Seasoned Reflection

Flirtatious: "You ought to be in pictures. Mine!"

Real Mood: Oblique

Prediction: Fall won't arrive in Christ Church, New Zealand until March.  It won't even show up next year in Tierra Del Fuego.

I love the Fall for a whole bunch of reasons.  My  body really likes the Fall thermometer. I love what happens to leaves when the chlorophyl runs out of their veins. I always remember Fall weddings, Fall colored shirts and skirts. Fall full moons? Oh baby! My two favorite holidays?  Halloween and Thanksgiving come in the Fall. Call me weird, but I like the subtle melancholy that comes with the territory.  Fall picture taking is my favorite. And I'm not just talking leaves here.

I'm not above the use of an occassional cliche. But that cliche must at least have a "double entendre" or "oxymoron" to go along with it before it meets my standard. That's why I can call most Fall days "picture perfect" days.   I once proposed doing that exact story in a newsroom. Mind you it was a ssllooww news day.  And it was a big risk.  I would have to prove it.

Turns out most professional landscape photographers love Fall days. At least here in the Rocky Mountains, something happens to the atmosphere. Mountains that normally form a soft distant background in a frame, jump into sharp focus in the Fall.  They seem to be a few blocks away.  The depth of field is miraculous in the Fall. Every thing in the shot comes into focus. If you are selling something with pictures? Take those pictures in the Fall.

Thanks to my producer friend Deb Stanley we got to put that story on the air, cliche and all. It was tough catching up with those professionals because they were all out shooting.  Some of them thought Fall should remain a secret.

What I like about picture takin' in the Fall is the angle of the sun. It's not just the birds that fly south for the winter. So does the Sun. All day long you get these big ol' wonderful shadows. At dawn and dusk they are gigantic.  And they are mood casting. Well, you know, that reminds me of a poem I once wrote?

 

PARKED

I'm standing here in the park,

in the dark,

just me, Paul

and the leaves of Fall.

 

The diamond shaped field oe'r there,

is so bare,

no ball playing now,

just noiseless air.

 

The silver lake is just ahead,

not a ripple, no splash,

no sails and no birds

just some flying trash.

 

Past the lake the Zoo sleeps, too,

not a sound,

wait, a hoot owl? No,

a horn from town.

 

A naked branch makes eerie forms,

fists with rocks,

asking me if I'd

like to shadow box.

 

Crunch of dead leaves the top noise,

in a mad rustle,

leaves of anger,

leaves and wind in a tussle.

 

I'm standing ankle deep in color,

like an iced in duck,

I can't move,

stuck in the muck.

 

I'm enveloped, overcome,

Huh? no escape?

You say a good mulching

should whip me into shape?

 

See you in the Spring I guess!  

Did I tell you I really like Fall temperatures?

Retracing

I just wrapped up for now my unfinished symphony on Chicken Little News.  If you're interested its the monday september 12th entry....headed " Once Upon a Time....."

Misery Needs Company!

Flirtatious: Hey, can I help you set those lights mister?"

Real Mood: Cuddly

Prediction:  Someone in Hollywood will not get the part they wanted today.

When a long time photographer friend of mine (Coby Howell) sees his name in one of my entries he writes, "SO that's how it feels to be famous?"

My own instinctive internalized response was, "well, maybe not famous."  Afterall he could just check the number of visitors and then quickly tinker with his ego gauge.

But my learned and trained response is, "Well Duh?"

Truth is fame, success, respect, competence, experience, love, devotion, passion, honors and paychecks are life long pursuits. And in the broad (yet narrow) world of journalism, media, entertainment, there are some uncomfortable givens. All those neat things like fame are attainable. But they are not a constant. They are not your's to own.

No one steals them from you.  They just  get eaten up by time and circumstance.

"Well, that's kinda depressing," you say.

Not really! What would be depressing would be not knowing that was the case. To get there is a lot of work and guess what? To stay there is a lot of work.  

Let's get the monster cliche out of the way.  "You Must Believe In Yourself." 

"Well, yeah, but...sometimes that ain't so easy?"

Okay if you're under 18 close your eyes here.

"Sometimes you gotta fake it!"

I'm telling you all this because I host a "net group" of graduated and graduating students just getting into "The Biz." On the surface and collectively this has been a great year for them. They've gone from knowing ME to successes from Coast to Coast. They are on stage, in movies, on the news, in the edit booth, producing radio and TV shows, setting up network live shots, doing standup comedy, writing, reporting for major newspapers and magazines, hosting web music shows, singing their own material on stage and on CDs.

I often hear from those who don't have any stars to put on their resumes this year. They feel a little embarrassed that they haven't broken the pole vault record in 2005. Luckily they have Me as a friend.  "So What?" 

I think it may be comforting to them to know I also heard from all my friends who did break the pole vault record this year and THEY, too,  were a little down at times.

Here's a case. My friend Tasha Orr has been out banging on doors in L.A. hoping to inch her way into the producing world. She's been in a Movie, worked for the Director's Guild, been to the beach, had a date with a Soap Opera ego, met a lot of people. She's now working for a Prop Company that supplies military stuff to major productions like Monk. Tasha just showed  up in LA  LA land a year ago. But she thinks she is not as far along as she SHOULD be.

I'd like to believe that all good advice comes from ME. Alas, that's not the case. Tasha's mom, bless her heart, says, "Tasha, quit making up SHOULDS."

Let's hug Tasha.

Lyndsay Goranson has been in New York for a year and let's see? Two movies, one voice over psa for MERC, two off- broadway plays, one of them a major role? All this while holding down a P.R. job for a major designer.  She is worried she's not making her full time living in this "BIZ" yet.

