Looking at a map, Florida kinda looks dirty.

I worked as a television cameraman for 7 and a half years. It was a profession I never would have imagined myself doing. News photographers are the meat & potatoes of the TV business, and for anyone who has ever known me - "meat" is not anywhere in my definition at all. There are eunuchs who out "meat" me!

While I went to school for broadcasting, I stumbled into this crazy business because of my wife. She had a job as a reporter at the time. On weekends, there was no photographer, so she would have shoot and report at the same time.

One weekend she got this assignment on a dude who held cross country skiing poetry readings. He'd take a group out, ski for a while, and then stop recite original poetry.

It's difficult to shoot a video camera and cross country ski at the same time, so Kristin asked me to come and shoot video while she and a group full of avid cross country skiers/poetry lovers.

I was the only person without skis! Unfortunately, it meant I had to run thru snow drifts to keep up these people.

When they would stop, I would have to catch up and film everybody while they listened intently. I was a pack and a half smoker at the time, and already out of shape. You could hear me huffing and puffing all over the natural sound on the camera.

From there, I was hooked. When Kristin got a job in southwest Florida in 1999, I took a job at a competing station as a photographer.

We spent two entertaining years there, and I have a ton of wild and bizarre stories for the crazy and bizarre folks from all over the world who made their way to the land of sunshine.

Like the time I got accosted inside in a Fort Myers trailer park by an angry old couple who wanted to know why I was there shooting. After I explained to them that we were here to do a story about saving their trailer park, they proceeded to curse and scream at me and the reporter.

The husband wanted to fight me, and at one point, took a step towards me with his fist out. He pointed to a sign that said, "No Soliciting". He said, "See that sign, it says no soliciting ... that means no bullsh*tting around.". (Next time you see a No Soliciting sign, remember that it means "no bullsh*tting around.")

The comedic thing was that we had permission to be there, and we had already finished the story. So, I calmly walked to the news truck, and put my camera away. The entire time, the wife is yelling at me, calling me a "real business man." (I swear to God, it was like David Mamet was writing their material. I half expected the wife to offer to buy me a pack a gum and offer to teach me how to chew it!)

I have this on tape. As a photographer in the middle of an incident, you record everything. Just in case. You never know what's going to happen.

Another time, I was sent to get some "video" of a "house" and "some dogs". These words were important because along with the address, they were the only information I had for the story.

When I showed up to shoot the "house" and "some dogs" - I found myself in the middle of the slum section of Fort Myers, FL. Say what you want about parts of LA or Chicago or Detroit, but from what I've been told, the hood in Fort Myers is just as dangerous and graphic as I've seen on any newscast or any movie.

At night, you don't go there. The NAACP called it the most economically segregated city in the south, and that's frightening when you consider that includes the entire states of Alabama, Louisiana, and Georgia.

Thankfully, this was day time though.

As I got out and set up in front of the house, three very large Doberman pinchers came out into the gated front yard and proceeded to bark incessantly at me. I got my usual shots, and was pretty much finished, when an SUV rolled hard up on the sidewalk.

3 very large men got and started to yell at me, telling me to get the fuck away from their house. One guy grabbed a large cinder block from a nearby yard, and says, "If you don't get the f*ck out of here now, I'm gonna hit you with this.".

At this point, I am getting the f*ck out of here now. As I'm quickly packing up, I say the only thing I can think of, "Hey, I'm on your guys' side, we just wanted to get your side of the story.". (In times of crisis, I'm either stupidly cocky or ridiculously chicken sh*t. That day, chicken sh*t was on the order.)

One of the guys says, "That's fine, come back tomorrow in the afternoon after our court date. Maybe we'll talk to ya' then.".

I head back to the station, and relayed the entire story to the newsroom. Somebody calls the news director, and I got this stern message passed on to me, that "We are never on somebody's side. We are the media.". Funny, I could have sworn something Frank McCahill taught at Minot State University about the role of a journalist, being impartial and on the side of the people. I think later in that chapter he did say, "Unless you may be hit by a concrete cinder block. Then ... the sh*t's off.".

