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Cable
Access Television (Channel 8)
Click. Everybody Loves Raymond. Click. I Love Lucy reruns. Click. Star Trek. Click. A woman in a leotard demonstrating yoga in an empty room. It almost fits in, but then again it doesn't. The content isn't as viewer friendly as the programming offered by the major networks. The sound is somewhat muffled, and camera angles change rarely, if at all. It's Cable Access Television-Channel 8 in Fayetteville. Cable Access Television was spread throughout the country right along with cable television. The idea for such stations is that they are stages of public forum. That is, they are a place where members of the community can air their opinions without fear of censorship. These channels can be used as a platform to tout political criticism, a vehicle for social commentary and the arts or they can simply be a place where people show off their most bizarre talents and abilities. For the CAT, as the channel is referred to by those who are most familiar with it, two things have always been true: They have always had a somewhat bizarre programming lineup and they have always had funding woes. This year, employees and volunteers rallied to raise money by attempting a 72-hour live marathon, the first of its kind in the history of the station. -- Nov.
17 The station employees and volunteers are beginning to gel a little better, even though there is still much room for improvement. By 1 p.m., the station has collected $2,200 in donations. This is quite a bit short of the $10,000 goal for the three day event. Pamela Calisch, the station manager, is in the center of it all. Her office in the building that is shared by Community Access Television and Government Access Television is small and cluttered with loose papers and knickknacks. A small television sits adjacent to her desk and is always set to Channel 8. She's been on the job for one month and is already involved with a telethon that is quickly getting out of hand. Bits of leftover cake and quiche sit on a plate on her desktop. It's impossible to tell whether they were from that morning or the day before. Calisch has been awake for most of the first 24 hours of the telethon. Over her shoulder, posted on her computer screen, is a list of things to do. Of the 10 or so items on the list, one stands out. The word "COFFEE" is written in all caps and is about twice the size of any other word on the list. "We're having fun and doing the best we can with our limited resources," Calisch says. Calisch, who is clutching a handful of miscellaneous papers from her desk, takes a moment to place an order from Eureka Pizza. The pizza restaurant is donating the food to the staff for that day's lunch. Two of the five staff employees are absent just one day into the telethon. One has quit and the other wasn't available to work the telethon. Now only a handful remain. Calisch has even tried calling in some of the station producers to do some of the work. It's a little hectic. After Calisch gets off the phone with the pizza place, an older man walks into the room. "Pam, Andrea the Yoga Lady wants her show to run at 1:30 p.m. Are we going to do that?" he asks. Yes, she says as she leaves the room, still clutching the handful of papers. --- "The misconception is some skinny guy in a loincloth with his leg behind his ear and chanting," Andrea Fournet said. Fournet, founder and director of the Arkansas Yoga Center, hosts one of the CAT's most popular programs. Her half-hour shows are run 12 times a week, for a total of six hours on air each week for Fournet. The shows, which are often aired in the afternoon and during primetime, are little more than demonstrations of various yoga positions and practices, but Fournet has serious convictions as to the seriousness of her work. "Yoga just puts you in a perspective to see the good in everyone," Fournet said. And the response seems to be positive. I just get tremendous feedback from it," Fournet said. "They say, 'I see you every night,' and I say, 'I don't see you.'" Fournet's fame, though somewhat limited, is something she didn't expect She has been teaching youga since 1993. Her interest in yoga began after she was involved in a wind surfing accident. "I had a chiropractor tell me that I had a pretty disabled back," Fournet said. Fournet saw an improvement in her own well-being immediately and decided to start teaching. Her most memorable class, and the one where she was first dubbed "Yoga Lady," was in 1994 when she trained the University of Arkansas men's basketball team in the art of yoga. While teaching the group, she noticed something unique about the team. "Those basketball guys, they all have nicknames," Fournet said. Out of the 16 or so players she was training, they all had some sort of nickname. Fournet said it did not take long before she got confused and called one player by the wrong name. When the players began to laugh, she pointed out that there were 16 of them to one of her, and then she asked some of the players if they even knew her name. "They looked at me and said, 'You're the Yoga Lady.'" The name stuck, and Fournet's informal name has been the Yoga Lady ever since. After several years of giving private lessons, Fournet started the Arkansas Yoga Center in 1998. The center, located at the Center for Exercises at Washington Regional Medical Center, teaches people the proper skills needed to practice yoga. As her time at the center continued, Fournet noticed a rise in the popularity of yoga in Fayetteville. She attributes this to the increase of yoga popularity among movie stars during the 1990s. Fournet said she teaches about 100 students each week, guessing that as much as 1 percent of the Fayetteville population practices yoga. "It's reaching up into all crevices of the American society," Fournet said. In an effort to tap into this rise in yoga popularity, Fournet and her friend Bob Emenegger, the CAT Board President, taped a half-hour program in which Fournet demonstrated some basic yoga moves. Fournet was skeptical to say the least. "I'd watch stuff on Channel 8 and think, how stupid." But now it was her turn to be the one on screen, or a producer, as