American Idol and Ice Cream

As many of you are probably aware, kids these days love the American Idol show. Kids and Fox news producers, that is. For you see, where there is American Idol, there is ratings. Could you ask for a better lead-in to a newscast? Not really, unless you want to try to suck in the CSI audience by leading with a gang shooting in tha hood. Or, better yet, lost hikers, right after a kickass episode of Lost! (Anybody remember my suggested Folsom Prison Break/Prison Break tie in from back in the day? It didn't take, but it was still fairly brilliant.) Still, few fans are as rabid as those of American Idol, so whenever an "Idol Story" comes along, they're sure to grab it up, promote the hell out of it, and bury it nice and deep in the newscast.

Now, let's take a moment to picture yourself as a backwoods hillbilly, out tryin to shoot yo'self some food, when up from the ground came come bubblin' crude. That's basically what happened tonight, except replace the hillbilly with myself, and the oil with Melinda Doolittle, former American Idol starlet, all falling on an Idol night. Do you hear what I hear? That's right... Ca-ching!

Last year's Idol favorite made her way to town compliments of Dryer's Ice Cream, as a local resident won a contest to allow her to host an ice cream party, along with 20 friends, and a performance by Doolittle. Now that's a contest!

Now, at this point I feel I should point out that I am not, nor have I ever been, a fan of the show. I feel that I'd be more entertained by a rip-off reality show called American Idle, where fat, lazy, incompetent Americans face off against each other in an effort to prove who is the least active member of society. Whoever gets a heart attack first loses... or wins... I haven't worked out all the details yet, but I feel that I'm on to something.


That being said, I'll return to the adventure. Melinda was a lovely lady with a terrific singing voice. She serenaded the crowd with a handful of requested songs (my "Taking Care of Business" request was denied) and passed out an abundance of free ice cream before calling it a night. Easy story, easy promos, easy ratings!

Plus I came to the realization that it is very difficult to photograph a singer without capturing some sort of negative image, whether it's pain...

sheer terror...
...or just flat out bitchyness...

...none of which represented the song she was singing. That's why I'm glad my profession involves moving pictures... it's just too easy to misinterpret a still image.

The downside is that you have to put up with people ruining your shots, such as junior photog Joseph, who managed to make his way into a good majority of my shots...

...but I'll cut the kid some slack, seeing as how he was such a huge Melinda Doolittle fan. After we finished shooting, he rushed over to her to grab her autograph:

Well, in all fairness, I got one too, but only because I was worried about leaving the George Barris autograph alone in my locker:


Hey, after designing all those Batmobiles, the guy deserves a little female companionship!

A Day at the Races

I've seen a few races in my days. I've cheered on horses from a bar stool while watching the Belmont Stakes. I ran track in high school (with varying degrees of success). I also have noticed that Nascar races take place every now and again, although I'm not really the type to sit and watch however many hundreds of laps they do. While I consider myself something of a race-watcher, I have never taken the time out of my day to watch a bicycle race. This afternoon, the Amgen Tour of California bike race came through town. Being as that it was my day off, I decided that today would be the day that I'd see a bike race.

Now, I have no idea how bike races work. It seems like whoever rides the fastest should win. That's how most races happen. However, this race seems to use teams over eight days and 650 miles. At least that's what I overheard at one point or another. The problem with watching races like this is that you stand around for extended periods of time to see them pass by for only a moment. Unless you're at the finish line, it's kinda anti-climactic, especially when you don't know who any of the bikers are. And frankly, if it's not Lance Armstrong, I'm lost (and even if it is, I really don't know what I'm talking about). I can't even figure out how to ride without holding onto the handle bars. Still, it was a pretty cool moment to see these guys pass after riding however far they rode.

They came, they passed, some guy won this portion of the race. Maybe next time I'll read up on bike races a little more before going. However, it was still pretty cool to see, and it's another type of race that I can check off from my "Kinds of Races to See in My Lifetime" list. I have lots of lists.

Before today, the most bike racing I'd seen had come from The Triplets of Belville, a strange-yet-excellent French animated film. If you've got 80 minutes to kill in your day, consider checking it out.

