Idol in Exile

Arriving sans entourage, ousted Idol Anoop Desai dropped by El Ocho today for more than a few minutes of morning show merriment. It was the last stop on his American Idol Exile Tour. Ever since Seacrest showed him and Lil Rounds last week, Anoop been descending the showbiz ladder... L.A., New York, High Pockets! No worry, he'll climb back up real fast when he jets back to Hollywood to prep for the big live finale. For now, the Chapel Hill grad student seemed content to chill with his Piedmont peeps before vanishing for a week of attempted anonymity. Good luck with that...

As for the ex-contestant in question, he's every bit the well-mannered college boy he played on TV. No doubt exhausted from the emotional wood-chipper that is the A.I. process, Anoop radiated nothing but composure as a whole bunch of locals asked him the same seven questions he's been answering for the better part of a week. Classy guy. Ya know, we've seen a lot of fallen idols come through the studio... Fantasia, Bice, Pickler, Bucky and some hairless cat by the name of Daughtry. All have brought their own verve with them; one chick even schlepped in her own stylist. Anoop rolled up in a hoodie and a play-off beard. RUH-spect.

Better yet, he's the ONLY Idol wannabe I've ever met who's given to use the word 'tangential' in casual conversation. I especially enjoyed our freewheeling conversation about barbecue, early Stevie Wonder and the soul-free suburbia that is current-day Cary (my words, not his). Sure, he's got a funny name and he sounds a bit like Bobby Brown when he sings, but this is one hopeful vocalist you wouldn't mind being marooned with at some company 'pig-pickin'. 'Pig-pickin'? That's Southernese for 'let's stay up all night and dine on some swine'. Maybe it's just a Tarheel thing... You'll ask to ask Anoop. He's the one studying cultural anthropology. Or at least he WAS. After the Idol summer tour, he'd love to embark on an R&B career.

Wouldn't you?

Smiley in a Riot

Now I ask you, is THIS a face you could lob tear gas canister at? I couldn't - even though I've never even met the Midwest news shooter know on-line as C. J. I have, however, clicked on her site for years, marveling more than once at how criminally cheerful she always seems to be... (Unbridled optimism: not a trait you see a lot of in the photog ranks.) So, you can imagine my concern when I heard she got sucked into covering a riot the other night. I myself, have never shot an official riot, but I've covered enough ECU Halloween celebrations, KKK marches and American Idol auditions to know how quickly crowds can go stupid...

Case in point: Saturday night at the University of Minnesota. Lost in the grip of something called Spring Jam, hundred of students dealt with the cancellation of a concert by pouring into the street and setting random things on fire. Thing is, a paid college tuition is no license to be an irrational asshole and before anybody could cue up Rage Against the Machine, the PO-leece arrived in riot gear. But it wasn't just the chubby blue line. News crews rolled up as well, including of course, our happy heroine. We spoke on the phone today, and while she admits dodging foam bullets for the better part of the evening, she can't decide whether it was a full-on 'riot' or merely a 'melee'.

Either way, it ain't the kind of gathering they issue press-passses for. When C. J. arrived on-scene, she found other members of the media idling on the edge. Wisely, they banded together, forming a unified force of assorted logos most news executives wouldn't understand. What followed was a nail-biter of a night in which cops flung flash-bangs, students flipped parked cars and assorted drunks hurled invectives and spittle at passing camera crews. In the end, only twelve people went to The Pokey, but hundreds more probably deserved to after destroying private and public property for no particular reason at all. Looo-sers! At least down South, if we're gonna torch the public square, we find some mindless sports victory/crushing loss to blame it on. According to C. J., this latest fracas can be blamed on a simple lack of icicles...

"It's kinda crazy what alcohol and some warm weather will do"

With perspective like that, no wonder she's so damn happy all the time.

Hubris Illustrated

Who knows what E-E-E-VIL lurks in the heart of bored assignment editors? The Photog Knows! So does Amanda Emily, whose recent release from affiliate servitude has freed her up to indulge a passion we both share: Old News Crew Photos. I'm just an amateur, really; some long-winded lout who likes to drape adjectives on found objects. But Amanda - she goes deep, uncovering gems like the one above faster than I can come up eight dollar words to cover them all. Luckily for me, Miss Emily's a talented web developer. Why, just the other day she sneezed on her keyboard and a whole website was born: Feeding the Beast. That's where Amanda's now amassing her gallery, her scrolling exposure of hubris illustrated, her treasury of retro-tech. Check it out and see why the more things change, the more they stay the same. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to crawl on top of my Ford Freestyle. Hopefully, the roof won't cave in.