Turns out that the "house" I had shot was a local den of drug dealing and dog fighting. What made this "house" newsworthy was that undercover police chased a suspect into this yard, the suspects friends decided unleash five large German Doberman pincher's onto the pursuing cops. One dog was shot and killed, and another was seriously injured and later put down. This would have been nice to have known before I got into a discussion with the accused unleashers. (Obviously, Mr. Chicken Sh*t made the right choice.)

The follow up to the story is that I got sent back to the area the next day. This time, I went with a reporter, James Irby.

I miss James. Whenever we were short on time, he'd volunteer to drive. Imagine going down the road at 85 MPH, trying to edit in backseat of a Ford conversion van/TV Live Truck while James blasted DMX's Up in Here. I swear we took one bump once on Del Prado Blvd and the truck was airborne. (It was like that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day off where the valet parkers take off with Cameron's dad's car.)

Anyway, James and I went to the "house" and sure enough, the same group of guys were hanging around outside. They came over to the news truck, and started to talking with James. When they recognized me, one of guys said , "It's motherf*ckin' Stone Cold Steve Austin!" --- I guess in reference to my shaved head and goatee. Or my fat gut. Or both.

Lots of time in news, it's waiting. Waiting for somebody to decide if they are willing to do an interview. Sometimes, you and the reporter sit in the truck and wait.

One night, we were waiting outside a Fort Myers house to see if we could get an interview an this 18 year old kid named Michael, who was accused of sending threatening e-mails to a survivor of the Columbine school shooting.

I was working for WBBH/WZVN at the time, and I was with this reporter named Erik Levine. I feel bad saying this because I am nothing to look at, but Erik looked like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer. (I liked Erik, but he is forever in my bad books because he didn't stand by the camera like I asked him, while I tuned in a live shot one night. The camera fell and busted in half. I lost a good camera and got a day's suspension.)

Erik could always get the interview. And sure enough, Michael was willing to talk. He met us at the door, and everything was all dramatic and dark in the house. He said that he was misunderstood, and that he was merely acting out a character. We set up and started rolling on the interview when the door burst open.

It was Michael's mother.

In a voice that sounded like George's mother on Seinfeld, she created a catchphrase that stuck with me for years, when she said to her son, "Michael, in my own home!".

Michael's mother had given him explicit instructions not to talk to anybody. Especially not Erik Levine from WBBH.

The next two minutes turned into sitcom, as Michael's mom read him and Erik the riot act. "I told you, Michael," she said, "that I was going to Steak and Shake with Linda, and that you were to not to talk to the TV people!".

Erik's sitting there, apologizing, she starts in on him. "Erik," she said, "I told you. Michael can't talk. He's going to be in court next week. I told you. And you did this ... in my own home!".

Me? I just kept recording.

Some times, it's not so funny the stuff you see. Crashed cars, sick children, bodies with white sheets across them. I look forward to living the next 3/4 of my life never having to watch EMT remove someone from a crushed tractor trailer.

But what's more scary is the stuff underneath. The stuff that eventually surfaces thru either somebody's courage or bullsh*t luck.

The main anchor of WFTX Fox 4 had an assignment for sweeps. Beth Shelburne was her name and she was a lot of fun, and a really good reporter too. We went downtown in Fort Myers one night to do interviews about sex and monogamy in relationships. (Your usual ratings fare.) We interviewed this one couple and asked them all types of questions about their relationship. It was cheesy and fun. (Your usual ratings fare.)

A short while later, a baby's body gets found in the woods outside of town. They eventually traced it back to the couple we interviewed in downtown Fort Myers. It was one of the production assistants, Heather, who discovered it. She had come along on the interviews for experience, and it her who remembers interviewing them.

Both the husband and wife were now suspects, and on the run. Eventually, they tracked the couple down - separately. It was freaky to watch the interview again, under the context of what happened. Last time I remember, they were trying to determine if the husband was competent to stand trial.

