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...

Any Given Live Shot

You know, I've carried more reporters than most parade floats. But try as I might, I can't ever remember knocking one down. It's not that I haven't thought about it. Any photog whose stood off-screen while their on-air partner crashed and burned has fantasized about ending it all. It would be as easy as pulling a plug, I guess, but taking a talking hairdo out at the knees is far more fun to fantasize about. But to actually do it, well, that's something only the network guys get to do. Until now.

Seems the talented staff at KARE 11 in Minneapolis-Saint Paul have a clause in their contracts, some special paragraph that grants them the right to knock a correspondent on their arse whenever the mood suits 'em. At least that's what I gathered after watching one of the most perplexing live shots I've ever seen. And that's a a lot coming from a guy who once convinced Garth Brooks to stick around for a little happy anchor chit-chat. But enough about my life as a faux-cowboy wrangler, let's go to the videotape!

It's a pretty exceptional seventy-some seconds. Lee Valsvik, a nice enough lady who doesn't seem to deserve what's about to befall her, chats happily with her morning show hosts before quizzing someone she identifies as a 'mixologist'.) Personally, I got the heebie-jeebies then and there, as anyone who goes by that title better pack at least two turntables and a microphone.) But music doesn't seem forthcoming as our intrepid reporter soon hands her guest a football and encourages him to hurl it. He complies and that's when the damnedest thing happens...

A figure emerges from behind a table, catches the football and, inexplicably, begins running right for the camera! Problem is, Valsvik is blocking his path and though she seems unaware of the barrier she presents, the mysterious receiver seems totally okay with it. Then, before you can say, "Oh Shit! He's gonna plow right into her!", he plows right. into. her. As hits go, it's pretty spectacular. I could describe it , all right, but it's really the kind of thing you have to see for yourself. Go ahead... I have, like three dozen times!

But no matter how many times I re-rack that point of impact, I cannot for the life of me understand what they were trying to do. Then again, what little I know about football could be etched onto the side of a single Tic-Tac, but that doesn't stop me from thinking this play seemed wiser in the huddle. Now, sources close to the collision tell me the runner in question is a talented photog NOT known for body-checking correspondents. Perhaps, but with a hit like that under his belt, I can't help but wonder if dude didn't inadvertently invent a new sport... 

I'D buy tickets.

Just Screw It

Though I'm still a few weeks away from deciding on a New Year's Resolutions, I'm gonna go ahead and cross organized exercise off the list. After all, my job comes with its very own weight set. And who needs a personal trainer when petulant News Gods send me scampering up overpasses at midnight while wearing mismatched socks? Hell, I already twist, bark and cajole enough per shift to qualify as my very own aerobics instructor. See, I don't need to heave on some imaginary rope to 'feel the burn'. Not when I just pulled five hundred feet of camera cable up a smelly stairwell, all so some dude in a suit could address the allegations room the comfort of his conference room. And what's with that medicine ball? Come at me with that thing and you'll taste the rust of my Leatherman. Maybe then you'll understand that TV news photogs don't train, stretch or warm up. Instead, we curse and bellow while backpedaling down a fire escape with six sworn frenemies and a future felon.

Even DODGING work takes whole muscle groups not found in your average office park. Don't believe me. Let an assignment editor catch sight of me as the police scanner goes ballistic. I'll drop to my fingertips and low-crawl out of there before the ghost of Jack Lalanne can get his house slippers on. How fast I slither away depends on the nature of the call, of course. Explosion at the City Sewer? I'll crawl through a burning Mens Room to avoid that one. Strange flames over Colostomy Peek? I'll be hiding in the ceiling panels, if you need me. County Commissioner take a rival hostage? Let God sort 'em out. The water park's on fire? I gotta see THAT one!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, taking umbrage at the very idea I may wanna pay somebody to make me sweat. Have you seen me in Mid-July. I'm like one of the mutant superhero types whose special powers only make him more of a social outcast. Check and check! Now if you don't mind, I have a bunch of batteries to charge and that's NOT a euphemism for my new hot yoga class. Sooo, for the love of my shattered kneecaps, please refrain from implying I might be more comfortable in a down-dog position. I'm limber enough as it is, mainly from squeezing into cop car cockpits and worming my way out of any shoots involving county commissioners, cadaver dogs or flu clinics. It's there in front of the desk I expend my most energy -- from shrugging at the news of a Presidential pit-stop to shirking my responsibilities as weather video getter. Yet there are times I'm all about ridding my body of toxins... Really, wanna see me drop and squat? Come to a stand-off that last more than six hours...  

You'll never question my metabolism again.

New Year's Spray

"Congratulations, Ma'am! By giving birth in the wee hours of January One, your now the proud parent of the Upper Golden Homeland's First Baby of 2013! Not only do you receive a generous gift basket filled with rubber gloves and talcum powder, you get to be media darling of the day! That's right! At absolutely no cost to you, we're gonna smear pictures of your precious snowflake from the Capitol to the Coast! He'll appear in over the shoulder graphics, stand-alone promos, even those terrible tease thingies where the anchor lady tells you to hang tough through one more hemorrhoid commercial while they cue up video of your blessed event. No, not the ACTUAL event. We swear no cameras were rolling when you held that epidural tech hostage. In fact, we're willing to forget the whole episode with the ice chips and IV tube if you'll just do us a tiny favor...

See, we got three news crews cooling their jets in the lobby. There's not a lot going on in the Upper Golden Homeland today and the fact of the matter is they're not leaving until they score a sit-down interview with a baby that debuted between midnight and their morning shows. We've checked out records and as far as they know, little Junior here is the aforementioned newborn. Soooo, if you'll just sign this release we can have these news losers off the property before our security chief seizes up again. We've already sent our PR guy downstairs, but the most he can stall them is a few minutes so while that's happening could you just put your initials on this paragraph promising you won't sue us should your child attract his own fake Twitter account...

Okay, I'm being told they're in the elevator telling off-color jokes, blocking gurneys and offending visitors. When they get here, look only at the pretty reporter types. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT gaze directly at any of the camera people. They are most likely ravenous, hungover and pulling down double-time on a day like this. Any attempt on your part to encourage conversation with said camera staff will render any future prescription discounts null and void. Trust me, the LAST thing you want to so is spend the next six hours listening to a schlub like that give you parenting tips. I once saw one of those guys pimp his kid out for a 'To Catch a Predator' ad. SHHH! Here they come! Remember -- the baby is beautiful, our patient care is top notch and you DO NOT need any further video services and/or lifestyle advice from men who wear fishing vests to fancy ballroom dinners...

Now, hold the baby and smile."