they are called at CAT. The shock of being on television accompanied the taping of the first several shows. "I was amazed, because I thought, that's me," Fournet said. Every producer at CAT must first pay a fee of $105. In addition to the fee, those interested in becoming producers must take three training classes to learn how to operate the recording equipment at the CAT. After the producer completes the training courses, they are ready to begin filming. After that, producers can use the CAT equipment as much as they like, so long as they pay the annual $20 renewal fee. Fournet said she has produced more than 60 shows to date. For the most part, the shows consist of her demonstrating yoga by herself, but some of the shows have used different scenery, such as a park and her neighbor's yard. These are some of the shows Fournet cherishes the most. "I love doing the outdoor ones," she said. "There's just something about being in nature and doing yoga." Although Fournet is not expecting any serious changes for her show in the future, she has had a guest partner on some of her more recent tapings -- her husband David. She said she enjoys these times because he lightens things up by joking around. The show has become so successful for Fournet that she has decided to market a video, "Yoga Basics with Andrea," and a book that is still in the works. Being a producer on Channel 8 is just one way that Fournet said she hopes to pass along the benefits of proper yoga training. "It's just a community service that I do." --- Nov.
17 Airing the recorded shows provides more time to set up for the next live segment of the telethon, which in this case is quickly approaching. Calisch is out of her office now and in the lobby shared by the CAT and Government Access Television. She is surrounded by several of the producers and other volunteers who are helping to make the telethon happen. Most of the volunteers are taking their lunch break and eating the pizza that Calisch ordered. Calisch, on the other hand, has a small crisis. The station is out of 9-volt batteries. The batteries are needed to power the cordless microphones that have been used in all the live segments. Calisch sends one of the volunteers to the store and then leaves the lobby. Those on lunch break sit in the conference room. It is a spacious room with a table, chairs, coffee maker and a television tuned to Channel 8. The Yoga Lady is onscreen demonstrating a stretch while lying on the ground in what appears to be a park. One of the producer/volunteers at the moment is Julianne Brown, a nursing student at the U of A. She has been working the sound board during the live footage, a job she's never done before. "I just get to be back stage and learn the controls of what goes into a live show. Basically, I'll do whatever they want me to do," Brown said. Brown was in the process of becoming a producer so she could film commercials and promotional videos for the religious organization Campus Crusade for Christ. While in one of her training classes, she was told extra help was needed for the telethon, and she volunteered. "I never realized how much work there is to a telethon. I'll definitely appreciate it more the next time I see a telethon," Brown said. After she finishes her quick break, she returns to the Toaster. The Toaster is the nickname given to the production room. The room is a hallway of knobs, dials and monitors. Most of the machinery is old editing equipment. Part of the telethon money will most likely be used to purchase better equipment. --- The first night of public access television in Fayetteville was March 20, 1980, when the Fayetteville Open Channel went on the air. Katherine Shurlds, the first station manager of Fayetteville's public access station and now a journalism professor at the U of A, remembers it well. "Back then it was still pretty exciting to have a TV camera pointed at you. Today, everybody's used to it," Shurlds said. When it began, there was only one public access channel to do the same amount of work as the current Public and Education Channel and Government Channel. The limited number of channels, 15 at the time, only allowed for one free channel for public access -- Channel 4. The first night on the air for the station was a live broadcast from the channel's office on Dickson Street, which was located next door to the present day Smoothie King, Shurlds said. The offices stayed on Dickson Street until 1985, when the station made its home in an old church on Locust Street, where it stayed for six years. From the beginning, the issue of funding always caused problems, and in some cases, even feuds. "From '80 to '90 we were funded to the tune of $70,000," Shurlds said. "We raised another $10,000 to $40,000 depending on the year." The $70,000 was sent directly from the city cable company, Warner Cable, to the station. Conflict arose when this funding began to be channeled through the city, Shurlds said. Instead of having the cable company pay for the channel directly, the cable company would include this money in the franchise fee they pay to the city. The city would then deduct this money and pay it to the station. It's the same money, it was just passing through different hands, Shurlds said. But this change in how the station was funded created an appearance to some people that the city was funding the station, and these people feared possible censorship by the city. These fears weren't well-researched, Shurlds said, because public access channels are protected under the First Amendment as a public forum. This means that members of the community can voice whatever opinions they have in any manner they chose to without fear of being censored. A political scuffle that some dubbed the "Access Wars," arose between the City Council and those who feared censorship. As talks between the groups continued, a rift grew between them. Eventually, the aldermen decided against letting the group that feared censorship, and a new channel came into being, Access 4 Fayetteville. In 1992, the public access channel was moved to Channel 8, and a slight name change was made. "They decided to change their name to Cable Access Television," Shurlds said. --- Nov.
