Half time

Well, two down and two to go. As of yesterday I am done with my second quarter of graduate school! Seem fast? That's what happens when grad school is squished down to a year. It's genius, really, if it weren't for this retched economy. Luckily, I'm still only half way through so I don't technically have to succumb to those depressing realities.

In other news. I'd like to take this half-time opportunity to thank those items that traveled hundreds of miles and across a whole time zone only to site idly on my Chicago shelves.

1) Iron. Oh iron. Why ever I thought you would be necessary, I don't know. You looked so adult and professional sitting there in my New York apartment. I even haggled for you with R and won. Only to put you on a nearly unreachable shelf in my random closet. No offense, but you're not even that special. You were bought on a desperate pre-interview whim on sale at Duane Reade. But, nonetheless, here you are. Giving my wrinkled shirts the stink eye. But they're just cotton and those creases are kinda cute, so far as I'm concerned. But there could be hope for us yet. Spring is around the corner and I hear linen might be a must.

2)DVD player. It was a rough drive for you. We nearly forgot you that sunny day back in September but I ran in and found you, shadowed by a nearby discarded box. I squeeze you into a crevice in the back. You sacrificed a button for that ride but proved you could work with out it. You were just a delight during my darker non-cable days - playing early episodes of 90210, even repeating them for me when you wanted to move on to the artsy film recently delivered by Netflix. Then cable came with a big-footed greasy-fingered cable man who worked like a ninja behind the TV to make the cable wires fit where they may. Pulling out some and inserting others. Metal pieces flung like confetti and before we knew it was gone and, so were you. That cable man gave me instant gratification - the food network, TLC and the occasional prime time something rather. Months passed before I thought to try you out again, but by that time it was too late. I don't know what the cable man did back there but you've grow impotent and dusty and what can I do but warm myself by the glow of another episode of John and Kate plus 8?

Speaking of which...3) Netflix. Oh netflix account. You encouraged me with ease and lower prices to continue service when I moved out to Chicago. Just $6.99 you said and I agreed. And the queue was entertaining and overwhelming but it was mine...all mine. I quickly deleted R's selections (the divide was obvious: go (History Channel and PBS documentaries, i.e. The Nazis) and stay (Made of Honor)) and built a list of entertainment I would never get through. Now, without faithful DVD player, what use are you to me? The artsy foreign flick I chose ever so randomly is still sitting, unopened, atop DVD player. The postage date glares: Jan. 3 2009. Yet every month you take out that $6.99 and I just turn my head. Just when I think I've had enough you coax me back in with the allure of instant movies that I can watch on my computer. Alright, I say once more, you can stay. Three months have come and gone and I still haven't opened artsy flick nor have I watched a movie instantly, like you promised. Why is it so hard to let you go? Perhaps things will change over the spring. As warm weather draws people out of their caves, will I be tempted to stay in and watch the next vaguely review Judd Apatow movie?

Thank you hapless items. I hope to reap the fruits of your general existence...sometime soon. Until then, I'm blowing this Popsicle stand to hang with R in Boston!
xoxoL

A wanted woman

Yeah, that's right. My article on the Chicago Bosnian community was posted on the home page of the American Southeast European Chamber of Commerce

What is the AmSECC? Yeah, I'm not sure. But we are besties already.

And, hey, even Maureen Dowd had to start somewhere. Alright, so she started at the Washington Star, but let's be honest, that's absolutely a fake newspaper.

Stay tuned for a byline in the Chicago Journal (maybe).

I'd thank to the Academy

I have been lame, I'll admit it.

But I've been busy building my film journalism repertoir.

Yup, I'm a one man band. Hitting the streets with the camera, tripod, lavaliere, cords, batteries, voice recorders and all the rest in tow.

Except that the company I bought the camera from neglected to send me the very professional bag that comes with it - you know the one with the cleverly placed pockets and mesh lining perfect for extra tapes? Yeah, didn't have it. But what I did have was a pleather shoulder bag. I may not have had any of that nifty protective padding, but I did have the blinding sheen of daylight on pleather. Classy.

I planned my most professional looking outfit: they're not called jeans, but...slacks? Yeah, there were some of those, a black button down and even a vest-type thing. I felt comfortable enough to leave my "I'm a journalist, for real" sign at home.

My subject in question was a family going through foreclosure who was kind enough to share their story with me.

I headed west in my professional outfit and pleather camera case. I overshot my first bus stop and had to back track. The time crunch made me break into a sweat immediately and unleashed a blizzard of butterflies in my tum.

I made it to the family's house on time, despite or maybe because of my jump-the-gun anxiety.

Now, when you're doing a video story you need to film something called B-Roll
I was told you should have more than you think - not just a one minute shot here and there but up to 30 minutes or more, if you can stand it.

And stand it, I could not. Filming is awkward. Perhaps because my camera (and everything else) is not the large professional one that comes out of the white television van and screams "I have a purpose (a.k.a I'm not a creep!)."


I wasn't sure what to expect with the family, though I had met them once before. For the situation they are in, they were amazingly open and welcoming. They had three boys who were at school at the time of my visit. I interviewed the husband and wife and the husband's mother who had never lived anywhere but that home. For this family of six, this house was TINE. EY. I mean, damn. It was impressive. Moma foreclosure gets a room. Parents Foreclosure get a room (the husband's childhood room - still powder blue) and the three boys share the room in between.

Granted maybe the smallest boy could still fit comfortably in a corner and you wouldn't have to worry, but if these boys' growth mirrors their father's I'd be really concerned that they'll pop the roof off the home Alice in Wonderland style.

So I asked: would you want to see you boys grow up here...would you want to stay in this home if you could? Yes, definitely yes. If and when the foreclosure process ends they hope to turn the attic into rooms for the boys (dear god can someone please do this for them).

Younger Moma forelcosure gave me a tour of the home and then I sat them down for a one on three interview. I had senior moma foreclosure sit along with the parents on the couch and there was a divide so much greater than the vanilla cushion between them. Oh my. I had stumbled into a Jerry Springer warm up.

My friend advised me prior to my shoot to TAKE CONTROL. You are the journalist. You're the one with all the equipment. Feel free to guide them, tell them what to do and make them repeat themselves if unplanned noises take over the shoot.

If you're reading this (especially this far down) you'll probably already know that taking control is not, shall we say, my strong suit.

When a chorus of cell phone rings took over the first five minutes of our interview, yeah, I let it go. When family foreclosure put on a spontaneous phlegm-ism version of Beethoven's 5th, who was I to cut them off? And when their full-sized bull dog lept up over the child gate and into my camera, what are you going to do?

The interview lasted a little bit longer than planned. But we pulled something out and wrapped up. I said my goodbyes and let them know that I'd probably be doing a walk around the outside of the house for a few more shots. Ten minutes into these final filming, younger moma forelcosure walks out of the house with my tape and voice recorder (absolutely necessary components!). CLASS. EE.

Clearly, I'm meant for this - just think of where I could end up. You can check it out the final video for yourself. Get excited. Or depressed, cause that is a sad situation for family foreclosure.


xoL

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.