Be aggressively patient Lyndsay (wouldn't freud love that). Here's a hug.

Tierza Scaccia and Matt Daren have knocked down enough credits this year they may have to start ducking to hide from paparazzi.

Still they've both written for and received hugs.

Tom Livingston just recently went to work in Wyoming thinking he might be too old to go the standard route to becoming a major market anchor.  Well since arriving he's been on a cattle drive, been to the bottom of a missle silo and spent some time with a few "famous" people. He's smiling.

He wrote for and got a hug.

My Pal Mindy MacInnes moved to New York, and after banging her head on concrete walls for a year,  moved into ABC headquarters where she arranges affilate liveshots for the network. She is learning that reporters and anchors don't always put their pants on like the rest of us.  Sometimes they put their pants, and their heads, on backwards. While hugging we've gotten in some pretty good laughs.

Same goes for my buddy Paula Vargas, now assignment editor at a local TV station. She thinks I'm a lot easier to talk to now that we can share common experiences. She got a hug, along with a few tips on how to handle some egos that haven't been hugged lately.

I was chatting with one of my current announcing students, Natasha. We didn't discuss her age, but she was wondering if she hadn't missed her window of opportunity to start an on-camera carreer. I replied with my stock sermon.

"I was 29 when I first got into radio. I was 42 when I got into TV and I retired from that business....and....."

"Stop, stop!," she says.  "You've just made my day!"

Sometimes you don't even know when you are hugging somebody.

Whoever you are hang in there.  And feel hugged. 

"Another Man's Trash?"

Flirtatious: "Well that's my favorite color too!"

Real Mood: Enigmatically Amused

Prediction: An archeologist in the year 3,000 will be institutionalized after spending ten years of his life trying to decipher our graffitti.

Okay, I must be losing it. I just sit down to type and this computer screen lets out this very brief, but very clear MOOO. We do strange things here, but we've never kept a cow in the house. Has this happened to any of you? I'd feel better if it had.

I'm now suspicious that AOL monitors blogs.  Yesterday I noticed in the middle of their promotional blurbs they threw in this picture of John Roberts with a clear emphasis on his not from this planet EYES.  I think every once in a while I'm going to throw in an authority test. Or would that be a paranoia test?

Back to the Highway.

Like many of you I detest some graffitti.(Before I started this I was amused to discover there is a singular noun form for graffitti. It's graffito. You probably knew that. But I didn't and I'm easily amused.) But I also have to tell you I get a real kick out of some it. Some of it I could defend as works of art. But I wonder if we all use the same value systems in our judgments?

Here in this city there is a prolific serial graffitist whose "artistry"  in the past has besmirched more than a thousand trash bins.

She, and yes I know she's a she, makes a unilateral decision that the city owned trash bins need some sprucing up.  So in the middle of the night she creeps through the urban alleyways with her wares. With cat like precision she pulls out her compressed paint cans and goes to work.  In seconds a container of waste becomes a work of art? I offer this up as a question because here is where our individual value systems come into play.   What is she trying to say to me (you)? What do I (you) think about her message? What do I (you) feel about her message?  

Of course these questions (and the answers to them) arise with  the sun as you are emptying your excess in to this big ugly brown receptacle. Your eyes are magnetically drawn to something new, and you immediately begin the value judgement process.

I have to say that I like the fact that this is not an angry message of defiance. Those bore me. But with my value system, that's about all I can say positive about what I see. I see before me a "Pink Flamingo."

I'll pause here to say I know this "Flamingist."  I've been to her studio and her house. She is very talented but I feel misguided in her graffitti choice. The police also know her but never seem to respond quick enough to catch her in action. But that's all another blog I think.  Back to the issue at hand.

There are people living on the planet who want no other human contact. They often go to great lengths to insure that's the case. They put up expensive gates with automatic locking mechanisms. They purchase elaborate camera systems atttached to screaming alarms. They surround themselves with "Keep Out" signs. They employee vicious beasts to snarl and bark at you when you get near. But if we all had MY value system all we'd have to do is put a "Pink Flamingo" in a front yard. (The only thing that frightens me more is getting a fruit cake in the mail.)

I'm sorry but "pink" is not my favorite color.

There is nothing more naturally dramatic than a flock of a thousand flamingoes lifting off a lake bed. But isolate a flamingo standing there on one leg, and you've just got one dumb looking beast. It comes as no surprise to me that flamingoes at the zoo must be herded inside like cattle when winter arrives. While doing a story on this practice I'm informed failure to herd them will result in these bird brains just standing there as the water in their pond ices up.   The zoo did, in fact, have to chip them out of the ice one year.  

There is a new fund raising scam sweeping the country that warms my heart. You sneak on to some "well to do" citizen's home in the middle of the night and fill it's yard with plastic "Pink Flamingoes." Then you send the home owner a note that says those flamingoes could be removed for a price. I'm predicting it will have a success rate equal to the bikini car wash scam. Its just comforting to know you are not alone when you detest something. 

I will say one neutral thing about a flamingo graffito. In some historical perspective it will make sense.  It will at least be an accurate reflection of some evolving fauna.

While short of praise I can also compliment the graphic skills of some of the less imaginative graffitti artists. Their spray can strokes and color mixing can be impressive. And their work will inspire copius cultural anthropology studies in the year 3000. Let's take a peak at one.

"The primitive attachment imagery carbon dated to the years 1990 to 2005 indicate there were basically two social orders competing for dominance in the region once called The United States of America. One order was called THE CRIPS. The other order identified itself as THE BLOODS. From early forms of TV (Total Vision) called DVDs we've learned political differences were always settled violently. The graffitti left behind and discovered in our archeological sites are very enlightening....blah, blah, blah, blah."