17 In the production room, Julianne Brown sits at the soundboard and wears a headset. This is the device used to communicate with the two cameramen in the next room. Brown, in turn, takes her direction from that day's director, Alan Casey. Casey, a regular producer with CAT, is in charge of coordinating the efforts of the on-air workers, the cameramen and the sound person. Casey's attire includes a gray sport coat and red bow tie along with black jeans and white tennis shoes. It sets him apart in the control room, where the dress is usually much more casual. As he bounces between the control room and the studio, it is clear that he takes his efforts seriously. In the studio, Bob Emenegger prepares to interview long-time CAT producer Dale Holland. The two men sit at the desk in front of the green screen. "I hope somebody cues us," Emenegger says to no one in particular. Then comes the cue and the two older men are on the air. "I'd like to announce that up to now we're up to $2,260," Emenegger said. He then asks Holland to introduce himself. Holland has made between 30 and 40 amateur films in 30 years, eight years of which he spent on CAT. Holland's films are one-man comedy routines, where he dresses himself up as anything from aging female movie stars to more simple representations of himself. He makes up his entire production crew. "You
enjoy doing these, and you do them yourself and you do your
own camera work," Emenegger said. "In my case, I like to make it in an afternoon," Holland said. "I just like to have fun doing it, and hope that someone has fun watching it." Back in the production room a problem arises. Like many of the problems experienced at the CAT, it is technical in nature. This time it's an issue of sound. Emenegger's voice is too soft and Holland's is too loud. If the sound is turned down, then Emenegger will be too soft to hear and if the sound level is increased, Holland will be much too loud. Another volunteer is in the room now and he takes a dry erase board and writes, "Talk Louder Bob." He then flashes this through the sliding glass door, so Emenegger can see it. He gets the message and starts speaking more loudly, but this does little to help as the live interview continues. More panic in the production room. "Does Bob even have his microphone turned on?" the volunteer asks. He then takes the dry erase board and writes "Can't hear you. Is your mike turned on, Bob?" Emenegger, finally wanting to end the dry erase board relay, stops the interview and talks off camera to the sliding glass door. "We're having some problems, can you just say it to my ears?" Finally, they take a break. They sound system gets fixed, and they finish the interview later. --- Bob Emenegger is perhaps the most public face of CAT. As president of the CAT Board, he oversees problems and complaints and handles any public relations issues which arise. "In a sense, it's my responsibility to uphold the policy," Emenegger said. "We're responsible for submitting the budget to the city." He is also responsible for technical standards. He has acted in this capacity for four years now, but it wasn't an easy position for Emenegger to accept. Emenegger had spent most of his career working in California for a prestigious advertising agency. "I was responsible for overseeing producers making commercials for clients to be shown on a national level." Anything less than perfect would not work at this level, and this is one of the biggest problems Emenegger said he had when he first started at the CAT. "It's painful from a technical standpoint to see something an amateur does, but I know that's what public access is about," Emenegger said. After the advertising agency, Emenegger went on to help start a science fiction production studio. Emenegger said his favorite part of his work at the CAT is that he gets to engage in public arguments or controversies. The most recent of these was one between the CAT and the Fayetteville City Council. Alderman Trent Trumbo said he had received complaints from some of his constituents regarding the content of the programming on Channel 8 and why the city was funding such content when the money could be spent on improving parks and community ball fields. Trumbo did say that he realizes that there is no way to weed out the "bad" shows and still protect the interests of free speech. "It's either all or none," Trumbo said. "It's either fund it and let them put on what they want to put on, or don't have any CAT." Specifically, Trumbo questioned, early last fall, whether the city should continue to fund the CAT, which was cost $63,000 for 2000. This is about 75 percent of CAT's total budget. This figure was eventually raised to $69,000 and passed by the City Council. Emenegger said he "battled" with Trumbo in the media for awhile, but as time went on, Trumbo became a supporter. Overall, Emenegger said he thinks the fight could have been good for the CAT. "It might have been one of the things that caused us to drive for funding," Emenegger said. --- Nov.
