News Crew Cuffed, Stuffed

How can I work on my memoirs when news crews keep getting tangled in the Thin Blue Line? This time it's Memphis, where cops cuffed and stuffed reporter Jeni DiPrizio and photog Eli Jordan. It's hard to know why, exactly. On assignment for Eyewitness News Everywhere (I kid you not), the newsgathering duo were working the fringes of a tile plant fire when a nearby police lady decides they have to leave. Now! Ever tenacious, DiPrizio stalls the officer and gets the newsroom on the horn, while photog Eli wisely keeps rolling. What follows is a ramped-up exercise in foregone conclusions, ending with the ratcheting clatter of shiny metal bracelets. Did the cops overreact? Seeing how the news team were released after only a couple of hours of stewing in a squad car, one would assume so. Could DiPrizio have handled it better? Hard to say; debating property access and media rights with someone wearing a bulletproof vest is a dicey venture at best. I'll give her mad props for stickin' to her guns, at least. And Eli's video? Riveting.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I was somewhere between newbie and burnout...

Get My Good Side...

The voice on the phone probably sounded familar. After all, Paul Broussard was no stranger to the staff of KLFY. A TV-10 news crew profiled the self-described security consultant earlier in the year, when he announced a less than magnanimous campaign for Governor. This time however, it wasn't gubernatorial glory the local man was seeking, but the chance to explain why he'd just been forced to shoot a cop. Cue the furious hand-motions. Moments later a TV-10 camera rolled as Broussard explained via speakerphone how he and his assault rifle had been taking a walk when they were accosted by State Police. Demanding he drop his piece, the troopers fired on Broussard, who returned the favor with lead of his own, winging one officer before barricading himself in his mobile home. That's where 'Colonel' Broussard was calling from now - the very same trailer KLFY had interviewed him at a few months back. Wouldn't they to like to rush on over now?

They would, and did. Soon a TV-10 live truck joined the fleet of squad cars and unmarked Crown Vic's parked askew outside Broussard'd door. Neighbors only did a half double-take when they heard the commotion - even as the old coot's showdown with the PO-lice forced them to evacuate their own cribs. 'Whadaya expect from a guy who rides around pretendin' to be a cop?' some weren't heard to say. I'll tell you what to expect: extended megalomania. Sure, I don't know Broussard myself, but anyone with a cop fetish, political aspirations and the local TV station on speed-dial will regularly use all three to pedal crazy. Trust me on that one. Or, consider the conclusion of this protracted stand-off: Sensing his fifteen minutes was just about up, Broussard pushed the hyperbole into overtime by demanding a TV-10 camera accompany police to come in and get him. KLFY photog Keith Verret answered the call, suiting up and moving in. Wisely, it seems police kept him far enough back to avoid any spontaneous acts of armed granduer on the part of Broussard. Instead, a Governor's incumbency was peacefully spared, a local affiliate got one hell of a freebie and an old man with more sidearms than sense went to jail.

Wonder if he knew it was Sweeps?

Oh, the Inanity!

When the Hindenburg hove into view over Lakehurst, New Jersey seventy years ago, it was running late. Headwinds had pushed the German dirigible two hours back and the small clutch of radio and newsreel press awaiting below probably probably couldn't wait for the damn thing to land. We all know what happened next. The massive zeppelin caught fire, crashed to the ground and a radio reporter named Herbert Morrison immortalized it all with a simple, heartfelt screed. One can only imagine what the giant airship disaster would have been like had it happened today...

Surely someone would have thrust a camera phone upward as the flames rippled across the bladder's surface, recording a shaky pixelated account that would be later celebrated for its cutting-edge clarity. Audio lifted from the jittery footage would air almost immediately on-line, making for an instant podcast classic. Not to be outdone, the corporate press would swoop in from Manhattan, surrounding 'the incandescent tangle' in sat trucks, HD cams and celebrity journalists who only go by one name. Simultaneously, a smilar firestorm would erupt across the blogosphere, sparking flames wars that condemned everything from German engineering to the idea of airflight itself. As the sun set over the smoldering pile, spotlights would illuminate the field, not to clear the path for first responders - but to max out the background for Chet Graytemples' closing stand-up. Off camera interlopers would joust for the attention of surviving passengers - until all who could talk were booked solid for a whirlwind tour of global live shots.

In the end, the same thirty-five people would have died, lighter-than-air flight would have been largely crippled and those scheming Nazis would have had to been dealt with. But the catastrophe itself would soared to even loftier climes of speculation and conspiracy in the 24/7 cable news atmosphere. Though never more powerful than an impromptu, sincere recording, the rabid blather of today's well-equipped press would bleet and howl over every scrap of burned fabric, until the simple crash of a newfangled airship was lost in the tabloid static.

Talk about a loss of humanity.