But there is yet another form of graffitti that I'm confident will never be deciphered. Scientists will go mad in search of it's meaning. It's the spray can work of engineers, housing inspectors, contractors, utility workers.

A case in point. Driving along a highway today something catches my eye on a concrete barrier. It's obviously a secret code of some officialdom. I say officialdom code because the drawing has no beauty, no imagination, no aesthetic connection to reality or dream.

It's merely off white clumsy, dripping paint strokes that say something to somebody but nobody knows who. I will describe what I see as one attempted vertical stroke of approximately one foot in length. Coming off the squiggle to my right is a horizontal squiggle of approximately one foot in length. It may be unfair to call it horizontal. It's all over the place. At what appears to be the end of that squiggle I see two strokes of different lengths, appearing at angles. They seem to be heading towards a common vanishing point but miss badly. Finally to the right of the missed point there is a recognizable image.  It appears to be the letter R in capital form.   

Okay you code wizards. When you've got that one solved get back to me and I'll toss another one at you.  Just tell the nurse it's part of your therapy.

You know how some stores check ID when you buy spray paint? They ought to be more interested in what people do for a living than how old they are.

I think this has gone far enough so I'm just going to fly out of here on the flamingo I flew in on. Quick before we ice up!

The Eyes Have It!

Flirtatious: "All the better to see you my dear!"

Real Mood: In Sight Full

Prediction: John Roberts will be confirmed as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and will get to work right away organizing touch football games for the Hight Court's lunch breaks.

 

I'm uneasy about confirming John Roberts to be Chief Justice of the United States. I'll join the rest of you in admiring his presence, his ability to respond with calm reflection to tough questions.  I'm not concerned even with his position on Rowe Versus Wade one way or the other.  He seems like the kind of guy who really will do his homework, study arguments and detail, and make decisions based on reason. He seems ready, as most of these justices do, to put politics behind him.

So what's my problem? Why am I uneasy, even fearful to some degree?  IT'S HIS EYES.

At first I thought maybe there was just something out of "whack" on the TV set. But then I saw his picture in the Newspaper. Same thing!

They are not natural in color or design.  When I look into them it's like being drawn into a labyrinth.  I'm afraid that if he wants, he'll be able to hypnotise the rest of the court.  Maybe even the other two branches of government!

I'm sharing my eye analysis with Peggy and it finally dawns on me.

"Peggy, he's a robot!"

"Don't be silly," she scolds. "Those arn't the eyes of a Robot. He's clearly an ALIEN."

"Whoa!, thanks! I was worried there for a minute."

NEW SUBJECT:

I've moved a lot in my life. I think that might, just might, explain why I take note of moving vans when I see them on the highway. So I'm going to name a name. I'm moving along at something close to 65 miles per hour in a center lane.  On my right is an odd shaped moving van hoping to merge into my lane.  I know this because the truck's turn signal is on. It's a member of the "Graebel Van lines" fleet. But there is something peculiar about this particular unit.

It is not likely a cross country van.  I say this because it seems to be only about  a third of the normal length of those you usually see. Another clear difference is that this trailer has a very narrow wheelbase.  This would be okay, but there is no  compensatory adjustment of the  trailer sitting on those wheels. The trailer is both as wide and as tall as a normal unit.

Maybe this will aid you're trying to picture what I'm seeing. It's akin to "Wimpy's" wagon in the "Popeye" cartoon. Call it considerably top heavy.

So what?

"Excuse me Paul Harvey, but would it be okay if just this once I wrote and now the rest of the story?"

"No? Okay."

With eyes to match my age I'm not given to reading signs and bumper stickers on other vehicles unless they are pretty much gigantic. Well, this time it applies. I see this wonderful slogan written on back of the trailer that says, and I quote, "Graebel Van Lines, Helping Move Your Family Forward."

Cute little play on words, don't you think?  Problem is as I'm absorbing this cuteness the truck is making the merge  in earnest.  He is making the merge on a curve. He is making a merge on a curve at 65 miles per hour. He is making the merge on a curve at 65 miles per hour with a 25 mile per hour cross wind. I'm pretty sure I'm seeing at least one wheel come off the ground.

So, I'm going back to the gigantic slogan, "Helping Move Your Family Forward."

Uh, Uh! You're moving it SIDE to SIDE. Even if you don't tip over, you are dumping my Cuisinart on top of my Baby Grand. You are shattering my Great, Great Grandmother's etched mirror from Norway. You are breaking the dinnerware Peggy only brings out on Thanksgiving.

"Come on Graebel. Get a Truck!"

So I'm a "breast" guy. Other's are "thigh" or "leg" people. Got you excited? Well I'm talking chicken here.  And this is a case of the punch line wagging the clucker.

I've been a little puzzled of late buying chicken breasts. Sometimes one is available in a size to fit in the palm of your hand. And some you can pull from a package and unfold to have it run the length of your forearm.  I don't remember that kind of range growing up. Triple A Cup to G Cup? Here's where I steal the punchline from a student from an entirely different context. "Are these chickens getting breast implants?" Just struck me funny and I felt compelled to share it.

SEE you later.

"Once upon a time there was......

Flirtatious: " Have you ever tasted my braised chicken strips on curried rice? Uuum, so good."

Real Mood: Oh, well.

Prediction: In the media something will always get worse before it gets better.

