So...my job involves doing health stories for use by network affiliates. The stories run on several markets in and around the state, and it's not a bad job, but I wouldn't consider it a glamorous vocation. I haven't been stopped yet by someone who saw my story about acid reflux and just had to have my autograph--and yet I've found that a camera, a microphone and a big goofy smile can sure stop traffic.
I was in a local grocery store shooting a story on how to have your holiday feast without fear of fat (how's that alliteration?), when it came time to do the "standup," the part of the story in which the reporter appears on camera and says something enlightening.
It was as if I'd held up a sign that said, "Free food," or "Get your $100 bill here." Shoppers gathered round, first politely, then more openly staring as I tried to explain to the tv audience about meal replacement drinks and frozen foods with fewer than 300 calories. Fascinating stuff, I'm sure. One elderly fellow didn't even have a grocery cart--he was just there to watch. Several people wanted to know my name, what channel I was on, and if they could "be on tv."
As we lugged the equipment back to the car, I was preoccupied by that amusing display--how fascinated we are with shiny objects and shiny smiles. Lights and cameras hypnotize. We want to see who's in the spotlight--however miniscule the spotlight might be--and we want to connect with it somehow.
With 1,000 channels and endless web video outlets, I'm amazed that anyone even notices a video camera these days. But they do.
Or maybe it simply was the riveting way I talked about fruit and calories.
Just wait till they see my story about heartburn.
Monday, November 27
Saturday, November 18
There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky...and an 8-foot snow globe on my neighbor's lawn
A commercial for a new holiday movie gets me laughing every time. It's just a flash of a scene, but it hits close to my real-life experience: When the nighbors plug in their outdoor christmas lights, a couple is blinded by the nuclear-like bath of light as they lie in bed.
The annual drain of electricity has begun as the neighbors take on the task of covering every last square inch of exposed house and lawn (and probably pets, too) with lights. The air has barely seeped out of the giant inflated jack-o-lantern, but the bobbing Santa (who pops in and out of the chimney) is on the roof, along with his twin in his sleigh with Rudolph. Frosty and the taller-than-me snowglobe have taken up residence as well, and the flashing lights have begun to make their way around the house. Eventually, the house will, in all likelihood, be visible from space.
Now, I'm all for fun and whimsey, and darn it, it's their house. They can do whatever they want as long as they pay the electric bill and don't burn down the neighborhood. The whole secular/religious holiday argument aside, my biggest complaint is this: Does it have to be so...bright?
I love Christmas lights just as much as my five-year old, and I appreciate the fact that we don't have to turn on a single interior light on that side of the house from the beginning of November to the end of January, but there's a reason we live in the Bluegrass and not Dead Horse, Alaska, with its three months of solid daylight.
I guess there's worse things the neighbors could do. A friend of ours says the people who live near him wait outside so they can shoot at any foreign little men who might show up with a team of prime bucks and try to break into houses. It is deer season, you know.
Ah, well, I guess I could always take the Corey Hart approach and wear my sunglasses at night.
By the way, if you want to come visit, it's the dark spot next to the landing strip.
The annual drain of electricity has begun as the neighbors take on the task of covering every last square inch of exposed house and lawn (and probably pets, too) with lights. The air has barely seeped out of the giant inflated jack-o-lantern, but the bobbing Santa (who pops in and out of the chimney) is on the roof, along with his twin in his sleigh with Rudolph. Frosty and the taller-than-me snowglobe have taken up residence as well, and the flashing lights have begun to make their way around the house. Eventually, the house will, in all likelihood, be visible from space.
Now, I'm all for fun and whimsey, and darn it, it's their house. They can do whatever they want as long as they pay the electric bill and don't burn down the neighborhood. The whole secular/religious holiday argument aside, my biggest complaint is this: Does it have to be so...bright?
I love Christmas lights just as much as my five-year old, and I appreciate the fact that we don't have to turn on a single interior light on that side of the house from the beginning of November to the end of January, but there's a reason we live in the Bluegrass and not Dead Horse, Alaska, with its three months of solid daylight.
I guess there's worse things the neighbors could do. A friend of ours says the people who live near him wait outside so they can shoot at any foreign little men who might show up with a team of prime bucks and try to break into houses. It is deer season, you know.
Ah, well, I guess I could always take the Corey Hart approach and wear my sunglasses at night.
By the way, if you want to come visit, it's the dark spot next to the landing strip.
Friday, November 17
For the love of the Playstation
Some folks in Lexington will have an interesting story to tell Christmas morning when their loved ones unwrap their Playstations. Read on:
FROM WKYT.COM:
Some of the people who waited outside Lexington's Best Buy store (for video game consoles) say they got more than they bargained for.
