Mailboxes, Etc.

Expanding cities need to expand their infrastructure. Unfortunately someone always gets stepped on along the way.

Silent sentinels stand along Staring Lane. Many have been here as long as the homes they herald. In the near future they may be gone, along with those homes, to make way for more lanes.

Joan Herke is one of the residents in the wrecking ball's potential path and has been for the last year. She and other residents would like to know who will have to move, but the city isn't talking. She is also worried that she won't be able to find a new home, much less afford one, because nearly everything available has been snatched up by relocating refugees.

She tells us that some have told her it's the price she pays for living on a main thoroughfare, but it wasn't much more than a horse trail when she and her husband moved here, 42 years ago.

For now the neighborhood waits. The mailboxes maintain their watch, standing unflinchingly through drenching rain, blistering heat, and numbing cold to one day receive and deliver the notice that ends their obligation.

Updates

It's been a while, but I've been busy, so it's all good. Here are some short updates, to tide you over.

HD - I got the set on the last day of the Shedran Williams trial. It's great and I got to see some NCAA Tournament games on it, which were awesome. Which leads me to my next item...

NCAA - I was only able to enjoy my new purchase for a few days before jetting off to Indianapolis for the Final Four. We were late to the dance, so we only had ourselves to dance with.

Look for more in the coming days.

Trials

No NCAA tournament for me, which leaves me open for much less desirable assignments.

As some of you may know, the Deuce decided not to cover the men's tournament. Instead of hyping the hi-jinx on the hardwood, I'm spending my time in criminal court. Actually, I'm not in court, but sitting outside. Last week I was covering a child molester who was married to another child molester and they were molesting children together. This week I'm covering a murder trial in which a police officer was killed while working extra duty at a Wal-Mart by a guy who was shoplifting disposable cameras.

Between these two gripping sagas, I spent the weekend at home. I took a trip down to Cameron to see how the clean-up was progressing, and to help my parents for a day. We didn't do any work on their house, but one of God's houses instead. The First Baptist Church of Cameron got hit pretty hard. The sanctuary is a total loss, but it's sacrifice saved the other two thirds of the building. Dad and I reclaimed the A/C units that were recently installed, and were spared a baptism by floodwater.

Just about the time we finished that project, a semi arrived from Kentucky. The four guys who climbed out of it had just completed a 13 hour journey, but showed no trace of fatigue. That was, of course, before we began unloading the 53-foot trailer packed with pews and chairs. Twenty-five pews and 50 chairs later the truck was empty and we were just about spent. I gave the guys the abridged walking tour of the newly-abridged town on the way to the newest restaurant, the Hurricane Cafe.

We might not have been in paradise, but that cheeseburger was as flavorful and filling as any that I've had before. After we ate the guys climbed aboard their trusty steed and set off for home. We tacked up some blue tarps to make it a bit less inviting for anyone looking for some new furniture, and made our way back to my parents FEMA trailer. I was surprised that I could straighten my six-foot three-inch frame inside, with about an inch to spare, which is plenty of room compared to the cramped confines of a news truck in a hurricane. The only place I wasn't comfortable was in the shower, which has four or five inches less clearance, but I wasn't in there long.

After a good night's rest I bid adieu to my folks and headed back to the Big City. Not only did I get to do something real, but I also came back with a couple of killer story ideas that might do more to help than I can do on my own.

What's in a Name?

I've decided to give my readers a nickname. I can't believe it took me this long to think of it.

I hope this doesn't discourage any of you from reading, and I promise not to use it too often, for fear of it losing its charm. What am I thinking? If my post schedule (or lack thereof) hasn't sent you packing, I don't suppose anything I write will.

So here you have it. You can call yourselves what you want (all three of you), or you can adopt this name. Just know that in my mind I will always refer to all of you this way.

Let it be known far and wide, that on this day, I, Oreo, Lord of Crumbs, dub thee, my readers, the Crumb-snatchers.

I'm open to any advice as to the correct way to write that. Otherwise consider it canon.

