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.

Peer Accountability...

At the risk of sounding smug, contrite, or any other myriad of adjectives that could be construed to make me sound like I'm tooting my own horn, I'm going to just put it out there: I challenge you to find any other profession more fraternal than that of a television news photographer.

For better or for worse, it is a family, and it has all of the characters:  the whiner, the complainer, the over zealous, the humble genius, the not so humble genius, the snitch, the rookie, the veteran, the young, the old, those waiting to be lead out to the pasture, the brothers and the sisters, in between them all... you have the simple, understood camaraderie that exists between any person charged with making television news for a living.

It can be seen in the candid pictures that news photographers often take with one another.

Like when your fellow glass pusher was nearly mowed down on live tv by a speeding vehicle that was more interested in the RF being transmitted on the side of the road, than with keeping within the boundries of the passenger lane on South Blvd.

Rest assured, your fellow lenslinger will be there to remind you to wear your safety vest the next time you're live near a busy intersection... And he just might make an awkward face in the background of the aforementioned picture.


The subtext all the while, being something like this: "Hey man, I saw your live shot last night. Close call.  Glad you're ok! Remember, if something in fact does happen to you, your wife will collect no life insurance if you aren't wearing this..."

And even that sentiment has further subtext... It's our passive way of acknowledging that one of our own almost became part of the general claptrap we cover.  It's a slightly sarcastic, passive and poignant way of acknowledging your brethren news maker encountered a real pill of circumstances while working.

It's quietly saying "I hope you're alright..." in the middle of the ready room, without actually muttering the words.

 For those slightly older members of my occupational breed, this type of interaction might take place as you quietly recall the glory days of tape to tape editing while you paddle down a central North Carolina rural river.



Either way, it doesn't matter as long as one thing is happening: you're having a conversation. 

Hazards of the TV news job aren't always limited to a run away sedan whose driver is attempting to text their ETA to the bar while driving...

What the general public probably doesn't realize is this: this job can take it's toll on a human being and their lives just like any other.  It isn't all glitz and glamor and shiny lights and fancy cams and "OH MY GOD! YOU'RE THAT MAN/WOMAN ON TV!!!"

Now, again... Not to equate my chosen profession to those that serve the public and save lives, but merely to serve as an example... When police officers and fire men encounter traumatic events at work, there is typically a network of counselors and advocates in place to discuss what they've seen and how it's affected them.  When EMTs have someone flat line on them before they can reach the hospital, an on sight counselor is typically at arms length to discuss the repercussions this might have on their work performance.  Call all of these networks "internal affairs", "trauma advocates", or what you will, they're there.

TV news crews don't have this.  We have our peers, our wives and husbands, and looming quietly over our heads... our next deadline.

What has infamously become known in our business as the "dead baby knock" is an act in which a news crew is expected to visit the home of someone you've never met, knock on their door, and in 3 minutes or less, convince them to go on camera and gush about the most recent tragedy they've experienced.  We've typically lifted their name and address from a police or incident report, and often show up unannounced.

Ever pressed a camera into the face of a fresh widow?  Ever back lit a mother whose estranged husband is accused of ramming her daughter's head into a 2 inch sheet of dry wall?  Ever had a homicide detective tell you "it's ok to get your shots here, just don't step on the evidence or the body."

Ever bent down to tie your shoe and notice a fresh, bullet ridden corpse just 6 feet from where you're kneeling?

News photographers don't have support groups.  They don't have on sight counselors to discuss with them how the events of the story they covered the night before might have kept them up for hours once they got home.  They don't have someone official around to ask, "Are you ok?".

We have our families, whom we generally try to spare from the sorted details of our latest encounter with doom and gloom, and we have each other.  We have those quiet two or three minutes while we're loading a light kit or a tripod into a live truck.  We have a quick exchange while we're moving our camera from an SUV to the cargo area of a satellite vehicle. 

We have those little sarcastic quips that no one else would understand, and if they over heard, would probably consider us to be callous, cold, and unfeeling.  And that just isn't true.

