I Read it on the Bathroom Wall

MISSidentified

2011-07-13T22:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, I figured that by this time in my life I'd have an amazing, well-paying job, with an amazing wife, three kids (two boys and a girl, just like my parents) and live in a great home, probably near if not in Geneseo, NY, where I grew up. I'd be physically fit, financially secure, with a life that would make everyone else jealous. When we filled out those silly "class superlatives" forms they give you at a reunion, I was going to be the best in everything.

Twenty years later, I had to beg for time off from my mediocre-pay job to leave my cat behind in my rental apartment to spend 12 hours traveling from a desert wasteland (Henderson, NV) to my class reunion. The plans to spend any meaningful time on a treadmill in the months leading up to my reunion did not come to fruition.

Out of my class of 76, I'd known about half for essentially all of life that I remember. Since I got crushes the way others get hungry, I'd had at least a fleeting interest in many of my female classmates at some point. Thanks to Facebook, I knew the rough outlines of their lives. So, I was looking forward to seeing a few people, sort of curious to catch up with a few people, resigned to the fact that a few predictable people would not show up.

And there was one person who I simply did not want to see. George Dranichak only spent two years in our school. He transferred to Geneseo to play hockey and torment me.

So with goals of catching up with some friends, figuring out a way to describe my work situation without using phrases like "insane neat-freak Democratic sycophant with no concept of journalism" or "stuck-in-the-mud small-town inexperienced local cable channel reject," and somehow avoid revealing the fact that I'm still the borderline-depressive emotionally fragile romantically desperate nerd that I've been since 1985 when I first watched "Real Genius," I left my parent's house and walked down the hill to Main Street in Geneseo.

Part of my Geneseo Summer Festival (same weekend as my reunion) (my idea) (every class does it this way) is to grab lunch at Micelli's Deli, where my school teacher sister Amy works for the summer. And she's the one who first mentioned the possibility that I would "reunite with someone and kindle a romance." And she said it in her "annoying little sister" voice too.

That night (Friday) we gathered at the Beachcomber, a bar on Conesus Lake. George arrived about an hour after I did, and he was all smiles and glad-to-see-yous, and my petty resentments dissolved.
I noticed a few things that night:

John Wiley's wife, Jenn, seemed to be the only spouse comfortable with just talking to people without her husband around.
The loud people were still loud.
Everyone was married.

Well, not everyone. There were a few people who were formerly married. One classy classmate even announced "I'm separated and I'm getting laid." I'm sure my sister Amy didn't mean her.

We were asked to fill out a sheet and vote about our classmates. A few people voted for me for "traveled the longest distance" and "Still has his hair." We were asked to vote for "hottest" of each gender. I looked around, and made a choice that I would not have expected in high school. I wrote down her name. Then I (awkwardly, I'm sure) inserted myself into her conversation and noticed that she did have one rather unattractive feature that I didn't remember from high school: a band of gold around the fourth finger on her left hand.

I went over to the fire. On the bench next to me was a classmate named Joe working on a classmate named Julie. She was a cute but quiet, almost mousy, girl in high school. Joe was working hard, but Julie wasn't buying. I don't really remember the details, but I'd identified her as the only single woman there in our class. Who knew if she has a boyfriend now -- and that information didn't seem important to Joe. He'd made the same identification. I don't think he got anywhere; he bought me a beer Saturday at Kelly's, and Julie was no where to be seen.

I made my way back over, and found a group of people, including George. They were passing around the yearbook. and George flipped to my picture. "Where's that guy?"
Jaws dropped. "George, that's me."

Attempting to laugh it off, George flips again, to Julie's picture, and he starts. He'd identified Julie as his target too. He was talking about Julie how she was beautiful.
"She looked young in high school, which wasn't good, but she looks young now, and that's real good." He had a few more crude comments that I'd rather not write. Look at who is crushing like others get hungry now. Made me feel less bad about prejudging him a few hours earlier.

Identities from 20 years ago no longer mattered. Identities from that weekend didn't matter. It's my identity moving forward that matters.

If this were the Hollywood version of my life, Julie would be coming out to visit me in a few weeks. Actually, she'd knock on my door after I hit "post" for this entry, and then the shot would dissolve to a shot of George mooning over a picture of her. Don't get confused here: I'm not interested in Julie, and that's the point. I used to get crushes the way I get hungry. I guess now, I don't.

So maybe the one big personal life achievement, the one that no one is going to notice, the one that no one is going to note on some silly class superlatives form that gets filled out while drunk... is that I'm not that borderline-depressive emotionally fragile romantically desperate nerd anymore.

Wall Posts from My Past

2011-07-12T23:50:00.000-07:00

My favorite picture of myself in my high school yearbook. The caption is "Depressed again"

Twenty years ago, we didn't have Facebook, we had Yearbook. I read through the handwritten comments in the yearbook from my Senior year, messages from 20 years ago. They're still somehow fitting. So, some excerpts:

"It's a shame we never found the right one for you, but at least you kept smiling!" - female classmate.