The Little Things

It's amazing how a small inconvenience can snowball into a thunderous rage.

Monday heralds the demise of the weekend, but brings with it the potential for a week full of stories into which a shooter can sink his creative teeth. A certain orange cat sees Monday as a day better spent at home, because it is usually the worst day of the week. I stroll into the station somewhere in-between. My recent stretch on-call was quiet, and it is with glee that I return the pager to the assignment desk, where it will wait until the next hapless soul takes on its burden.

As the weight lifts from me, I fell my shoulders straighten and my spine lose the bow it had assumed. Unfortunately the pistol shots sounding from my joints give away my position to the Assignment Editor, who happens to be looking for a lens-jockey to send to an apartment fire. No one is home or injured, so I arrive back at the station in short order, wondering what fate is being assigned to me.

A few months ago, Ace Reporter Scott Satchfield and I did a story on the National Insurance Crime Bureau. Along with LA State Police, they were creating a database of the vehicles that had fallen victim to Katrina's floodwater. Now some of those vehicles are showing up on car lots in other states, from sea to shining sea. We've got an interview set up with the NICB guys, but it's not for a couple of hours, so we head out to see if any of the used car lots in town are checking the cars they take in. As expected, none of them want anything to do with this story, but it was worth a shot.

Lunch is next on the agenda, and where the day starts to go downhill. Short on cash, and time, I decide to eat first and hit the ATM after the interview. It's a quickie, as promised, but then we have to follow the guys to another location to get b-roll and a stand-up. I'm a little dry, but I can wait until we get back to quench my thirst.

Our arrival at the station goes horribly wrong. I'm met at the door by the Ass. Ed.(sic) and told that I will be leaving soon with another reporter. Her photog is out shooting something else. The one and only V soon informs me that we are off to shoot a package on the PD's Fallen Heroes Golf Tournament. Hmmm, it's 3 PM and my first story is in the 6 PM show. Since I'm picking up this shoot, I'm sure the desk will just assign the other photog to edit my package. Not the ideal situation, but it happens often here.

The shoot goes well, except that I still haven't had a drink since the milk from my cereal bowl. To top it off, everywhere I look is a golfer with a frosty beer in his hand. A longing look lingers on every can, but I'm on the clock, and unfortunately the only water I see is the condensation clinging to the cans. A-thirsting I must go.

At five o'clock the Nextel squawks out a request for my ETA. "About ten minutes," is my reply, to which I'm told that my package is ready and waiting at the desk! After picking it up, I learn that it is also the lead. I throw it together and walk out the door with my shift over and the show open rolling; thoroughly disgusted at the inablility of The Desk to properly allocate resources. A caffeine deficient photographer is a dangerous thing, and luckily no one gave me cause to haul them out of their car and beat them, but a few came close and the mighty Titan roared away from every stop sign in the last five miles of my trip.

I guess my truck will get to drink heartily at the gas pump.

Going Without

Alas, I thought I might enjoy a weekend of High Definition goodness, and maybe some big-screen gaming, but our trusty SD Magnavox is still holding the high ground in the living room.

Alterman Audio is the new guy in town. The company has a couple of stores in the New Orleans area, but while they were making repairs, opened a new store in Baton Rouge. Several Big Easy businesses have made the same move. I first heard about them from a reporter who had done a story there and told me they were willing to bargain with their customers.

It turns out that the owner opened his first store in February, so every year brings a big sale that month. Being the new store, they are cutting the sale prices as well. To give you an idea, my first visit was the second to last week of February, and they were offering the 50-inch Sony SXRD for $3000. MSRP was $4000. Most prices have come down since then, but they are still at least $100 less than anyone else in town. I almost forgot: they also double the original warranty, up to five years, for no extra charge.