200,000 (and counting)

Normally I don't delve into the 'blogonomics' of Viewfinder Blues. Hey, I'm all for transparency - but pet photos, lunch menu summaries and tortured dissertations on possible template changes are a large part of what makes blogs so laughable. Still, I'm poking my head out from behind the curtain this morning to note a small milestone and impart a word of thanks. A couple of nights ago a reader from British Columbia hit the trigger on their mouse and became visitor number 200,000. That's a miniscule amount of traffic for a professional site, but for a guy who slather his thoughts on-line so he can sleep better at night, it ain't too shabby. So please take out of your moment out of your busy Friday to pat yourself on the back, as your continued visits here have truly enriched my life. Thanks to your efforts, the ramblings of a camera-schlepping nobody have found a home in cyberspace and a silly user name has become something of an alter-ego. I may shrug it off in person, but it means an awful lot to me. I don't know that I would have stuck with this late night endeavor had I not known someone out there was actually reading my drivel. So while I scream for Tito to bring me a tissue, click over to the other photog blogs and give 'em some love. But please(!), come on back when you're done. I swear someday, I'll make it worth your while...

Schmuck Alert: LAPD,WTF?

A big dip of the lens to El-Guapo for reminding me of my civic duty. Thus, I'm issuing a Class 5 Schmuck Alert to the Los Angeles Police Department for their chaotic mishandling of an immigration rally in MacArthur Park. Apparently worried the Rodney King legacy of years past was fading from our collective memory, officers opted to go medevial on a group of protestors, bystanders and - gasp! - journalists. As I often tell my children, that's inherently uncool. What I cannot explain however, is what convinced the dudes in riot gear it would be wise to attack the crowd with batons and rubber bullets. Among the many victims were news crews from Telemundo and KCAL (home of beFrank!), soem of whom were briefly hospitalized after the inexplicable assault. Truly it's hard to know where to start with this one. Was it simply pack mentality? Mob rule? Too much caffeine? Whatever the trigger, it's awful hard to explain why an officer would knock a working photog to the ground, then smash his station-owned fancycam. Was the camera protesting? Did a retired Darryl Gates issue a fatwa on all landborne media? Do these pants make me look fat? Wait - don't answer that last one. Just repeat after me:

...Schmucks.

Stalking Leatherheads

Damn that George Clooney. After months of avoiding my lens at different Leatherheads shoot, today he and his crew popped up in plain view at War Memorial Stadium in Greensboro. Problem was, I had very little time for the Sexiest Man Alive. Why? It’s Sweeps, baby. Instead of traipsing around the Piedmont with the soft news assignment of the day in my pocket, I’ve been teaming up with our hard-nose reporter staff for an endless series of lead stories and live shots. Ugh. I’d much rather go solo and turn the kinds of stories that stick with viewers far longer than the breathless babble that makes up the front of your average newscast. What kinds of stories are those? The ones built on striking visuals … like, say, a gaggle of grandmothers swooning every time a globally known actor tears himself away from chatting up starlets long enough to graze on a few munchies at the craft services table.

That was exactly the scene unfolding this morning as reporter Angela Rodriguez and I rolled up on Greensboro’s crumbling showpiece of a historic baseball stadium. That’s where Clooney and crew were shooting scenes for his upcoming movie about the birth of pro football. The palette was staggering. Extras dressed in ‘20‘s garb, Model T’s sputtering in the mist, film crew hippies fiddling with lighting rigs, local cops corralling a horde of hyperventilating housewives and smack dab in the middle of it all, Clooney himself - loitering, laughing and sending shockwaves through the crowd with his every glistening dimple. A one-eyed hobo with a broken surveillance camera could have made award winning TV out of that scenario. But all I could do was spray the place - for A-Rod and I were soon due elsewhere downtown to shoot a story so boring I’m almost afraid to link to it.

So did what I could. Firing up my camera, I zoomed in on the matinee idol in the distance and clocked his every tuxedoed move. Why exactly he was so dressed up I’m not really sure, but I feel certain the clutch of female fans plastered around my perch could have explained every facet of the movie in the making. But there was simply no time. All I could do was curse the weakness of my extender lens, collect a few more cutaways and confuse the hell out of newspaper reporter Tina Firesheets by calling her by name (and what a name!). Had there been more time, I would have gladly interviewed every hysterical woman that could still form words. Instead, I could only throw up in my mouth a little every time the 75 year old lady beside me screamed for Clooney to 'show that sweet bod'!!!

I hate sweeps.

Secrets of the Telegenic

There will be many truths written in The Book of Lenslinger, from proper tripod storage to when not to piss-off a rent-a-cop. But aside from all the tactical claptrap, I hope to include a few of the intangibles. Of those there are many, for the newsgathering craft is riddled with misplaced innuendo. Consider the following case of pseudo déjà vu - a recurring sensation felt by photogs since the very first widow’s porch was conquered in the name of news...