"You're a good guy and you will find the girl for you - be patient. Good luck!" - female classmate.

"I wish you luck with the women. I know that I haven't been much help in the past. But I luv ya - so take care." - a friend who knew I had a crush on her, at one point.

"Hey you need to get laid - you're too tense. I rule and you're tough to put up with everyone's shit. Things will get better - they always do. Love and Laughs - Dr. Romeo Geo Rev Id "Center of the Universe" Jizzmaster Rokk RokkMosh RokkGod." -- the guy who stole my high school journal, read an entry I wrote about every single girl in my class and the Junior class, and why I did or did not want to date them... and made it public.

"He shouldn't have fucked with the book.... You're lucky you didn't get to date any of the people who haven't signed yet. Especially the pale Oriental one." - Chuck Whitehead, my best friend in high school.

"Your really sweet. Don't ever change." - a girl I desperatly wanted to date -- the "pale Oriental one."

"Thanks for the flowers. I owe you." - a girl I got flowers for when we were in a play together. My one slow dance partner at my Senior Prom. The one I was thinking about when I got drunk and depressed (as opposed to drunk and happy) graduation night. The one I Facebook-stalked yesterday.

"I realize love does not always come to those who wait patiently but your time will come. Trust me, I know!" - her best friend.

"Middlebury will be full of beautiful young women, intelligent too. You must call on past times we have had when you have a question, or you can call me. We must never forget the things we have done. They are immense in comparison to the things other people never did, or never will do." - Robert Scruggs.

Exercising the small muscles

2011-07-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

On the drive home today, I was listening (as usual) to NPR (yes, that's pretentious), and a story about a musician comparing what a musician does to athletes. The breath control, the strength, the dexterity, the focus of a musician is like the control, dexterity, and focus of an athlete, just on a different scale; instead of biceps and hamstrings, a musician masters the small muscles of the fingers.

Same with writers. I'm a little tired from that one paragraph workout after a few months sitting on the bench. Turns out that the last time I blogged was in late October, 2010. I couldn't really tell you why I suddenly stopped. Part of it was an incident that I just didn't want to write about, knowing that too many people I know and see frequently read my blog -- read as in the past tense. Maybe they will again. The update there is - she's engaged now.

November, from my recollection, was mostly about work. December, the escape, and that aching nostalgia for Geneseo, followed by the realization that the place I long for exists Geographically, but not in any real sense any more.

The first half of 2011 brought a bunch of humorous incidents which I can't recall now. There were a few successful news stories. No time off. A non-date, which was horrid. Update there, she's talking to me again, if an electronic invite via Facebook counts as "talking."

Which brings me to my high school reunion. The most important thing just might be spending time with John Wiley. Now, we spent a lot of time next to each other in school - his locker was to the right of mine from 7th through 12th grades. We shared a lot of classes, but we were never really close. We both ended up in broadcasting, and now we each blog. Or he blogs, and I write on a blog occasionally.

John is in the third week of a blog competition called "Blogger Idol." It is either an effort to collect jewelry and smelt it down in order to hammer out a calf to deify in blatant violation of the rules given to us by Moses, or it could be a warmed over version of the 80's tv classic "Star Search," except this one has some blond elfin host instead of Ed McMahon, and blogs instead of corporate-approved "songs." A remote possibility is that it is a blog competition.

My point (and I do have one) is that American Idol is trash and you should all watch NBC programming, until such time as I have a new job at a station with a different affiliation.

My other point is that John is a blogger. He writes about his family, and his busy, child-filled life, especially now that he and his wife have decided that John should leave the broadcast industry and be a stay-at-home dad. John told me that he has read my blog and admires my writing. So, one valued opinion. Sure, mostly valued for the ego-stroking, but still, valued.

If I can find time in my busy, non-child filled life on this day to sit in front of my computer and work the small muscles (sounds like the set up to a masturbation joke) (ah ha, guy named Wiener making a masturbation joke, hilarious).... then I can probably find the time on any day. I'm going to follow John's lead, and get back to blogging. For now, I can promise I won't follow John's other example.

And by John's other example, I mean his seeking approval from some electronic Simon Cowell. OF COURSE I'll leave TV, once I have a wife to support me. I'm not even waiting for the kids.