Oh, and as for my kickass day off? I was called into work because too many people were sick. At least I got to see something worth snapping a picture of today, and if I can say that at the end of the day, then it's been a fine day.

Guapo Goes Down

Photogery is a dangerous business. When everyone flees from danger, the photoger must push towards it. When a freeway is closed due to dastardly conditions, the photoger must trudge through the storm. Not too different from the task bestowed upon mailmen, although photogers tend to get cooler cars and hotter women.

Few scenarios are more dangerous than working on the sidelines of sporting events. Like a fat kid in a candy store, it seems so cool, but in the long run it's eventually going to hurt you. I've had a few brushes with danger along the sidelines in my days, although most were caused by being a douchebag.

In addition to being beaten mercilessly by stupid mascots, the average sports photoger is constantly in danger of being trampled by big dudes moving really fast with no regard for your well-being. It is single-handedly the worst and most hilarious thing that can happen to a photoger on the sidelines.

This weekend, in the merry old land of Berkeley, sports photoger Guapo found this out firsthand. He was kind enough to share this horrifyingly embarrassing moment with the world:

A dude's ass to the lens is never a good feeling. Guapo's womanish squeal was edited out to save him at least a little dignity.

A fund has been set up in Guapo's name to help raise Ass-To-Lens awareness. No longer shall traumatized photogers be forced to live with this shame!

Autorama Rama

Generally, anything that ends with the suffix -rama is probably going to be pretty sweet. Futurama, for example, is a kickass show. So when I was told that I was to cover Autorama today, I figured it couldn't possibly be bad.

A lot of men out there really love cars. They know all the ins, the outs, and the what-have-yous of the automotive industry. I was never one of them. My brother was. He's a mechanical engineer. I'm a photog. To each his own. Anyway, I've passed through a car show or two in my day. I may have found myself in a few car museums or car festivals, but I had never been to a car show that involved the mighty -rama in the title. I wasn't sure what to expect, but the assignment editor assured me that I would get to see the Batmobile, so I said I was in.

Granted, I'm not a car guy, but who wouldn't get excited about seeing the Batmobile? Even if it was the old school TV one, it was still pretty awesome.

What I never understood was that if you were some sort of secretive superhero, wouldn't you want an inconspicuous car? (This applies to The A-Team as well.) If you don't want the authorities catching you, the worst thing you could do is drive a car that stands out, especially if you're trying to fight crime during rush hour. If the police helicopters can track The Juice, what chance would this guy have? Just sayin'. Also, what happens if it rains? There's no roof on the damn thing!

Also featured at Autorama was the Munsters' car. The flaws in its design are even more numerous.

I mean seriously, there is nothing logical about the design of either of these vehicles. That thing can't possibly go on the freeway, it would ruin the drapes! As my frustration began to build, I shouted out "What idiot designed these stupid cars?" From across the room, I heard a jovial voice shout "I did!" It was none other than world famous Hollywood car designer George Barris.

George, a native Sacramentonian, was kind enough to come over and chat with me about life in the Hollywood Auto Design industry, including how he also created the Dukes of Hazzard and Beverely Hillbillies cars. I decided to cut him a little slack on the logistical flaws in several of his vehicles (seriously, would a smoke screen really make it that hard to follow the car?) and, in exchange, he was kind enough to throw an autograph or two my way.

Official Opinion of George Barris: One kickass old dude.

The Fonz was also rumored to be around the 'rama somewhere, but unfortunately my schedule did not allow me to track him down. Next time, Winkler!

Them Bones

Today's adventure started right as my afternoon shift began. Only a short distance away from our "centrally located" station (aka "close to the action" (aka "in the ghetto")), police had gotten a tip that there was a body buried in the backyard of some old lady's house.

Our 2:30 PM arrival relieved the morning crew, who had been hanging around in some neighbor's backyard for the past five hours. We took their spots in a couple of deck chairs, and watched as the CSI folk stood around for a few hours, unwilling to share with us why they stopped digging. But hey, I can't complain, it was a sunny day and, as we waited, the fellow newsies sat around and shared war stories.

