A Brief But Needed Reprieve...

Asleep at the Wheel

‘Hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror’. I’ve heard variations of this quote used to describe everything from combat to flying to accounting, but it could be equally applied to TV news (though you’d probably have to replace ‘terror’ with adrenaline, frustration or dread, depending on the assignment). Take today, for instance: After cruising the mean streets of Burlington in a live truck, Jeff Varner and I parked our rolling billboard alongside a row of half-finished houses. Given the choice, we would have made a bee-line for the air conditioned confines of the station, but the suits back at the shop wanted our ‘ex-textile employees turned construction worker’ story fronted LIVE(!), so we settled on a burgeoning neighborhood outside the lovely town of Elon as a suitable backdrop.

Of course, show-time was a good four hours away, which was damn convenient since there was an awful lot of work to do before the director could punch up our shot. After polishing off a most delicious milkshake, Jeff crawled in the back of the truck and began reviewing the footage we shot before lunch. As he culled coherence from a disc of jumbled images, I exited the vehicle and ‘got my photog on‘. Triple-checking the airspace above the truck for any potentially deadly power lines, I raised the mast and set up my camera while the telescopic pole slowly inched upward. By the time it reached its full height of fifty-something feet, my mobile studio was ready. After pointing the dish toward the nearest receive site, I called an engineer back at the station and quickly established the shot. With all my immediate duties fulfilled, I did what any self respecting news shooter would do: I crawled back into the A/C and caught some shut-eye.

Utilizing the awesome power-napping skills I once honed in the Navy, I reached a passable state of driver seat slumber within mere moments of settling in. As I dozed, the sound of interviews recorded an hour earlier wafted into the front of the cabin, providing an unlikely soundtrack to my erstwhile dreams. Behind my eyelids a familiar scenario unfurled: A crowded bookstore appears before me, eager patrons fighting for space amid a jumble of folding chairs. Each member of the overly attractive crowd holds a glossy hardback bearing the title ‘Viewfinder BLUES’. Spontaneous applause breaks out as I take the podium. Scanning the crowd, I take special note of the C-Span 2 camera staring back at me. In the lens’ reflection, a version of me stares back, teeth whiter, jaw squarer, clothes better fitting. As I begin speaking in a voice far deeper than my own, the weirdly telegenic crowd leans forward in anticipation of my unquestionable brilliance.

I go on for what feels like hours, but the pretty listeners never seem to tire of my anecdotes. Instead they lean forward in their seats, squirming with satisfaction and unbridled glee. Even the C-Span cameraman at the back of the room appears enthralled, totally immersed in whatever I have to say. As I speak, a scuffle breaks out among a group of Hooters waitresses as they fight to be the first to approach the Q&A microphone. I simply smile, revealing impossibly deep dream-dimples. Sensing the time is right to take a few adoring questions, I defer to the leggy blonde who won the hard-fought battle to be the first to bathe in my puffed-up prose. Tossing her golden mane back, the Jessica Simpson look-alike parts her pouty lips and summons the nerve to address the genius author in her midst...

“Dude, Keith’s on the phone. He wants to know if you can work mornings next week...”

Suddenly the crowded bookstore, the breathy bimbo and the C-Span camera are gone. In their place, the dashboard mast control panel stares back indifferently. Looking to my right, I saw Jeff’s fist thrusting my own battered cell phone in my direction. I took the phone, and listened to my chief photographer’s British accent. As he spoke, I notice the dashboard clock had traveled a full three minutes since I first fell asleep behind the wheel. After hanging up the phone, I leaned back in the seat in hopes the dream I’ve dreamt a thousand times before would once again reappear, but of course it didn’t.

I hate when that happens.

Schmuck Watch: Kenny Gets Off

Just when I thought I had nothing to blog about today, an arbitrator reinstated camera-hating goon Kenny Rogers to the hallowed halls of professional baseball. Apparently some dolt by the name of Shyam Das felt sorry for the pampered millionaire and ended his 20 game suspension. Rogers will return to the Rangers for Wednesday night's game at Boston, and his $50,000 fine will be converted to a charitable contribution, no doubt so the grossly overpayed pitcher can write it off on his taxes.

For those who don't know, Kenny Rogers threw a world-class tantrum back on June 29th, inexplicably wrestling a camera off KDFW photog Larry Rodriguez's shoulder, throwing it to the ground and kicking it for no discernible reason. In doing so, Rogers further tarnished an already troubled pastime, sullied the name of a hirsute country music singer and forever earned the wrath of the photog nation.

