Remains of the Day

It's been said that TV News is the only business where when it's five o clock, you wish it was FOUR o clock. That's not to say we broadcast yaks never want the day to end, but rather we could all use just a few more minutes before putting on the news. Alas, that great digital clock in the sky waits for no one, not even those of us who haven't worn a wristwatch in a couple of years. Who needs one - when your company-provided fancyphone keeps you in constant contact with a cadre of house cats whose job it is to call you up and count backwards?

A word on housecats, otherwise known as producers, editors and assignment folks. I give them a lot of grief here on Viewfinder BLUES, but deep down inside, I hope they know I appreciate them (the good ones, anyway). For without them I'd be forced to order my own graphics, write my own teases and watch whole episodes of Oprah lest her ratings plummet. I couldn't take that, so while you won't hear me say it often, I'd like to take this opportunity to dip my lens in reverence for all my news-roomies who've endured my wisecracks, sullen glares and occasional warbling spitballs...SOAR-EEE!

Now, when was I? Oh yes...TIME, the one thing that runs out quicker than that camera battery you stole from your buddy's charger. Whether I spend my late afternoon licking nab wrappers in the sanctity of an edit bay or pacing the perimeter of a dreaded live shot locale, I more than inured to the sensation of losing time. Friends of mine outside da biz talk of idle chitchat while waiting for the clock to hit 5, but it sounds like bad fiction to me. No, my day ramps UP, the minute hand gathering speed as I hunch over a timeline, a mangled spool of live truck cable or just some ornery bag of Funyuns that someone back at the chip factory hermetically sealed.

So where am I going with all this? Ya got me. I just know that if I don't recommit myself to this once sacred space, I'm going to lose focus like that fancycam I once took for a dip in the briny blue. I desperately don't want that to happen, for while this blog has yet to finance an armful of Rolexes, it has provided me with more therapy than I could ever fit into my average workweek. See, it's been nearly five years since I first logged in here with equal parts pith and vinegar. Who knows how much longer I'll continue to do so, but whenever I consider quitting, I find myself wondering how else I'd spend every evening. It won't be spent watching the news, that's for sure. Have you seen how the people who put that stuff together run around all day?

Who has time for that?

Farewell to Fergie

No doubt about it, I've worked with some gorgeous women over the years. But all too often their beauty is marred by arrogance, affectation or smothering self-absorption. Not so with Nicole Ferguson. For two short years this humble stunner has sweetened the Piedmont's airwaves with a telegenic presence and a grace than cannot be faked. But it takes more than looks to earn my ardor. Intelligence is a must, as is the ability to work a breaking news scene without doing any harm. In this, Nicole is equally gifted, pursuing news stories with grit, determination and a firm handle on the human condition. Which is why I gladly set aside my anti-social tendencies whenever we were assigned a story together. A presidential stump speech, a state park profile, the region's seediest taxicab yard; we survived them all and shared a joke even when we shouldn't have. But then, Nicole's laugh is legendary; a raucous, spiraling thing that is nothing less than a comedian's dream. But now we'll have to settle for its echo, for darling Nicole is leaving us. Soon, she'll begin gracing the TV screens of Nashville, where the royalty and riff-raff of Music City will quickly sit up and take note. No doubt it's the next step in a brilliant career, but her departure can't help but darken the hearts of all of us at El Ocho, even as it brightens the horizon of central Tennessee.

So good luck, Nicole. Something tells me you won't need it...

TV on the Radio

L-o-n-g before I conned my way into broadcasting, I listened intently to Allan Handelman. Back then he was delightfully subversive; interviewing rock stars, whack-jobs and the kind of interstate drifters that always made for intriguing radio. Many a Sunday evening I'd teased my budding mullet as the strains of Handelman deconstructing some conspiracy or another filled my teenage bedroom. Little did I know back then that one day I'd be one of those weirdos myself, holding forth not alien abduction or weed legalization but something equally squeamish: local TV news. Yup, I tweeted him a while back and pitched a segment on the future of the tube. Apparently desperate for guests, he bit and today after work I sat down for an extended conversation with the voices in my head. The resulting hour of airtime won't bag me a Marconi, but I did manage to keep it relatively snark-free - even if I did use the phrase "dare I say" three times too many. Oh well, there's a reason I stick to the ass-end of the glass. But don't take my word for, listen for yourself. Meanwhile, I'd like to thank Allan for doin' me a solid. Now, about those crop circles...