Friday I dropped in with the intent to purchase. Everything was going well, until they asked if I was planning to take it with me. I had coordinated with the Mrs. for her to pick it up, since I was in the company vehicle until Monday. They told me that they were waiting on a shipment, and that the smaller sets, like the one I wanted, were popular and sold through quickly. It wasn't a deal breaker, since I wasn't going to be home much on Saturday, and I'll be gone for the later half of this week, following LSU in the Big Dance.

It'll be my luck that it arrives while I'm gone, but they offered to deliver it to me for free, and set it up, so it all evens out. At least I know that I'm getting a fresh one, almost directly from Japan.

The HD Plunge

After years of wishing and months of perusing, I'm just days away from enjoying High Definition in my own home.

Since grade school a personal goal of mine has been to own a big-screen television. What red-blooded, American male hasn't wanted one? A larger than life window to another world is what the movie theater experience is to me, and to be able to bring that home is thrilling. When I began building my home video library, I chose to fill it with widescreen versions. Watching them on a small screen wasn't the best option, but it was the only one I had. I have a good imagination, so I could scale it to match. I also hate pan-and-scan viewing.

Years of waiting have brought me to a thrilling point, because the technology now available was unthinkable when I was younger. I can now buy a widescreen monitor to match the film, filling the entire screen with some selections. The age of HD is now upon us, giving a clearer picture than ever before. Don't forget the other half of the experience. Sound doesn't just fill the room, but now transforms it into an extension of the world on the other side of the screen.

Uncle Sam has been holding on to some money for me, and now I'm going to put it to good use. The beginning of the Olympic telecast, showing breathtaking shots of the beauty of the Italian countryside, looked amazing, even on our stadard definition set. Images so powerful that the Mrs. wondered how much better they would look in their proper resolution.

Ah-ha! I had an opening. A small chink in the armor that I have been able to work into a fissure, leading to this week and purchase approval. I'll update later, after the purchase has been made, but it looks to be a 42-inch Sony Grand Wega (Vay-guh). It should be just the right size for our living room, and just right for me.

It's too bad I'm on-call this week, and possibly covering the NCAA tourney next week, or it would be sitting in my living room right now.

Throw Me Something, Mister!

It's six-thirty, Tuesday morning and I am on the road to New Orleans, the haven of his Royal Hershey Highness, and home to the oldest celebration of Fat Tuesday in the country.

My compatriot for this excursion is Big Easy reporter extraordinaire, Scott Satchfield. We've been three times in the last seven days. Mardi Gras in New Orleans is one of the biggest parties a person can be a part of, and definately overwhelming if you've never experienced it. I have, once before, and now I've got to cover it. After a little over an hour on the road we reach a point where the highway curves and arches away from us, leading to downtown New Orleans and the French Quarter. Suddenly I feel a sensation in the pit of my stomach that I haven't felt in nearly four years. It's that feeling of fear mixed with anxiety and sprinkled with a dash of panic. To this day I have no idea why I felt it. Maybe it was the light traffic coming into the city and our relatively hassle free trip, but it was there and didn't go away until we had parked and gotten to work.

Believe me, it was work. After pulling into one of the paid parking lots, (cash only today, hope I can find an ATM) we gather up only the essentials to haul to our workspace. We're heading for the Royal Sonesta, a landmark in the 2oo block of the infamous Bourbon St., and the local HQ for CNN, who will beam our stories back to Baton Rouge. We drop off the portable editor and hit 'The Street'. We're tasked with finding people for and against having the celebration while some people are still homeless after Katrina. On top of that, we also have to get video of the Zulu and Rex parades. Unfortunately Zulu won't reach us until noon. Oh, did I forget to mention that we have to feed look-lives for the Noon and Four shows at 11:35? We then have to put our package together for Five, but the evening crew is coming, they have a package for Six, we're sharing the editor, and both have to be ready to feed by 4:30.

