A Plague of Biblical Proportions

In what can only be described as an obvious sign from the universe that the Charlotte airport won't submit to an Airport Authority without a fight, the cosmos launched a full scale attack today.

And the hits just kept on coming...


Charlotte-Douglas International saw a swarm of bees ground a plane, a fire on a moving sidewalk, and a small gaggle of coyotes playing hopscotch along one of the runways... All within about 6 hours of one another. 

If this isn't a bad omen for the Airport Authority, I don't know what is... But I can tell you this:  if tomorrow it starts raining frogs, your friendly neighborhood cameraman is heading for the hills.  Ain't nobody got time for this.

Best Week Ever

This week actually wasn't the best week ever... That's where the irony kicks in, ya dig?

So with that disclaimer out there, you shouldn't read any further into this post with a serious mindset.  The claptrap I encountered this week was just too good not to share.

I suppose it all started about 25 miles outside of the fair city of Charlotte, along a small country road.  In a single wide trailer surrounded by caution tape... my best week ever began to take shape.

Now believe you me, I've been to my fair share of meth labs, but never... ever... ever, ever, ever, ever in a million years did I expect to be pulled away from babysitting a city bus stop to then being sent to the home of RANDY TRAVIS' BROTHER.

That's right! While the elder brother, real name Randy Traywick, is battling only God knows what, his little brother David Traywick is busy playing Breaking Bad: The Home Edition in some little shanty on the outskirts of Union Co.

And from the looks of the place, ol' Randy hasn't been too keen on sharing the wealth.  Maybe the lack of relationship is what has lead David to the cruel mistress know as methamphetamine? Who knows?! But I'm told that about 6 months ago he did set himself on fire whilst destroying some refuse of a spent meth lab. Top THAT.


While it was indeed the highlight of my best week ever, the above incident was not the only one.  Later the same day I would be encircled by a large group of bums while filling up my news vehicle who wanted to know "the scoop on the Trayvon Martin case."  Now, I'm a news man, but you couldn't pay me enough to comment on that topic with the company that welcomed me to pump #7 at the North Tryon St 7Eleven.  I know better.

My best week ever got even better when my reporter and I were assigned to a story concerning gangs.  Usually there's no video, and no sound, and honestly... there wasn't.  BUT!!! We did make our way through the seedy ghettos of Stanly County and met multiple rehabilitated residents who claimed to "know of" a gang, or who had "maybe seen a gang".  One guy even claimed to be "half and half", stating he was half Blood and half Crip.  I'm not sure how that works but clearly the Devil & God are raging inside this poor kid.  Let's all remember him in our prayers tonight.  (No, seriously... If you're the praying type, which I am, then do it. If not, then don't.  Either way it couldn't hurt... right?) We wrapped our day with the story on gangs, shortly after meeting a young man who had melted every incisor in his mouth, presumably by smoking some form of narcotic from a light bulb, and who was shaking uncontrollably.  He had to bail on our interview because he needed to fetch his "medicine".

My best week ever ended with visiting a couple of sink holes, before being sent up in the helicopter to shoot a dead body that had been found on the train tracks of a small Gaston County town, ala Stand By Me. I then landed in Charlotte and was sent via live truck to the exact spot I'd been hovering 1300 ft over just an hour before.  It was a sad story, the teenager had been struck by a train and killed.  The kicker is this: the kid was 100% deaf in one ear, only had 30% hearing in the other, and he was wearing ear buds and listening to music when the train hit him.  At the risk of sounding cold and contrite, you can't make this stuff up.

And honestly, these are the things you can expect when you tell the world what happens while they're at work.  Buy the ticket, take the ride.  Put in your work day and when the work is done, call it quits and take it to the shed.  It doesn't have to follow you home, it only happens to do so if you let it.

BEST. WEEK. EVER. (not)

Phrankenstein

"Hey! You there! With the signs, and the fliers, and the 5 people you've organized for this protest! Let's get this show on the road! I'm working a split shift today and my lunch is on the horizon just as soon as you spout a little propaganda and rhetoric in my direction!"

Those were the last thoughts to pass through my head just before the corner of a news vehicle lift gate passed through the starboard side of my skull.

Without even thinking, I'd gathered the elements I needed for a quick vosot and was putting my gear back into unit 60.  I reached to close the rear lift gate of the small SUV and shut it with the force necessary to ensure its proper closure.  What I had forgotten, was to step out from under the lift gate before attempting said closure.  And then it happened.

The lift gate connected with my head, I reached up, and my hand was immediately covered in blood.  In the distance, a gaggle of my brethren glass pushers were continuing to hear the grievances of some city workers who were attending this rally.  I was the first one to split and attempt an exit.

I simultaneously applied pressure with a paper towel, called my desk and my chief to alert them of the situation, called my wife, and drove myself to the hospital ER.