A few hours into the adventure, a tractor finally arrived to continue the exhumation of the rumored bones.

After tearing up the driveway and digging a sizable hole in this woman's backyard, the good folks at the local CSI came to the conclusion that there were no bones to be found. Unfortunatly, I was unable to get that perfect shot of the bones being discovered for our story, but we still had an interesting package wrapped up. Plus the morning guy shot most of it, so I had no complaints.

So me and my sidekick reporter decided that we had earned ourselves a quality dinner break. Along the way to a local bistro that had claimed to be quite fine, we saw two live trucks zoom past us, along with a police motorcycle. After a lengthy discussion, we decided to tag along and see what we were missing out on.

Upon arrival at a house that was surrounded by cop cars, one of the competing reporters asked me "Is this the house?" I didn't want him to realize that we had no idea what was going on, so I assured him that it was "the house". After shooting some video of a house that something was happening at, I asked a cop what he could tell me, at which point he revealed that these fine folks were doing some sort of backyard revamping when they came across... you guessed it... bones!

Dinner would have to wait.

While it was unclear what species the bones belonged to, the local media converged on this small suburban home, freaking out all the well-to-do neighbors. Our story suddenly changed from one bones-in-backyard story to another.

So indeed it was a strange day. Two bones-in-backyard stories, back-to-back, and that isn't a common story. The News gods threw us an interesting curve ball today, and it won't soon be forgotten.

Also, I had this song stuck in my head all day. It really deserved a spot in the package.

Super Fat Tuesday

Tuesdays generally aren't something worth writing home about. As noted in a classic episode of Seinfeld, a Tuesday doesn't really have a feel to it. Monday has a feel. Friday definitely has a feel. However, Tuesday just kinda hangs in limbo as a day that's just there to get through.

Well, it just so happens that once a millennium, the planets align to create a Tuesday where something actually hapspens. The sacred day of Super Tuesday and Fat Tuesday fall on the same Tuesday to create a Super Fat Tuesday.

The Super Tuesday part required every good God-fearing American that lived with a select number of states to step out and do their civic duty by casting a vote for their favorite president-to-be, along with a handful of propositions that nobody really cared about.

California had a bundle of propositions regarding Indian gaming revenues. A slew of commercials both for and against them filled the airwaves, with an upset Native American either telling me that these propositions are benefiting or hurting them, without ever explaining what they are. I did a little reading and got a vague idea of what they were before casting my vote, but as I filled in that little bubble, I couldn't help but picture the upset Indian that I was voting against. Either way, someone was gonna get hurt. It was difficult.

However, my efforts were rewarded with the prestigious I Voted sticker. Kickass.

Following this event was the celebration of Fat Tuesday, a day that, much like Christmas, Easter, and Labor Day, has lost much of its original meaning. It's now another excuse to go out and drink, and after having Super Bowl Sunday only days ago, it has been quite a super week for my liver. We rallied the troops and hit the town in a way that only people with a Monday-Tuesday weekend could.

Tuesday, maybe you're not all that bad. Wednesday morning, however, is a different story.

Super Bowl Sunday!!

This past Sunday was a very special day. A day in which people of all walks of life gathered together to worship something that is greater than any one of them. A holy day of brotherhood, forgiveness and solidarity. I speak, of course, about Super Bowl Sunday.

It is one of the few days of the year where the nation can come together and get shitcanned. St. Patrick's Day, Cinco de Mayo and the occasional Fat Tuesday are additional examples, although none of them can provide parties at the same caliber as the Super Bowl.

Unfortunately, not all of us could partake in the drunken festivities. News never sleeps, and neither do I on Sunday mornings. However, if I had to be forced to work on this sacred day, at least I got a decent assignment. We were sent to the "biggest Super Bowl party in the Sacramento area".

That's when I was introduced to a new breed of partiers: old drunk rich people.

We were sent to a huge house party catering to Sacramento's wealthy elite, as one of the anchors was somehow tied into this party pad. Me and old drunk rich people have had our run-ins in the past, but this was definitely taking it a step up.