Ask any news photographer you know... The majority of us go home every night and hug our loved ones a little tighter, reflect quietly on the strangers who became familiar during the day, and prepare to do it all over again the next day.

And we do it all knowing that it's a thankless, often unrewarding duty.  And we look out for our own.  And many of us couldn't imagine ourselves doing anything different.

We create emotional moments, 90 seconds at a time.  Hours of work, for 90 seconds, and then it's forgotten. 

What could you do in 90 seconds?

My Father's Eyes

When I lived in Wilmington, NC my wife and I were members of, and regular volunteers at Port City Community Church.

The main pastor Mike Ashcraft, used to tell us on a regular basis, that the biggest problem facing our city, our state, our country, and the next generation was the plight of fatherless children.

Children... boys and girls growing up without their father's present in the most formidable years, to teach the rights and wrongs of being contributing members of society.  This plight knows no prejudice.  It doesn't see skin color, economic circumstances, or even fear of responsibility.

When you do what I do for a living, you meet children all too often who have lost their father to either death or incarceration or sheer flight from responsibility.  Two days ago I was charged with covering a vigil for a man murdered in the neighborhood he was born and raised in.  I interviewed his pregnant girlfriend who openly discussed how she was on the phone with him the moment he was shot.  She heard his final breath and dieing scream for help.

Moments later I would meet the little beauty you see pictured above.  While unaware of her relationship to the late man pictured on her t shirt, the expression on her face as she read over the words scribed on that sign she is holding, simply captivated me.  

I cannot tell you how many of these vigils I've shot in my career.  I can't tell you how many hours I've recorded of family members mourning over the loss of a loved one.  I can't tell you how many widows I've interviewed.  I can't tell you how many fatherless children I've met.

What I can tell you is this, I'm one of the lucky ones.  From the moment I entered this world, my father has always been my biggest champion.

He gave me his name.  He made sure I always had a roof over my head and a warm bed to sleep in.  He made sure we always had food in the fridge.  He taught me how to shave.  He taught me about forgiveness.  He taught me how to accept God's grace and live by it.

He taught me to admit my mistakes and own up to them.  He taught me that the unconditional love of a good woman is hard to find, and something to truly cherish and never take for-granted.  He bought me my first car and my first camera.  He taught me how to be a man.

In the late 70's he met my mother.  A struggling single mom who could barely afford the bare necessities for my older brother.  He would go on to buy him shoes and clothes before he even looked at an engagement ring for my mom.

In his own selfless ways, he displayed compassion and generosity that I believe resides in me.



He made a 7 year old boy his son and married my mother on July 14, 1979.  He has always maintained that even though they aren't blood, Buck is his son as much as I am.

Growing up, the oldest of 3, in rural southeastern North Carolina on the shores of Lake Waccamaw, he began working at the age of 12 at a local grocery store.  He would take food in lieu of a paycheck so that his family would have food for the week to eat.  I carry this lesson of hard work in my heart and go back to it anytime I think I've had a tough day on the job.  He taught me that a strong work ethic pays off and that people do notice it.

My father and I haven't always had the most perfect relationship.  It got pretty rocky in my early  twenties, and we even went a while without speaking.

Through the grace of God, and an insistent mother whom I am quite thankful for, we got our relationship back and it has been better than ever.




I still seek my father's counsel on tough decisions, financial advice, how to handle rough situations at work, and oftentimes I just call him up to shoot the breeze.

Realizing your parents are real people with their own real world problems was one of the toughest pills I've ever swallowed, and also one of the most rewarding.  I've seen my father navigate just about every high and low a lifetime can see, and I've witnessed him come out a better husband, father, and friend on the other side.  I've seen him beat cancer.  I've seen his heart grow.

I know that there is hope for this next generation because in a world plagued by the lack of fathers, role models, and heroes I am truly one of the very lucky ones.  My story of redemption and reconnection with my own father is a true testament to that.

Superman doesn't always wear a cape.  Sometimes he wears a weathered Willie Nelson t shirt and has a beard.  Sometimes he looks just like you do.