') I'd like to offer some unsolicited advice, First, though, some background:

For as long as I have hoisted a lens, local TV stations have done their best to drive themselves out of existence. The sins of the fathers have many. Vacuous ass-hats and admitted degenerates have always gravitated toward our field. Long before early engineers knitted the first color patterns from stolen Indian blankets, folks who couldn't make it in the real world have found solace and acceptance underneath our heavily-logoed tent. This is nothing new. What is new(ish) is our industry's insistence on hearing the cheap, the young and the inexperienced. Major market shops that used to hand pick journeyman staffers now fill their newsrooms with folks barely out of college. Considering the salaries they offer, this only makes sense. But the corner-office crowd has thrown the baby out with the bathwater, replacing exiting veterans with a generation of journalists whose sum life experience comes from binge watching Jersey Shore.

Don't get me wrong. I work with plenty of young reporters who strive for nuance and intelligence in their work. But I know many more whose idea of a sound journalistic skill-set is a stack of glossy head-shots, some far flung agent and a wardrobe they really can't afford. It is these pretenders I'd like next to address...

ATTENTION YOUNG BROADCASTERS: You have dedicated your days to an industry in decline. What used to be considered a vibrant signal of society is now just so much noise. Loyal viewers are dying off by the hearse-load and they're not being replaced. Your Mother may be impressed at seeing little her baby on the tee-vee, but the rest of the nation considers your ilk somewhere between tax collector and pedophile. By no means is this your fault. Generations of buffoons before have long ago paved this road to irrelevance with ego, affectation and hard hitting reports on how this washcloth could kill you(!). But while you're not totally responsible for broadcasting's prolonged demise, you did willingly jump aboard this listing ship. If you have any hope of treading water, let alone lap your competition, you must remember this:

Credibility is key. People at home and on the street already assume you're a preening idiot. Most many of you are not. If you plan to stay employed, or at the very least parlay your regional fame into a sweet P.R. gig, you must bleed validity. You must project (and protect) personal integrity with the zealotry of an suicide bomber. Sure, acting foolish on the air may land you on Letterman's couch, but it probably won't land your insipid mug on any hometown billboards. Wanna go viral? Skip the condom next time you hook up with some drunken Millennial. Otherwise you're best hope of becoming a web sensation lies in the people you interview. Let some hapless sap or idling baby-mama turn soundbites into passing catch-phrases. Your job is to play the straight man (or woman). Wanna perpetrate something stupid to ping-pong around the internet?

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Slingin' in the Rain

Up next on our runway, young Dustin Etheridge in a whip-smart ensemble that just screams professional regret! With his cherry red slicker and musty black trousers, this is one broadcaster who knows how to make a splash! Whether he's grilling a tipsy Senator, accosting shoppers outside his least favorite Wal-Mart or just plain dumpster-diving under heavy deadline, Dustin dazzles with a minimum of chafing! And those shoes! Sensible yet sassy, you'd never guess they spend most of their time buried in the floorboard of a nameless news unit. Which is exactly where you'll find this  strapping glass-handler - once he's fended off the affections of fans, a family of geese and that homeless woman with the Last Supper tattooed on her throat! Is it any wonder so many TV News types ape his trademark look (and smell)? Yes, the next time you're fleeing the island for higher ground, drop by that shabby hotel where the sat trucks gather and soak in the sartorial splendor! Oversized logo's, wrinkles that stink and enough ill-advised head-wear to make a once proud milliner slit his wrist! But you don't have to commit to a life of late shifts and dollar menu items to capture this look! Simply troll the discount bin at your local sporting goods store, stash what you score in a forgotten gym bag and you'll be dressed to impress the next time the News Gods take a dump on the Fourth Estate!

At least until Cantore shows up... Dude goes nowhere without a trunk full of windbreakers and shoe-lifts.

There Doze My Hero...

Faster than a crashing newscast, more powerful than an intern's optimism, able to stretch a single fender bender into thirty seconds of forgettable television. Look! Over there! It’s ... it's ... some poor camera dude struggling to stay awake. But take no pity on this mere mortal, for he's folded time on a daily basis, made sitting Presidents sweat and poked a thousand holes in the sky. We won't even talk about all the pretty people he's rescued.

Posing as Rex, a mild-mannered cameraman, our hero plods through his day without the benefit of tights and a cape (though his utility belt would make Aqua-Man sink). Instead, he fights for truth, justice and a decent lunch -- all while taken for a catatonic commoner. But don't fall for all the yawning. Beneath the surface, this unlikely everyman is bristling with super-kinetic energy, knowing at any time his Metropolis could fall victim to plague, pestilence or a six-part series on airport bathrooms that no one this side of Krypton wants to watch.  

So take heed, miscreants! Should you be unlucky enough to stumble across this protector of the electorate, don't even nod in his direction. Otherwise, he'll pounce like a half-mad jungle cat, use his near X-ray vision to see your weakness and cast its reflection to the heavens and beyond. Before you know it, you'll be trapped in a satellite shot, explaining your own secret identity to the likes of Anderson Cooper.  

Nobody wants that. We'd rather watch the airport bathroom thingie.

