For the past six years, Rob Philyaw has seen what most of us will never see. He has heard stories we will never hear.
My Channel 3 weather friend Paul Barys hears it everywhere he goes: in the grocery store, in the mall, on vacation, even when he goes to the mailbox.
I was watching one of the cable “news” shouting channels one night. That was my first mistake. Their goal is raise the blood pressure of viewers, so they can sell more Lipitor.
Longtime WRCB news anchor Bill Markham passed away in the early morning hours of Monday, April 15, 2019. His daughter Mandy posted this on Facebook: “He’s free. No more ALS. No more pain. My very favorite person in all the world is now my very favorite angel.”
A half century ago, Glen Campbell sang of “the everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me.” On television Laura Petrie, Harriet Nelson, and the bewitching Samantha Stephens made housewifery seem downright glamorous.
Eighty-three-year-old rockabilly pioneer Jerry Lee Lewis suffered a stroke recently and had to postpone his upcoming concert dates. His doctors say he will recover and he plans to resume touring when his health permits. I sure hope he does.
What if I told you there is a surefire way to reduce auto accidents and prevent a considerable amount of fatalities? You would be interested, right?
After the Civil War, Union General William Tecumseh Sherman famously declined all invitations to run for president, stating “If nominated I will not run, and if elected, I will not serve.”
You can blame it on autocorrect, spell check, voice-activated text or just a lack of spelling skills, but social media continues to be a bottomless pit of unintentional laughs.
Each Christmas season, I get my annual car insurance premium bill for the next year. Within moments, I go from Happy Holidays to Bah Humbug.
More than a few times over the years, I’ve filled this space with “Facebook Fails” or “AutoCorrect Accidents,” a collection of unfortunate misspellings.
About 10 years ago, I got a notice from “the city,” informing me that effective immediately, my family should begin separating and sorting the recyclables from our trash.
I write about the state of the news media from time to time, at least from my point of view. In case you haven’t noticed, my profession ranks somewhere around telemarketers and meth dealers in public trust surveys.
Fifteen years ago this week, we lost Johnny Cash. Many books have been written, movies have been made, and songs have been sung about “The Man in Black.” Recently, I saw an exhibit at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, depicting Cash’s late 1960s career revival.
Just before he died last year at the age of 75, my cousin Jack told me some stories about his life. He grew up in Bryant, Alabama, and was a star athlete at Pisgah High School.
When we TV news anchors look into the camera to bring you the news, we haven’t memorized anything. We’re reading it off the TelePrompTer, a nifty device that allows us to “look you in the eye,” and read at the same time.
I have been covering schools for 25 years and if you’ll pardon the pun, it has been very educational. I feel fortunate to have visited more schools than the milk delivery guys. As Johnny Cash sang, I’ve been everywhere, man. From the dusty rural roads to the swanky private prep schools, and …