No snarky remarks tonight, just a great big dip of the lens to Elizabeth Smart, seen here addressing my ilk outside a Salt Lake City courthouse. After what she's been through, it would be perfectly understandable if Ms. Smart shunned the scrum. Instead, the now 23 year old has exhibited unswerving courage, offering crisp testimony that helped convict the reprobate that enslaved her. That she has remained so poised under the crush of numbing inquiry has (almost) restored my faith in a legal system that too often adds to the maladies of the bankrupt and the vanquished. Elizabeth Smart is neither and her resiliency is to be admired, if not studied. As for her tormentor, he can trumpet his delusions in the penitentiary, where hopefully there's an even bigger victimizer just itching to feast on the bones of one Brian David Mitchell.
Ever wonder what it's like to be a UPS Driver? Me neither, but when the bosses brought it up, I knew enough to feign interest. Next thing I know, I'm strapped into the jump-seat of a speeding cargo van, wondering if all that truancy in high school was completely necessary. Turns out it was, for without that lack of career planning, could I have possibly enjoyed the spoils of so many different gigs? College professors don't get to dress up as delivery men and play 'fly on the dashboard' - and with good reason! Would YOU wanna sit through some labored dissertation on the repetitive ebb and flow of the proletariat? Hell to the No! You'd much rather half focus on a series of flickering pictures as an off-screen voice dribbles out factoids in a rhythmic, soothing cadence. Looks like this IS a job for Lenslinger!
All of which still doesn't explain WHY I'm decked out in resounding brown. Quite simply, they made me. Yes, when the savvy folks at the local UPS hub green-lit our story pitch, they had but one condition for the cameraman: Dude better represent! I chuckled at first, but having already worn everything from a surgical scrubs to an insincere grin just to score a story, I quickly crumpled. When I called in my measurements a day later, it was all I could do NOT to request my shorts be of the Jim Dangle variety. That was probably wise, as the day I chose to ride along didn't see temps rise above the thirties. Luckily for me, I was by then swaddled in the finest non-broadcast logo-wear this side of that Hooter's down by the airport. You know the one...
In retrospect, the undercover duds were a stroke of genius, as it allowed me to blend into the scenery. When my host driver - a prince of a fellow by the name of Christopher Pritchett - stormed the gates of a swanky office building, I fell in behind him and buried my face in the cup. Let the security guard wonder why that UPS dude is rockin' a TV camera, instead of a box of printer ink. Later, I found myself loitering outside as my brand new bestie dashed in and out of businesses. Had I NOT been incognito, a few passers-by might have called the law on that scruffy putz hanging around the UPS truck, As it was, I only caught one lady fondling her cell phone and that thing was so outdated, it had an exhaust pipe! Still, lady had my ticket. Must have been the beard.
See, UPS drivers are clean shaven. Maybe some of them have mustaches, but the kind of chin cabbage I grow is strictly forbidden! I nodded knowingly the first time one my new brethren in brown mentioned it, but by the third time, I was beginning to wonder if they expected me to shave for the occasion. No bother - ten minutes into our stop-and-start journey, I was pulling my hair out, thanks to a wondrous device known as the Go-Pro. A high tech HD camera in a rugged case, the Go-Pro resembles little more than a cube on a stick. But plant that sucker on a windshield and watch the point-of-view footage pile up. Or, do like I did and screw with the damn thing while it records your frustration in a series of unflattering JPEGs.
But enough of my mug - let's meet the players! Christopher Pritchett is a 20 year veteran of the corrugated force and, given any opportunity, will tell you just what Brown did for him. A few syllables in, you realize the guy is sincere. Then you realize what a stand-up company UPS must be, for when the local news crew came calling, this global giant didn't refer to us to some suit in New York. Instead, they threw open the doors and let me shoot whatever I saw fit - as long as I sported the appropriate colors in the process. As a result, El Ocho got their sneak peek, UPS generated a little local love and I added more coursework to my Doctorate Studies in Cameramanthropology. So thanks, UPS! I don't know that the following piece of TV will win you many new accounts, but I for one will never look at those big brown trucks in quite the same way again...
Sure, it's just a snapshot from yesterday's Obama visit, but something about this picture Weaver took yesterday morning really weirds me out. The threatening sky, the blurry logos, all those retractable masts - YEESH! Makes my skin crawl. Still, I do recognize my hives for what they are - an allergic reaction caused by overexposure to these ornery beasts. Too many times I've hunkered down inside one of these immobile newsrooms while a hairspray addict clamored for a clever way to narrate calamity. Am I projecting? You betcha, but we all have chinks in our armor and mine is a deep-seeded disdain for box-vans wrapped in gaudy promises. Luckily for me though, these vessels of editing and angst are already on the road to extinction, soon to be replaced by wafer-thin eyelid implants. Yeah, it may take a while, but I envision a day when all it takes to go live(!) is a twitch of the temples and a pile of wi-fi enriched recyclables...