On Wednesday night, a drive-by shooter shot bb pellets at four people, including WKYT reporter Elizabeth Dorsett. No one was seriously hurt.
Two people left the line because of the shooting.
AND THEN:
Police arrested William Burdine Thursday afternoon behind the Best Buy on Nicholasville Road.
Burdine was found fully clothed, but police say when he escaped he was only wearing boxer shorts and tennis shoes.
Police say he was discharged from the hospital at around 9:15 Wednesday night when he escaped from the custody of a State Department of Corrections guard.
That's when he shed his hospital gown and ran out of the hospital.
I guess he wanted a Playstation, too.
Thursday, November 16
If only I had my camera...
...but I didn't bring it with me, so I can only tell you what I saw.
Last night's rain came billowing up from the ground in a frothy white fog that spilled over the neat black fence rows. A mare and her foal poked their heads above (the foal just barely) to regard the passing traffic. The rising sun highlighted their coats, shining and stark against the formless, ethereal waves rising and moving beneath them.
My sleepy eyes were opened wide, and the anxiety for the day ahead--the endless lists of things to do--fell away.
If only I had my camera.
Last night's rain came billowing up from the ground in a frothy white fog that spilled over the neat black fence rows. A mare and her foal poked their heads above (the foal just barely) to regard the passing traffic. The rising sun highlighted their coats, shining and stark against the formless, ethereal waves rising and moving beneath them.
My sleepy eyes were opened wide, and the anxiety for the day ahead--the endless lists of things to do--fell away.
If only I had my camera.
Friday, November 10
Hi...uh...Mom?
A few nights ago, on Halloween, my friend--I'll call her Amy to save her further embarrassment--was in her freshly painted living room waiting for her parents, who were coming to see her new house for the first time.
The time came and went, but her parents--usually punctual--weren't there.
Finally, much later, the doorbell rang, and Amy opened the door to see her parents standing there, grinning sheepishly, both with sucker sticks in their mouths.
"Where have you been?" Amy asked.
Her parents looked at each other and giggled.
"Should we tell her?" her mother asked.
"We met your neighbors," said her father.
Amy says she knew the news was not going to be good.
"My neighbors?"
Her parents looked at each other guiltily and snickered some more before answering.
"Well, we had never been here before," began her father.
And the whole sad story unfolded.
Amy's parents had parked on the street and walked to what they thought was the right house. Outside, a young couple wearing Halloween masks sat on the steps outside with buckets of candy. Thinking the pair was Amanda and her husband, her father had chipperly called out, "Trick or treat!"
The couple on the stoop greated them with reluctance. "You want some candy?" the woman asked.
Amy's mom realized this was not her daughter, but surmised that Amy had invited some friends over to help give out Halloween candy.
"Sure," Amy's parents responded.
"Oh--okay," the woman responded with uncertainty. She handed them each a sucker.
Amy's parents proceeded up the steps past them, toward the open front door.
"Don't let them in!" the woman cried out, and her male companion bounded after them and demanded: "Where do you think you're going?"
"My daughter's house, of course," Amy's mom responded, surprised at the sudden hostility as she stepped with purpose through the front door...and stopped short.
Amy's parents stood looking at a fully decorated living room, complete with pictures of people they didn't recognize.
"Ron, this isn't Amy's house," her mother said under her breath.
They turned to face the couple, who had scrambled behind them.
"You're not my daughter," Amy's mom stammered.
They went on to explain that they were first-time visitors to the street, and they had mixed up the address--not to mention the confusion created by the masks.
The young couple peeled off their masks and responded that the previous owner of their house had died, leaving behind his collection of Halloween masks. They decided to try them on as they handed out candy that night.
The four got a good laugh before the couple pointed them in the right direction.
However, Amy, in her embarrassment, may never leave her house again. At least, not without a mask.
The time came and went, but her parents--usually punctual--weren't there.
Finally, much later, the doorbell rang, and Amy opened the door to see her parents standing there, grinning sheepishly, both with sucker sticks in their mouths.
"Where have you been?" Amy asked.
Her parents looked at each other and giggled.
"Should we tell her?" her mother asked.
"We met your neighbors," said her father.
Amy says she knew the news was not going to be good.
"My neighbors?"
Her parents looked at each other guiltily and snickered some more before answering.
"Well, we had never been here before," began her father.
And the whole sad story unfolded.
Amy's parents had parked on the street and walked to what they thought was the right house. Outside, a young couple wearing Halloween masks sat on the steps outside with buckets of candy. Thinking the pair was Amanda and her husband, her father had chipperly called out, "Trick or treat!"
The couple on the stoop greated them with reluctance. "You want some candy?" the woman asked.
Amy's mom realized this was not her daughter, but surmised that Amy had invited some friends over to help give out Halloween candy.