Of course we got it all done, but not without a few hitches in the plan. Our end was fine, but the night crew didn't get to the city until 3:30. Then the photog couldn't find a parking spot, so I had to pick up the slack and shoot and edit the package for Six in an hour to make the feed window. After all of that, it was time to leave. A phone call to the missus found an ATM right around the corner, on the way to the Jeep. That's great, since the prices for parking get bumped up for the party, and we've been parked there for 10 hours or so. With my wallet having gone on a binge and purge of $30 I begin leaving New Orleans. I say begin, because it takes me an hour to get to the interstate, and the freedom of the open road. That's right, just getting to the on-ramp took as much time as the whole journey from Baton Rouge.

While it may sound like I didn't have a good time, it really wasn't that bad. Our room opened out onto the third floor balcony, and there is no better place to be on Fat Tuesday than a balcony on Bourbon. While Scott was writing, I was hanging out, observing the mass of humanity that had grown throughout the day. The street had been transformed into an undulating sea of color with the pavement no longer visible under the potpourri of partygoers. Someone thrust a handfull of beads into my hands, and suddenly I went from casual observer to participant.

Hmmmm. I worked miracles for the pod-people back at the station, captured the spirit of the people in my story, and got flashed because I had a camera.

Not a bad day's work, especially with four-and-a-half hours of overtime for the day.

Surprising Visitors

The stats generated by my counter are quite interesting. It seems that I've at least been checked out by people all across the northern hemisphere: from California to Massachusetts, Miami to Ontario, and even as far away as Italy!

I hope that everyone enjoys the crumbs. Thanks to those photograbloggers that have linked me on their sites. For all those who have written a kind word and sent a good-natured wish this way, thank you. I wish I could read them all, but who has the time? I don't even keep up with this site the way I should.

Also, thank you to those that put up with my irregular posting. I'm not going to resolve to fix it, because I think I'm allergic to resolutions, at least the ones that don't have to do with Hi-Def, but that is another story for another time. Suffice to say that anything I resolve to do rarely gets done. Could be that it seems too much like work when that happens.

Thanks...for everything.

Balancing Act

What a week. Every day saw me roaming the highways and byways for nearly the entire shift. This means that I didn't have to hang around the pod-people, but also meant a little more work than ususal. Tuesday and Thursday found me in New Orleans, and I spent Wednesday in a Public Service Commission meeting (YAWN).

Tuesday found cub reporter Scott Satchfield and I on location of an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The blue crew is restoring a church on Carondelet St., so we're going to feature that for the last couple days of sweeps. I was actually looking forward to going, because I watch the show and have always wanted to see what the production is like. For those wondering, Ty wasn't there that day, but Michael and Paige were. The first story airs tonight, and the second on Tuesday.

The other trip to New Orleans is the real focus of this story. After getting to work on Thurday, I find out that I'm paired up with Scott again and headed south. We've scored a one-on-one interview with this Royal Hershey Highness, Ray Nagin. Others may have done this, but it's the first for the Baton Rouge stations, so I'm a little pumped. I even brought a second camera to hopefully up the production value.

We arrive at City Hall and I haul out all the gear I've got to make it in one trip. Doing my best pack-mule impression, I exit the elevator on the second floor to find a press conference in progress. That's not us, we've got a one-on-one, so we head for the receptionist's desk, to be met by an exuberant field producer for Fox News Channel. It turns out that our one-on-one was actually going to be shared time with FNC.

It only gets worse from here, folks.

The young producer, who is ecstatic with our arrival, fills us in on the latest developments. The interview has been moved to another location at a time to be determined after the currently running press conference ends, which is now several minutes past one o'clock. Nothing to do but lay down the extra hundred pounds of gear that I'm carrying and have a seat. At least the company is good and we all have a few laughs.

The conversation eventually turns to the crazy amount of gear each group brought up in the vain hope of actually using it. The other crew relates a story about their equipment cart, that while functional, is not quite shipshape. It has a busted wheel, so when it rolls down the hall, it wobbles and shakes, threatening to throw everything from it. It also has a lean, not unlike the three-wheel motion found in many '64 Impalas.

"So, what you're saying," I begin, looking them straight in the eyes, "is that your cart isn't 'Fair and Balanced'?"