So much for the plan

2010-10-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

Finally turned the heat on last night. Woke up to a dry throat and an apartment that vaguely smelled of burnt dust. Too late to eat breakfast. I have to be at work on time. First day of sweeps.
I stayed late on Wednesday cutting a package for the morning show to run, promoting my story. Found out they ran it only once, at 4:30am, instead of running it in the last segment of the show before the Today show, when it would get the most viewers. Instead, our morning crew ran a story about an NBA player selling a championship ring, and how to mimic Lady Gaga's meat costume for halloween.
Halloween. I don't have my costume ready. Guess I'll do that Friday. Once again, life waits for work.
I overhear her talking about going to some Halloween party with a guy, and maybe coordinating costumes. Guess that window of opportunity closed. I can't even decide if I care or not, really. I'm lonely, but I'm not sure if I was really interested, or just looking for anyone to be even remotely friendly to me.
I start my work. Put scripts into rundowns. Order graphics. Order dekos. Send some extra content over to the web people. Go to a sweeps meeting with the General Manager. Bite my tongue as she asks if there are any problems, since I don't want to be the one that says we just don't have enough people to finish everything on our plate. Frustrated knowing I'm the least paid in that room, but I was the one who worked an 11 hour day.
Lunch with Rob. Talk about how the station isn't even trying to compete. We're not number one in pay, not number one in the number of reporters or photographers on staff, but our bosses are surprised that we're not number one in the ratings?
As predicted weeks ago, the producers complain about the length of the stories. Despite approving them days ago, the news director asks me to cut. I comply. I get the job done. Edit two more stories for our crime franchise. Write and edit another promo story for the morning, just hoping it will run in a place where it might actually stand a chance of attracting some viewers. Help a photographer recover what could have been a lost day of editing. Meet with one of the anchors about his series projects. Leave at 8pm, knowing I've already got a full plate for this Friday, and slightly worried about what we're going to put on the air next Friday. Loose strings that need to be tightened.
Too late to do that grocery shopping, too late to assemble the pieces for a Halloween costume. Life postponed for work, again.
Alone and sulking. Even the cat doesn't want to be around me. Wondering if I'd be feeling different if I'd followed through on that promise to myself to just talk to her after I got back from the wedding. Just talk to her. Spend some time. Now that just seems unlikely. Undesirable. Unwarranted risk. Uncle. I don't feel like I can be a better man. Not today. Not here. Not sure when. Or, for that matter, why it's worth the effort.

I'm going to be a better man

2010-10-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've blogged. So much for keeping my writing muscles flexed. The past few weeks culminated in me making a decision that I've got to work on being a better man. For me, that includes writing/blogging more often. So, in response to not blogging often enough, I've decided to start a new blog: How to Be a Better Man. Here's the first entry/blog:

How I'm going to work on "How to Be a Better Man."

I've been inspired. Or, I'm sick of being this way. Which one, I'm not sure.

       I just got out of the new movie The Social Network, and it kinda felt like a slap in the face: this little asshole dweeb is a billionaire; what have you done with your life, Wiener? (Wiener not being an insult here, but being my surname.) But the most impactfull moments were the blistering opening scene, and the ending: it was all about trying to connect with one woman.

       I've been to eleven weddings this month. One for a woman I briefly had an unrequited crush on, that made me consider re-enacting the final scenes from The Graduate. Thankfully, courtesy and common sense won out on that. The other ten were this morning at church, when we had a mass wedding on 10/10/10. Weddings make me depressed, and a bit lonely. Even the ones where I'm not thinking about going all Ben Braddock.

       After the wedding earlier this month, I decided I would do something about it. I decided I would ask out my current unrequited crush. (You see, that's how I am: while others move on from relationship to relationship, I move from unrequited crush to unrequited crush. Less emotional effort, less expense, less everything really. Mostly, less risk and less satisfaction.) I would talk to her at my first opportunity.
And that opportunity came and went, and I found out she already had weekend plans, and I accepted that as a sign that it wasn't the right time.
And then I saw The Social Network. And I saw me. Not me exactly, but a peer. A whip-smart kid just hoping to make a connection with one person. And it didn't happen. But along the way, he realized that everyone else is just trying to make that one connection. And that was the big idea. The whole movie is about whether or not it was his big idea, but that's almost irrelevant. He did the work, so it's his.

       And that's where we're different. I haven't put in the work. I'm lazy. I've always believed that it's better to work smarter rather than work harder. The problem is that the world is full of people who are working both harder and smarter, and I'm being left behind. When I look at myself and I don't like what I see, it's because I haven't put in the work. My out of shape physique, my clothing, my haircut, my grooming, my manners, my charm, my car, my living situation, my financial situation, my career, my social life, my lack of any romantic relationship, my family life, my relationship with God: I need to try harder. And smarter.

       I need to be a better man. And beyond "doing the work" and "being smart about it," I'm not really sure what steps to take. So I'm going to work on that. But I'll need help. I figure that I'm not the only one out there hoping to be better, and I know that people out there will have the knowledge I need. So I'm asking for help. Send it to me, and I'll share it with the little corner of the world that reads this blog.

Sweeps Story: Dolphins in the Desert

2010-07-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

The story we shot in May on dolphins at The Mirage finally aired today. If you've ever wanted to see a dolphin pee, here's your chance.