Though chances are I probably won't like that, either
Either there's been a rift in the time-news continuum, or key members of the Fourth Estate have switched brains with my teenage daughters. How ELSE do you explain a picture of two battle-hardened photogs gaping at their phones like a couple of food court zombies? What's up, fellas? Hello Kitty drop a new cat counting app? Justin Bieber tickets go on sale? Candyland finally offer dual citizenship? Hey, how you spend your downtime is up to you, but it's awfully hard to mythologize our breed when you guys go all Hannah Montana on me. Hmmm? What's that? The President is in town and you're killing time during the security sweep? No problem, I once knitted an entire Cosby sweater waiting for Bill Clinton to polish off an intern.
Not a lot of folks know this, but Santa Claus himself spends the off-season under glass. No kidding - nine months out of the year he shoots morning television down in San Diego. From what I understand, the local mostly leave him alone. Good thing, too - 'cause the old guy really gets into it. Rising early to run cable, Standing all handheld for hours on end, nursing his girlish figure every day at a different drive-thru... why, it's an exiled figurehead's total fantasy! Best of all - none of those filthy elves running around the place! At least that's what ole Kris Kringle said when he caught me stealing batteries out of his live truck. Said he was gonna out me on some kind of list --
--Hmmm? What's that? It's NOT Santa Claus? It's some dude named 'Big Al, the Weatherman's Pal' - that elusive shooter for Meteorologist Dave Scott on Good Morning San Diego Weekends on KUSI Channel 9?
Indulge me a moment, for there are things far more important than local TV news. Like, my bike! It's a standard enough Trek with front suspension and a rigid seat, but when I climb aboard it becomes a heavenly vessel, one capable of defying gravity, folding time and bloodying my shins. It is quite possibly, my favorite possession. But for the better part of the past four years I've let it gather dust in the corner of my garage. Now, however, I'm back in its rock-hard saddle, thanks to a break in the weather and a totally intact mid-life crisis. No, I'm not gonna go drop coin I don't have on a shiny news Corvette (What kind of choad do you think I am?), but I WILL toss the Trek in my truck, find a winding path through the local jungle and forget my troubles as I surf the Earth. What I won't do is wiggle into those biker clothes, you know - the gay superhero look. Hey, you can 'don't ask don't tell' all you want, but if you're hanging out in the woods in day-glo spandex, it might be time to have that talk with the wife. But I digress.
Of course, to really get off track you need a narrow, twisting path full of bowls, berms and other nut-busting luxuries. Here in the Piedmont, we got that in spades. Why within a stone's throw of my humble abode, lies the kind of tail-derailing trail that can make a forty-something father of two feel a quarter of his age. That, or end up in traction. And while there are other, more fabled bike paths around these parts, I've become enamored of a place called 'Blue Heron'. With far fewer roots than I'm used to a nice, open flow, Blue Heron features the kind of jostling topography I could only dream of when I lived closer to the ocean. In fact, I'd only lived here a couple of months when a photog by the name of Allen Horton turned me on to the endless network of bike trails that tattoo our many parks. Since then, I've reveled in the scenery, the solitude and serenity of this thing called 'singletrack'. You can have your skinny-tired cycle and lime-green Lycra tights. I'll be down in the holler, rocketing over hilltops and trying NOT to wrap my torso around a tree.
Still, I had to know where I stand, er crouch. So I called on some folks with chain grease in their DNA. Jerry Wolford and Michael McQueen are friends of the blog and its somewhat humble author. Now, technically, they're both newspaper employees and talented ones at that. But I know them as crime scene connoisseurs, recorders of the the highest order and bruised enthusiasts of the pedaled pursuit. What I didn't realize is how hard they ride. The day I joined them on the Blue Heron trail, they easily outpaced me without breaking so much as a complimentary sweat. The nerve... not to mention the corpuscles! That HAD to be why 'Jelly and Da Mangler' could carry on a casual conversation while I fought to keep up and catch my breath. McQueen especially - with his BMX past - can turn a handful of scattered pebbles into glorious air. Why, I saw him bounce off a woodchuck, taco his wheel and still beat me back to the truck. That's including the breather he took while I stopped to hack up a few ghosts of cigarette past.
Though I felt like I'd been run over by a dump truck the following day, I did return to the scene of the crime long enough to turn the tables on someone even less prepared to bike than I. Weaver - he of the positive attitude and McGyver tattoo - brought his boys, bikes and brawn along for a Thanksgiving morning ordeal that would leave anyone with a monster appetite - provided you still had any teeth left at the end of the ride. As for the Weavers, they left with their bicuspids intact, but not before spending a couple of hours negotiating hairpin turns and unexpected dips at less than breakneck speed. Yeah, we weren't the fastest cyclists out there that day, but we were among the giddiest. Don't believe me? Watch the video below and listen to Weaver giggle, huff and snort. Those, gentle readers, are the sounds of a grown man shedding a few dozen years along with a couple of quarts of sweat. I'm not saying he had a good time, but the last time i heard him squeal like that, his Droid was wedged in his watch pocket and stuck on vibrate.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pry some tree bark from my teeth.