It got a good laugh from all involved, except for the 'talent', who seemed to take it a bit more seriously than the others. While it could have degenerated into a shouting match, she tried to lord her 'Network' status over our lowly 'Local' heads, it was neither the time nor the place for such. As it was, I couldn't think of anything better to say!

Soon they scurried after the mayor who would give them a sound bite at the Extreme Makeover site. We, on the other hand, were not to be lead by the mayor's leash and were assigned to pick up another story. Several hundred suspects could possibly go free due to a shortage of public defenders. Ah, the life of a local news shooter.

Before leaving N.O., I discovered that the 'all-powerful' Network crew had suffered the same fate as their local counterparts.

As a good friend says, 'It's just the same circus, different city.'

Lonely Pines

I love the sound of the wind sighing through the pine trees. It provides the perfect backdrop for some leisurely reading on vacation.

Unfortunately the pines in today's story aren't the evergreens I enjoy, but The Pines Motel & Lounge. Anyone who watches the Deuce knows, by now, way more than they ever wanted to know about this dive on Airline Highway. It has been the focus for many evacuee stories, as it is the locus of many, ranging from honest victims to relocated crack dealers.

The Ritz it isn't. I've heard suggestions that before it became a haven for hurricane helpless, it's rooms were used by the business people of that area to close deals, whether on their backs or otherwise. It's only gone downhill since.

Last week check-out time came for the Katrina evacuees who hadn't gotten an extension on their stay. This would be for those who are legitimately trying to get back on their feet, instead of lounging around all day in their room or the parking lot. The manager has a list in his hands with 17 names that haven't checked in with their new numbers. Thinking he might be able to start renovations soon, he knocks on each door. With each successive knock, he gets the same answer, and less optimistic about the future of his motel. They already got their number, or they're on the phone trying to get one.

I've got no problem lending a hand to the victims having to start over with nothing. All I ask is that they do something to help themselves. These people knew when they got their last number that they only had a couple of weeks, but they waited until they were about to get kicked into the street to make a phone call. These few bad apples are giving the other victims a bad reputation. Now hiring signs are posted on nearly every street corner in town, yet some people say they don't have transportation to get to work. How about the two feet God gave them?

Again, I'm not making these statements about all the victims of this tragedy. I'm only talking about the people I see at this one location, sleeping in their rooms all day, and drinking in the parking lot all night. These are the people I'm tired of supporting.

The Last Man

It's never good being the last man to a gang bang.

That's one of the slang terms we use in 'the business' to describe the huge throng of cameras and reporters surrounding a high profile subject. Being the last one to join that group means that you usually only get a bad shot of the vip's ear. This happened to me Monday while on a tour of New Orleans to kick off the second legislative special session since hurricanes Katrita hit.

After following the busses hauling legislators, aides, and media folk from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, we found ourselves in the Ninth Ward. Our slow paced trek through the ravaged neighborhood came to a stop, and through the open window I hear chanting. A protest in honor of the governor's visit to the area, how nice. Clutching my camera and mic I roll out of the passenger door and head along the convoy, following the siren's song. Once I've got the requisite video and sound needed to tell this part of the story I look ahead to see the busses negotiating a turn, possibly letting people out, about two blocks away. Since the Jeep is half a block behind us, we decide to go back to it. Three minutes later we're parking it in the same place it was because the military guys say they aren't letting any more vehicles down the street. Any other day I might have argued, but time and opportunity were slipping from our grasp, leaving us with a three block run as our only option.

Halfway to our destination we're stopped by another military type who wants to check our credentials, saying he has no way to know who we are. As we run the rest of the way, I tell my reporter they would know who we are if they had let us drive.

Abandoned tripods are our last obstacle as we reach the crush of reporters and cameras encircling the governor and I work my way into the scrum. Story shot we make our way to the convention center for our live shots.