Awkward Situations and Pretty People

Ever accompanied a former beauty queen across an angry picket line? Ever escorted a reality show runner-up through their very first fatal fire? Ever loitered outside a Wal-Mart as your toothpaste model of a partner cajoled the indifferent into an on-camera rant? I have - and I’m here to tell you, folks do respond differently to the acutely telegenic. Be it a homicide scene or a hillbilly hoe-down, nothing greases the wheels of stranger exchange like a chiseled jaw, envied hair-do or well-placed set of dimples. As a distinctly average forty year old, I’m used to amassing interaction withOUT the lubricant of matinee idol looks. No sweat. I got other skills: a gift of gab, familiar logos and an acute sense of lunch time motivation. On any given day, I can usually sway even the numbest among us to fake a pulse or two on-cam. But my meager skills of inquisition pale in comparison to those gifted with a visage more suitable for billboards than my furry mug. It’s this sort of viewer swooning that rightly infuriates the Print Contingent. Let’s face it: skinny notebooks, advanced degrees and a sense of entitlement still won’t get you as many juicy quotes quicker from the flattened trailer park as will an overly-logo’d Ford Explorer and an ex-thespian with really good hair. If that peeves the newspaper people in my life, I can certainly understand - but I for one am still glad that pretty people open doors. It’s facet of the grab I’ve known about for years. But today it occurred to me anew, as I watched our newest easy-on-the-eyes reporter, work a surly parking lot full of would-be demonstrators as if she were a game show host sleepwalking contestants through yet another lighting round.

I love it when they’re tougher than they look.

Fairly Unbalanced

Affixing your name and phone number to the shell of your fancy-cam: highly prudent. Slathering your batteries in Metallica stickers: dated but acceptable. Gluing novelty-store eyeballs to your fuzzy microphone cover: one of my favorites! Flying a Mexican flag off your camera's antenna while covering a pro-immigration rally; uncool on either side of the border. But that didn't stop this KPRC photog from representin' while on the clock - a bonehead move that earned him justified heckles from counter-demonstrators gathered outside Houston's Mason Park. Hey dude, I'm all for regional pride, but what part of 'neutral observer' don't you comprender? I got myself got plenty of opinions, but I can wander both sides of a Klan rally with a poker face and half a pack of Tic-Tacs. Try it sometime. For now though, help me out with a little translation. What's Spanish for dumb-ass?

We Are Not Alone

Call me Richard Dreyfuss, but I can’t drive by Pilot Mountain without envisioning a giant alien spaceship hovering overhead. ‘What would happen if a massive mother-ship lowered slowly from the clouds?’ I wonder - until I usually miss my turn. One thing I know. Unlike the 70’s Spielberg classic, today’s otherworldly encounter wouldn’t be so easily suppressed by government forces. For soon after the giant craft cast its shadow over ‘The Knob‘, a glittering convoy of TV trucks would also hove into view. The cops could try and stop them. But with the vast ship visible from miles away, authorities couldn’t possibly stop the gawking. Before most locals had a chance to even look up, images of the slowly spinning saucer would ricochet across the heavens, before bouncing back to blanket the Earth in high-def chopper-cam frenzy. As mankind stopped to ponder it all, media outlets from every nation would dispatch crew after crew to sleepy-ass Surry County. As the giant ship slowly rotated in silence, a sat truck hive of apocalyptic proportions would ring the base of the famed monadnock. I bet they’d even serve refreshments!

Even still, the End Times would surely be nigh. For even if the life-forms behind the wheel of the incalculable vessel came only to peddle Amway, we in the Fourth Estate would surely trigger Armageddon. It could go down so many different ways. All those upturned satellite dishes down below could reak havoc with the spaceship’s tractor beam, causing it to suddenly crash and creating an intergalactic incident. Or the sentient beings sipping space-coffee deep within the colossal star-liner could simply stumble across our many TV signals. One trip around the cable news dial might render them agog - the shrill hype and dizzying graphics enough to convince any advance race to zap this wretched rock for the good of the cosmos. Or perhaps they wouldn’t have to watch any local tube to opt for annihilation. One sweeping glance into the sat truck encampment below would reveal enough about our society to ultimately do it in. After all, how many screaming logos, hairspray clouds and hacky-sack matches can a space traveler endure before kicking in the afterburners? Especially when there’s some guy with a ridiculous moustache pounding on the outside hatch, demanding an exclusive interview, access to the flight deck and if at all possible, a triple-lit sit-down with the the big greasy Martian that ate Al Capone.

Why, it's almost enough to make a cameraman stop carving cliff faces out of his mashed potatoes. Almost.