MLB commissioner Bud Selig, who initially threw the book at Rogers, was equally aghast at today's decision:

"There is a standard of behavior that is expected of our players, which was breached in this case. The arbitrator's decision diminishes that standard and is contrary to the terms of the collective bargaining agreement. In my opinion, the decision is seriously ill-conceived," he said.

Ill-conceived, indeed. It's beyond pathetic that a swaggering athlete can openly assault anyone he damn well pleases, only to be coddled by the leaders of the institution he so openly defaces. Were I ever a fan of the sport to begin with, that would now promptly change. Instead I'll continue to badmouth Major League Baseball and villify Rogers at every juncture. Schmuck.

Media No More? Maybe...

We are headed into the post-media age...or so claims Jeff Jarvis in an intriguing article on where all this over-communication is taking us. In it, the well-known blogger contends that the internet isn’t merely a new form of medium, but rather a whole different beast altogether. To make his point, Jarvis points to the interweb’s most striking feature - the ability to enable conversation. No other ‘medium’ allows the kind of two way interaction inherent on-line. Books, magazines, newspapers and newscasts - they’re all tricked-up versions of one-way communication. Now, with readily-accessible and user-friendly software, Al Gore’s prized invention is reaching its potential. For now we call it the blogosphere, a swirling mass of self-made web pages that grows larger and more dense with every passing moment. Whether or not this roiling cloudbank of vibrant voices and cyber-clutter will ever coalesce remains to be seen, but as Jarvis notes, it ain’t blowin’ over anytime soon.

Transparency… open-source… distributed data… aggregation… search… links… All of these enable the conversation. None of these are characteristics of media as we have known them.

On this we agree, though I contend we’ll still consider the internet and blogs part of the media - at least until we come with a better name for it. (Think the term ’blog’ is lame? I got two stupid words for ya: Information Superhighway.) Jarvis’ larger point could be summed up thusly: Blogs and the modern internet have just started changing everything about the way we communicate. To chalk it up as merely a new wing of the media is grossly underselling it. It’s like describing the Space Shuttle as just another form of transportation.

Jarvis goes even further by pulling the coroner’s sheet back to reveal one of the first victims of this communications overhaul: the novel. Relax, no one’s claiming the Age of Fiction is over, but it’s safe to say that modern day literature doesn’t pack the punch that it used to. Whereas the Great Unwashed once looked to fabricated stories to expose certain truths of the universe, these days we merely twitch a fingertip for more current event coverage and global analysis than we once thought possible. I’m not saying books, movies and other works of art will cease to exist, but I don’t think they’ll ever hold the general populace as completely enrapt as they did say, oh…back when the movie ‘Titanic’ came out. As for books in general, Jarvis makes his most startling admission:

Weblogs have also had an impact on my view of books. Since I started writing this weblog a week after 9.11 and since I became addicted to reading the weblogs of so many good writers in this fairly new medium, I find that I have less patience for authors in the oldest medium. I get impatient with books that drag themselves out to justify book length and the book deal…

Ouch. I don’t know Jarvis but I can assure you this latest divulgence didn’t come without a little pain. Successful writers like Jarvis (and struggling schlubs like myself) worship books, we dissect them word for word, hold them under late night lamplight and marvel at their power. I type this now from a spare bedroom filled to the ceiling with tomes and chronicles, leather-bound editions and tattered paperbacks that I count among my most prized possessions. Ever since my mother taught me how to make thoughts out of carefully-aligned letters, I’ve been addicted to the written word. As a young kid devoid of the athleticism my small-minded peers demanded of me, books were very often the only ally I had. To this day, I lay awake in the early morning darkness and fantasize about my name on a book. I always have and I always will.

But I’d be lying if I said I read books like I used to. Whereas I use to pour through novels at a frightening pace, I haven’t read two consecutive works of fiction in years. Instead I’ve spent the last decade or so devouring TRUE stories, from too damn many How-to-Write manuals to all those salacious tell-alls to my beloved collection of nautical history. I made the switch to non-fiction merely because its what interested me, though I suspect I was subconsciously trying to make up for my lack of formal edumacation. Whatever the reason, it’s more than a little startling to watch pundits and the like embrace my particular proclivities. If I didn’t know better, I ‘d think I was a little ahead of my time- a literary visionary with eyes and mind intensely focused ten years down the road. But that would be silly, for I am just a photog - albeit one who knows a great article and a few undeniable truths when he sees them.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more pages left of William Queen’s most enthralling ‘Under and Alone’ - a soon-to-be-filmed true account of a local lawman’s immersion into the world of the notorious Mongols’ Motorcycle Gang. Perhaps if we’re lucky, they’ll make a blog about it...