It wasn't exactly "hard news," but it also wasn't a "aren't dolphins nifty" story either. Because the dolphins are there, the biologists are studying them to learn more about artificial insemination in dolphins. Now, just my opinion here, but it seems to me the point of dolphin artificial insemination is for more dolphin breeding. And I"m guessing the reason for that is to make sure there's "enough" dolphins living in captivity. Make your own value judgment on that. It was a cool story to do, I got to see stuff a lot of people don't get to see. I even pet a dolphin.

Of course, reporter Collette Wieland and photographer Rob Klein kissed this dolphin. They're good to work with.

Sweeps Story: A bullying victim shares his story

2010-07-05T20:31:00.000-07:00

The first in a series of reports (five this week, more later) as my station takes on a new focus on bullying.

Discovering my superfriends (15th College Reunion)

2010-06-07T19:11:00.000-07:00

On Thursday the thermometer on my A/C unit went past 90 degrees F. I decided to seal up the apartment, turn on the AC, and hope for the best. I'd already blown my plan of sleeping in before leaving on a red eye flight to JFK and then to Burlington, VT for my 15th reunion at Middlbury. My hope now was that my apartment might be cool by Sunday night after my reunion.

The Class of 1995. We're an intelligent bunch at Middlebury, but not intelligent enough to realize that if it has been 15 years since we graduated, and we only have reunions every 5 years, then this is our third, not our 15th, reunion. Perhaps math is my superpower.

Airports are curious places. They're so full of possibility. A friend from Florida once told me how she met a guy on a plane who was super friendly and invited her to a party the next weekend and she was pretty sure he was just being friendly, and not hitting on her. I wish I had Jedi mind tricks like that guy -- that's a superpower.

That friend's story is usually on my mind as I'm walking around an airport. Airports just might be a good place for photographers to find new models -- I never see as many beautiful women as I do at airports. Of course, I have this odd curse that after I look at a woman and allow myself to think "she's attractive" I then quickly see one of these three people with her: her male significant other, her child, or her mother who is closer to my age than the daughter is. Could this be my kryptonite?

I felt like I'd just pulled an all-nighter without that satisfying feeling of actually accomplishing anything when I landed in Burlington. I picked up the rental car, and started heading south to Middlebury. The first landmark I passed was the Denny's on Route 7.

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Fritz, Jim and I were like a tripod in college -- it worked best when all three of us were together, but sometimes it was amusing to kick one of the legs out from under the tripod and watch everyone fall. Many a Slam were consumed at that Denny's. Many Proctor or Crest Room runs, the pb&j marathon over fall break freshman year... there are a lot of college memories around eating. I'm pretty sure, despite what any medical professional tells me, that eating might be my superpower.

The drive down energized me somehow. Possibly because I don't get to see land with living things on it most days.

It was great seeing the landmarks of my youth.

I arrived on campus at about 11am on Friday, and check-in started at 3pm.

At first, I tried taking a nap in an Adirondack chair in front of Hepburn Hall, where I lived my senior year and for this reunion. It didn't really work, as Adirondack Chairs only become really conducive for sleeping after you add a key ingredient that was missing at that point. So I started wandering around campus. Had a turkey club at The Grille, one of the many new amenities added since my graduation. I went to the impressive library and ignored all the books so I could see what's new on Facebook. Then I decided to check out Axinn Hall, home of the newly (to me) named "Program in Film and Media Culture." I got into a central room that was something like a studio, connecting several (as in, more than one) edit bays. On the wall was a list of distinguished graduates.

My name was misspelled. So I corrected the spelling of my name, crossing out the insulting error with righteous indignation, which might be my superpower.

At the stroke of 3pm, I went to register. I was first in line, which is cause for celebration when your name is W and whole world loves to do things in alphabetical order. I went to my room, undressed, found a bathroom, showered and shaved, and then took a long nap. Which in the opinion of all of my former roommates, just might be my superpower.

I wandered over to the dining hall, and found some classmates, and latched on like some kind of social lamprey. N. was one of the few Middlebury classmates I'd seen outside of reunions, owing to his good fortune of moving to my hometown, Geneseo, NY, a few years back. N. and I worked on at least one theatre project together, but it sure felt like more than that. I can sit and listen to N talk for hours for at least three reasons. First, N telling a story feels like old-time radio to me, without the sound effects or the mimicked voices or the sound effects or any of the tell-tale identifiers of old-time radio. Second, I fell like a student and N is Socrates, except I often reach the end of a N story and don't really feel any smarter. And third, I sometimes mask my social awkwardness by acting as though I'm listening intently. That actually might be my superpower.

I asked N about his marital status. It's not really my place to go into detail, but "it's complicated." And he's enjoying some funemployment while at reunion, but also talking to trusted friends, trying to put life in perspective. Putting my foot in my mouth is definitely one of my superpowers.

