The Dudes Abide

Give it up for Kevin Woodard and Michael Van Dyke - two righteous Greensboro dudes I caught chillin' by a most odiferous Sam's Club trashcan this morning. Why, you ask? They're part of the Gamer Nation, a global cabal of sore-thumbed hoodlums currently agog over the pending arrival of PlayStation 3. Since the last console I owned was the original Nintendo, I can't speak to the finer points of the PS3's staggering graphics. But I do know a thing or two about electronic obsessions and since one man's blog is another man's game box, I won't cast aspersions on the fellas idea of a good time. Besides, as I sit here warm and cozy in my upstairs lair, these cats are still fidgeting in the shadow of one smelly-ass trashcan. Here's hoping it'll all seem worth it when they're soon immersed in the wholesale slaughter of homicidal space creatures from the relative safety of their favorite couch...

Master of Happenstance

As a kid I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, but I always knew I’d end up writing about it. (Aren’t you glad I don’t clean septic tanks for a living?) Instead, I run around with a TV camera on my shoulder, fashioning ninety second operas out of life’s random notes. It ain’t exactly the priesthood, but it sure beats harpooning sewer-lillies. Or does it? Some of those wastewater warriors make pretty good coin, and their services are in demand all over the planet. Me - I’m merely adept at showing up on some impromptu scene and acting like I belong there. Left to my many devices, I can skirt the perimeter and pull the trigger - all the while distilling visuals for mass consumption. It may sound exciting, but it pales in comparison to an unobstructed flush. At least from where I sit…Don’t ask.

Okay, now that the laptop’s stashed and I’m back in Viewfinder BLUES Central I can get back to the reflection at hand. Sorry, it’s just the way my noggin’ works. Fact is, I can’t go to the can without twisting a thesis out of stale magazines and air fresheners. Most aren’t worth the ether they evaporate into, but I can’t stop the monologues I my head if I wanted to - which I don’t. Rather, I willingly scribble my every impression in a battered notebook and keep them to myself until publication feels just. For every successful post I share, reams of snatched dialogue and broken song lyrics tattoo coffee-stained pages. Consider them the thwarted pick-up lines of a Gregarious Loner.

Which, if you think about it, makes my chosen role a perfect match for my particular personality disorder. Prone to scribbling missives, I could do no better than my role as professional observer. What better possible gig for the constipated scribe than that of calamity chaser? Where else could I scan pure coincidence for meaning, cull the maddening randomness of highway fatality for some kind of twisted pretzel logic -- Port-A-John Prophet? I think not. No, I’ll stay on point, thankyouverymuch - feigning a psuedo-literary stance that reflects the expression of all those lenslinging lifers clamoring at the edge…Heck, I know guys whose sole reaction at the sudden appearance of an alien spaceship overhead would be mild irritation that it was so damn backlit. That, is the attitude I hope to capture here and I implore you to stick with me during my periods of mental constipation.

Or don’t - I’ll still crank out this drivel by the truckload and pretend it’s worth its weight in human waste - even if it is just a bad case of keyboard diarrhea. By the way, you smell that?

The Mr. Bill Show

Please join me in wishing a Happy 56th Birthday to Bill Welch - a great guy to hang out with at a train wreck, peace rally, county commissioner meltdown or double homicide. In fact, I can't think of a single tense incident this veteran wise-ass hasn't mollified with his biting patter and ever-present ballcap. An elder Jedi of the Piedmont News Council, Bill's been materializing at the edge of imbroglios for longer than I can truly fathom. In that time he's achieved a street-level Zen of sorts; a prolific insider with a vast knowledge of back roads and happenstance. In other words, Dude's been a-round...

But all that newsgathering has not always been a few scratches on the soul. One simply cannot log as much time behind the glass as Bill has without occasionally getting a few shards in the mind's eye. From heated regime changes to missions improbable to the gutless bloodshed of a thousand newsroom wars - Bill's been there, and he's usually classed up the joint. These days he's back where he belongs, slinging a news lens and espousing the virtues of his new employer. As for just how many years he's been at it, I can't quite say, for every time Bill tells me I lose consciousness and wake up with a headache... I hate when that happens.

Rebels Aging Badly

Sweeps, Kids, Wife - they're enough to keep a cameraman away from his beloved blog. But fear not dear reader (Hello?), regular posting will soon resume. Until then, click on this hours-old photo and see what twenty years does to a bunch of dorks who once considered themselves high school revolutionaries. Remember kids, this could happen to YOU...

Putting the 'Porter' in Reporter

My most recent Top Ten, Things I'd Teach Rookie Reporters, has sparked both praise and derision among the chattering classes. One entity even wants to include it in their forthcoming periodical! Among my immediate peers however, I've received warm shrugs and energetic indifference on the subject of my scribblings - a dismissive condition I too often exacerbate with both surliness and silliness. One such occasional partner who tolerates my tone better than most is Jeff Varner, who holds a Doctorate in Southern Man Melodrama. No longer a rookie himself, Jeff is promising a rebuttal of sorts - an itemized account of photog foibles certain to provoke and irritate. Well, Bring it on, Prom-Date! But make sure you include at least one item on that time-honored reportorial role: Support-Gear Portage. Otherwise, I'll be tempted to abandon you the next time some excited waitress erupts with breathless questions about Season 2...