Another time, a reporter and I went to cover a fishing tournament for kids with handicaps. It was a weekend story - the type you try to have as much with as possible. The kids were fabulous ... they always are!

But the dude that ran it ind of gave me the creeps. He was an older man, who looked a lot like C. Everett Coop. He was in a wheelchair, but he said he didn't necessarily need it.

Anyway, I put together the story and stayed thru the newscast to run one of the sports cameras. About two minutes after the story aired, the phone rang. I answered it. The person on the other line said, "I just watched that story about the fishing tournament, and the guy who runs it should not be allowed around kids. When I was a child, that son of bitch sexually assaulted me when my mother was with him.".

Holy sh*t.

This opened up a complex, high detailed story that involved the fishing tournament guy and a history of sexual assault with children. How this guy got anywhere near kids is amazing.

By now this had turned into a huge story, and a different reporter got assigned to it. I remember that Mr. Fishing Man met with the reporter and myself in a public place. He brought along his wife and met us at Perkins.

He begged us not to release the story as it would kill his credibility and work in the community. Up until that point in my life, it was twenty of the most intense minutes I've ever spent. All I can say is that I think I have met the devil, or a close proximity.

Me and the reporter left the restaurant and aired the story. I had tons of video of this guy kissing and hugging kids at the fishing tournament and him meeting us at Perkins. I have no clue where he is now. Hopefully in jail.

It wasn't all dark and creepy in SW Florida. I also got to meet Regis Philbin.

It was around the time Who Wants to Be a Millionaire was taking off. Apparently, every market that Regis went, he was indebted to meet with the local ABC affiliate and do a story.

He and Don Rickles came thru on a tour. And we got a chance to watch him rehearse. Afterwards, we did the interview.

The entire time I was dying inside thinking , "I'd love to do Dana Carvey impersonation of him. Cody ... what kind of name is Cody to name a boy!!!"

Thank God I didn't.

At the end of it, he looks at him and says, in that voice, "Jason, how did it look?". I said that he looked great! Regis looks at me and says, "The lighting was terrible, we're gonna have to do it again!!".

It makes me wonder how many times he did that joke to local ABC cameraman all over America.

Kristin and I spent two years there. There were so many great memories. We stood on the beach at ocean on Christmas Day. We saw DisneyWorld and Universal Studios and Seaworld. The kids had a great time, and there were so many wild and crazy people in at that little Fox station in Cape Coral.

Some time I'll tell you about Tim Kinney and the cleanest joke I ever heard. And don't let me forget to mention Mark Current and Jeff Yarlett. If you're lucky, you'll hear about MDA kids hitting on television anchors or going to a nudist colony with Chip McAfee ... and his wife.

Now go to bed.

Getting the chance to say what I think ...

I attended the funeral of a college friend last weekend. While I wasn't privileged enough to have been one of Bram Davidson best friends, he always treated me like one. He treated everyone like one. I sit here devastated for his family and his friends who knew and loved him the most.

What I heard the loss and sadness in everyone's words, it got me thinking about the special and important people in my own life, and how absolutely spoiled rotten I've been in my life to have so many beautiful friends and family around.

So rather than wait until I'm sitting devastated in church somewhere, wishing I had one more day to say the things I feel, I want to tell about some of the special people in my life.

This is my wonderful friend Corey Horob:

If ever a grin was to be loosely defined as 'sh*t eating', it would be Corey's. (I'm hoping not literally 'sh*t eating'. While I can see a few circumstances where Corey would end up in a position of sh*t eating, I highly doubt he'd be grinning while doing it.)

I can't see the other person in this photo, but I am inclined to believe he or she is helping him out of a jail or an institution.

Corey is one of those people who looks as good now, as he did the day I first met him. How is this possible? In the time that Corey and I have known each other, I have nearly doubled in size, lost at least 3/4 of my hair, and discovered the delicate indignity of man boobs, and generally overall --- gone to sh*t.

Meanwhile, Mr. English T-shirt here has developed strong deltoids, biceps, triceps, and a pair of amazing Extesnor Digitoriums! (I love being able to look up stuff on the Internet.)