We had dinner on a patio overlooking a stand of trees with A. She's a particularly good person to use my intent listening superpower around, as her superpower is absorbing and repeating information. I learn something new every time I'm around A. I rarely learn why I care, but if I'm ever in a competitive trivia situation, I want A on my team. After dinner, we walked to 51 Main, the college's cleverly titled entertainment spot at 51 Main Street in Middlebury. I drank beer, and we ate poutine. Around 11pm, we stumbled up the hill despite age and weariness: it's hard to tell if finding our way back home after a long and alcohol-fuled night is a skill that was instilled at Middlebury, or just a common superpower, like flight.

Many more people were there Saturday. Key for me was Jim Rodda -- the middle leg of the tripod. And for those of you wondering if calling Jim the "middle leg" is some kind of immature penis joke, you need to understand that when your last name is Wiener, making penis jokes is a superpower, and that was not a superpowered joke. No, it turns out that our tripod was poorly designed, and instead of having three equally sized and positioned legs, Jim was the middle leg, because he had many superpowers.

First was his ability to pull a joke at my expense and never raise my ire. Like RickeyPAC.org, the website that Jim and his co-conspirators created when the were under the false impression that I would not be voting in 2008. Sitting at that table, listening to Jim tell a few people who did not know the story... is when I realized that I'm still engaged with these people. I may only see them every five years (or even less frequently), but they will forever be a part of my life, and I will forever be part of theirs.

Like D. Most people at Middlebury might think her superpower might be Russian, or possibly music. Even she does not know this, but her superpower is turning me into a quivering pile of Jello. We were set up by our Junior Counselors for the first big "social" our freshman year, and I was a nervous and awkward troll. And then I got even more nervous around her and her friends during that "date." I don't think I even saw her again until senior year. Now 19 years later, she's around and I'm 18 year-old Jello-boy again. And as Jim correctly pointed out, it's interesting to see how the years have treated our classmates. And by that, he meant "Damn, D has gotten hotter." Why yes, Jim, I had noticed that D is more attractive now than I remember from college, and further, I think 18 year old me would be more than just Jello, I think 18 year old me would be a melted bowl of Jello around her at this point. Yes, I polymorphed into a colloidal suspension of water, sugar, and gelatin -- that's one hell of a superpower.

I think one embareassing admission is enough, and I've admitted enough that I'd have to express the number in scientific notation. But a few more observations:

T. is just as dark and spooky as she was 15 years ago. I think that may be due to the cryogenic process by which she has not aged a day. She still scares me in a totally good way. Becky and Bert went from awesome girls who didn't take any crap to moms living in domestic bliss. Good to see they're hanging out with (maried to) normal guys instead of head cases. Being genuine is a superpower.
This most perfectly sums up the Middlebury Class of 1995: there were about 25 of us in the convocation parade up the hill to Mead Chapel. Only one person from the class went inside. The rest of us stayed outside and socialized. Heroes sometimes have to defy authority and convention.
The kids who were country-club douchebags then are still douchebags now. They were one table over at the big dinner in the field house, but might as well have been miles away. Superheros would be nothing without their foils.

For all his bluster, Jim Rodda is a big softy. He perpetuates this myth of being an obnoxious, sexist, opinionated, self-interested uber-male... when really he's a gentle and considerate husband, and a good friend. Yes, he was that guy who smuggled a keg down the hill in a recycling bin... but I don't think he did it to transport a keg... he did it so he could tell that story every five years. We all knew about Jim dressing up as an ex-girlfriend at the Hepburn Zoo "Sinners" party... but we didn't know Jim regretted it until he shared it with us while sitting in a circle of Adirondack chairs over bourbon Saturday night. Jim needed to admit he'd changed. Jim is also concerned that I'm single and lonely (and I am, but not in any kind of unhealthy or debilitating way. I don't think.), and he's worried that I have sleep apnea. I'm worried that he might have a hearing deficit, thanks to my snoring. N needed some perspective on his life. I needed to be reminded that my job actually is impressive to people who are not me; that people do care about where I am and what I'm doing in life; and that there's no reason to be tongue-tied and shy 19 years later. Heroes evolve.

Jim was going to crash in my room Saturday, but I think my snores forced him out. Sawing wood is my superpower. He left his knife behind, so I had to put it in my bag, then check it instead of carrying it on the plane, which cost my $25. Which means when Jim comes to Vegas later this year, he's buying dinner... because letting someone else buy is my superpower.

No fair maidens on the flight back. My thoughts did drift to the current interest a few times on the way back. Between scheduled conflicts and getting ready for sweeps and my basic cowardice, I don't see myself taking any action on that front anytime soon. The AC didn't work. I've had the windows open for about 2 hours, but it feels no cooler. I'm back to work tomorrow, where I act like a mild-mannered journalist and try not to reveal my superpowers.

Sometimes I really have a cool job, and then it can stink

2010-05-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

Friday started out great. I went on a really cool story. I can't reveal the exact angle, but we went to The Mirage and their dolphin habitat. As you see, I got to pet one of the dolphins.