Wouldn't it be great if we really could believe everything we read, heard or saw? It would make life so much easier to understand and predict. We could cope. But alas, as we know, this is not the case. Every image or expression that passes through our sensory organs is wrought with agendas. That includes, of course, our own agendas. Nothing heightens the introduction of the number of points of view expressed than a crisis we are now weathering down in New Orleans. What's a person to believe?

I recently spent a year's worth of Saturday afternoons reading to children at Border's Books. One of the revelations that befell me during that year is what great liberty authors and publishers take with fairy tales and nursery rhymes.You take a basic fable from antiquity, which apparently has no attachment to copyright law, and look out! There is no limit to the variety of twists and turns this story will take. The characters will change, the plots will change, the hidden messages (the allegories and metaphors) will bend to any number of slanted messages.

It's incredible to see what successive generations have done to "Grimm's Fairy Tales" in order to turn them into morality plays for toddlers.

Picture a bunch of toddlers hanging out around the nap mat, knockin' down some milk and "Graham Crackers." One of them brings up "Little Red Riding Hood."

"Wasn't that weird how the wolf ate grandma and they had to cut her out of his stomach."

"That's not what happened. Little Red Riding Hood got there in time so Grandma could hide under the bed." 

"She wasn't under the bed, she was in the closet."

"Wasn't that cool how the woodcutter chopped the wolf's head off?"

"What wood cutter?"

"You know we could fight over this until we're twelve. Why don't we just wait for the Disney version to come out. That will straighten it all out."

I don't think I'm unusual in carrying one of those tales for toddlers on into adulthood with me. I've always liked "Chicken Little." I've liked it partly because the story line parallels a point of view I have about  my life's work. (Well, at least one of the storylines.)

You probably remember how it goes. "Chicken Little" gets hit on the head with an acorn and makes an assumption. "THE SKY IS FALLING," Litttle declares. The little chicken starts running around shouting to all the other chickens, 'THE SKY IS FALLING." Nobody ever stops to see what really hit Little on the head. Nobody waits for an analysis of the nut. They all run around in a panic until they meet up with Foxy Loxy, who says, "What's up?"  "THE SKY IS FALLING!"

"Well then why don't you all just come into my den here for safety and a little lunch."

"WHAT'S FOR LUNCH?"

"You! What would you say to a little chicken cordon bleu?"

In one my rare pedagogical blasts of pomposity, let me ask you to just picture Little as one of the reporters or anchors you've been watching.

In one of the versions Little gets past Foxy Loxy, and makes it all the way to the King. The King listens, and then patronizingly hands the dumb chicken an umbrella to protect against the sky falling.

Might one or more of you join me in equating the King to Lt. General Honore as he spoke to reporters in New Orleans this past week?

"Okay, reporters, let's don't get stuck on stupid." 

In a land where there is freedom of the press (media), one should expect reporters so chastised to rip the General "a new one."

But you know what? They were stuck on stupid. They knew they were stuck on stupid. So were the anchors and the field producers and the tape editors and the assignment editors. Regardless of how we've evolved, the five W's ought to still be the base of our contribution to society. Where (one of the 'W's) did they go.

Some Examples:

Did anyone question the guy who said, "43 thousand people are going to die in New Orleans."  Nah, just put him on the air.

Not true.

Did anyone try to verify the words of a distraught and over worked cop who said, "more than a hundred police officers defected when the going got tough."

"Love that anger. Look at the tears. Get that guy, what his name, Little, and put him on the air."

Not true.

Was it Little who said, "New Orleans is totally uninhabitable. Nothing will be dry here until June."

Not true. ( A good portion of the city has already been described as "dry as a bone." 

It had to be Little who declared "there were more than a hundred rapes in the Convention Center. It was horrible."

"Let's get that Little on the air, but see if we can't get the chicken to make it INCREDIBLY horrible."

"Not true."

We ought to mourn just one drowning, one person's total loss of worldly goods, one rape, one murder, one lost child. When the competition comes along to outdo each other without verification it becomes a "Video Game."  Who has the most points at the end of the contest.

Despite this tirade you need to know I'm not a reformer.  Nothing is going to change. FOXY LOXY didn't eat CHICKEN LITTLE.   But I wanted to get this written before Rita Hits Houston. ("Wow what a nice piece of alliteration, HITS HOUSTON. Get the graphics people on that.  I want a banner ready when we come out of break.) Everyone has been reporting on the MONUMENTAL lessons learned from KATRINA.  

I've already heard about the 18 foot, 37 foot and 50 foot wall of water that is going to wipe out Galveston Island.  Little is already at work and landfall is nearly two days away.  I wonder if anyone heard Little blame all this hurricaning on GLOBAL WARMING. If so did we hear the guy from The National Hurricane Center say, "Uh Uh!"

I'd like to think otherwise, but I believe we are all still "STUCK ON STUPID."

"Dammit, where are all those umbrellas we ordered? We got some sky out here FALLING people!"

I mean you are aware that Disney is coming out with yet a new version of "Chicken Little" this fall? I totally, indefatigably, over the top, can't wait.

"Just the facts please"

 

Flirtatious: "Like my waders? Got 'em at Neiman Marcus, paid 700 dollars for 'em."

Real Mood: Wishing I could laugh.

Prediction: If they do get any refugees on those cruise ships they'll want to leave the second they hear those toilets flush.

 

Not to belabour the point too much but when you talk about Sunflower seeds this is what the plant looks like. Neither you nor the birds would opt for the seeds in a Blackeyed or Browneyed Susan.

Just a couple of things tonight. Come on FOX, get rid of the guy walking around in waders. He's standing in water while he could be standing on grass two feet away? I don't think he needs to worry about hepatitis. His concern should be "Water on the Brain." 