I do question the inappropriate way he may have developed his right addular pollicis, but what man does in the privacy of his own home - while watching scrambled pornography - is his own business. (My wife is going to hate that line.)

To sum up Corey in a short paragraph would do both short paragraphs & Corey grave injustices. Corey has been a consistent and wonderful presence in my life, despite the fact I've lived in eight different towns in the last fifteen years.

Corey and I met in college. After the first five months of our friendship - we've never lived in the same town. Hell, we haven't even been in the same state since 1997.

I think not being around each other is the reason our friendship survives. Absence not only makes the heart grow fonder, it pretty much guarantees that you never get irritated by the way somebody chews their food. It also means it's harder for them to picture your ugly ass while talking over the phone, as well.

For lack of a less gay phrasing, Corey is like my partner - the Hope to my Crosby, the Lewis to my Martin ... the Crosby/Stills to my Nash & Young. (I'm running out of partnerships.)

Corey and I lived in a world of improv and ad-libbing and planned silliness. I remember one time, we went to breakfast at Perkins. I can't remember if it had been a late night or what, but we were quiet as we ordered and ate breakfast. In the middle, I got up and went to the bathroom.

When I came back, Corey whispers to me, "Whatever happens, your name is Jebediah --- so look sad, and just go with it.". Sure enough, about a minute later, three of the most maudlin looking waitresses I've ever seen, come over carrying a muffin with a candle in it.

They proceeded to sing 'Happy Birthday' to me in almost dirge-like fashion. I'm remembering the instructions of "looking sad" so I just sit there doing the best I can. I look across at Corey and he's got the most earnest look on his face, like he trying to say to everyone, "This is my friend who I love, and this is his birthday muffin.".

Turns out while I was gone, Corey had requested for our waitress that someone bring out a muffin with a candle in it, and sing his dear friend Jebediah 'Happy Birthday' because Jebediah had travelled a long way to see both of his parents -who were in an car accident - and it was poor lonely Jebediah's birthday!

God forgive him for that one! (I think if I'd had more time to think, I might told the waitresses that the "accident" was just a fender/bender, and that those insurance agency bastards were, "really giving it to my parents over the f*cking deductable.". Somehow, I think doing that would have made the story less funny though.)

We did stuff like that all the time. I would go around promising him that the next book store I was in, I was going to trip and take out a display of books.

Sure enough, we did it in the Columbia Mall in Grand Forks. I had made sure that my shoelace was loose in advance - which if you know me, isn't too hard, as my shoelaces always seem to be loose. After looking around the store, and giving Corey no advance warning, I fake-tripped and took out a large display of bargain books. I even took more down with me trying to get back up.

Corey's reaction was perfect. There he was, earnestly trying to help me up, giving everyone in store that look, like he was saying, "This is my friend, and even though he has taken out a row of discounted but valuable books on old cars and biblical quotations, he shall always remain my friend.".

I just pretended to look mortified and red-faced, which isn't really hard to do when a store full of book shoppers are staring out you.

We did help clean it most of it up, which seemed like the proper thing to do.

After working for many excellent years in morning radio, Corey has made his way to New York City, and now lives in a section of Harlem. (No joke.) If there ever was anybody who pull off being the only white guy around, it would be Corey. Anyone I've ever known who has met Corey, knows that he is literally a man of the people. He's the only person I know who can offer dissertations on farming equipment, computer technology, and liberal politics. He can talk to anyone on any subject for any length of time, unless of course, he has to go somewhere.

And we developed a non-subtle signal for when we wanted to leave somewhere. The undecipherable "Joe Jackson has no pants.". To hear it spoken, means it's time to go.

You can't stay long in any one place with Corey because it's always time to go on to the next place. Part of it is his metabolism. The late shift at the McDonald's in downtown Baghdad, doesn't turnover half as much as Corey can process food into energy. For as long as I've known him, he has been literally 'wafer thin'. (See Monty Python's The Meaning of Life for that one.)

