To Serve Man

Ever wonder what it's like to be an 'Executive Chef'? Me neither, but when the suits insisted that I find out, I ran from the newsroom before they could changed their minds. After all, they could have said 'Toenail Curator',  or 'Llama Jockey' or 'Septic Tank Specialist'. That would really sucked, as the bosses wanted me to wrap an entire reality show around said profession. Okay, so 'reality show' may be a stretch, but a fifteen minute chunk of reporter-free TV was going to take a lot more focus than the kind of slapdash minute and a half I usually fill. Luckily, the grown-ups found a most excellent specimen in one Leigh Hesling. A culinary journeyman with down-under roots , Chef Hesling came complete with an army of underlings, his very own catch-phrase ("Loife changing stuff!") and two of the most tricked-out kitchens in the Greater Piedmont Googolpex.

When it comes to photog-friendly environments, I'd rank restaurant kitchens somewhere between daycare playground and helicopter cockpit. They're just too many sharp edges and slippery floors, not to mention a platoon of beefy dudes in funny hats who will gladly body-check you into the nearest fry vat, should you get between them and their tub of mushroom truffles. Speaking of scalding cauldrons, I'd rather soak my frontal lobe in a red hot crock-pot than ingest one more frame of culinary wonderment. Maybe that's because I've spent so much time locked in an antechamber, stewing in my own juices as visions of twice baked souffles danced across multiple screens. The resulting piece ain't exactly news, but neither were the past six imperiled animal epics I slammed together. At least THIS shoot came with a handful of jumbo shrimp!

(Wrapped in bacon, no less.)

Doom with a View

All that I know about NASCAR can best be summed up with the words "Boogity Boogity", but one need not be a racing fan to have seen the horrific crash at Daytona this weekend. Me, I've only been to one such race and it was only because my bosses were paying me to be there. Which is why I so identify with one particular person in the above frightening frame. There, just left of center, a figure trying desperately to get away from the point of impact does so under heavy glass...

Okay, so it's no surprise a dude with a fancycam would be at the right place at the wrong time. In this case it's an ESPN cameraman named Craig. I don't know Craig, of course, but I'd like to buy him several rounds of his favorite drink and listen to what he has to say. Chances are he'd tell me it all happened too quickly to process. And while you don't have to have a face full of viewfinder to be overwhelmed by inertia and debris, it does provide an additional degree of disbelief.

Some blame the tiny black and white screen shimmering in the middle distance. Stare at it long enough and you begin to feel you're watching television, not making it. These days, however, those screens are bigger, closer and drenched in every hue under the sun. You'd think that kind of color and clarity would remind the operator that what they're seeing is all too real. You'd be wrong.

Twice in my life big things have tried to kill me and the camera on my shoulder. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I'm always on the lookout for number 3. And while that kind of vigilance comes with middle age, I'm as susceptible to the lure of flickering pixels as I've ever been. See, there's a real kick to watching life through a tube. The laminated ID around our necks affords us unparalleled access. The cameras we so cradle take us even closer. As a result, we photogs feel like a part of the scenery - be it a flimsy fence surrounding a racetrack or a ribbon of yellow tape enveloping a crime scene...

What's my point? Don't know that I have one. But what I'm sure that I possess is a similar world view to that Craig the cameraman. Some folk might seek therapy after such a grisly incident. Most photogs, however, wear that kind of trauma like a badge of honor, a notch on their camera strap that bleeds street cred and chafes when no one's looking. I'm guilty of it myself, but the older I get, the older I want to get.

So do me a favor. The next time you're incredibly close to something sketchy, enjoy the view. But if that little voice in the back of your head begins screaming, do heed its plea. It's only your common sense, telling you to exit, stage whatever. Do so, for no piece of video is worth your name on a grave. Sure, people might marvel over what you captured there at the end of your life. Hell, they'll remember that shot forever. But make no mistake...

They'll forget YOU.

Terms of Coverage

Whenever a popular dog goes missing ... and is then found ... and a TV station is called... and it's kind of a slow news day... I'LL BE THERE. 


Whenever a CEO approaches a podium to take credit for something an underling's done... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever a fire department burns a house on purpose and doesn't send a press release... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever a 'local institution' closes their doors for the very last time because it didn't get enough publicity... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever an elected official shows up at a toll booth without any pants... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever there's only skid marks left from that bad wreck this weekend... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever rent-a-cops wage war with common sense... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever you duck into a diner with a woman you shouldn't be with... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever the sheriff thinks it would be a good idea to show the public how clean the new jail's toilets still are ... I'LL BE THERE.

Whenever aliens with bloodshot eyes, knobs for knuckles and that Benny Hill song on their lips show up asking for members of the media, I'LL---

Actually, you're on your own with that one.

For Your Consideration...