18 "We're calling it the CAT-a-thon," Jones, who is dressed in a tuxedo, says into his hand held microphone. Calisch hasn't slept much in about a week at this point. Her smile seems tired and yet sincere at the same time. "We're up to $3,265! Thank you Fayetteville! Woo!" Calisch shouts. She then starts in on her sales pitch. "We're bringing people together and forming a sense of community." Calisch says the community is spread out and the CAT helps bring everyone together by providing a common forum for them. Then it's the phone number. She tells the audience to dial up and leave a donation. She reads the numbers off ....5..... one by one .... 2..... as she .....7 ..... begins to move her shoulders ...... 0 ........ and dance .....6 ...... and nod her head ......4 ...... to the music that only she can hear .....5. It's been almost five days with not much sleep for Calisch at this point, and it's starting to show. Then Jones takes a turn saying the phone number. It's time to cut to a recorded show, but the tape isn't cued. To take up time, Calisch and Jones say the number in unison. Finally the tape is cued, but there is a problem and for about a minute of airtime, there is only music playing. Jones and Calisch get ready to go back on the air. "As you can see, we're having some technical difficulties," Jones says. Calisch jumps in to help out. "That number again is 527-0645," she says, once again pronouncing each number slowly and surely. "When you feed the CAT, you're helping all the non-profits in the area," Calisch says. The camera zooms in on Calisch's face. It's an extreme close-up and it's no accident. Jones' microphone battery has gone dead and Casey enters the studio with more of the 9-volts. The close-up keeps the audience from seeing this happen. Casey takes the dead batteries and brings them back to the Toaster. He puts them on top of an already-full stack of dead batteries in an old Maxwell House coffee can. The can was empty before the telethon began. The program tape is fixed and Jones and Calisch are able to take a much-deserved break. It's 1:30 p.m. and the total is up to $3,280. --- "What we are is freedom of speech," Calisch says. "What we are trying to provide is a chance for anyone in the public to break into this and have freedom of speech." A typical week for Calisch is 50 to 60 hours either at the station, or on station business. This includes everything from general supervision of station practices to training new producers. "To be a producer with me you give me $105." Then, the producers take three classes with Calisch. Once they pass the classes and start using the equipment, the producers become subject to Calisch's "40-hour rule." "If you're a producer with me and you use equipment for 40 hours a week, then I want something I can air." The CAT runs 125 hours of programming a week and the rest of the time is filled with a message screen. This screen flashes community announcements, while music plays in the background. If at all possible, however, the CAT will try to air actual programming. New shows are aired anywhere from four to five times per week. The old shows are kept in the video library. The current library has more than 900 tapes. Calisch's time is also spent recruiting participation from local non-profit organizations. "Our big heart is to reach out to the non-profits in the area." The CAT will, for a fee, tape an organization's event and broadcast it, even though Calisch said the alternative to this is much cheaper. "What we really encourage organizations to do is send down a representative and let them be a producer with us." If non-profits have their own producers, then everybody wins. The organizations get unlimited advertising for themselves and the CAT gets an abundance of programming, Calisch said. "We want to be used. I want this place hoppin' all the time." Not that the place isn't already "hoppin'" enough. There is no shortage of things to do and problems to fix. One frequent problem is that of objectionable programming. Because all programming must be played as long as it is not legally obscene, then almost every show is aired, even if it is offensive. "I don't agree with everything that goes out on CAT," Calisch said. While most of the programming is in good taste, there are those programs some viewers would have problems with. Calisch airs these programs late at night to keep the negative response to a minimum. "Less than 1 percent of our programming is objectionable. I ask my producers to respect the public. The public doesn't want to hear the 'F' word at 3 in the afternoon when their kids are coming home from school." Calisch said that while she can understand not wanting to see certain kinds of programming, she doesn't understand why some people would want to censor the station at the risk of stopping someone else's free speech. "I guess I don't understand where people come from when they want other people quieted." --- The telethon is over. There are many things that Calisch wishes could have happened differently, among the biggest was having a larger staff. "We will plan next time not to have it around the clock," Calisch said. A better idea might be to have it for about four hours a night for a week, she said. All
in all, Calisch worked about 53 hours during the 72-hour marathon.
This was in addition to the long days of preparation that were
needed to get ready for the telethon, which ended Sunday morning,
Nov. 19, at 8 a.m. Calisch is bubbling over with ideas for another fund-raiser as she thinks of improvements that could have been made to the telethon. "I think the next fund-raiser is we're going to help start a music festival here in Fayetteville." There were many problems with the telethon that Calisch said she would have never guessed. Batteries, for instance. "The main expense for the telethon was batteries. We probably spent $50 on 9-volt batteries." About 72 long hours after the first CAT telethon began, almost $5,300 in pledges had been gathered. This was still well short of the $10,000 goal, but Calisch kept a positive outlook. "We were hoping for $10,000, but I'm hoping for world peace too."
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