Schmuck Alert: Release the Hounds!

Just when we thought we'd seen every form of miscreant take on The Fourth Estate, a Rhode Island homemaker goes all inter-species on an undeserving news crew. It happened in Providence, Rhode Island, when an ABC6 news crew asked a grumpy mother just what she thought about her daughter's alleged attacker turning himself into authorities. But 35 year old Melissa Lawrence wasn't in the mood for questions. She was, however, more than happy to cast the first (and last) stone. God only knows what was going through photog Marc Jackson's head as the crazy bitch in his viewfinder drew back and hurled a rock at him. It missed his head but grazed his elbow. Lesser men may have flinched, kicked, or loudly vowed to smite every living descendant of said rock-lobber. Me, I'd have gone all Samuel L. on the lady, informing her in stentorian tones that I would strike down upon thee with SER-I-OUS VENGEANCE! (if not a restraining order). But who has time to quote Pulp Fiction when the hector in question breaks out the baseball bat? Not me. I'd have been down the road l-o-o-ng before charm school dropout Melissa Lawrence opted to let the dogs out. (What ever happened to "No Comment"?) Before Jackson or reporter Abbey Niezgoda could fully process what was happening, the reluctant interview subject whispered something satanic to two scary-ass Pit Bulls. What followed wasn't pretty. The two growling curs nip at the young reporter's heels. One even bites her arm, eliciting cries of pain and forcing Niezgoda to drop the mic and exit stage right. She was able to escape further attack, but will no doubt carry scars she'll have to ignore the next time some news manager orders to knock on another dodgy door.

Ya know, just because a news crew punched your address into their GPS, it doesn't mean you have to give them an interview. You can turn them down, ignore them altogether, even flip the predictable bird. What you CANNOT do is launch projectiles, sic devil dogs or throw burning oil on the underpaid interlopers. It seems simple, really. An uninvited member of the media has no right to trespass on you property. They can, however, loiter on a public street and ask you rude questions. You don't have to answer them, but neither do you have to lose your ever-lasting mind and openly assault a person whose primary objective in life is to visually record any and every thing that hoves into view. Should we reslly still be covering this? I think not, but with attacks ratcheting up seemingly every month, it's only a matter of time before the first documented zombie attacks goes down live one night, as some hollow-eyed corpse takes a chunk out of Wendy Miniskirt's skull in the reassuring glow of the Breaking News banner. Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll happen during sweeps.

PS) Authorities have charged Melissa Lawrence with two counts of felony assault, effectively ending her campaign to land 'Miss Congeniality' in the upcoming Miss providence beauty pageant. Maybe for the talent section she could set fire to an orphanage? Just a thought... Schmucks!

Days of Ray

Pay no attention to that dirty hippie making love to his microphone stand... THIS is about the man behind the keyboard.  His name is Ray Manzarek and he is freshly dead. Once upon a time, he co-founded a band by the name of The Doors - a frightening little combo with no bass player and a lead singer dripping with charisma, chaos and quite a few chemicals. “The Lizard King”, he called himself and it got a lot of press. But the musical landscape upon which Morrison trod was largely built by that cat hunched over the Vox Continental.

A contemplative gent with a degree in Economics, Ray Manzarek grew up playing piano before meeting Jim Morrison shortly after completing UCLA Film School. What followed was a collaboration of music and madness, a troubling amalgam of theatrical bedlam and psychedelic sensibilities. Did I mention the music kicked ass? It did, but only in the most unconventional ways. And while Jim with his tortured howl and angelic looks got all the camera time, all ears were tuned in to the kaleidoscope of sound Ray wrenched from those primitive, carnival-like keys.

But Ray did more than provide a musical underpinning for his friend to preen upon. He also kept his lead singer alive. For awhile, anyway. Onstage, Ray, along with Robbie and John, would fill in the gaps between Jim’s natural genius and his drug-fueled delusions. In fact, all three instrumentalists became adept at punctuating their leader’s musical missteps with just the perfect flourish. Credit Ray, whose precision, intellect and deep hippie street cred foiled Morrison’s grimmest proclivities. For far too short a time, they made music: brooding, spooky tunes that had more to do with setting worlds on fire than wanting to hold your hand.