I've seen him demolish breakfasts portioned for the morbidly obese. He has to be the skinniest human being ever to own a George Foreman grill. Even Ethiopians from the 1980's were calling him concerned about his inability to put on any weight.

The other part that makes Corey go so fast is the fact that he is so full of life. He truly has that "I'll sleep at the end" mentality. There's always one more laugh out there.

With Corey, you get a million of them. Corey can impersonate an arsenal of celebrities and politicians. My brother and I would make Corey run the gambit from Johnny Carson to Bill Clinton to Ed Sullivan. He is like the ultimate party favor.

His Harry Caray impression alone is so dead-on, especially when used in conjunction with Corey's story of an on-air call Corey had with the real Harry Caray - which ended with Caray saying, "Hey, I'm not feeling too good right now.". (This was only one or two days before Caray's untimely passing in 1998.) The sad way Corey says "Hey, I'm not feeling too good right now.", always breaks my heart.

One year Corey sent me a Christmas card with a picture of him and Bill Crosby on it. It said, "Hey, hey, hey ... have a Merry Christmas.".

Someday, I'll relay his version of how he asked George Carlin to speak at his chigh school graduation, and the beautiful friendship that developed between a boy and his idol.

He is also the kindest, most earnest and caring person I've ever know, and I'm glad he's here on the planet. Thanks for being my friend.

(No doubt, if Corey responds with a comment it will be one sentence long, and it involve the phrases "Hehehe" and "mofo". It will be poorly punctuated and it will be funny as hell.)

High Fever reminds son of his Dad and rock'n'roll

Holy crap - I am sick! I've been off work for 4 days with strep throat and a fever. I've been sweating constantly.

I can't help thinking that this would feel really good right now! (What a feeling!) Speaking of Flashdance, it always pissed me off that she let dancing hold back a promising career in welding! Did you know that there's a serious shortage of welders up the coast of Mississippi - apparently entry level wages are between $8-$10! Who's the "Maniac" now, smart guy?!

Flashdance had incredible reach. No B.S. - my Dad had the soundtrack! (This probably explains a lot about me.) His collection also included more "manly" fare like the soundtracks to The Jazz Singer and Woman In Red. If it was recorded for a movie - my Dad bought it. Not that my dad was all movie soundtracks. Between 1976 and 1982, we rocked out to such diverse artists as Roger Whittaker, Gordon Lightfoot, and Burton Cummings. (Basically, if you were a white guy with a moustache - you rocked old Ron Wood's world!)

Truth be told, I miss that music. Not 'cause I liked it - but 'cause Dad liked it. I don't think anybody else was listening to the Kingston Trio in 1978, but there we'd be, cruising down Highway 6 to Naicam with "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley" playing.

If it were winter, and if he was playing the soundtrack to Live and Let Die, he would drive my brother and I down Caskey Drive in Melfort, and he would pull a hard left into our driveway, taking out a row of plastic garbage cans.

We lost my Dad in 2002 to esophageal cancer. It's been five years, and I still grieve. My Dad was the best. He was a man with great moral character, he was always kind and welcoming to everyone, and he had a great sense of humor.

What he lacked in the rock'n'roll department, he more than made up in great musical memories.

Like the time that he and I drove to Brandon, Manitoba to meet up with my Mom. I was in college at the time. Dad was driving his beautiful new Toyota Celica - the house had been paid off and he was indulging in finding his youth again. It was early, and I was still kind of asleep.

As we pulled onto Ring Road in Regina, I heard that melody that used to be at the beginning of cassette tapes. Suddenly, it got really loud. This was interesting.

Then the opening chords of "My Woman From Tokyo" by Deep Purple came blasting out. This was loud. Like Brian Johnson from AC/DC loud. I lifted my head up and there was my 50 year old dad with one hand on the steering wheel, nodding his hand in time with the music, a hilarious semi-snarl across his face. F*ck you, Roger Whittaker!