"Sure," Amy's parents responded.
"Oh--okay," the woman responded with uncertainty. She handed them each a sucker.
Amy's parents proceeded up the steps past them, toward the open front door.
"Don't let them in!" the woman cried out, and her male companion bounded after them and demanded: "Where do you think you're going?"
"My daughter's house, of course," Amy's mom responded, surprised at the sudden hostility as she stepped with purpose through the front door...and stopped short.
Amy's parents stood looking at a fully decorated living room, complete with pictures of people they didn't recognize.
"Ron, this isn't Amy's house," her mother said under her breath.
They turned to face the couple, who had scrambled behind them.
"You're not my daughter," Amy's mom stammered.
They went on to explain that they were first-time visitors to the street, and they had mixed up the address--not to mention the confusion created by the masks.
The young couple peeled off their masks and responded that the previous owner of their house had died, leaving behind his collection of Halloween masks. They decided to try them on as they handed out candy that night.
The four got a good laugh before the couple pointed them in the right direction.
However, Amy, in her embarrassment, may never leave her house again. At least, not without a mask.
Jilted by Election Day
There's the sound of silence in our house. Well, except for the baby and the five-year-old and the occasional hairdryer (when I really want big hair).
What I mean is, my phone's not ringing like it used to, and the doorbell hasn't sounded once since Monday.
I'm feeling jilted.
Only a few days ago, I had a steady stream of suitors who wrote letters to me and called (some of them a couple of times a day) and came to see me. They wanted to know my deepest thoughts and my hopes for my future, and what's more, they were going to make my dreams come true. Problems? Hey, they were going to solve them all. For some reason, Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came to mind.
But there were so many, and only one of me. And so, as it happens occasionally in Kentucky (according to the oath for political office, anyway) it came down to a duel:
Election Day.
I went to the polling place and stood in line. I looked at the names of the people who so desperately wanted me to commit to them, and I agonized. The mayor loved me so dearly, but his opponent seemed to understand me. What to do, what to do?
I stood over the new electronic voting machine (which no one else wanted to use; I discovered why when, by the time I finished carefully scrolling and clicking buttons and waiting for pages to load, the crowd behind me had become a few lingering souls.)
I took a deep breath and made my choices. It was tough; one fellow who came to see me three times and called a couple of times a week got left in the cold. He was just too needy.
So, now that Election Day is over, the phone isn't ringing. No one has been to see me. The silence is starting to feel a bit, well, conspicuous. I'm beginning to think I've been jilted.
Don't you care about me any more? Am I not in your every thought as you professed before--that everything you did was for my benefit? It's not that I want you to call every day--I was beginning to feel a little smothered, to be honest--but this total silence is, well, deafening.
And to think you said you loved me. *Sniff*
So I guess in a few months you'll take your oath (and promise not to duel--for real) and go about your life, occasionally stopping to remember me. And then the time will come that you will need me again, and you will call and write and come visit.
Hmph. Maybe by then I'll be Canadian.
What I mean is, my phone's not ringing like it used to, and the doorbell hasn't sounded once since Monday.
I'm feeling jilted.
Only a few days ago, I had a steady stream of suitors who wrote letters to me and called (some of them a couple of times a day) and came to see me. They wanted to know my deepest thoughts and my hopes for my future, and what's more, they were going to make my dreams come true. Problems? Hey, they were going to solve them all. For some reason, Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came to mind.
But there were so many, and only one of me. And so, as it happens occasionally in Kentucky (according to the oath for political office, anyway) it came down to a duel:
Election Day.
I went to the polling place and stood in line. I looked at the names of the people who so desperately wanted me to commit to them, and I agonized. The mayor loved me so dearly, but his opponent seemed to understand me. What to do, what to do?
I stood over the new electronic voting machine (which no one else wanted to use; I discovered why when, by the time I finished carefully scrolling and clicking buttons and waiting for pages to load, the crowd behind me had become a few lingering souls.)
I took a deep breath and made my choices. It was tough; one fellow who came to see me three times and called a couple of times a week got left in the cold. He was just too needy.
So, now that Election Day is over, the phone isn't ringing. No one has been to see me. The silence is starting to feel a bit, well, conspicuous. I'm beginning to think I've been jilted.
Don't you care about me any more? Am I not in your every thought as you professed before--that everything you did was for my benefit? It's not that I want you to call every day--I was beginning to feel a little smothered, to be honest--but this total silence is, well, deafening.
And to think you said you loved me. *Sniff*
So I guess in a few months you'll take your oath (and promise not to duel--for real) and go about your life, occasionally stopping to remember me. And then the time will come that you will need me again, and you will call and write and come visit.
Hmph. Maybe by then I'll be Canadian.
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