The latter of which I would catch a little flack for from the missus, but the government center is only about a mile from the closest hospital, so I drove myself.

Four hours later I was sporting a new fashion accessory, staples... 5 of them to be exact.  The doctor was probably the most redeeming element of this experience.  He was attentive, explained everything that he was going to do before he did it, and even seemed remorseful for making this grown man cry as he stapled my scalp shut.

My smoking hot wife was by my side throughout the entire process, and even took to social media to exploit my misfortune.  "That's very frankenstein-esque!" she would say shortly after McDreamy had finished riddling my head with some new hardware.

She would remind me later that she's now been to the ER with me 6 times, in 4 years, in 4 cities, in 2 different states. 

I guess it's safe to say at this point that I'm what you might call accident prone.  I just prefer to call it unlucky and believe that God has a special place in his heart for news photographers - specifically this one.  This isn't my first rodeo with ol' Form 19 - Workers Compensation Claim.  Remember the great dog bite debacle of 2010?

Either way, this is a heartfelt thank you to every single person who facebooked, tweeted, texted, sent a messenger pigeon, etc to check on me.  I do appreciate it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take a sponge shower and avoid getting my staples wet.  And if you don't know what a sponge shower is.... then I suggest you watch this.

Credit Hours...

At the risk of unemployment, I humbly submit for you dear reader, my assessment of indentured mentorship.

You see, there's a common plague sweeping newsrooms across the nation.  From market 250 to market 1... The summer intern.

They're everywhere...


Like a fresh crop of corn, like a new born breed of cattle, like silent daffodils dancing in the wind, like fawns learning to take their first steps... Every summer promises a new breed of young professionals with aspirations to be the next Diane Sawyer or Tom Brokaw.

It's here and now that I draw a line in the sand and take a page from the Lenslinger Institute and declare that we make a solemn vow to teach them exactly what a life in the news biz is all about.

Don't expect to be home on time.  Don't expect platitudes from your superiors.  Don't expect the glitz and glam of being "on camera".  Don't expect free meals everywhere you go... (That'll come, just learn to pick and choose and pitch the right stories.)

Do expect unlimited access to city officials, criminals, murderers, rapists, prostitutes, looky loos, the common "everyman", celebrities, not so celebrities, athletes, white trash, brown trash, green trash, blue trash, smelly trash, people who will make you smile with a simple sound bite, and above all... the adrenaline rush of it all.

News isn't about praise.  Take this job in search of it and you'll burn out quick. REAL QUICK.  But hang on for the long run... Put up with the pointless live shot at 11:15pm when you're an hour from home and dayside the next day, deal with the live truck giving you fits of computer rage because it's acting silly and won't transmit audio, anticipate a reel failing during a gubernatorial election, and maybe... just maybe... you'll find satisfaction in that one story you did during the week that makes it all worth while.

All the cable pulling.  All the setting up of lights.  All the anticipation of someone saying "Hey guy, nice job on last night's live shot".  It won't come...

We, tv news photographers, we do this job for ourselves and for the better of the station.  It's thankless. But at the end of the day, when the guy who signs the checks from carpet land passes you in the hall on the way to break room and pauses to acknowledge what you did that day, it's a feeling you will never forget.  If the GM knows who you are because of something you've shot and not because of how drunk you got at the holiday party, you're doing something right.

With all of this said phellow photog, I encourage you to muster some sense of humility and patience, and remember those people that gave you a break when you were attempting to enter this wicked world that we work in called "TV News".  For me, it was a seasoned vet in Wilmington who'd been laid off at our competition and took a job at our station just to provide health insurance to his kids.  You can't snub that kind of commitment, it's the very fiber of our being.

It's also found in mentors like Richard Adkins & Stewart Pittman. Seemingly old dudes who were reinvigorated for their craft by a young shooter with a passion for NAT sound usage, (yours truly).

So, in conclusion, as frustrating as it might be... work with that intern that shows promise.  Show them the way.  Teach them.  Nurture them.  Mold them.  Be honest with them.  Give them the details of the ups and downs.  Show them the way.

If not for yourself, then for the next generation.  We all know that news doesn't stop.  It's always happening, and we're just here for a season to tell the stories of the people we cover.  Don't take that responsibility lightly... But always remember to have a hell of alot of fun doing it....

Didelphiphobia...

I've encountered a lot of things while doing my job that the average person would find scary, terrifying, unnerving, and even grotesque.

I've seen countless dead bodies, violent car wrecks, used needles, bullet casings, bloody clothing, gun shot victims, stabbing victims, boat accident victims, maimed limbs, teeth on a sidewalk, prostitutes in their "element", public official meltdowns, and I've even been attacked by a dog while shooting a story. (I subsequently had to endure the entire series of rabies vaccines that followed said dog attack, but that's a story for another day.)