My Dad was an early 60's guy at heart. He loved "Yakkety-Sax" and the American Graffiti soundtrack. He also loved guitar instrumental stuff - the Ventures and Duane Eddy.

I think this is what made music so great for me. Maybe it was all those soundtracks, but I learned quickly that life needed background music.

I've tried make the music special for my kids. They've been raised on everything from The Beach Boys to Kiss and everywhere in between. The two older kids especially enjoyed side two of Alice Cooper "Special Forces" album - "Skeletons in the Closet" and "You're a Movie" were their favorite. Even at a year old, Adam used to squeal out "Broken Dreeeeeammms" anytime the shimmering guitar intro for Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" would come on the radio.

Thanks, Dad. You did a nice job. I'm pretty sure they have Deep Purple in heaven. (I'm pretty sure that they have them in hell, too. Only, it's the version with David Coverdale!)

Well, I'll be darned!

I think I'm gonna give this a shot! I'm not technologist. Hell, last year I just updated my Billy Joel catalog to cassette tape! Two months ago, we finally got a car with a CD player in it. (Tiny steps.)

I figure that I see all the young kids doing it ... and dag-nab it if I'm gonna get left behind anymore. Maybe someday I'll be downloading songs and using Blue Tooth and watching things in high definition. But for now ... this is as close to it as I get.

Why?

Because I'm stuck in the 1970's.

I have a working knowledge of Paul Williams and Patty Hearst and Three Mile Island. I have a large majority of the back catalog of Harry Nilsson .... and I almost always dress in earth tones. I can talk about the '72 Munich Olympics and Charlie Finley and episodes of "Soap" and primal scream therapy.

My idea of fine art probably involves velvet paintings. I'm as likely to want carpeting on the walls as I would the floors. And if given a choice - polyester bests cotton every time.

I guess the only thing slightly off about my love of the Me Decade ... was the fact that I was born in it. While the rest of my peer group gets nostalgic for MTV and women's clothes with thick shoulder pads and Claire Peller saying, "Where's the Beef?" --- I'm happy with the arcane knowledge of Paul Lynde and Squeaky Fromme and those pill-box baseball hats the Pittsburgh Pirates had.

Why the 70's? I think it's because it's before everything started. Computers, VCRs, video games, corporate America, the Christian Coalition, AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz, hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law, Rock 'n' Rolla cola wars ... actually, I didn't mind the Rock'n' Rolla Cola Wars. (My cousin fought in that. Two tours of duty. One in the mountains of RC Cola --- the other, an internment with Mr. Pibb.)

The 80's just turned ugly. Now hold on, you say? Anybody who remembers the other two Gibb brothers can't say that the 70's didn't have it's share of ugliness. Cocaine and David Berkowitz to name a couple. Right up there with Anita Bryant and anything starring Robby Benson.

But the 80's was like ten years of plastic and hair spray and Madonna. Fake, mean, hostile shit. Top Gun and Jerry Fallwell and TV's Bloopers & Practical Jokes. When I think of the 80's, I think of Len Bias and Pelle Lindburgh and Grenada and Keith Hernandez's moustache. I think of Sammy Hagar screwing up Van Halen and Brian Mulroney screwing up Canada. I think of the PMRC and wanting to punch Mary Lou Retton in the face. I think of being terrified after watching "The Day After" and sickened after reading about that town in Indiana with the kid with AIDS.

I think I stick with the 70's because that's where my favorite memories come from. Watching Star Wars in an empty theatre in Melfort, Saskatchewan. My Uncle Ivan teaching me to ride bike. The way my Dad breathed when he tied my shoes. Polaroid pictures and eight tracks and AM radio and the red haired girl in Kindergarten. It's my childhood friends and Tiger the dog and afternoon naps with my Mom.

My youngest son was born in 2003. Thirty years from now how is he going to remember this time? Is he gonna tell jokes about Mark Foley and OutKast? Will he remember that "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams" and "Stacey's Mom" were his favorite songs? Will he still own CDs and books and use dollar bills? Will they still sell cigarettes and food with trans-fat in it?

Who knows?