Calm Before the Swarm

It's the part of the news story viewers never see: that interminable period of time when shooters slump and reporters loiter. Depending on how long it last the downtime can be delicious or deeply unsettling. After all, the show's gonna go on no matter what. Just because your defendant, detective or nearly dead celebrity remains cloistered out of view doesn't mean the director isn't going to punch up your shot at the top of the Six and expect something newsworthy to ensue. Almost always, we field workers make it happen but it doesn't come off without a lot of strife, grumbling and enough gossip to choke a hairdresser. That's not unique to broadcasters, I know - but in what other industry can you swap scuttlebutt one moment and trade elbow blows the next? Outside of pro wrestling and Mary Kay sales, that is...

Moth to a Flame

Compared to Margaret Moth, I am but a chattering coward. Then again, so's most every other human. Unknown to the average news consumer, this CNN camerawoman has long been recognized in international circles as THE person you want behind the lens in a war zone. Quite simply, she's fearless. When bullets filled the air and grown men dive for cover, the mercurial Moth shouldered her own weapon and bravely waded into the fray. Time and time again, the resulting images brought home the horror of combat and oppression, making even the most casual viewer flinch with fear. But her storied career and very life almost ended in 1992, when a Serbian sniper riddled the vehicle she was in with bullets. The ensuing injuries to her face and jaw robbed her of some of her beauty, but none of her grace. She eventually recovered and returned to the global hot spots she thrived on documenting. Now, with their pioneering photog in the final stages of terminal cancer, CNN is paying proper respects with a two part documentary on her incredible life and untamed spirit. Lenslingers the world over would add to their education by viewing this potent film, but they'd do well to dismiss their opinions about what a woman can (and will) do in the face of danger, for Margaret Moth rendered such preconceptions obsolete.

That, and a million indelible images, will be her legacy.

BamBam on the Lam

Lest anyone think I'm the only member of my tribe exiled to a Tar Heel affiliate, there is another! Benjamin Canady, my mother's brother's son punches all the right buttons just down the road from El Ocho, proving that others of my ilk CAN play well with others. How we both came to toil in local television, I'm not really sure - as the most we ever shared as kids was the occasional headlock in Grandmother's yard. However it happened, I'm quite proud of my kinder, gentler cousin - if for no other reason than the fact he goes by the nickname BamBam. Lately however, Barney Rubble's boy has been vanishing before our very eyes, shedding pounds and - gasp! - running. THAT'S where I draw the line. No relative of mine's gonna run unless he's being chased by zombies, revenuers or worst of all, TV consultants. Come to think of it, I'm gonna jump in Unit 4 and head towards Capitol City for a first class intervention. Maybe then he'll stop making me look so bad with his people skills, ninja-like reflexes and sunny disposition!

Probably not, though...

Details to Swallow

If you think hanging out with the PO-leece is a fascinating way to spend the day, you've never tried to pry the particulars from a reticent detective . Actually, the constable in question was nothing but helpful the other day when a couple of competitors and I convened on the scene of fresh misfortune. I'll keep the greasy details to myself; mainly because they were in such short supply that afternoon. No bother. Half the time the key to responding to spot news is merely proving you were there. Sure, we'd all love to see Bigfoot stumble from the thicket and tell us where his weed was, but more times than not you're lucky if an officer wanders over and drops some cop-speak...

"Suspectgainedentyrat1400hoursatwhichtimeresidentsfledonfoot"... Who talks like that?

Lotsa occifers, that's who. Hell, I'm convinced they take a specific course at the Academy focused on draining the color out of the English language. It's understandable, really. There's plenty of talking hair-do's standing by to hype, extrapolate and misconstrue. I think that's why most cops prefer dealing with photogs. We're far less accusatory, often own property in the area and rarely travel with a stack of autographed 8X10 glossies (Well, there was that ONE guy). I know that if I were the bearer of bad news, I'd be more trusting of some rumpled roadie than a licensed spotlight hog. That's not to say all reporters are bad. Some of my best friends are reporters! Besides, what's to tell before the CSI guys arrive? Oh and when I say CSI guys, I'm not talking about those trenchcoated couples cracking wise in primetime; more like some dude in a wrinkled jumpsuit with smudged eyeglasses and a spit cup in his truck...

Now, what DID we chat about there at the lake? Honestly? Leftover meatloaf vs. babyback ribs, the stickiness of your average mast and the strange case of the reporter who photo-blogs her every other outfit. Now THAT'S a talker...