Rob Klein, the photographer I usually work with, kissed the dolphin.

But reporter Collette Wieland got even more intimate with one of the dolphins.

But then I went back to work, and my bosses made a major change and let one of my key co-workers go. So, really cool, and then really uncool, all in one day. And that's pretty much working in tv news.

Sweeps Story: the lights are on, but no ones at work

2010-05-24T20:34:00.000-07:00

I might have made "the happiest Mayor in the world" a little unhappy with my latest story.

Sweeps Story: NV Congressional Staff Salaries

2010-05-13T20:39:00.000-07:00

In addition to coming up with the idea, doing the research, and writing the story, I also edited this one.

Sweeps story: A Crook's Advice Part Two

2010-05-11T21:13:00.000-07:00

Former master forger and conman Frank Abagnale has a legit way to take money from banks: take full advantage of credit card rewards programs.
It's like getting paid to spend someone else's money while yours stays safe in the bank. As long as you pay off your bill in full each month, it works.

Sweeps story: A Crook's Advice

2010-05-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

We interviewed Frank Abagnale, the man whose story became the movie "Catch Me if You Can."
We're only allowed to have the story online for one day, because we used movie clips, but you can read it here.

Sweeps story: Who Helps Cops in Trouble?

2010-05-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

After a year when four active and one retired Metro Police Officers were killed in the line of duty, the department and the families attached to it have gone through emotional times. Metro has a unit dedicated to helping officers and families through those difficulties, from helping the survivors deal with death, to helping any officer or family member cope with the stress that comes with the "police life."

Sweeps Story: One Year Later - Metro's Driving Policy

2010-05-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

Every station in town covered it when the Clark County Sheriff announced a new driving policy following the deaths of three officers in crashes. I was the only one who thought to follow up... Check out this story from News 3's Crime Tracker 3 Team.

Sweeps Story: Third Straw Part Two

2010-04-30T21:40:00.000-07:00

Sweeps Story: Third Straw Part One

2010-04-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

Look in the grey box for some bonus video: the conversation on the way home after shooting the story.

Emmy nominations

2010-04-29T00:15:00.000-07:00

I found out today that I, along with photographer Rob Klein and anchor/reporter Sophia Choi, have been nominated for two "Emmy" awards from the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences Pacific Southwest Regional Chapter.

One nomination in the Crime Report category was for our story DUI Dilemma. It's the story of a widow wondering why the man accused in the DUI crash that killed her husband, a suspect who tried to run from the scene of the crime in the first place, was released from jail with no bond and expected to come back to court. Of course, he did not. What we found was judges holding prosecutors to an unattainable standard, prosecutors unwilling to ask judges for more time to file charges when they were waiting for lab work, and crime lab with a backlog of work that somehow managed to get DUI results back in less than three days for a high-profile case involving a dead police officer, but that routinely took weeks to process a blood test.

The other nomination is in the Journalistic Enterprise category for our four-part series on police driving called When Cops Crash. What's especially gratifying to me about this one is that we worked so hard then, and we're actually working on a follow-up report with some new information that's "coming soon."

Customer Service

2010-04-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

Today I took the car to Terribles Car wash here in Las Vegas to finally take care of a long streak of bird poop on the side. I got the $10 wash, the most expensive they offer. I looked at it later -- bird poop was still there. I guess with a name like Terribles, I should not be surprised.

I also went shopping at Office Max, tracking down a really good deal I heard from a co-worker. Got some really good Christmas gifts. I also decided to buy a portable DVD player/viewer for myself, since it was on sale too. I got the display model, and they couldn't find the remote control or the car power adapter. Now, I don't know why you need a remote control for a DVD player/viewer that fits in your lap, and I don't need to watch DVDs in my car, and if that need does arise, the power supply converter is pretty standard... The point is, the manager gave me another 15% off the sale price, so I got that $85 DVD player for $45. I'm an Office Max fan, and I hope you become one too.

Shush! I can't talk about it!

2010-04-22T23:08:00.000-07:00

Finally, I have some interesting stuff that's been going on in my life, and I can't blog about it. Because it's about work, and sweeps, and that means secrecy.

I went to a really cool place a few days ago that only a few hundred people will ever get to visit, ever. As our promo will say "This room is more exclusive than the most exclusive club in Las Vegas, and only Channel 3 can get you inside."

I also drew our station's logo and signed my name on one of the most unique pieces of machinery on the planet, and I have video of that. So once that story hits the air, that will make for a pretty cool blog post.

I've also survived being on a plane full of smoke earlier this month. That was cool, and not actually scary at all.

We have an exclusive set up with an important elected official, talking about a topic that he's spoken about in news conferences, but never one-on-one before. And I've done some research involving how our governments decide to spend and sometimes waste taxpayer money. Those could be pretty cool.

