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By now even my Mom has seen the video of two TV station live trucks drag racing outside El Paso. But late as I am to the finish line, I came to compete - for what kind of self appointed pundit would I be if I didn’t jump all over such easy fodder? Don’t answer that; just know that I’m still a bit befuddled as to why two grown photogs would trade sound judgment for positive crowd response. Whatever the reason, a civilian with a cell phone caught it all on chip and before either news shooter could gas up his ride, a clip of their not so mad dash had gone viral. Welcome to 2008, gentlemen. Pick your nose at a stoplight for too long and you may end up on YouTube. Reenact that scene from Grease with two rolling billboards and you may very well get booked on Larry King.

Trouble is, the chiselers who own your chariot may not be abused, as one of the drivers in the aforementioned drag found out when his bosses walked him off the property, after seeing their mobile newsroom burn rubber at the local track. Amid the hoopla that surrounded the strangely unsatisfying clip is the fact that had this motorized showdown been staged by some Promotions Guru, it surely would have taken home the Emmy. Instead, a pair of photogs had some ‘splainin’ to do. While only one has to polish his escape tape, it’s a safe bet the other will be watched a whole lot closer whenever he pulls off the lot. Meanwhile, I’ll think twice before blowing past that school bus full of cellphone wielding hellions out on the interstate. Heck, I may even stop speeding in the breakdown lane!

Lies of My Demise

No, I've not been sucked into the belly of a hovering spaceship - but parts of last did resemble Uranus! Plainly put, I was busy. Paternal obligations and a ramped-up news cycle made for several long days and as a result, I neglected you, dear reader. This pains me more than you, for my writing compulsion and needy ego requires I purge opinion or allegory between dusk and dawn. Maybe that's why I ain't been sleeping well; adjective back-up in the cerebral cortex. Now I'm gonna have to apply some kid of salve, that or lock myself in my upper lair and pound out epistles 'til I quiver and drop. But since I told the kids I'd take them to the reenactment tomorrow, it's unlikely I'll forgo sleep altogether. So bear with me, would ya? Between squiring my offspring to costumed revolutions, I vow to indulge in enough linear thinking to catch up my half dozen readers on all my many misadventures. For now however, grab a seat while I extend Big Ups to The Mangler - a gravity-defying Gen-X'er who wittles multimedia for the local paper. No shame in that game, my friend - especially when you're savvy enough to flatter a battered cameraman with a double reverse close-up. Wish I had your fish-eye....

Sartorial Forefathers

When exactly the standard dress for news photographers went from Sunday School Teacher to Roadie with a Logo I don't know -- but I sure am glad. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against a snazzy plaid sports coat, but I just can't fathom chasing ribbon-cuttings and drive-by shootings dressed like an insurance agent. So go ahead, blame the coarsening of our society for that photog who looks like he slept in his clothes. Me, I credit the guy on the left.

Smokestack Cinema

Several times a year an inanimate object will capture the fancy of The Fourth Estate, prompting otherwise logical newsgatherers to lose their freakin‘ minds. The last time it happened around here a water pipe broke beneath the pavement, a giant hole swallowed a car and me and my pals spent a solid week broadcasting from the edge of the abyss. I’m not saying the public didn’t need to know about this hole in the road, but after awhile the continuing team smotherage of Pothole ’07 felt a little silly. As helpless as I was to stop it at the time, I did recognize that a stationary object had gained enough momentum to propel several news cycles. 'Sinkhole Inertia', if you will. Well, it’s happened again. This time however it’s no waterborne depression, but rather a crumbling old industrial chimney that’s stood ignored for the better part of the last hundred years. That is until developers bought the old Cotton Mill shopping center and proceeded to knock the bitch down. As the first bricks began to fall, news executives across the Piedmont stood up, took note and paged an underling. That’s where I come in…

Before a few weeks ago, I’d never heard of the old Cotton Mill on the corner of Spring Garden and Merritt. Not having grown up here, I did not toil in its basement, did not shop in its latter day retail space, did not shed a tear when it stood empty for all those many moons. I did however grumble a bit when I rolled up on its broken landscape only to be kicked off the property by the scary old man from all those Scooby-Doo episodes. That was more than a month ago and since then, many of my colleagues have returned to turn their own Cotton Mill story. Just ten days ago, live trucks from across the Piedmont gathered on the perimeter to watch the fabled(?) smokestack drop. It. Did. Not. Seems the demolition crew was feeling all pioneer like; instead of the usual blasting caps, they stuffed the chimney’s base with a chemical charge and stood back. An emasculating ’poof’ of smoke appeared and the smokestack stood defiantly in place. Cheated of their delicious frenzy, the News Gods shook their glittery fists and vowed to hype the pipe another day…