I'm still working on my "Chicken Little News" but still not ready. I hoping we are all asking of every anchor, reporter, public safety official, bureaucrat, politician, military leader, victim and clergyperson showing up on TV along the gulf coast the same question.

"Are you here with a legitimate, well founded concern, or are you just jockeying for face time?"

Not that we shouldn't be paying attention and offering help where we can, but I hope we're all pausing for some diversion.  Peggy and I have been watching the U.S Open Tennis Tournament. There is some great tennis and real drama developing that will keep one's mind balanced and grounded. You may not need that, but I do. 

Is it or Isn't It?

Flirtatious: " I brought you this bouquet of Blackeyed Susans."

Real Mood? Retro Escapism

Prediction: Neither Ted Turner nor Rupert Murdoch will be offering free room and board at their mansions, or any of their personal residences, for victims of hurricane Katrina.

 

Things aren't always what we are absolutely sure they are. Take the yellow flowers in the picture above.  Seeing a sea of yellow out here on the prarie you just know you're looking at sunflowers. Right?

Not! What you see is the result of land lying fallow (unplowed) for a period of time.  That allows an invader species to drop in and hang out for a while.  In this case we're looking at either Blackeyed or Browneyed Susans. They pop up all the across the country when you give them a chance.

This opens the door for me to share with you what I think to be one of the more amusing "Inside TV stories" I've been associated with.

It was a Saturday night in "Metropolis." It was a strangely quiet Saturday night in the city's TV newsrooms. Oh, all the "perspective" and "fluff" pieces were in place for the long newscasts to come.

It's something I've never totally understood. On the weekends you have the smallest crews, the fewest resources, less organized news to cover, and for some reason the largest news blocks to fill. Almost all decisions come down to "bean counting." I've never been able to line up the beans to have this make any sense. But I'm not complaning. Weekend shows are the one forum left where a reporter is given enough air time to blow some perspective into a story. 

On Saturday night you sort of plan on some breaking news, especially during a warm summer evening. But here it is almost 8:30 and nothing of consequence is going on. You are "praying  to the news god."

(I'm stealing that prhase from my old friend Susan Kelly. She may have stolen it from someone else, but I teach that attribution is the one element of jounalism that may keep you out of jail.)

Maybe it's not nice but you are hoping for a shooting, a forty  car pile up, a riot at the football game, a four alarm fire. At 8:45 it seems as if the "news god" has gently answered.  It's not a four alarm, but a two alarm fire about ten miles east of the area most of the stations call home.

You can hear every station's two way radios going crazy. The news desks are scrambling to get live trucks to the scene. They are pulling reporters and photographers off the YMCA picnic stories.  The race is on and by the time everyone is in place it will be less than an hour to airtime.

The fire is in an upper floor of a very large apartment complex. In the dark it's tough to get a good view of what's going on as the fire trucks are racing to hook up to hydants. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the fire department Public Information Officer calls the media to his side.  It's now 9:30 by the way.  News is at 10!

"Well, guys, this one is a little less than we thought. Somebody got a little careless with his barbeque and lit his lawn chair on fire. He had it out before we got here."

We all knew the rule that it's always a two alarm if it's a high rise. But we were desperate, and therefore irrationally hopeful. So now what. Everyone's lead story just went up with a smoking lawn chair.

THE NEWS GOD SPOKE: crackle, " all units in district three respond to fourth and Jackson (FICTITIOUS ADDRESS) to possible hostage situation and stabbing.

"YEE HAW."  It's only two miles from the fire. The race is on. Everyone is breaking down their set up's at record speed. We've got a breaking story, and we need to go live off the top at 10 p.m.

Even the cops and firemen are excited. They don't like to admit that, in general, we all share the same addiction to adrenalin.   By 9:45 at least all of the stations have the live trucks set up. Waiting for the SWAT team to get into place and surround the home is taking way too long.  Reporters are just going to have to get on camera and wing it.

It's now 9:55. No reporter is going to be able say much more than the obvious.

 " Well, Jerry what we have here is a potential hostage situation. The Swat team has been called out and we don't know at this time if anyone is in the house. We only know the police are responding to a 911 call from an alleged stabbing victim.  We'll get back to you just as soon as we get more information."

They've given that report a hundred times.  They don't even need to check their notes. At least we've got a lead story. THEN IT HAPPENS.

The front door opens just a crack.  An officer is crouched down on the porch and suddenly grabs the arm of whoever is opening that door. Reporters are anxious.  This is changing the script and we're not even on air yet. It's now about one minute to airtime and it happens.  The officer leans over on the porch and goes into a roll, laughing hysterically. He quickly says something to his sergeant.

Now the sergeant, while also laughing hysterically, quickly relays something to the Public Information Officer. The PIO, clearly understanding the urgency of lead story live shots, races to brief the TV crews.

With tears in his eyes, holding back a force that was telling him to guffaw, he quickly offers:

"What we have here is a woman who called 911 at 9:35 this evening reporting a stabbing. The information we operated on was not complete. We've just been informed by the woman who resides at this residence that she called 911 to report she had a STABBING PAIN. "

I think one station just bailed out and led with the YMCA picnic.  The others just did the "lightest tap dances" they'd ever done on TV.  They too, were fighting back tears.

There's a moral here.  If you're out on the prarie on a Saturday Night and see something yellow? Don't just assume it's a SUNFLOWER. And don't call the newsroom until you're sure. Reporters are not supposed to laugh on camera..

Whoops! I just heard from Jim Weis, my flora and fauna guy. He says while Blackeyed Susans are not commonly known as sunflowers, they are in a family generally referred to as sunflowers.