Thrift Store Reconnaissance

We split up as we entered the building. Ditching the sticks by the check-out counter, I headed to the back of the crowded store, leaving Charles to chat up the manager. Only a few shoppers noticed the bearded man with the fancy-cam gliding down aisle five. Most just shuffled behind battered shopping carts, staring fixedly at row after row of hand-me-down clothes and second hand doodads. North Carolina’s annual tax-free weekend was only a few hours old, but the feeding frenzy was well underway. Customers with wildly divergent checking accounts wandered High Point’s newest Goodwill Store, making it fertile waters for our particular mission. As Charles broke away from the manager and pretended to be interested in a wall of used coffee makers, I melted into the background of assorted knit tops and distracted housewives.

Or so I tried. It’s hard to be low key with Sony’s latest battle-axe on your shoulder. Still, I gave it my best 'camera mannequin' there by the pantyhose display, avoiding any real eye-contact with the slow parade of plodding bargain zombies. I was doing pretty well when a gaggle of over-perfumed Soccer Moms came by. Feigning disgust at my logo’d lens, they rolled their eyes in bejeweled repulsion. Apparently horrified at the thought of being filmed in a house of discount, they hurried by, hiding their faces behind designer purses. I let them pass unrecorded but watched them go, committing their forms to memory. As I did, two young girls with w-a-y too much midriff bared sauntered past before bursting into gum-smacking cackles. Next up, a leathery man in an old school pimp hat strutted past, flashing a knowing grin of gold teeth and mumbling something about ’Westside’. I was still processing the man’s intent when Charles’ voice poured out of the headphones permanently wrapped around my neck.

“You must be shopping for school supplies...” he said. Scanning the store, I spotted him across the brightly-lit selling floor, cornering a women and her three kid by a sagging display of faded book bags. Through the tiny speakers, I heard the women giggle like a school girl at the licensed meteorologist’s small talk. Leaving my post by the control-tops. I swam upstream through a stream of golden-hearted grandmothers and aimless miscreants. By the time Charles’ victim began answering his queries regarding her purchases, an unblinking square lens hood appeared over his shoulder. Her eyebrows arched a little but she kept talking as I leaned in on the chit-chat. Glancing down, she noticed the gleaming black microphone in Charles‘ outstretched hand. Without every agreeing to an interview, she chuckled when she found herself in the middle of one. As she expounded on the challenges of fashion on a budget, I watched the red light and thought about free pizza.

And so it went for the next half hour: Charles striking up conversations with those who looked talkative while I ‘moved through the room like an ambulance driver‘. Through-out our many inquisitions, no great camera work was committed and no new journalistic ground uncovered. But we plied our trade handily enough; as we filled my camera’s disc-space with the interviews we needed for the piece that was due to air in a few hours, I found myself admiring Charles Ewing’s patent low-tech approach. Anybody can bag man-on-the street sound, but some correspondents make it a heck of a lot more difficult than it has to be. His utter lack of histrionics made this simple mission as easy as it should always be - which is damn nice when there’s free grub waiting back at the station. After a half dozen more impromptu Q&A’s, Chuck signaled he had enough and turned toward the door. “You go ahead,” I told him as I eyed the clutch of Soccer Moms across the room, sorting through a box of ratty flip-flops and sneering loudly like the well-heeled shrews they were, “I’ll be out in a minute...”

Live Truck Rollover

Via b-roll, a scary sight from Denver where a reporter driving a KWGN live truck lost control of the top-heavy vehicle. How the red pick-up came to rest in the TV truck's windshield is unexplained, but the resulting image is enough to make me slow down when piloting these notoriously unwieldy beasts.The engineers at my shop do their best to maintain our ENG fleet, but tight deadlines, extreme conditions and just a little bit of adrenaline can make for bad trouble when behind the wheel. It's one of the many reasons I try to avoid them altogether, not just because they make me late for dinner.