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING could have prepared me for the chance encounter I had this past Sunday - one that will forever be burned into my cerebral regions until the day I die.  While covering a fatal car accident, the frames of video between flashing lights and caution tape began to blur and I was growing weary.

My reporter and I had wrapped our live shot for 10 and were awaiting the 11 o'clock hit, when I sat down on a piece of curb in a vacant parking lot in one of Charlotte's fancier suburbs.  As I waxed poetic about my day on the phone to my smokin' hot wife, I heard a rustle in the leaves about 5 feet from me.  The soft glow of my gel covered omni lights caught the object in question just right - it's beady eyes shined like two freshly minted Lincoln head pennies in the beams of my 3 point lighting... It was hairy, it was ugly, and it looked like a 30 pound football with legs... It was a possum, and it hissed at me... loudly.

(Not the actual possum, but you get the idea)

What happened next is still a blur, and is quickly becoming the crux of an urban legend that's been retold in my neck of the woods, but all I remember is screaming like a 13 year old girl who'd just been dumped, running back towards my live truck - the longest 30 yards of my life - tripping over an extension cord, & having my reporter & my wife simultaneously request the cause of all my dismay.



Upon gathering my faculties, catching my breath, explaining myself to them both, and then checking my underwear, I paused and had a brief laugh at the whole incident.  But rest assured dear reader... This photographer will never, ever, ever ever ever ever ever, turn his back on a dimly lit church parking lot in Charlotte suburbia again.  You can bet good money on that.

And thank God I got those rabies vaccines when I did...

The Cart Before The Horse...

Source: mediabistro.com

See that handsome news man with the perfectly quaffed side part?  That's none other than Scott Pelley.  He's the evening anchor for CBS's nightly newscast.

Pelley has enjoyed a decorated career in journalism, interviewed multiple US presidents, traveled the world, and was even named one of TV news most sexiest men of 2010.  (They obviously overlooked my submission.)

Source: facebook.com

In September of last year he even traveled to the fair city of Charlotte and shared a urinal with some of my fellow queen city photographers over at the competition, before taking a break to address the local folks and impart a little wisdom.




Pelley was recently awarded the prestigious Fred Friendly First Amendment Award for "having shown courage and forthrightness in preserving the rights set forth in the First Amendment."  Now, to bring you up to speed on congressional history, the first amendment ensures among many other things... the freedom of the press.

And in what appeared to an obvious demonstration as to why he was the perfect candidate for the award this year, Pelley addressed his peers and delivered an empowering acceptance speech in which he called for greater oversight when delivering the news to the public.  He even owned up to his misgivings during the early moments of the Sandy Hook tragedy.

Pelley then took aim at social media, acknowledging the significance of instant information but encouraging journalists near and far to be cautious before tweeting out speculation: "Twitter, Facebook and Reddit: that’s not journalism. That’s gossip. Journalism was invented as an antidote to gossip."

The most poignant dagger he tossed concerning accuracy seemed to be aimed not only at national news outlets, but local news crews across the nation: "How does it serve the public if we’re first? You know what first is all about? It’s vanity. It’s self-conceit. No one’s sitting at home watching 5 TV monitors saying, ‘Oh they were first!’ That’s a game that we play in our control rooms. Maybe a touch of humility would serve us better."

And I think he hit the nail on the head.... You can decide for yourself.  

The entire speech is here: http://youtu.be/SokmB30Rmao

Breaking Down the 4th Wall

The term "the fourth wall" was made popular in the days of public theater.  A major character would break away from the action of the play to address the audience in an effort to add some comedic relief, helpful insight, or desperate introspection about an upcoming scene.

Modern day examples of this include, but aren't limited to Ferris in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off", Zac Morris in "Saved By The Bell", JD Dorian in "Scrubs", & Francis Underwood in "House of Cards".

Hopefully these examples put into perspective what exactly it is that I'm talking about.  If not, Google them... they're worth a Google or two.

In the niche of television that I've carved out for myself, the argument could be made that we (tv news crews) break the fourth wall on a daily basis.  We introduce our stories and we tag them out.  We speak directly to the viewer.  We have complete and total control over the amount of information and emotion we inflect into our stories.  Television news performs more as a Greek Chorus than we'd often like to admit.

And as Uncle Ben once told Peter Parker in the movie Spiderman: "With great power, comes great responsibility."

It's my opinion that we often take for-granted the gravity our work carries.  I know I'm guilty of it.  

We rush into peoples lives at their most trying moments.  We ask them questions they don't want to answer. We ask them to recount, recall, and regurgitate horrific and painful moments when it's obvious they'd rather not.  We ask for a recent picture of their dearly departed and then whisk away in a live truck to some vacant parking lot to hurriedly arrange all the content we've just gathered.  We slap it together on a timeline, edit it together, feed it into the station, and begin pulling cable for the next live shot we're scheduled to have.