Mow The Lawn

Flirtatious: "What are you drinking?"

Real Mood: Arrogant

Prediction: Rupert Murdoch and Ted Turner will not be down washing mud off the "Riverwalk" next week. ( or any week for that matter.)

I watched a little hurricane coverage last night and then a little this morning. About twenty minutes of this morning's coverage finally got to me. I stood up, made some coffee, toasted some toast, stretched a few muscles and made a solemn vow. Want to hear it? Here goes! 

"I'm going to go mow the lawn."

Try this on for an analogy. You know when you're on the plane and the flight attendant (or B movie actress on the video) tells you, "Use the oxygen mask on your self first, before you assist a child?"  Please somebody. Give these anchors some oxygen.

I think grief counselors will tell you this stage in a major disaster always comes.  Anger!  While we may all feel it, someone has to maintain some composure.  Had Rip Van Winkle just returned to earth and started watching TV today, I doubt he'd think we were dealing with a hurricane.  He would be wondering what started this war.

"Is it a race war? Is it a labor strike? Is the South trying to pull out again? Who is flying those attack helicopters over the city? What rebel group is firing at the choppers from the war ruins? Did somebody bomb the power plants? How did so many soldiers get wounded? Where are they taking those prisoners in those buses. "Who?" "Why?" "What?"

Poor Rip. I'll bet he wants to just go right back to sleep. That's what I wanted to do while accidentally watching "The Fox Morning Crew" giving their studied impressions this morning. They were, in fact,  MEANLY debasing another network  for allowing a rapper to vent on camera.  But you know they forgot to look stage left where an African American panelist was in attendance. In the kindest, most peaceful tone, the man uttered something like, "Yes but I think there are issues there we need to look at?"

The GANG jointly give him the equivalent of ,"COME ON!" Then they quickly cut him off and go to break.  From me to them?

"Hey, guys, go mow the lawn."

I didn't know Peter Jennings. I'd met him once and did a feature story on him hosting the ABC newscast here. What I saw, I liked. Sure he had a lot of producers out there doing grunt work for him.  But he seemed humble about that.  He really seemed to understand their value in helping him make sense of the news.  He clearly saw the getting and giving of perspective as part of his mission. AND he seemed to "Get It"that we watching wanted to get it calmly and without a lot of opinion.  And I'm thinking to reach that plateau he needed to do at least two things: "Get Some Sleep," "And Mow The Lawn."

I'm not being facetious when I quote the oft maligned Rodney King.

"Why can't we all just get along?"

"We'll Rodney, in this case I'd have to say it's partly because we have these news anchors who've been up for 5 days without sleep, winging it with their editorials, blasting any and everyone without doing their homework, and generally just agitating rather than educating. They wouldn't be behaving like that if they'd just paused to do one normal thing, like mow the lawn. And what are they trying to prove? "Get Some Sleep! " 

Meantime Rip and Rodney are down sharing a pitcher of "Fat Tire."  Now that's normal.  That's how you get along.

"New York, How Do I Look?"

Flirtatious: Gone Blank

Real Mood? Reflective

Prediction: Somebody did get home video, and it will surface for a price.

 

One of the fruits of retiring from the media is not having to stay glued to the TV set, the Two-Way radio, The Pager, The Cell Phone, The Fax, The Competition Coverage and whatever else they've added in the past three and a half years. There is some irony there. When most of us got into this business, HAVE TO was GOT TO.

 I was working in Liberal, Kansas where there was more action than you might imagine.  And I never missed a beat of it. I had a police radio I kept by my bed, instead of one that would play music. I occasionally turned it down at night, but never off.

My photographer friend Coby Howell never transitioned away from that passion. He has so many radios in his news car there is barely enough space left for the camera and one skinny reporter. Every outlet needs a Coby Howell. When his two way crackles you know you've got news.

Everybody in this market for any period of time got to know Ray Pitt.  Ray is a former Police Officer who freelanced as a traffic reporter and news tipster. I don't know if he is still around, but this story will stay around for ever.  

Ray has a pretty good sized family and it took a while to save enough money to take them all to Disneyland together. So he gets them all to the Disney parking lot.  They all jump out and head to the gates where their dream vacation is about to commence.

Well, not everybody got out.  Ray, it's told, stayed right where he was to live out HIS dream. He spent the entire day listening to Los Angeles area police scanners.

This is kind of a long introduction into what I want to talk about today.  I think I'm stalling.

As a "Reporter Emeritus" ( in most circles) I'm getting asked a lot about what I think of the coverage of the Gulf Coast Catastrophe. I've become really comfortable being neither an apologist nor a critic of the media. And I'm going to walk a tightrope hoping to keep that posture. In all honesty most of you have seen and heard and read more of the coverage than me. But maybe I can offer some insight into your making sense of what you're seeing. Some questions that have come my way:

"Why is it when the Hurricane hit all we saw was reporters standing in front of the camera? Why wasn't there any video?"

Even notbeing there I can tell you it's because they couldn't get it. As you may have surmised from the way we got into this, journalists are a competitive lot. Number one, they all want to be first. Most of them will toss all safety to the wind to be "Numero Uno."  That's why it was no challenge filling the embedded reporter slots in Iraq.

In addition to being first, there are photographers driven to catch the action, the TV moment. They want to be there to show the drama of the roof tiles peeling off in high winds. They want to catch the tree actually falling on top of the Mercedes. They want that shot and the natural sound of the pleasure craft banging on the side of the pier.