It is sort of odd and comforting that I'm getting so much gratification out of my work. I feel lucky, especially since so many of my co-workers, and so many of the people I know who work in TV news in other cities, are feeling so beat-up lately. Especially at my shop, people are demoralized and feel like they are functionaries. They complain that management no longer allows them to be creative in any way. The complaints by reporters and photographers that "we only cover meetings" is endless, because it is true.

My boss just admitted to me today that he's done a poor job of explaining the station's objectives for news and then holding the staff up to that standard. For the sake of everyone's sanity, I hope he approves.

Something else might be afoot too... but I don't want to jinx it. Let's just say it's the same old question: is it me, or is that how she is with everyone?

And now back to reality

2010-04-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

And what happened to one of News 3 Las Vegas's newly-minted Murrow Award winning journalists today?
One of the assignment editors paged me as I was leaving. It must have been a critical task to page me across the entire building.
And what was that critical task? Please let the vending machine delivery man in the night entrance. Out of all the people in the building, I was the one chosen to be the doorman.
Yes, from respected journalist to doorman in one day. Except, this doorman doesn't get a snazzy uniform or tips. Just unwanted and belittling tasks from the assignment desk. Such is live in tv news.

How I got a Murrow for Sports Reporting

2010-04-07T20:05:00.000-07:00

It's official: I'm part of a team that won a regional Edward R. Murrow Award for Sports Reporting. The awards are given by the Radio Television and Digital News Association, and are kinda prestigious. I've been getting a lot of congratulations today at work, and people are telling me to cherish this, because it's a "once in a lifetime" thing. I'm having a hard time with that. I'll explain why, but first, watch the story.

Now here's the backstory: our assignment desk heard about Nick, a junior high basketball team manager. He has autism. He's going to get to play in the last game of the season. I'm not doing anything, a photographer is free, let's go see what we can get. Maybe it's a VOSOT (a short treatment of a story that can run about 45 seconds long, video that is cut in hopes that it will match the words that are read live by an anchor, and usually only one interview "soundbite") or maybe it's a full package (multiple interviews, careful editing, video matched to a recorded voice track).

So, Eric Brugger, the photographer, and I went over. We decided we'd be able to make a pkg out of it. We interviewed Nick and his parents, and three teammates. (And it's important to note that while I asked most of the questions, Eric and I had decided the type of questions to ask on the drive over. Talking things out ahead of time helps me think of good questions to ask, and helps make sure the photographer knows what's coming, so he can shoot the interviews in the best way possible. That's why I say "We interviewed Nick.")

Then we stayed for the first ten minutes of the game. We put our microphone on Nick's mom and then Eric moved away. It's a good way to get audio without having the person be self-conscious. Again, something we talked about on the drive over to the school.

The first plays of the game were all arranged with the other team: Nick would start, the opponents would lose the tip-off, the center would feed the ball to Nick, one free shot. We hoped Nick would make it. He didn't but at least he got a shot. We packed up and went back to the station. I phoned ahead, told them we could have a great package for tomorrow... but the producers wanted a VOSOT that night.

Then we got a call from Nick's mom. Nick's team pulled ahead in a big way, Nick went back in, scored the three-point shot, and Mom had it on video. So, they decided to pull the VOSOT, and put reporter Denise Rosch on the story the following day. Denise and Eric went and got Nick in his classroom, got the home video, and shot Denise's standup. Denise wrote the story, Eric edited, and I was working on something completely different that day.

At the end of 2009, Denise decided to enter that story for the Murrow awards. She decided to enter it in the "Sports Reporting" category, thinking it would have less competition than in a general news category. Denise decided to put my name on the award application as a producer. I was, and am, grateful, but I was entering a four-part series on Police Driving, and I really wanted it to win. Today, I was both excited and a little disappointed. We entered that Police Driving series in a few different competitions: we're still waiting to hear from the regional Emmy Awards later this month.

So, I'm torn. I'm honored to get this award. But I kinda feel weird getting an award just for asking questions. Then again, I was part of the team. I don't know. I'm hoping to be recognized for my writing someday. Hopefully later this month.

On the menu

2010-04-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's come to this: I've hit the bottom of banality. But, because it seems that two of my co-workers are obsessed with cataloging my dietary foibles, I figure I might as well share them with the rest of the world.

There are two staple menus in my world: spaghetti and meatballs, and home-made beef burritos. I alternate. Spaghetti one cannot mess up. Of course, certain busybodies of Italian descent continually point out that I chose to use frozen meatballs and sauce from a jar instead of making them myself. I'm sorry, but I have not yet acquired that skill, and the promised lessons in the finer points of Italian cuisine have not been forthcoming. So, until she follows through on the promise, MastroD can shove it. (A timely note for her since she just mentioned today that she had not read my blog in a long time.)