Often times it borders on exploitation, and unfortunately that seems to be business as usual on most days.  Usually, business is good.

The morality, the integrity, and more importantly, the humanity that we as journalists have, comes into play on a daily basis.  What we choose to do in those gut check moments, can make or break a story.  It can mean getting the interview we need.  I'd be lying if I sat here and claimed to have never been party to an outfit that bullied someone into talking on camera when it's obvious to anyone in a 3 mile radius, they'd rather not.

I started having those gut check moments.  I started asking myself questions like "What are we doing here?", "Why is this relevant?", "Why does this matter?", "Who cares, other than these people?", "Is this wrong? Is it right?"

I've covered alot of things in my short career.  I've told alot of stories.  I've seen police officers peal back crimson stained white sheets to reveal a fresh corpse for a mother so she can identify her dead.  I've followed the first lady around for 3 days in the September heat.  I've watched grown men weep on the steps of the World War II memorial.  I've seen paraplegics water ski.  I've followed Marines through a series of tolerance training.  I've put my lens 3 feet from John Edwards smiling mug as he walked into court to face federal charges.

I've offered kind words and platitudes to victims of great loss, and revelers of great success and joyous occasion.  

Nothing I've ever covered could've prepared me for the chance encounter I had with a lady named Ruth Stikeleather on Wednesday March 27, 2013.  

My reporter and I were assigned to take over a story from dayside and advance it for nightside.  The long and short of it was this: an 88 year old man had gone missing the day before when he left home to meet a former tenant of one of his rental properties, to give him some assistance with his broken down car.  That man's name was Lindsey Stikeleather.  His bride of 69 years was the lady I previously mentioned, Ruth.

We arrived at their house, and they welcomed us in.  One of our crews had been there earlier in the day, so when they saw our van pull up, they treated us like royalty.  We were invited in, given full access to pictures, the home, family members, got an interview with his daughter, and we met Ruth.  

She took my hand, looked me right in the eye and said "If he doesn't come home, I don't know what I'll do."  Call it a woman's intuition or what you will, but I'm almost certain poor Ruth already knew her husband's fate.  She didn't say "I hope he's ok", or "I know he's going to come walking in any minute."  She simply wanted him to be home.  (We would find out less than 18 hours later, Bobby Jackson, a man who was a former tenant of the Stikeleather's, had murdered Lindsey when he'd come to assist him with some automobile trouble.)

After I'd finished shooting and before we left, I saw Ruth sitting in their living room.  With dozens of family members around, she seemed to be alone, in her own little world almost... just sitting.  I sat my camera, tripod, and my gear bag down by the door and wandered over to where she was seated and knelt down.

"What is it young man?" she asked me.  "Mrs. Stikeleather", I said, "I don't have the right words to say to you, and I don't even know if it's appropriate or not for me to even say this, but I'm sorry you and your family are going through this.  For what it's worth ma'am, my wife and I will have you in our prayers tonight.  I hope they find Lindsey and he comes home where you want him."  The little old lady leaned down and hugged me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and said "bless you child... bless you, and thank you."  As I exited that house and walked back to my live truck, I paused for a moment and said a silent prayer at the foot of their driveway for Ruth, Lindsey, and their entire family.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've teared up while performing the duties of my job, and this is at the top of the list.

Did I do the right thing? Maybe. Maybe not. I'd broken the fourth wall.  I put the camera down, stepped out of being a photographer, and stepped into being a human. 

Now please understand, I'm not writing of this instance to boast, or gloat, and I don't want to come off as arrogant.  I'm not pious and I'm not a holy roller.  I've been known to utter just as many four letter words while setting up a live shot, as I did when saying that prayer to myself at their house that day.

I just simply want it to serve as an example of leveraging what you do as a vocation, for impact.  Whether you're a Christian or not in this instance is irrelevant.  Offering a prayer for them was my method of choice in attempting to console this family in a moment of great distress.

The people we meet and interview are usually also our viewers.  They're real people, with real issues, and real problems, and real lives.  They bleed red and cry clear.  

It is my opinion that sometimes, turning the camera off, putting the reporter note book down, and talking to our "characters", can only make the story better.  It'll make it more personal.  You'll feel  a greater sense of ownership and responsibility to do the story justice.  You'll probably be better at your job as a result.

I know that meeting my wife changed and quite literally saved my life.  I think that's why this story hit me as hard as it did.  This poor woman would've been married to her husband, her great love, 70 years next month.  That milestone was taken from her.  That family was robbed of that celebration.

The least I could do was try my very best to not let the story of who her husband was, end up as 90 seconds of television, and then forgotten.  And I can only hope Ruth Stikeleather knows that she left as great of an impact on this photographer, as her husband so clearly left of the community he lived and served in.

Do yourself and your craft a favor today... Break the 4th wall down. You might be surprised with the outcome.