One last note is this point made by Sen. Cleo Fields, who didn't go on the trip: The governor and FEMA can get busses to take people to the convention center and put on a huge dinner after the joint session, but they couldn't do it when people were dying there with no food and water.


I'd also like to take this opportunity to apologize to anyone who might still be checking for updates. Overhauling my computer was a fairly simple task which went well, except for a minor problem. Playing with all the new features like editing video and watching and recording TV on it have taken much of my free time. I did take pictures and will post a blog about the build, for anyone who would like to know how to do it.

Warning: Tech Heavy Post

It started out as a simple CPU upgrade. It turned into a major overhaul.

Back in my college days, 1996-2000, I joined the Houston Federal Credit Union while working for Compaq as a temporary laborer. It was factory work, allegedly to build computers, but I guess they saw a 6'3, 200 lb., 20 year old and thought I'd be better placed in packing at the end of the line. This meant a 12 hour day of constructing boxes and filling them with computers. Not terribly taxing work, and it paid well for a college student with no debt and a full ride scholarship.

When I finished that summer of work I had a bit left in the account, so I left it until I came back next year to work again. My television career began the next summer and I never went back, so that money became a fall back account; mad money to pay for some unexpected expense. It's been eight years and I have finally closed the account. With my excess spending money I decided to finally upgrade my computer. It's been 4 years since I built it, why not?

I started shopping. My first stop was Newegg, highly reputed in the tech world for it's ease of use and customer satisfaction and support, not to mention low prices. A few clicks informed me that I had gotten a bit behind in my plan to upgrade a piece at a time. I could get a new CPU, but the one I wanted might not work with my current system. It would seem that a new avenue must be explored.

After searching around I settled on a new processor, motherboard, memory, power supply, and video card. Oh, and just because it was part of a combo with the processor, I threw in a DVD burner. Now I'll be able to capture and edit video, then burn it to DVD. I'll also be able to record TV to my hard drive. For those who got lost in this paragraph, I basically just rebuilt my entire computer. I have the technology. I have the capability to make it better than it was before. Better, stronger, faster, and it didn't cost me 6 million dollars.

Nothing like a simple upgrade for the new year.

Goose Hunt

I broke one of my cardinal rules this week. Next time, I'll just leave the reporter.

The day started out well, then I got to the station. It actually wasn't that bad, but it would be the start of a half-day hunt for the ever-elusive gooose. Kenny P, who some might know from my trips to Cameron, informs me that I'm the lucky guy who gets to work with him, which is a dubious honor in our shop. It could mean a great story, or a really long day.

As we board our rusty chariot he tells me to head out of town. We're going to pick up a radar for a story on speeding in a local neighborhood where we covered a fatal accident last week. Actually seems like a pretty good story to me, since the residents say that people regularly speed through this area. The locals were wrong, at least today. So we get pulled from that story to check on a few other things. Does anyone hear that honking sound somewhere beyond my hood?

Two blocks from the station, and a chance to fill my stomach before it eats itself, the Nextel crackles to life. There's been a shooting in an all too familar area across town. For a little history, check out Turdpolisher's story. This murder happened 50 yards from the last murder a week and a half ago.

The rule I spoke of earlier is that I never leave the scene after the police. I see them preparing to leave and realize that KP hasn't attempted to talk to the greiving family members. "Uh, Kenny, I think we should be going now." "We've gotta try to talk to the family, first." I hate this part of the job, but it comes with the territory. "Make it quick." My photog sense is tingling. We do our interview, and now I think we can go. By this time I've got warning klaxons going off in my head. It could have something to do with the large crowd that is still in the street, and the two groups yelling at each other. Fists start flying and I start rolling, but I hang back just in case something else fills the air. Now Kenny is ready to go.

Twenty-four hours later one of my coworkers is looking at the video I shot while he cuts the follow-up package. In the video he sees one guy pull a gun from the pocket of another, which I caught, nearly perfectly framed. Showing this to KP I say, "This is why I don't hang around after the cops leave."

The Forgotten

I've been patiently waiting for inspiration to strike. Well, strike it has.