Brash nameplates clash with my drapes, so I don't go for trophies. If I did, I'd love a nod for Best Use of Handheld in a Randy Jackson Camera Scrum. I know, I know: it's a tough category. But, I've been poring over the submissions list and I feel pretty good about my chances. After all, I worked the Charlotte auditions LIKE A BOSS! I recorded every staged utterance within fifty feet of an idling Escalade, put up with Mariah Carey's lighting spy and only snaked three Cokes from the Idol crew cooler over a thirty six hour period. Hey, it was unlocked! Besides, this ain't my first rodeo cattle call slaughterhouse of dreams. I was workin' this circuit when Clay Aiken was in pig-tails. Really - I got Polaroids! Just ask Seacrest! Me and him and I are likethat... when his goons let me in the room. Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yeah, hoping for podium gold come pageant night! What will I wear?

That's not important right now. What IS important is that I review my tape in totality and hone profound moments. Technically, you're supposed to turn in only what actually aired, but since it's NON-linear editing, it don't really count, do it? Honest to God, I must have drunk my weight in energy drinks that weekend I locked myself in that back edit bay... Who knew a trashcan could hold that much urine? Don't answer that! I got no time for Math. Not with this entry form... Says here I have to fill out these six three by five index cards with marketing data and return them in the self-addressed, gold-embossed envelope. First though, I gotta write a three paragraph essay on why I think I'm not wasting their stationery, then attach that to a secured traveler's check in the amount of $217.48 per entry ($74 more if you want the knife set).

Ya know, maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. The competition is FIERCE this year, even with Glenn "Tentacle" Stinson on the sidelines with an eyelash injury. Word is some of the old school guys are getting back in the game. How am I supposed to score serious chrome when sack of bones from 'Star Search' won't go away? So help me, I will Gillooly one of those old coots if they get between me and my mantle candy! ... Forgive me, I'm just under a lot of stress. The contest deadline is drawing near and I haven't decided which clip to enclose with my check. Not that it matters.  My darting eyeball style is so Two Thousand and Late. These days, you gotta roll in like a dorm fridge and just sit there. Straight up surveillance. Last year a guy won for creating a civil disturbance outside "Talladega's Got Talent!'. Something about a Hasselhoff and a tire boot, I dunno. Anyway, with that kind of talent out there, I don't stand a chance... 

Though it's an honor just to nominate myself.

Panic at the Disco

Dance like some cranky stranger's not following you around with his fancycam. That was the challenge facing a gym full of third graders this morning as the local paparazzi threatened their discotheque. Poor kids never stood a chance. Jacked to the gills on some kind of chocolate milk concoction, they continued to get on the good foot, despite the glass handlers circling the dance floor. I was there, of course, but so were others. To my left, none other than Bill Welch surveyed the rave. A card-carrying member of The Lenslinger Institute, and a fully licensed wise-ass, Bill is about as battle-hardened as they get. I once saw him dress-down a CPR dummy for lying down on the job. Which is why I gave the man a wide berth as that damn Carly Rae Jepsen song played for the 704,362nd time this Summer Fall Winter. Moving in, I hovered over a kid in a SpongeBob hoodie who looked to be channeling Usher. Uncertain where that placed him in the pop culture universe, I stayed loose, all the while eyeballing Mr. Bill.

That's when it happened...

A sonic boom high overhead, an unnoticed rip in the Time Space Continuum, a haunted dodge ball from gym classes past - something struck the volume knob on the pocket sized boombox there by the door, thrusting 'Call Me Maybe' into the stratosphere and causing your not so humble host to consider pouring the contents of two nine volt batteries down both ear canals. I would have done it too, but I was under deadline and over the limit. So I made like a young Axl Rose and shimmied sideways all serpent like. It was one of those patented moves that told the world Axl wouldn't age very well and as soon as I came to a rest, I regretted ever buying that stupid Use Your Illusion double album back in the Nineties. Meanwhile the Carly Rae song morphed into some Lady GaGa abomination and I was forced to consider the overall safety of a fire-breathing brassiere while in the company of children.

And for that there's simply no excuse.

But before I could report myself to the authorities, there was the small matter of capturing said dance number, already in progress. Jamming the rest of my face into the 'cup, I tried to crawl inside my viewfinder. I didn't fit, so I pivoted to my right and followed my lack of focus from one little tot in mid-robot to another young upstart who insisted on doing everything Gangnam style. "Whatever, kid," I found myself thinking. "You'll come to regret that when the puberty hits. That was enough to make me consider all the things I regretted once puberty arrived, a list so long you'd need a blog all by itself just to cover the Captain and Tenille years. Scanning the room for another adult, I came up empty and watched a nine year old bust out a pretty respectable moonwalk. It was at that point I noticed Bill, hunched over and in the zone. He was - GULP! - smiling. Not an evil grin either, but a general look of satisfaction. It was ... troubling. Worse yet, Bill noticed my discomfort and straightened up before I could look away. He didn't say a word, but something in that smile reminded me that this grumpy old cameraman was, in fact, a loving Grandfather.