In this case, a reporter was driving with an intern riding shotgun, delivering the live truck to a photographer at a working a grass fire. It's not the ideal approach to a breaking scene, but I've certainly orchestrated similar in the name of spot news. Not surprisingly, the reporter, intern and other driver were immediately transported to the nearest hospital. Luckily, no one was killed. I'm just hoping for everyone's sake, it wasn't the reporter's first time behind the wheel of a live truck, as no one should take the helm of these rolling billboards without at least a little orientation. Look Up and Live.

And the Media Splintered...

I have a confession to make: I rarely watch TV news. You wouldn’t either if you spent the whole day churning out the damn stuff. Or maybe you would. I have co-workers who never miss a newscast, bouncing from station to station to see who got what when and where. Not me. Between the demands of my young family and the chronic laptop addiction, I find I have very little time for the neighborhood logo parade once my brain is off the clock. That’s not to say there isn’t material worth my viewing. Wedged betwixt all that tripe and banality, a smattering of viable storytelling is readily available for my evening consumption. I just rarely have the appetite anymore.

It’s the same with the paper. A fresh copy of the N&R hits my driveway before dawn every day, but I can barely manage a cursory swipe of the headlines before relegating all that hard-earned journalism to the laundry room recycling pile. Since I jockey for position with local newspaper photogs, I do make it a point to admire the work of the many stills-shooters I run into in the field (the nicest of which is hands-down Nelson Kepley). More often than not the front page offers photographic evidence of an assignment I covered twenty-four hours earlier or an article foreshadowing something I’ll soon point a camera at myself. For those reasons, I have only the slightest flirtation with the local rag - er, newspaper.

Still, this isn’t a hit piece on the local media. For the record, I recommend everyone read their daily newspaper from beginning to end, but only after a hefty regiment of locally produced broadcast news (exclusively on station’s with names that end in “8“). No, my beef with the Fourth Estate is mainly one of convenience, or rather the lack thereof. As loyal as I try to be, it’s hard to rely on my remote control (buried in a couch-cushion) or my home-delivered newsprint (scattered across three rooms) to keep me informed when I can reach over to the nearest mouse and fill a screen with highly customizable, up to the second, text-heavy and picture-rich coverage that more resembles an encyclopedia than a daily digest.

It doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to determine which form of media will attract the most modern day-eyeballs; even this undereducated lenslinger figured it out. For a couple of years now, I’ve thought about this great splintering of formats and wondered what effect it will have on my job, as well as my children’s world. I’m no oracle, but I bet when my daughters are grown, leafing through a newspaper or waiting on a newscast will seem as archaic as those shimmering daguerreotypes from photography’s infancy feel today. But this seismic shift in the way we digest news has less to do with the way current events will be captured and a lot more to do with they way they’re delivered. Though I have long wrestled with these inevitabilities, I’ve yet to have a name to wrap around the concept - until now, thanks to a visionary article by Eric Deggans of the St. Petersburg times.

In it, Deggans discusses the not-so-new trend of ‘news-grazing’- a practice in which the news consumer culls bits and pieces of interesting data from the global smorgasbord of information available 24/7. In his own words:

"Today's media consumers increasingly expect an on-demand universe, where podcasts enable commuters to download audio versions of newspaper headlines and video on-demand services allow digital cable TV subscribers to see missed episodes of their favorite series at any time. It's as if we spent 80 years assembling the largest mass audience in the history of the world, only to spend the next 20 years taking it all apart again."

Deggans’ article also examines the implications of all this isolated news intake, and ponders what effect it may have on society as a whole. After all, how will people of differing stripes and persuasions get along when we lack the common viewpoints provided by a mainstream media? As for me, I’ll be okay. I have a feeling there will always be a demand for the skilled image procurer, whether the finished product appears on a nightly newscast, cell-phone, Blackberry or a yet-to-be-invented eyelid chip. Either way, I’ll probably be squinting through a viewfinder well into the future - or at least until we bloggers figure out how to get rich off our midnight ramblings. Wish us luck.

(A dip of the lens to Neill McNeill for first bringing this article to my attention and suggesting I write about it. That’s twice now in the past week that my main anchor has orchestrated a particular dissertation for my humble site. If I didn’t know better, I’d count him among my half dozen faithful readers. Also, check out Greensboro News and Record Editor John Robinson’s blog for an honest take on what all this media convergence and audience splintering means to the newspaper business. A fascinating take from the other side of the fence...)