Life After Idol

I'd barely parked the rental car before Bucky Covington bounded out of the studio doors. "Hey ya'll," he said - thrusting an Apple iBook our way, "watch this..." With that, the gangly good ole boy pressed play and a YouTube clip of a foreign gameshow sputtered to life. On screen, timid, middle-aged men desperately try to repeat a singsong tongue-twister before being hit squarely in the nuts. Every time an aging Japanese gentleman dropped to his knees, Bucky convulsed with jagged laughter, almost dropping the laptop in the process. Only when the sixty second clip ended did Bucky formerly greet us, hugging the very pregnant Shannon Smith and high-fiving your humble lenslinger. A few minutes we set up our gear deep inside producer Mark Miller's family studios - a rambling, mannerly spread somewhere outside Nashville.


"When I first came over here, I told them I don't want overnight success, I want 20 years, I want a career."


To help build that career, the 29 year old American Idol finalist has sought the counsel of those who've gone before him. As the first ever winners of 80's talent show juggernaut Star Search, the guys from Sawyer Brown know alot about turning a title into a dynasty. For now though, lead singer Mark Miller's happy just to twist the knobs on Bucky's debut CD - especially since he loves what he's hearing. During our visit, the ballcapped impresario and his fellas exchanged reassuring glances as Bucky belted out finishing tracks to "Empty-Handed" - a Sweet Tea twist on 'Welcome to the Jungle' that is still eching somewhere in my subconsciousness. Miller agrees. "All the musician's who played on this album kept coming up to me saying this is going to be BIG - guys who have been around the business and don't just throw comments out like that."


"It really all comes down to a good song, you get a good song out there and that's what it takes..."


As I skulked about Miller's well equipped recording lair, I found myself bobbing my head and singing off-key back-up. Over on the zebra-print couch, Shannon and her baby grooved in unison as Bucky's smoky snarl filled in the gaps of the Southern-Fried anthem. As outright throbbing as 'Empty-Handed' is, it isn't the only sound Bucky and the Sawyer Brown gang have captured on their Masters. Percolating on a hard drive nearby is at least two honky-tonk ballads that showcase the softer side of this goofy good ole boy. It's those kind of Tear In Your Beer drenchers that will appease Covington''s female fans - many of who are pining for a little roadhouse tenderness. On that he can deliver, for the former body shop worker fairly oozes swamp grease and Sunday School. For now though, Bucky's gettin' his growl on.


"I knew I wanted to make a country album -- but I'd like to get as much rock in it as I can get away with..."


What Bucky Covington ultimately hopes to get away with is a full-blown music career. American Idol brought him to the attention of millions, but the show's hokey pop structure failed to showcase this giggly hillbilly's impressive pipes. With veteran producer Miller at the helm, the oldest Covington twin is about to surprise alot of people. Sure, Chris Daughtry can breathe fire through an amplifier stack and Kellie Pickler's still damn cute in red high heels, but my boy Bucky has the homegrown tone, the vocal chops and the goofball charisma to blow the back-doors off the Nashville star factory. Here's hoping country radio will give him a chance, before some hotshot Hollywood producer builds the next Hee-Haw Variety Hour around him. S-a-a-a-LUTE!

(Thanks to all the Bucky fans who looked forward to this report. Be sure and check out the sneak preview, the photo gallery, the bloopers and of course the three minute opus Shannon Smith and I crossed a mountain range to produce. Lenslinger...OUT!)

Slow Your Roll

At a quarter past ten The Stranger burst through the door. Bearded and wet, he spoke to no one. Instead, he skirted the edges of the raucous crowd, his long coat glistening with angry raindrops. For all the armed law enforcers in the room, no one unsnapped their holsters - at first. Instead, the deputies and debutants strained to hear each other’s small talk as syncopated jingoism poured out of hidden loudspeakers. The Stranger seemed grateful for the cover. Scanning the far end of the room, he spotted his target by the refreshment table: a rumpled incumbent surrounded by a pack of supporters high on victory, Sweet Tea and Lee Greenwood’s greatest hits. Though no smile crossed The Stranger’s face, his grim expression did brighten a little as he made a bee-line for the freshly re-elected Sheriff.

Side-stepping past a group of grannies, the dripping interloper squeezed by three bailiffs stuffing brownies down their throats. They too didn’t ignored him as crumbs collected in the folds of their polyester shirts. With every deliberate step, The Stranger drew closer to the man whose name adorned cock-eyed yard signs near and far. Not until he came within feet of the county’s top lawman, did someone notice the uninvited guest. Yards away, am off-duty vice detective in a J.C. Penny suit clocked the visitor in the shiny wet cloak. Instinctively, the detective moved forward - knowing only that The Stranger’s grimace was out of place in such a festive atmosphere. Quickening his own pace, the veteran investigator slid through gaps in the packed house. Something about the way The Stranger kept his hands jammed in his pockets struck the detective as hinky, and he aimed to beat the man to his beloved boss...

That’s when my photog senses started tingling and I realized I was about to be searched, shackled or simply shot by a man whose paranoia my tax dollars pay for. With that in mind, I slowly removed my hands from my pockets, flashed a TV station business card to all who would look before handing it over to the grumpy incumbent. Minutes later, the three of us stood by my camera, As the sheriff answered the inanity emmiting from his earpiece, the vice cop and I took turns staring at each other. While he did his best to burn white-hot holes through the side of my skull, I made a mental note not to bum-rush a show outside my jurisdiction without first flashing an official logo or two. And you wonder why I abhor politics...