Jaws of Life

Here's something I picked up on the side of the road: perspective. For years I didn't notice it, lying there among the bits of windshield and broken chrome. Too lost in youthful stupor, I never appreciated how the shadow I cast on that glittering asphalt had all its limbs attached. It just didn't seem important then. I'd bebop up to a jack-knifed semi, crack wise to anyone who would listen and grow impatient if the trooper didn't make a beeline to my microphone. But an unfunny thing happened on the way to jerkdom. I grew up, one ghastly accident at a time. The sound of a second grader wailing in pain will do that to a fella. So will watching a soccer mom take a helicopter ride moments after she made the last wrong turn of her life. All that chopper-wash won't just chip your lens. It'll ding your soul if you're not paying attention. Next thing you know, you're skulking through your shift with a pockmarked conscious, an unseemly beast who's happiest tapping his foot in the breakdown lane. Don't be that guy (or even that girl). Let the house-cats back in the newsroom high-five over the head-on collision. Your job is to gather the facts, harvest the verve and be a decent human being. Anything less is just bad customer service.   

And we need all the customers we can get.

It's Not Over...

Should ever you get the chance, I highly recommend securing a neighborhood rock star. We here in the Piedmont have been blessed with the presence of one Chris Daughtry, who turned a celebrated stint on a certain reality show into a viable career as the modern day Bon Jovi. In fact, I'm thinking of naming him the Official Recording Artist of Viewfinder BLUES. (Hey, no OTHER globally known vocalist stops his sound-check to ask me about my blog. I'm looking at you Jack White!) Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yeah, the bald guy with the blistering pipes. Shannon Smith and I first met Chris shortly before American Idol made him into a household name. Suddenly, the dude who used to write up service orders at the local Honda dealership was silencing his own idols with weapons-grade swagger and propulsive vocals. Not bad work if you can get it.

These days, Chris doesn't need a news crew to get him some press, but he still throws us locals a bone whenever he can. Such was the case yesterday, when Shannon and I met the band at the Greensboro Coliseum, where rehearsals for a new tour were winding down. That's where we pulled up a couple of equipment cases and got down to the business of interviewing the local boy done very, very good. Shannon did most of the heavy lifting; I just huddled behind the camera and tried not to yell "Freebird!" That became even tougher a few minutes later, when I joined Chris and his crew onstage for a bracing round of 'Let's deafen the cameraman'! That they nearly did, though I'm always up for a little hearing loss whenever the Daughtry gang wants to bring the thunder.

THUN-DA!

Sorry, my frontal lobe's been spewing out classic rawk standards ever since Daughtry singed my eyebrows with his blowtorch of a throat. And that was before he showed me his six page spread in this month's Muscle and Fitness Magazine. (Dude, put a shirt on!) And while you're at it, Chris, remember what I said about recording a cover of 'Tie Your Mother Down.' Not only would you do Freddy Mercury proud, but you'd turn a new generation onto the early Queen canon...

I even know a guy who'd shoot the video... Cheap!

Suddenly Stew

It's not you. It's me. I'm the one who left you here, wondering why the web's wordiest camera nerd suddenly went so silent. Okay, so maybe you weren't wondering, but the fact is my dedication to this once sacred space has withered beyond words. Why? Well, I fell on black days. The details of such don't belong on a blog best known for 'Schmuck Alerts', but I feel strangely compelled to let my few remaining readers in on why I went away. Several months ago, the Missus and I began to experience 'Technical Difficulties' and as a result, I nearly came unplugged. I'm a little better now, but we are far from well. In fact, we no longer share the same address. The rest is, how do you say, none of your business.

Just know that your friendly neighborhood lenslinger has been shaken to the core and, after months of introspection, has decided to stop referring to himself in the third person. So bear with me as I pull myself out of this thickening morass and get back to kicking ass. Once upon a time, sharing my thoughts here felt like a blessing. In the past year, it's turned into a curse. I'm reminded of a moment I shared with best-selling author Jerry Bledsoe many years ago. A local celebrity of sorts, the highly successful crime writer read Greensboro's many blogs and hated most of them. To me, he was more generous. "You're a pretty good writer, Stewart." he said. "Expect it to bring you years of misery." I chuckled nervously at the remark, not really understanding what the old man meant. Truth is, I still don't. But as my life zigs where I thought it would zag, I can't help but remember that day. Whether it brought me misery or bliss, I don't think Jerry would have wanted me to stop writing.

So I'm not. Gonna stop. Writing. To continue doing so would be to further deny my DNA. For better or worse, it's just the way my brain works. And frankly, I'm tired of apologizing for that fact. Thus, I hereby declare this once vibrant site newly open for business. With more than a little effort, I can work up the momentum to deliver on it's original promise: 'Pithy Epistles from the Thinking Man's Photog'. Of that, I'm quite capable - once I pry my head out of the proverbial oven. As for my sucking chest wound, let's just ignore it, shall we? Spare me the marital advice, the Bible verses and the elastic maxims. Do that for me and I'll try to keep the woeful bales to a minimum. After all, that's not what you come here for...

When you come here at all.