Burritos are about comfort, ease, and admiration. Americans have been eating bastardized Mexican food for ages, and I admit to enjoying it. I truly came to appreciate Mexican food four years ago, when I spent a week in Mexico on a mission trip with my church in Fort Myers. There's something great about taking simple items and combining them in infinitely unique ways. (This is where the Star Trek geek extols the virtue of the IDIC.) Of course, I just tend to combine meat, cheese, refried beans, and maybe corn in a tortilla... but you get the idea. Baking anything in the oven is impressive for a bachelor, so I'm impressive, damn it!

I threw all of my food catalogers off when I made meatloaf, corn, and mashed potatoes last week.
(Here is where I point out that "Meatloaf" was one of my nicknames from my Ultimate Frisbee days at Middlebury, but not because of the food. Those who know understand, those who don't understand don't need to know.)

Today, they were shocked that I brought salad with my leftover spaghetti. Just in case anyone cares: that's what's for lunch again on Wednesday. See, one box of spaghetti makes three meals for me, and I try not to waste food. Call me boring, just don't call me a bad steward.

I love it when a plan comes together

2010-04-04T23:32:00.001-07:00

Schmitt

2010-03-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

3-27-2010
Recently, my high school English teacher's daughter sent out a Facebook message, seeking tributes on the occasion of Cindy Schmitt's retirement from teaching.

Cindy Schmitt did two powerful things for me: she made me keep a journal, and she chose where I went to college.

She made us all keep a journal, as an assignment. Mine started in 1989, my sophomore year of high school. I've kept it going, intermittently, every since. You're reading the most current version of it. I spent several hours today digging out excerpts:

10-21-90:
Thursday after school I went to bug Schmitt. It's my favorite thing.

All around me I see people who know what they want. Chuck got accepted at Penn State. Virginia wants to go to Georgetown. Even Jason Barber is doing applications. I have no idea what I want."

One thing I never wrote down before, but constantly tell people about, is the fact that my high school English teacher picked my college. I simply asked Cindy Schmitt where I should go to learn to be an English teacher, and she said "Middlebury." Not only do you have to apply to the college, you also have to apply for the "first-year seminar" of your choosing.

11-4-90

One of the questions for that Middlebury Seminar I wan to go to is "Why do I write?"... I do not "write" for most English assignments, even if they are from Ms. Schmitt, although I have been trying to break that rule and "write." Usually, I just put pen to paper. How can I write about "the author's use of diction, grotesque, alliteration, tone, imagery, metaphor, rhyme scheme, pathos,"... It seems so absurd. So I just "set pen to paper," because it gives me no pleasure, and I guess that for me, that is the distinction between writing and "setting pen to paper."

11-27-90
Ms. Schmitt gave me a ride home. I'm glad, because for some reason I thought she was mad at me, and I don't need my "at-school in loco mater" mad at me.

3-8-91
In English, we were reading "Death of a Salesman." Schmitt said "Someone volunteer to ready (Willy's wife) before Eric has a breakdown. Five minutes of laughter followed.

4-2-91
3pm. Schmitt Told me "There are many girls in the world that are smarter, nice, prettier than Missy Berry.

It occurs to me that I did a poor job of picking schools. Middlebury, solely on Schmitt's recommendation...

4-8-91
"I have three weeks to decided on my college. And I have yet to hear from Middlebury. And seven weeks until prom. Sadly, this last one is the one that I care the most about. 12:49AM

4-8-91
11:56PM
I was accepted at Middlebury. Now I want to go see it.
As if I didn't have enough to worry about, now there's something new. Dad had an anterior myocardial infarction. A heart attack.

6-20-91 (two days before high school graduation)
I have to speak at graduation on Saturday. I have no idea what to say.
What is graduation anyway? When my grandparents told me they were coming up I was shocked. I mean, I never want to get to the point where the most exciting thing I have to do is watch my grandson walk across a stage wearing a stupid-looking hat.
When I asked, they said it was a very big deal. I just don't see why it's such a bid deal, possibly because I never doubted that I would graduate.
In retrospect, I know that I will never miss the school. Physically, its a hole. No four walls match each other, and the floors look like the sidewalks on Court Street after a frat party.
But I will miss the people.
I have to come up with something to say.
And a gift for Schmitt.

3-27-2010
My dad survived the heart attack, thanks to doctors. I survived high school thanks to Cindy Schmitt. I never did get her that gift. What object can express the thanks I have for turning my life around. I was destined to some soul-sucking career that made the most of my mathematical skills; instead, I jumped into words, and then images.. and now I'm taking those rudimentary journalism skills I learned in high school and using them every day. Most journalists work in facts, and I do that too. But my best stories are about feelings and describing the small details -- the sorts of things I learned to do because Cindy Schmitt made me write down the details of my life until I enjoyed it. I don't write for assignments; I write for the joy.

Schmitt: I suspect you won't miss the building, but you will miss the people. And don't worry about giving any gifts to the people you met along the way: your teaching was that gift.