Reporting live from a back closet

This week was broadcast week. Or broadcast day. We were told to take one of our articles, make a broadcast script out of it, memorize it (sorta) and, yes, report the story *live* in front of the camera.



Not only that, but we all got to play a part in the 'look who's on TV!' game.

Behind ever good reporter is a stellar anchor. Someone who can fit the ear piece in their ear just right. Someone who can read the introductory lines with just enough pause and speed. Someone...who looks this professional on camera.



After doing your anchor spot we each had to go to a back closet to pretend we were reporting live from wherever our story was taking place. It is in preparation for this moment that we worked to make our story as clear and succinct as possible. We took out all of the big words and the alliteration, substituting them with conversation speech and phonetic spellings. At least, some of us did.

My story was littered with Blogojeviches and marathon words. It was not a pretty sights. Also, not something I was going to commit to memory. I chose, the always classy, winging-it option.

By the time I made it to the back broom/reporters closet I had sweated through my once professional looking shirt and my face shone like top of the Chrysler Building. Once the mic was hooked up and the little bit of throw up pushed back down my throat it was time to roll and there was no looking back. or down, at my notes, which we were actually allowed to bring in for safe keeping.

I started off OK. I was told to talk to the camera like my best friend. A lovely sentiment, but I couldn't buy it. The camera was cold and quite possibly giving me the stink eye.

I made it through two tiny paragraphs and my mind went completely blank. Discussing a local state representative's background I found myself grasping at the dust bunnies in my head to come up with the grocery list of issues he supported while in the state capital. I finally remembered to look down at my notes, which were backwards and, once I flipped them, upside down. Not helpful.

There was no time. After much ums and uhhs, I think my sentence went something like, "He did a great, great many things and even worked with Obama."

Now there's a girl who can think on her feet. CNN here I come!

Obama? Sure. Why not. Did he work with Obama? I think he mentioned his name during the interview. Can I even call him Obama? Better than Barack, which almost slipped out.

Ah, yes, and a 'great many things.' So spot on. No doubt my audience of three was hooked. I'm trying to get my hands on the video because it's such a wonderful mix of humiliation and hilarity. It's fun for the whole family and perhaps this season's best stocking stuffer.

Beyond the anchoring and reporting my classmates and I got to bop around the studio: working the cameras, managing the floor, controlling the audio. Without 16 amateurs, I just don't know how the studio can run normally.

I have to admit that it was a lot of fun. The question now is, do I drop print and switch to broadcast?

Um...no way Jose.

No. The real question is, what am I pointing at?





This is L, signing off.
Stay lemony fresh, America.

Anne Geddes eat your heart out

I'm a little concerned that by the time I actually see this sweet muffin face that I will just keel over. Upon request, my mom has been feeding me photos just like this and the anticipation of seeing this edible honey in real life, well, it's going to be a big moment.

Likely, for me alone.

Unless Lola has a blog littered with photos of me.

You never know.

Hubba Bubba whose got Obama

Wa La.

It so happened here last night.

And I was in the thick of it. Throwing elbows. Getting quotes. Anxiously awaiting how voters decided on the Constitutional Convention.

Yes!

No? That's not what all....the, uh, fuss was about?

So, we had to cover something last night, right? Well, being a wee J student I couldn't just cover THE election. So I dropped things down a few notches and went to a bar where pro con-coners were watching the returns. About 40 pairs of eyes were on the half a dozen television screens scattered throughout the down-homey bar. Maybe 3 sets of eyes were on a computer screen in the corner watching the local returns fail the option to open a constitutional convention.

I know you're riveted. But the con con people were great. The had mini hot dogs, chicken wings, bacon quesadillas - all of my favorite foods. By 10:00 p.m. I was in their offices, aptly positioned above the bar, pushing send in my email to get my story into my editors when I hear a scream from the street:
"YEEEAAAAHHHHHhhhhhh OOOOOooooobaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

I ran down the three flights of stairs and back into the bar to find that he had won! Not actually knowing anyone at the bar/party I stood around grinning like an idiot until I was knowingly passed a glass of campaign and brought back into the real world.

So, yes, I wish that I could've been down amongst the excitement and chaos but I hung with a good crowd and even indulged in some celebratory refreshments.

I almost covered the young GOP election night party and, boy, and I glad I didn't.
Awkward.

The city had goose bumps. The energy was fantastic. And as it turns out there were no hiccups or scratches even.

Except that someone totally stole my Chicago Sun-Times this morning. I was all sweat pants and unsupported boobs, bounding down the stairs to bask in the inky glow of the next-day election paper to find none at all.

I'd blame a McCain supporter, but I dug his speech last night. So I look to the independents - adrift, leaderless - they're like orphaned children. Hopefully they learned something from it.

E-day jitters

Alright, so unless you've been living in a deep dark, probably damp, hole you're well aware that the election is a day away.

Crazytown.

What's even more is that as a journalism student in this nearly presidential city I have to cover the election. Perhaps not the election - I am still but a student after all - but something having to do with the election.

I'm getting a rash just thinking about it.

In a effort to subdue the tornado of butterflies in my tum I had myself a weekend. I fitted myself in Halloween, drank like I was in college and then got the hell outta town.

It was glorious. I met a few friends in Indiana - via train it was a hop skip and a jump away - on lake Michigan. We stayed in a friend's parent's house and pretty much spent the entire night making a meal that would make Sen. Obama blush. It was ridiculous.



A (whole) turkey, mac & cheese, potatoes, green beans, salad, stuffing, gravy and an apple pie that we were all too full to even look at (though it was perfectly suited for Sunday breakfast).



Oh, and in between the cooking and the eating there was some potato golf. Obviously.




It was delightful. After an apple pie breaky and before heading back home to reality we hit up the beach. Yes, the beach. On this gloriously sunny day and except for our jeans and jackets we could have been in Jamaica.




We skipped rocks and Logan went swimming. I grew tired just watching him. I think my body actually rejected the action of my eyes following the veracious pup back and forth. I desperately need to exercise.

We did a quick drive-by-shop at some sweet outlet malls, had a sammy and officially walked back into reality.

SO I'm back to the computer. Fretting election day for all the questions I have for coverage. I'm supposed to cover a congressional race that will likely be consumed by the Obama race/party downtown and the press person has not a care to respond to my incessant calls regarding the wheres and whens of said congressman of interest.

So. I google the man and hope for the best. la di da. An extra hour of sleep was a lovely gift. I wish it provided me with some story ideas.