I rolled up before eleven. With the detonator plunge a good two hours off, I had my run of the grassy knoll, but nary a moment to spare. The noon producers wanted a live shot throughout her show and the El Ocho web geeks wanted to stream it on-line just as soon as I could plug all the gizmos together. So I did, wondering all the whole who watches an old chimney sit still from the comfort of their laptop. By the time 12:30 rolled around, I’d satiated the producers’ needs, locked down a mast cam shot and bugged out for lunch. Fifty minutes and one cheeseburger later, I returned to find my lonesome knoll crawling with photogs, camcorder Dads and a few stoners who’d just stopped by to soak up the mojo. Snap! Like a cheetah I lunged at the nearest available prey, snaring him with my wireless microphone and inane questions. I got so carried away I nearly missed the moment, thanks to a one-minute warning horn that preceded the implosion by, oh…about five seconds. Luckily though I was within reach of my lens and zoomed in smoothly enough not to risk dismissal by the National Board of Cameramanthropology. So too did the dude I’d just interviewed. Handing him my digital camera, I turned back to my fancycam and hoped he wouldn’t run off. He didn’t! Instead he captured the very moment the dynamite ignited, handed me back my baby and scurried off before I got his name.

Oh well. Maybe I 'll see him the next time we're all hovering over some rockpile, gas puddle or grilled cheese sandwich that's holding us all hostage. For now, check out what one time-pinched lenslinger can do with a descending chimney. Heads up!

McCain Gets Brained

We all know running for President can be brutal: the incessant travel, the rubber chicken plates, those midnight booty calls from Larry King. But rarely does a candidate get clocked in the noggin’ by a member of the media and no one gets arrested. It happened in West Palm. Republican nominee-to-be John McCain was leaving a swing-through stop already riddled with technical snafus when the former Prisoner of War caught a fancycam to the forehead. No doubt the pundits will pick apart the resulting footage like the Zapruder film, but from all that I can see it was nothing more than a little elbow fiesta party foul. In fact, the good Senator himself walked into the WSVN battery pack before quickly righting his course. That’s when a female campaign worker charged the offending photog and caused a bigger stir than the original collision. Man, if it weren’t an election year I’d issue a Class 3 Schmuck Alert on that lady, but since she was probably in the grips of some John Hinckley takedown flashback, I’ll cut her some slack. As for McCain, he shrugged off the blow and shook the photog’s hand (and to think Ann Coulter considers him The Devil! I‘d like to see that anorexic shrew take a shot to the temple and show as much class). When all was said and done, the incident was over before it started. It might not even get any play on the cable networks, but I’m delighted to showcase it here - if only in the vain hopes the bellicose lady in blue will get this message: “So he thumped the melon of a possible world leader…that’s no reason to get all pushy!”

Follow That Domicile!

Ever watch a TV news story on an old house being moved down the street and wondered what it took to make it happen? Me neither, but I’m running a little low in the thesis department tonight - so meet me halfway, would ya? Besides the roving domicile is a time-honored tradition in soft news, like slack-jawed centenarians and dogs in funny hats. I’ve probably shot a dozen over the years (houses, not old people), but that didn’t stop me from making a beeline for New Unit Four the moment someone mentioned a careworn hovel was being rolled from one side of Tyro to the other. As I left the El Ocho compound, trusty intern Miranda Dotson asked if she could come along. I like Miranda; so much I didn’t even ditch her on the way out. A few minutes later, we giggled like school girls as my still unmarked car of tomorrow screamed down the interstate. Tyro, here we went!

A word on Tyro. If you've ever got too much gas in the tank and wanna watch time stand still, I'd recommend the trip. However, if you're looking for a bustling metroplex with lots of exotic shopping, you'll be hard-pressed tro get your jollies in the backwaters hamlet. The dozen or so times I've blown through town (town?), I've never seen more than a tumbleweed or two. Today, however, the streets of Tyro were filled to the gills with giddy citizens, all stretching their neck muscles to see Granny Owens' old house schlep down Main Street. When we rolled up and broke out the fancycam, the excitement reached a fever pitch. One lady nearly fainted at the sight of television in the making as her two burly sons clinked their spit cups together in celebration. I have a feeling my visage may even make it into the commemorative quilt currently being strung together in some Aunt's basement. Hope they got my good side!

God knows they had plenty of time. See, even in a tiny community like Tyro, you don't go rearranging houses without a little legwork. For every few feet the 70 year old house moved, work crews had to pull back utility wires, uproot a row of mailboxes and shoo off a chicken or two. Okay, so there wasn't a yardbird in sight, but that doesn't mean Granny Owens' house moved any faster. Not that I minded (at first, anyway). Every time the house came to a stop so the hardhats could scratch, I switched up my position. That way, my resulting news story would hopefully look like it was shot my a whole team of cameras, instead of some fuzzy-headed dreamer with an adjective addiction. Thus, I continually, thrust, spun and parried my way to the Chiropractor's office, even dropping to The Lotus Position for a worm's-eye-view of the (in)action. Luckily, there was a passing group of cub scouts to help me stand back up.