As those who have read the archives here know, I grew up in Cameron parish, which was ravaged by Hurricane Rita. Because no one died in the storm and no one is publicly crying about not having a place to live, the residents of this coastal community, not to mention the storm itself, have been forgotten by the media. One week ago the evacuation order was lifted for the areas south of the Intracoastal Canal, so Wednesday we made the trek to southwestern Louisiana to illuminate the plight of its people.

Our first stop is the temporary post office in Calcasieu parish. Three ZIP codes come to this central location to get their mail. What they also find are friends and relatives that they haven't seen since their exodus began. It has become a place for many to begin the long process of healing wounds that cut to the core of their being, and whose scars will forever remain. From there we made our way south, toward the coast. These once familiar surroundings are now a desolate waste, my vision haunted by the shades of structures that no longer stand.

The town of Cameron is eerily empty. It takes and experienced eye to identify the progress being made, and only someone who has tromped these trails before can know how much work has truly been accomplished. On my first visit water covered these streets and I had to detour around demolished domiciles to find my parents home. Now those same streets are dry and cleared of debris, but still lined by homes that are nothing more than shattered shells and crumbling construction.

Our story can be found here: http://www.2theadvocate.com/wbrz/videos/2186347.html

Sorry

I'm sorry for the lack of an update. I usually only write when I'm moved to do so. I began a post and spent the better part of two hours working on it. It wasn't any good, so I won't waste your time with it.

Thank you for viewing, and if you haven't read all of my previous posts, please do so.

Photographic Evidence

I have been a technophile since an early age. Recently reclaimed photographs support this fact without a shadow of a doubt.

In one of my parents' recent expeditions to their former domicile, my father excavated some Polariods that had been unknowingly left in Hurricane Rita's tender care. For the most part these frozen moments came through with little damage. Their subject is me, with a few of my sister, in my early years. I was an amazingly cute child, if I may say so myself. It is a wonder to this day that my parents didn't exploit that by putting me in magazines and commercials. I could have sold a ton of products and be retired at the ripe old age of 27. Woe is me, right?

But I digress. Among these snapshots, captured for posterity, is my bare posterior, hanging out from under a t-shirt. Who's parents don't have one of those? What makes this one relevant is that I was too enraptured by my dad's stereo amp to worry about why I felt a bit more of the gentle caress of the wind than usual. And so began my infatuation with consumer electronics.

(Picture to be posted later)

Discovery!

It would seem that I've finally been discovered by the Lenslinger. I guess this means that I've got to start posting more regularly.

As a beginning photog it was suggested to me to check out b-roll.net. I was told it would be a place where a seedling like myself would find the nutrients needed to grow in this career that I had chosen. What I found was an invaluable resource for new and old photogs alike. B-roll is a community where someone can ask just about any question and someone else will have the answer. It's also a place to share ideas and inventive ways of performing our craft.

I made my small contributions, and took the sage advice of the more experienced craftsmen to heart. I also began to look forward to reading the rollicking exploits of one particular lensman with a penchant for prose. After a while he began his blog and just posted teasers linking back to it. This became a model for one of my co-workers who was feeling a case of burnout, and he began his own blog as a place to vent.

After Hurricane Rita I needed a way to express the emotions I was feeling, so I started this one. It has been a great experience and an exercise in creativity that will continue for as long as the words come to me. My hope is that I can also develop better writing skills to delay my departure from this life behind the lens.

Thank you, Lenslinger, for following your dream of writing, and so inspiring one who reads, to become one who also writes.

Christmastime Rhymes

What is it about this time of year?
Sane people lose it, go crazy, I fear.
The roads are jam-packed with trucks and with cars,
but none of them go very fast or get far.
Their pilgrimage leads to their Mecca - a mall.
Capitalism reigns within these hallowed halls.

Sixty minutes to find a spot, by the curb some just stop.
Yet no one has been shot in the lot for a spot.