If we didn't see those pictures I'm confident it was because they couldn't get them. While they are subject to the same police orders handed down at a disaster as the general public, there are always a number among us who sneak around a perimiter, and find a back way in to get the story, get the picture no one else has,  be first.

And there are journalists who just want to dramatically document what's going on. They are looking for the video that gives perspective to the crisis. They are looking for well composed video and stories of suffering and survival. Typically those are pictures and stories that will surface days,  weeks, months, maybe even a year after the event. They often become the basis of stories entered into contests, including the Emmies. One of the reasons you don't see those pictures early on is all of the media's resources are committed to just staying on top of what's happening officially, at the moment.

"Why aren't we seeing more home video like we saw during the Tsunami?"

Don't know but I've got some guesses. It was sunny and bright out when the Tsunami hit. There was limitless visibility.  I've not been in a hurricane, but I've been around a ton of blizzards and tornado producing storms.  If you don't have a camera tied down to a tripod hiding behind a windbreak, you're not going to get any video or pictures worth showing to anybody.

Also if you've visited the Gulf Coast this time of year you likely have a comment on the humidity you'd like to share. Even without the storm you may have noticed little foggy smudges forming on your lens, slowly destroying the image in front of you. That much moisture is not good for picture takin'.

"Why don't they wait until they get final official statistics before announcing them?"

I'll answer that question with a question. Would you (viewer, listener, reader)  be willing to to wait? The research, for what its worth, says you are not.

To get this back on balance here's some questions I can't fully answer.

"Why do they just keep showing the same pictures over and over. Is that all they've got."

The unfortunate truth is it's easier.  If they can loop some dramatic pictures together, they can just run them under everbody's reports like background music. They don't have to put a tape editor to work who is more useful elsewhere.  I don't like it because it gives the impression it's happening now. But that's easy for me to say. I'm not a producer under fire.

"Why do they put the camera right in somebody's face and keep the camera rolling until they break down sobbing.?"

The quick answer is the research once again tells us that's what YOU want. I'm not totally on board with that one. Yes you want the tender, the joyous, the fearful moment captured. But I think you want the camera to pull away sooner. Most of the people I worked with over the years honored that last inch of privacy. But you as an audience control the answer to the question. If you are opting for the station that shows the body, you're sooner or later going to get the body on all the stations.

"Why do they always send their anchors to be in the middle of the big story?"

I'm not sure. The quick answer is it gives them presence, to show that he or she is right on top of it. But to be honest it's one of my major pet peeves as a journalist. From an insider's point of view it pissed me off because they were jumping in on a story they hadn't worked at all. They'd just been briefed and then you had to stop every important journalistic function you were in the middle of, and pamper them. And some, certainly not all, have no experience in the field and become incredibly high maintenance.  I thought it was awful to take a sports anchor, Robin Roberts, on camera just after she found out her family was safe in Gulf Port.

She nearly breaks down introducing someone elses poignant package, and when she comes back on camera, Charlie or Diane set her up by asking about her family. Well of course she's going to fall apart. The people you're looking to for perspective should not, cannot fall apart.

I wasn't there but I've heard this story from a number of sources. When the Loma Prieta earthquake hit the bay area in 1989 it was a nightmare to cover. With the Bay bridge access gone, it was a mad scramble to get to the scene. First of all,  the only place you could fly into was Los Angeles and drive at least four hours north to the scene. (that's a five hour drive even ten miles over the speed limit...but if you want to be number one?) 

You'll see this all the time at a major news event.  All the Major TV stations in the country show up to give their personal touch. And they are all fighting for satellite time and satellite trucks.  In this case understand  this is taking place in the middle of a crisis where people have been crushed to death, where family members are milling around hoping for a miracle.  

The part of Oakland where the collapse took place sits in poverty. People living on the edge anyway are standing around in shock.

Amid all of this, one of the trucks announces a good portion of it's time has just been purchased by one of the networks. Everyone else will have to get in line. Just as he finishes his announcement,a stretch limousine pulls up to the truck, and with a big smile on his face, out steps that Network's Main Anchor to give everybody the scoop.

Since I wasn't there, and I'm sure there is information I don't have,  I'll not name the network or the anchor. I just hope that if it's all true, that network didn't fare well in the Bay Area that year.

I'm done for now.  I noticed throughout this entry I kept switching back and forth putting myself in the We or They category. Normally I'd go back and edit that to make it consistent? But I think there may have been a reason that happened. I'll take the grammarian hits.

We'll do lighter fare next time.

PostScript. There were some anchors I loved having at the scene. They were reporters first, and worried about their hair second.

"TEST, ONE, TWO, THREE!"

Flirtatious: Say! You wanna see me flex my uvula?

Real Mood: Playful

Prediction: Greek scholars will discover Anthony Quinn was not Greek at all, but they'll try to hide the fact.

I try to excite my announcing class every semester with a special tribute to Demosthenes. (or as they call him, the guy with the name that starts with 'D.')

At the risk of insulting some of you, I'll remind us all that Demosthenes was arguably the greatest orator of all time. You may best remember him as the Greek guy who loaded his mouth up with rocks to practice his speeches.( As it turns out that part may be  myth. But somebody must have tried it or we wouldn't even think of such a thing.)

So in years past I've had the students fill up their mouths with less damaging mass to practice their speeches.  Almost nothing works. Marshmellows dissolve at an incredible rate. Fritos just turn to mush and leave you smacking your lips from all the salt. At first I was impressed with those little candies from the theatre counters, "JuJuBees?" ( I'm not sure about the spelling.) But they sort of defeat the purpose because they pretty much glue your upper and lower mandibles together.

