We've examined the work of Ron 'cadencefilm' Johnson before, the Louisville news shooter I know next to nothing about. Still, whenever I flip through his Flickr account, I feel like we've kicked it together next to a train wreck, war protest or fudgemaking expo. Maybe that's because news looks the same everywhere, perhaps it's because Ron takes killer frames of my preferred source material, or possibly I'm just overthinking a harmless collection of snapshots. Whatever the case, I sure dig this dude's still-frame bounty. They're like mini-Rorschach tests for the twisted photog within us all. Well, at least the people I hang out with...
Like this little scenario: You're hurtling down the highway, minding your own business at only twenty miles over the speed limit when some heartless copper pulls you over. 'What could be worse than this?' you think as you watch a figure in a Smokey Bear hat approach your sideview mirror. Then you see him, some poor schlub with a TV camera on his shoulder trailing behind Johnny Law. What do ya do? If you're like most people you give the cameraman an icy stare while fishing out your wallet and pleading innocence. Or if you're a rougher sort, perhaps you thrust a middle finger my way when Officer Hard-Ass isn't looking. That's okay, I'll be the one slow-mowing you from afar tonight as you explain to your spouse why you're throwing outdated gang-signs on the evening news.
Not sure exactly what happened here either, but I can tell from the look on the muckety-muck's face, Miss Reporter Bunny's gonna have to work for every freakin' detail. It's often that way at asphalt gang-bangs. Combine a reluctant official with a half dozen news crews, try to have something smoldering in the background and you have an interview session that may very well throw your back out of alignment forever. Sure, they don't last long, but with a guy in a windbreaker grasping for plausible deniability as you search for a comfortable way to ride your focus, time has a way of standing still. But take my advice. If the dude in the crosshairs lapses into cop-talk (Suspect gained entry at oh six hundred hours...), put your camera on the ground and demand he drop the Adam-12 schtick. Then run.
"Hey fella! I know you're busy, what with that tree on your car and the wife inside breathing into a paper bag, but my bosses thought it would be really cool if you'd stop what you're doing and emotionally recount the most painful aspects of the last six hours. Oh, and if you don't mind, could you choke out a few tears as you describe your lost property. You know, something for me to zoom in on as your voice cracks? Now remember, complete sentences only. I'm meetin' the fellas for lunch and I ain't got time to spend the whole afternoon rearranging your every half-utterance 'til it makes some kind of sense. And for the love of all that's holy, tell those cats with the chainsaws to go get lunch or something, WE'RE MAKING TELEVISION HERE!"