Presented at the host's "party house" on the Sacramento River, we were rubbing shoulders with some very important, and very drunk, folk. I became drinking buddies (although I wasn't drinking) with the VP of a certain communications company. I had a lengthy conversation with a guy on the US skydiving team, who jumped at a handful of super bowls. I even did a one-on-one interview with Eppie. It was exhausting.

That's when I realized that I'd encountered this partying type before. I'd spent four years drinking with people just like this... people who didn't have a care in the world, who could drink all they wanted and find no consequences. Old drunk rich people are no different than your average young drunk broke college student.

The only difference is that old drunk single women are much more aggressive than your average drunk college girl. I was grabbed at and cornered so many times that I finally had to say to the reporter "I'm leaving, so you can come or you can stay, but I'm leaving." She opted to come along, despite the fact that they were about to serve 280 pounds of Alaskan king crab that had been flown in that morning.

I almost got to watch some of the game too, I hear it was good. Hope you all partied hard on one of the great national holidays and didn't just nerd it up.

Lost at Last

Despite working in the television industry, there are very few television shows that I will really invest my time and interest in. There are so many shows out there, with new ones popping up every season claiming to be the next great thing, only to disappear half a season later.

A few years back, this show came out that looked like a Cast Away rip-off. A bunch of people got stranded on an island after their plane crashed, and found themselves in a Lord of the Flies-like predicament. Been there, done that. Frankly, I'm a busy man, and my time would probably be better spent pounding a half-rack and watching MXC.

A year later, a close personal friend couldn't stop raving about the brilliance of this new show that she got hooked on. Given her track record of favorite shows (Sex and the City, The Tyra Banks Show, et cetera), I had my doubts. After some arm-twisting, I was forced to sit down and watch it. My life hasn't been the same since.

That's right, I became a hopeless addict of Lost. A clever, well-written show with with an excellent ensemble cast. But that barely scratches the surface.

The format in itself is addicting. You're thrown all these characters, and each episode switches between two story lines: One, the over-aching island drama... the other, a flashback into the life on one of the characters. With each episode, you get a different back story with details that change the present story. Now that the producers have set a date for the final season, they have changed the format into flashing forward rather than back, where you see certain characters that got off the island, discussing cryptic events that are yet to be unveiled. Brilliant.

However, the true genius lies outside of the show itself. During the commercial break for an episode last season, there was a strange commercial for some sort of medical foundation. Unless you really paid close attention to the storyline, you would have easily missed the fact that it was a foundation briefly mentioned during the show. If you called the given phone number, you'd get further information about the genetic research going on at the foundation, and be directed to a website. At the website, you'd get the back story of various medical experiments that the foundation was doing, possibly on the island that the show takes place on. Through excessive digging, you may be able to start unraveling the mysteries behind the basic story line.

Months later, another commercial ran, this one for a candy bar that was found on the island. Again, if you weren't paying attention during the commercial break, it would have flashed right by without your notice. After some digging through the website mentioned in the commercial, you might have stumbled across the fact that the company is owned by the same foundation that ran the last commercial. They even had events around the country where the fictitious candy bar was distributed with further clues into the foundation's secrets.

This is only the beginning. They released a novel supposedly written by someone who died in the plane crash, which reveals further secrets into one of the story lines. In addition, mysterious video blogs started surfacing on the internet from a girl investigating the foundation, only to find she's gotten in over her head. With the new season, they played a commercial for the fake airline that crashed, which provided a website that had been hacked by a friend of one of the crash victims that doesn't believe the airline's cover-up. None of this is ever mentioned within the episodes, but the more digging you do, the more you understand what's going on.

It's a brilliant guerrilla-style cross-marketing campaign unlike anything else out there. They found a way to combine a normal show with the world of the internet in order to create an interactive experience that really makes you think in order to put the puzzle pieces together and understand what's going on. Or you could just take the show at its surface value and be perfectly content.

Unlike so much television out there today, Lost is the thinking man's show. If you've got some time to kill, I recommend renting season 1, saying goodbye to loved ones, and starting the journey that, much like meth or heroin, will change your life forever.

Welcome back, old friend!