His name is Wesley Hopkins, but I’ll always think of him as the Marlboro Man. Not because he smoked (he didn’t), but because of the careworn creases in his cheek, the no-nonsense cowboy hat and gravely, matter-of-fact demeanor. It took me the better part of an hour to reach the sprawling acres of Southwest Randolph County he called home, but within seconds of shaking Mr. Hopkins leathery hand, I knew it was worth the trip. Before I could even crawl out of my news unit, the veteran rancher began pointing out facets of his compound previously unnoticed. The split rail fence in the distance, the thatch of junipers over there, the stone inlay of a winding walking path - all carefully constructed by the 65 year old grandfather using his grade school education and his complete mastery of the rolling, wooded land. As the old chap showed me a small but beautiful chapel he built from the parts of a storm-damaged church, I smiled and nodded - thinking how it took me all weekend to organize my garage.
But I hadn’t traveled so out of my way to compare job-jars; I was there on business. Mr. Hopkins knew it too and agreed to ride with me to the pasture where the dreadful thing happened. A half mile from his modest house, this land-rich patriarch pointed me to a narrow, rutted path. He made grandfatherly small talk as I steered the Ford Explorer around the deep impressions in the gravel. Right around the middle of nowhere, Mr. Hopkins motioned for me to stop, hopped out rather spry-like for a man of his vintage, and unfastened a drooping metal rope from a post the size of a flag pole. Before I could tell him my citified SUV was only two -wheel drive, the grizzled landsman pointed to a ridge across a grassy field. Glancing down at the fuel gage needle as slipped below the bright shining ‘E”, I picked a path through the tire-high grass of the sloping terrain and hoped I had enough juice to get back to the nearest gas station - wherever the hell that might be.
From the top of the grassy ridge I could make out the silhouettes of a couple dozen black cows against the meadow. They took in my presence with their usual languor, but the sight of the man in the cowboy hat caused their heads to bob and their moos to thicken. As the herd began sauntering over in hopes of something to eat, Hopkins pointed to a spot of land near an electric fence. “We found him right here...”
With little to no emotion, the old farmer told me of hearing tires screech just after dusk on Saturday, of checking on his 250 head of cattle, of finding a black angus bull shot through the heart with a bow and arrow. “I ‘spect it was hunters. They problem hunted all day and just wanted to kill something.” The bull in question was long gone, buried by Hopkins and his Bobcat the day before. Sheriff deputies had recovered the arrow and too it away to dust for prints. All I was left to shoot were the remaining cows, a beautiful rolling pasture and a taciturn landsman.
While I framed up shots and hit the ‘Record’ button, Hopkins pointed out more features of the land. Every stump, rock and patch of trees had a back story - a hard-earned tale of sweat, labor and innovation. Where as I looked around and saw an inert meadow, Hopkins saw the breathing living components of a lifetime of labor. That impressed me and I told him so. He laughed as I remarked how all his efforts put a younger man like me to shame. Then he really looked at me for the first time, taking in my battered tripod, tropical shirt, my logo’d news unit idling in the background. “Man, ride around, take pictures all day...you ain’t got NOTHIN’ to do…”
So true.
And so begins the first of 
Between the half dozen reporter-voiced ’packages’ in your average newscast is a plethora of what we in the biz know as Vo-Sots. Allow me to elaborate. VO stands for Video, in this case 40 seconds or so of highly edited footage designed to run ‘under’ an anchor’s off-camera voice. This is followed by a Sot, or Sound On Tape, better known as a sound-bite. You know, those talking heads you see being interviewed on the evening news; the parade of grimacing faces that appear on the magic box in the corner of your living room right around dinnertime. TV News, it‘s called. Perhaps you’ve heard about it. 
If not, congratulate yourself. Otherwise, stop pretending like you don’t know what a VoSot is, because it’s definitely gonna be on the test. Not just the structural breakdown of said line-up item, but the actual procurement of said species, for this is where the real learning begins. I have discovered more cosmic truths about the planet on the seemingly endless itinerary of this pointless pursuit than from any college syllabus. Then again, I never got very far past the syllabus, choosing instead to frequent the parking lot the for the very finest in whatever illicit bent was currently in season. It wasn’t long before I traded a half-hearted stab at academia form a job selling cars, a career I was so miserable at that I quickly abandoned it for the quixotic occupation of TV news-gatherer. That, my friend, is desperate.
Still, I took to the oddball crew of electronic town-criers like the aimless drifter I was. After I proved my mastery of the mid-seventies technology rusting in the studio, I shuffled through a few other in-house gigs, but always with my eye on the open road. Production vans were my first modes of transportation, but they only took to me to the used car lots and rich lady dress shops of the cheesy local commercial circuit. What I really yearned to pilot was a flashy news unit, lacquered to the gills with updated logos and bristling with the crackle of multiple scanner traffic. I’d watch the painted Blazers, low-rider station-wagons and newfangled SUV’s rumble out of the lot ever morning as I polished light bulbs in the back of my faded white Ford Aerostar. Oh to be a cowboy, I thought - dodging deadlines and tracking down news on the open road.
It all seemed very romantic back then, but from where I now sit - in the well-worn ass-groove of my umpteenth news unit, it feels quite pedestrian. Especially when I spend my days on VoSot Patrol - that time-honored tradition of assigning a lone photog several small news stories to gather throughout the day. Ribbon-Cuttings, Mug Shots, Dog-Shows and Drive-by’s - the flotsam and jetsam of daily drivel that warrants mention but not analysis (according to the twenty-something news producer that is, very often a nebbish type who’s been out of Momma’s kitchen three times now, thank you very much). No, after doubling back from town to town, I’ve begun chasing the trivial and the traumatic at about the same speed. Sure, I‘ll still goose the engine for breaking news, but don’t expect me to risk life and limb for the County Commissioner meeting. They’ll still be acting like third graders when I get there, don’t you worry.
So while I stare at the dust motes skittering across my office‘s dashboard, excuse me if I don’t crane my neck too hard at that fire truck that just sped through the intersection. Until I see a giant ape, burning orphanage or flying police car come across my windshield, I’m not about to get off schedule. After all, I got a group of school kids, a hopped-up principal and a cage full of ghetto-birds waiting on yours truly. It’s gonna take more than a toxic smoke plume twisting up from the horizon to keep me from my appointed rounds! Somewhere, back in the newsroom, there’s a metrosexual cracking open his third Diet Coke of the day and watching Judge Judy, who’s counting on me to fill 120 unrelated seconds of his show. One tap of my cell phone’s speed-dial feature and warm soda shoots out his nose and all over today‘s plaintiff. Don't make me do it!
But the Old Goat knew he couldn’t do it by himself. So he pressed friends and strangers into service, accosting everyone he ran into around Pitt County with a no-nonsense dare to help make a difference. By the end of the week, he’d coerced elementary kids, car dealership owners, local politicians and retailers big and small to donate something, anything to the cause. Boy did they. With more supplies than he thought he could transport, plus a growing pot of more than ten thousand dollars, Carney knew it was time to saddle up. First though, he had to upgrade his mission’s communications base, so he barged into the nearest Sprint store and declared a state of emergency. Thirty minutes later, he walked out with a sweetheart deal on a cell phone package and a discounted ‘air-card‘ for his trusty laptop. When 