I now opt for an exercise I was taught where you just practice your speech with a pencil jammed between your front teeth. I don't tell my, or any other dentist, I do that. (Of course they're lucky because these dentists can  fix anything nowadays.)

What's more likely true is that Demosthenes ran along the sand of an Aegean Sea beach while spouting his rhetoric. It reportedly enhanced his breath control. We don't have any sand so our group jogs along a creek bike path. I can tell you the running works well. (Thanks D Guy) This is the first semester I didn't have four or five students (mostly women) show up in flip flops even though I warn them. I always give them the choice of either walking or jogging. This year it was nothing but tennies and joggers. Wisdom does not always come with age. I say, as I always have, "I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do."  Full participation means I gotta jog. Dang!

Almost surely true is that the 'D" guy (or some other
Greek) stood on that Aegean shore and delivered his speech to the noisy surf. That's for projection, something you need for theatre. Demosthenes needed it to argue his cases in huge forums. Sophisticated microphonery is slowly turning projection into a lost art. But not in my class by golly. Just ask the library staff.  Every once in a while we get a complaint because a studio behind the library is our class room.  I've forumlated a standard reply. The Greeks, I believe, would at least applaud it's title.  I call it "Paul's Apologetics."

But at least once a semester we take our projection on the road. At that same creek I've found a small waterfall that makes some noise year round. Man,  do we have some projectors this go round! The loudest opened my eyes to a professional skill that could easily impressed Demosthenes. She's been a pool lifeguard at an hour when only loud and obnoxious youngsters frolic. Maybe next semester we'll go to a pool.

My only disappointment today is we didn't get the usual homeless guys joining in as we howl over the water's fury.  It must have been free sandwich hour, beause they were nowhere to be seen.

Well, one other disappointment. I half jokingly suggested we jog back up the creek. They said, "okay." What happened to good old teenage rebellion? 

I did have my annual physical this morning and my medical mentor suggested I might want to get some more exercise. "Well, how about them apples, Doc.!"

I believe with all my heart that education should be practical. "Huh," you say? There will come a day in all my student's lives when the sound system will go out. Those days will be their days.  "LET'S HEAR IT FOR DEMOSTHENES."

Did you know Athens is a word we made up. A self respecting Greek would have no idea how to get there. And save yourself some ridicule. Don't ask a German how to get to Munich. And the real name for that country with all the fjords? It's not Norway. Not even close.  I gotta go! 

"Out of the the minds of babes"

Flirtatious: "So you ever had the Scampi here?"

Real Mood? Feeling young and alive

Prediction: Female fighter pilots will be a common reality by the year 2012.

 

One of the toughest talents to master in any life is that of listening. Since we can't actively listen to everything, we make choices. We categorize what and who we'll pay attention to. "We have to descriminate, don't we? If we don't we'll go bonkers, right?"

Whenever Peggy is out of town I go eat fish. She hates fish and I love it. So that's what I did this week. I'm sitting in this booth mindlessly watching a TV screen without sound. Happily animated conversation amongst a group of women in the booth next to me gets elevated.  It's something to occupy my mind. (Don't worry ladies. What's said in the booth, stays in the booth.)

They grow in Numbers, appetizers, apertifs and animation. The numbers thing starts to become an issue. 

"Should we pack up and move to a bigger table?"

About that time one of the women's daughters, ages 7 and 14, arrive.  And you might be thinking this will be the straw on the camel and they'll decide to move.  But no, the observant 14 year old espies me, sizes up the amount of the planet I'm occupying, and declares, " I'll just sit in this booth with this guy."

I see the expressions of mild shock on the faces of my fellow adults. I'm just guessing, but I think at least one of those expressions was saying, " I can't believe this precocious child. Leave the old man alone."

The group shock I believe intensified greatly when "The Old ____ "says, "Please do. I'd love to have your company."

I became very impressed with the girl's mother's skill at splitting her functions.  One half of her face was geared toward friendly chatter with her peers.  The other half was protectively keeping track of me.

But what really impressed me about this mother was that she let our encounter progress. And the wonderful thing about that is at least I'm a better person for it.

This fourteen year old girl has an I.Q. exploding off the top end of  the chart. It's  tough keeping up with her list of dreams and goals.  Right now the list includes being a fighter pilot. It's  clear she understands, but is not impressed, with the challenge of blasting through male chauvinism to reach that goal. If any of you chauvinists are listening, "I wouldn't get in her way General!"

She also wants to complete a documentary on third world poverty over the next year. What could a 14 year old  know about poverty?  Would living in it for a good portion of a year help? She and her sister had joined their mother on one of those go live with some natives in poverty, and see if you can guide them to better health, missions. She has already accumulated a lot of pictures and has been editing on her PC.

I learn that this young lady sets goals and never rests until the adults in her world help her make them happen. Mom Chimes in, "When she was seven she declared she wanted to visit all seven continents before she was ten."

Apparently that was no easy task, but she got back to Argentina from Antarctica just a few days before that tenth birthday. I'm still trying to get to that cold spot on earth,  and I'm starting to think I might have missed the window for it being fun.

Obviously this child is getting some help from an indulgent mom. But I don't think anything is going to hold her back. I know her ten minutes and have decided I'm going to hook her up with some photographers to speed her along on that documentary goal.

This young lady brightened my day and spirits. She renewed my belief that there are still some really cool, bright and caring people growing upon the planet. I might never have known that if it had all ended with , "leave the old man alone honey."  So thanks Mom! That was a brave thing to do.

If I have to be descriminate about what or who I'll listen to?  I think I'll tune out washing machines? Nah! What the Heck! I'm just going to happily go bonkers.