Long after Jim Morrison left this realm, Ray found himself explaining their days away. Verbal, kinetic and usually smoking, Ray Manzarek gave the kind of interviews rock writers dream about. “I played Apollo to his Dionysus!” he’d tell any scribe who’d listen and they’d always nod, not always knowing who Dionysus was.  That’s okay, Ray did. For Manzarek made music with a fallen God and he seemed to know this long before Morrison ascended into legend. Now that Ray has joined him, there’s no telling what those two are up to. One thing’s for sure, though...

It sounds like nothing else you’ve ever heard.

Sighs of a Lifer

How do you know you're in a room full of veteran photogs?

When the returning soldier pops out of a kindergarten closet, everyone stays on sticks.

Four minutes into the press conference, no one is rolling.

Enough collective battery power to fuel the International Space Station for at least a few parsecs.

Not a microphone flag in sight.

Three of the men present would look quite at home with an eye-patch and shoulder parrot. 

Little to no fidgeting,

Free food never consumed on sight. What you smuggle out in cargo pockets is between you and the Lord. 

"Black eyes, lifeless. Like a doll's eyes. When he looks at ya, he don't even seem to be livin'. Then he hits that litle button and those black eyes roll over white..."

And the number one sign you're in a room full of veteran photogs?

That oversized folder the PR chick just handed you is suddenly missing.

Gnats on the Glass

You there - with the Etch-A-Sketch... Don Ho just rose from the dead and he wants his shirt back. While you’re at it, hand over your health insurance card. It’ll come in handy when they have to chopper you out. 

Nah, I’m kidding, no one’s gonna lay a hand on you. But don’t be surprised if you pop up on indignant photog blogs across the land. See, you’re being a tool. We’ll get to why in a moment, but let me ask you: Would you barge into a Major League dugout during a game and start swinging a Wiffle Bat? ‘Cause you kinda just did. It’s one thing to whip out your tablet-cam and block some granny’s view of the proceedings, but when you start crowding out the pros, you’re treading on dangerous ground. See that dude slumped over his tripod? He may look asleep but twice now he’s committed your image to his memory card (You know, in case you should go missing.) And his buddy with the fishing vest and look of indigestion? He’s already wondering if your intestines will fit in his live truck’s glove compartment. Careful, his elbows are considered lethal weapons in three states.

Me? I’m a lover, not a fighter. But block my shot and the sequined glove comes off. It’s a professional courtesy among those of us who squint for a living and one I’d gladly extend to you and that magic portal you’re clutching. And just so you know, we’re ALL Apple fans. But you’re trying to prepare a four course meal using nothing but a dinner plate and it offends our sensibilities. So keep that sidelines and we’ll get along just fine. Remember, the iPad is a wondrous thing, but so too is the human rectum. If I were you, I’d go with the smart phone instead. Might be easier for the paramedics to remove. Don’t worry though...

 I’ll be happy to call 911.

Debacalypse Now

Once upon a time, a photog's only concern was keeping the live truck between the ditches. Now these TV stevedores have to worry about spreading global viruses. Take the latest case of Charles Ramsey - that whimsical witness who's helped a nation heal snicker and snort at a sadistic rape and kidnapping. Sure, he kicked that cursing anchor kid out of the national consciousness. And for that he should rightfully be heralded a hero. But what about those underpaid souls pointing glass at this latest sensation? Will they be able to move past the part they played in this predictable passion play? Can they sleep at night knowing a passel of catchphrases can be directly linked to the twitch of their collective thumbs? Many can not and as their focus goes, so too does their sanity...

It's why we here at The Lenslinger Institute are proud to announce the opening of Camera Manor, a full service rehabilitation facility for those living with the fact they unleashed a lunatic across the land. Already, scores of wards are filling fast with photogs caught in the grip of P.H.S.D. (Post Hyperbole Stress Disorder). Spotlighting ass-hats may launch a million internet memes, but the scars left on the news shooter psyche don't fade as fast as Balloon Boy, Sweet Brown, Grumpy Cat...

Just ask Hobbs in Room 13. Once at a train wreck, he jammed a camera in a hobo's face. How was he supposed to know hobos yodeled? Well, they do, and before Hobbs could even find his tripod, the yodeling hobo went viral. Old dude eventually got a reality show, even banged a Kardashian. Meanwhile, Hobbs is blinded by remorse. Says he poisoned the planet, added to the inanity and brokered a hobo's third case of the clap. Hobbs took it hard. Eventually we found him in the photog's lounge, sewing his eyelids shut with tiny strips of gaffer's tape. Now he sits in the dark in Room 13, making shadow puppets only he can see. 