There is a clearing in the haze. Before Christmas, just 3 days!
Gifts unbought? In a hurry? Hit the mall, it's open early.
8 am is the time to shop. It's so quiet, you'll hear a pin drop.

People are few and the stores are uncluttered.
A few moments before they were all shuttered.
Standing in center court is a scene so surreal,
I feel I've walked into a movie reel.

The muzak echoes and escalators hum.
In under an hour my shopping is done!
No parking fiascoes, no fighting the crowd.
"How lucky am I," I wonder aloud.

Now it's off to work in dawn's bright light.
Merry Christmas to all? You got that right.

Sunday Fun

It's Sunday, I'm in Denver, and the Broncos have a home game. I don't have tickets, yet, but that's not gonna stop me.

As the date for our trip to Denver drew closer, my time to get a ticket to the Broncos game grew shorter. Before I knew it, we were landing in Denver. Oh well, it's just a game, right? I'll just catch it on television. That was my rationale, until our hotel shuttle pulled up to the Red Lion to drop someone off. The Red Lion is directly behind Invesco Field at Mile High, abutting the fence to the parking lot. It was that moment, sitting in that van, that I resolved to attend the game that weekend.

How could I not? I grew up in Southwest Louisiana. Football in my town is like a second church. You attend the South Cameron game on Friday night and go to God's church on Saturday or Sunday, depending on your faith. Growing up in Lousiana means that you're a Saints fan first, but you've gotta have a backup team that's actually gonna have a chance to win. For a few years, it was the Broncos, with Elway at the helm. The legends that played in those days are long since retired, and so is the field they played on, but their history is thick in the thin air of the Mile High City. It would be sacreligious to miss a game here.

Sunday dawns bright and clear. The plan is to make my way to the stadium, soak up some of the tailgating atmosphere, and score a ticket for a reasonable price. Completing that final goal would be tricky, since I'm not the most street-wise person.

Foot traffic is light on the streets as I utilize public transit to get to Invesco. At the light rail station I run into a group of fans from both teams. The Bronco fans are locals, of course, and the Pat fans traveled all the way from New York. Good natured trash talk between these friends helps make a short trip even shorter.

Soon after disembarking I run into my first scalper. For those who don't know, these can be identified by the laminated signs that read "I Need Tickets" on one side with a seating chart of the venue on the other. This particular gentleman informs me that I might be able to get an upper deck "nosebleed" seat for $100 or so, but I wouldn't be able to get one from him for that "cheap" at this time. My near-eidetic memory of the ticketmaster website calls shenanigans on this so I tell him I'll call him later and head for the parking lot, and some authentic NFL tailgating.

Following my instincts and using my photographer's eye for characters, I soon spot the folks who will become my hosts for the day. Intending to just snap a few shots and move on, I ask them if they would mind? "Of course not," they respond. "Where are you from?" The answer draws looks of sympathy, but I quickly tell them that I'm not an evacuee, but here by choice. Less than a minute after saying hello I find a beer in my hand and an invitation to make myself at home.

That isn't hard to do. I've traveled across several states only to find all the comforts of home, fried turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and a couple coolers full of light beer. The view isn't bad either. No one has a ticket for me, but they assure me that I will be able to find one closer to game time for face value. Ten minutes later, a cool cat named Rob hangs up his cell and tells me that he might have a line on a ticket for me. Another ten confirms it, and the turkey is done. Fried turkey in one hand, a beer in the other, and good people to share the fun with... life is good.

The game is a good one, and the fans are great. A family from New England is scattered around us, with the patriarch next to me, but they don't get heckled too badly by the Bronco fans. It's a great game that keeps everyone in their seat until the final tick of the clock, with the Broncos picking up the win.

After bidding Rob goodbye, and asking him to pass my thanks on to everyone at the post-game party, I begin my trek back to my wife...and dinner. It's been a great day and I have memories that will last a lifetime. Thanks to the Mile High Fryers, and the City of Denver, for making my trip one of the best vacations I've had in a long time.