While I threw my back out of whack, Miranda wisely waited. Actually she ferried my car back and forth, tok some really cool snapshots and fended off the advances of a few frisky drifters. Smart girl. You know, I don't what Miranda's plans are after graduation, but I really hope the time she's spent in the field had given her an idea of how mundane and breathtaking day-to-day newsgathering can be. She's sure had plenty of chances to figure it out; she's asssisted several crews and currently holds the title of El Ocho Intern With a Pulse. Good on ya, Miranda! Thanks for laughing at my every other wisecrack and I'm real sorry about getting us lost like that. If I can ever make it up to you, I will, but for now keep a close eye on my every move. This is your future you could be watching! Now get me a soda, willya?

You're right...I'll get it. Whiel I do, let's talk time compression. It's easy to do in the edit bay, when a mere drag and drop can erase the doldrums of a long morning waiting for that next shot. In the field however, you simply have to hang out, plot your next plan of attack and hope it will all wrap up before the anchor introduces your report. After about two and a half hours on scene, I had enough footage to fuel a documentary: God Shots of the approaching hovel, close-ups of the oohs and ahhhs and more than a few interviews with descendants. But you simply can't put together a report on an old house with a new home without video of said structure settling into place. It's called "closure", ba-bee! Unfortunately, the utility guys insisted on moving every important wire out of the way a process that slowed the home's journey considerably. After much waiting (and no small amount of bitching on my part) Miranda and I were forced to leave with the home still in the middle of the road. I'm guessing the damn thing was in place by the time my story aired, but I won't probably won't know until I happen upon Tyro a year from now. Maybe by then, my quilt will be ready.

Ink Pen Frenemies

If you’re searching for a microcosm of the Fourth Estate, look no further than the cluster of cameras around your average candidate. Was a time all the players were easily identifiable… Guy with the vest fetish fondling his tripod? TV Shooter. Lady with the skinny notebook and the sensible shoes? Newspaper. Dude with the white man’s ’fro and oversized microphone flag? Ray-di-o! Hot chick with the megawatt smile and scary eyes? Hey, who let the weather bunny in? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is the taxonomy of your garden variety press scrum ain’t as simple as it used to be. I blame Al Gore, who should be ashamed of stealing all that internet-inventing glory from rightful web originator Sir Tim Berners-Lee (Thanks, Ed Cone!). Whereas media members used to be as easily identifiable as zebras in the exhibit cage, any further zoological metaphors are amn near extinct, thanks to a great mingling of the species.

Just ask Janine Anderson. A reporter at The Racine Journal Times, she - like a lot of newspaper employees - is being forced to learn video under less than pristine conditions. Recently, a superior of hers shoved a Canon XH-A1 in her hands and sent her to a Hillary Clinton campaign stop. Talk about being thrown to the wolves! See, most times your local camera cluster is fairly affable - a loose network of competitors who work together more than they’d ever admit. Not everyone’s Mr. Rogers, but if a light blows, a battery dies or a tripod leg goes limp, more times than not there’s some local schlub happy to help. But a Presidential campaign stop? You’re talking Secret Service agents, zombie-like volunteers and every broadcast blowhard from the greater tri-state googolplex. Throw in the ever indignant traveling press corps and you got the makings of a first class monkey-hump. I know guys with TV station logos tattooed on their souls I wouldn’t send to that circus…

But to her credit, Janine Anderson - and the skinny lens she dragged into battle - emerged unscathed - partly due to the assistance of some considerate TV folk. I know, I know cats and canines living together, right? Maybe back when Snoopy was laying on the roof, but in 2008 it’s a whole new dogfight and I’m not talkin’ Michael Vick on a bender. No, if anything I’m here to celebrate the level of cooperation that fell over this presidential scrum - a not too common occurrence in an industry where a group interview is still lovingly referred to as a ’gangbang’. In Janine’s own rollicking blog entry, she touches on just a few nuances of covering assholes with glass. Hopefully she came away with a new appreciation for the calisthenic strain of journalism that is moving picture news. As for my own surly breed, here’s hoping we welcome these infidels to the mix with a minimum of balderdash. They’re here to stay, I’m afraid and - shot-blocking jackholes aside - don’t automatically deserve our wrath So, be nice, would ya?

If it helps, just pretend you’re a Southerner: Be sweet as Iced Tea to their face and talk smack about ‘em later. Works for us!