But YOU can help the residual victims of telecommunications abuse. Just send a blank check, valid Lotto ticket or complimentary keg to The Lenslinger Institute  and we'll see that the lost souls at Camera Manor hear just how much we enjoyed your generosity. Meanwhile, feel free to snicker at the very next hysterical neighbor who rockets to the top of your Twitter feed. But remember...

A guy with two credits of film school under his belt and three bucks in his billfold is a terrible thing to waste.

Blood on the Moon

In a world where ambush interviews often lead to fisticuffs, isn’t it refreshing when one goes goofy instead? That’s exactly what happened recently when WJLA reporter Kris Van Cleave and photojournalist Brandon Mowry took on a local carpet cleaning company suspected of sketchy bookkeeping and unscrupulous suckage. It could have ended there, with a terse denial and quick eviction of said camera crew. But the man being questioned, whom will call “Dumbass”, turns in a performance so textured. so nuanced, so completely ill-advised, that the resulting clip is playing all summer long at the Dollar Theater in my head. Now, if you’ll kindly stop kicking the back of my seat, we’ll get through this...

The first fifty seconds is pretty standard fare. Van Cleave questions the man about getting his floor covering cleaned as hidden cameras rolled. But shortly before the minute mark, the camera comes out of hiding and stupidity ensues. Flush with the realization that he’s about to make the news, the upbraided sensation dashes from his place of employ, forcing Van Cleave and Mowry to join in pursuit, lest the suddenly agile upholsterer runs completely out of camera range...

And then God blew milk out of his nose.

At least I did, for as soon as Dumbass split the scenery, he took a tumble, biting it hard on the pavement outside and emitting the kind of mortally wounded Girl Scout noise that causes News Directors to shout when the photogs gather around and guffaw at a particularly pleasing sequence. But the fun doesn’t stop there. With a dazzling flash of ass-crack, Dude gets up, breaks left, breaks right and breaks left again before circling a van and finally running off. Mowry and his camera follow, as Van Cleave does an admirable job of keeping the wisecracks to a minimum (my favorite: “Does this mean you’re not gonna clean my carpet?”).



All the while, the reluctant interviewee displays a brazen case of ass and elbows, at one point nearly running in front of a moving car, a risky move that could jettisoned his news debut to the very top of the next available broadcast. Luckily, no one got hurt, though I’ve put a definite kink in my spleen laughing at the raw footage. As it sputters to a close, dude is still running, no doubt to earn his fellow floor covering saboteurs that the jig is most definitely up. Wherever he went, this track-suited fugitive left a definite impression, raising the act of running away like a leetle girl to the level of performance of art. Bravo, Good Sir, Bravo. You deserve to go viral and possibly even score your own reality show development deal. Why this hasn’t been Songify’d already could be the subject of another investigation - one I’d be more than happy to assist with any reenactments. You bring the fancycam...

I’ll bring the ass-crack.

View to a Shill

You can fool some of the people all of the time, or all of the people some of the time, but any photog worth his weight in camera batteries will smell your bullshit from across the crowded conference room. Oh, he’ll keep his mouth shut. But a little while later, he’ll chuckle in disgust as the the dumbest crumb that fell out of your pie-hole comes to rest at the top of his timeline. Pretty soon, said soundbite will echo across the High Valley Homeland or Quad-City Metroplex or whatever else the promo guys decided to call those six wasteland counties no one else wanted. My point is this: if ever you find yourself leaning into a podium and tap-dancing around the truth, keep a careful eye on the man behind the camera. Chances are, he’ll tell you what he thinks with only an eyebrow or two.

Unless, of course, he’s under thirty. TV news shooters born after ’83 will no doubt be so absorbed with their iPhone app, that you could belch a soliloquy from ‘Glengarry Glen Ross’ and they’d never once look up from their Instagram feed. If that’s the case, you’re safe until some night-side editor stops hating his life long enough to isolate that moment where your upper lip starts sweating. Consider it a professional courtesy. Better yet, put it out of your mind altogether and just stick to the script. That way, you’ll never catch of sniff of dissension from tripod row. The newbies won’t look up from their friends list and the lifers won’t blink Morse code messages your way. Remember, Nixon LBJ knew he’d lost Middle America when Cronkite questioned the war in Vietnam. You can avoid your own political quagmire if you lay off the hooey when those old photogs in the corner start to sneer.

It ain’t like they can help it. We unplug any facial restraint shortly before we remove their souls.