Don't worry, though, Bill. Your secret's safe with me.

Wish I Was Ocean Size...

Wanna feel small? Go stand by the ocean. Wanna feel large? Squeeze into the shotgun seat of a police car with a full-blown fancycam and tell the guy with the badge to 'just ignore you'. If you can still move your legs when that's over, hobble on over to your nearest Zumba class and tell the ladies to pretend you (and your camera) aren't even there. They won't and you'll leave there feeling like a leper. But wait - there's more! Swing by the health department, go straight to the VD clinic and start -ahem-erecting your tripod. You'll be lucky to get out of there with only a rash.

So what's my point? I don't know that I have one. Mostly, I'm just riffing on this totally kick-ass picture of Adam Krolfifer (taken by reporter Kira Klapper, no less!) What with its foreboding horizon and sepia tones, it truly is beautiful. Then again, so is an early morning crime scene, if the light is just right. Honest to God, I once found myself marveling at the way shadows fell over the shattered glass of a violated Stop-n-Rob. But rendering splendor from the glum and the mundane is something we lenslingers pride ourselves in (that, and steering a news van with our knee). Why, it all reminds me of a quote from the master:

"For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled."

That's truer than it should be be, considering it came from the drug-addled brain of the late great Hunter S. Thompson. The father of Gonzo Journalsim was more of a sports writer than photog, but he had an eye for detail (and nose for blow) that I've long admired. Those of us who do carry cameras for a living know it as fact: For every ballerina that preens on your screen, half a dozen body bags must pass through your glass. Remember that next time you're waiting for the medical examiners to arrive. Just don't get in their way when they do...

Those guys don't play.

License to Grill

Ever parked a billboard on the edge of misfortune and trolled for commotion? It’s not as fun as it sounds, but if you’re gonna be any good at this gig, you gotta ingratiate. Take today - all thirteen hours of it. What started as friendly hello at a reporter’s desk grew into an urgent journey, a feverish bee-line to a distant ‘burg, where reticent detectives, quivering witnesses and a halfway decent lunch made for a Thursday I’ll most likely soon forget. For now, though it’s on my mind, so let me knock this out so I can go get some sleep...

What makes a man stab a deaf-mute? It’s a question I hadn’t considered until fate placed in a speeding live truck this morning. Carter Coyle rode shotgun, a young reporter with a winning grin and considerable energy. She too had no clue why a guy would (repeatedly) plunge a knife into a stranger, but we both knew our lunch depended on nailing down the other four W’s. That may seem crass considering the crime, but when you data-mine calamity for a daily wage, you learn to do so from a distance. Emotionally, anyway. Physically, you gotta get up in it, which is why, after questioning a guy with a badge on his belt, Carter and I plunged into the heart of darkness. Actually, it was a rundown block on the West side of town, but you get the idea.

Twelve hours earlier, a young man with a history of violence did his best to end an old man’s future on this very spot. The old man was well known on these streets, a grizzled figure who didn’t let his inability to speak or hear stop him from begging for cigarettes. But bumming smokes was de rigueur in this ‘hood and the old man was much beloved among the saints and sinners that roamed its many yards and alleyways. How do I know Because they told us so. Five minutes after we’d parked the live truck in a side lot, a phalanx of aging neighbors lined up before our lens, eager to ask my glass why anyone would try to kill such a harmless old soul. We had no answers for them, only carefully crafted questions, designed to spawn responses in full sentence form. Oh, did they oblige.

“He ain’t ever done nobody no harm!” a man with deep creases on his forehead said. “I hope who ever did this suffers!” wished a woman with more fingers than teeth. Carter and I didn’t dare look at one another, for we knew better than to question such on-camera manna. This was the kind of emotional outpouring are bosses crave, soundbites to die for, if you will (even if you won’t). At that very moment, the young man with blood on his blade sat in a jail cell downtown. The old man was much further away, hooked to wires and tubes in a distant intensive care unit. His stab wounds were many, his chances few. Sad as that is, we didn’t really dwell on it there on the street.

We were on deadline after all, and with so many locals emoting on-cue, my focus was on the glowing red light in the corner of the screen. But the pitch and timber of all that anguish eventually seeped into my skull and as I edited the footage later in the day, I couldn’t help but think of my place in the world. Who am I to swoop in and demand answers? I hold neither a degree or warrant. I can offer the average bystander little more than a soapbox and a rickety on at that. Aside from my empathy, they will receive no cash or prizes for appearing in our show. But time and time again, people in precarious positions step before the glass and pour forth their darkest fears. Why? Is it just the chance to be on the Tee-Vee? Or is it just human nature to share perspective, hurl invectives and whisper things into a logo'd lens that they wouldn’t even tell detectives?

Don't ask me. I just drive the truck...