2059

“And this is Mr. Caswell..”

With that, the Senior Nurse led her newest assistant into the patient pod, leaving the Med-Droid to hover alone in the hallway. Inside, the older woman stopped just across the thresh-hold and whispered over her shoulder.

“This one’s usually sweet,” she said, pointing to the slumped figure in front of the hologram stretched across the far wall, “but you never know…”

Turning back to the small room‘s only occupant, the Senior Nurse spoke loudly, slowly, liltingly. “MR. CASWELL, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

The slumped form didn’t move. Squinting in the low blue light, the Nursing Assistant strained to make out a few details. The back of the patient’s head was liver-spotted and bald, except for a few coarse white hairs corkscrewing upward. A gentle breeze emanating from the pod’s enviro-bot swirled the errant hairs back and forth, their rhythm free dance backlit by the glow of the floating molecule curtain. Looking up, the Assistant watched the slow-motion loop of Polar Bears shimmering there on the dust motes before turning her attention back to the old man in the Velcro Snuggie.

“Mr. Caswell‘s one of Sunset Vista‘s longest staying guests.” the Senior Nurse said. “Been here since 2042. That even predates me. ISN’T THAT RIGHT, MR. CASWELL?”

Mr. Caswell didn’t respond, so Senior and the Assistant squatted on either side of the centenarian to look him in the eye. There wasn’t much there. Focused far past the virtual screen in front of him, his bloodshot orbs stared out at a past only he could see.

“MR. CASWELL ARE YOU COMFORTABLE?”

Assuming his lack of answer to be a positive reply, Senior stood and motioned the Assistant over to the pod’s control hutch.

“Here’s his file“, Senior said, running her thumb over a sensor in the countertop. When she did, green hi-def letters grew out of the surface. The same scrolling display also showed up on the inside lens of both the women’s iGlasses.

“GARRET LEE CASWELL” said Senior, reading aloud the green font floating just out of eyelash reach. “Age 103, Widowed, Highly Arthritic, Signs of Dementia. Says here he was a TV news cam-era-man for more than forty years. Remember when they showed news on TV?”

The Assistant didn’t, so Senior turned back to the words floating on her corrective lenses.

“Well, they did. Surely you’ve seen those old holograms with the men carrying the big cameras on their shoulders, haven’t you?“ Looking back at the pod’s silent occupant with one eye, Senior scanned his medical records with the other.

“I guess that explains the lopsided vision and carbon-fiber clavicle.” she mumbled. “At any rate, Mr. Caswell’s rarely ever a problem. Seems his son is a Homeland Security Cadet. I’ve never met him but they say he’s very nice. Mr. Caswell doesn’t get many visitors, but he does LOVE his data-pack. We don’t let him watch current events though. It always seems to upset him. Still, you won’t find many patients as easy as him, ISN’T THAT RIGHT, MR. CASWELL?”

At that point, the green lettering on the Nurses’ iGlasses turned to red; the new bright color throbbing with an urgency punctuated by a shrill ringing tone pouring from the spectacles’ tiny speakers. Wheeling around, Senior saw her longtime patient’s head cocked at an awkward angle; a sight that thrust her into action…

“MR. CASWELL, CAN YOU HEAR ME? MR. CASWELL?” She grabbed his wrist but the sensors in her own fingertips detected no pulse. Searching the red letters scroll in her peripheral vision, the Senior Nurse made a few furtive movements with her own eyeball and dug deeper into the old man’s records until she found the nickname his late roommate used to use…

“G. LEE! ARE YOU WITH US, G. LEE?”

------------

“G. Lee? Yo, dude, you awake?”

Garrett rolled over with the bedside telephone lodged in his ear. He didn’t remember answering it, or even the sound of it ringing.

“Yo, Gee? You up?” The sound of police scanners crackling in the background registered somewhere in Garrett’s mind and he opened his eyes to see the pitch black apartment bedroom around him.

“Hey man, I know you’re not due in for a few more hours, but a semi full of stuffed animals just jack-knifed on I-40. Cops say there’s toy polar bears all up and down the highway. Can you check it out? You got time?”

“Yeah,” G. Lee said, blinking away the dream and wondering if he’d put his camera batteries on the overnight charger, “I GOT TIME.”

Our Man in Iraq

Handlers, heretics and heroes alike will all know that Style Has Arrived when this dashing photog touches down in beautiful Baghdad! Yes, from those clever frames to that wallet in his pocket, no one sports Kevlar and khakis like Jim "I'm a Dancer" Long, the NBC cameraman known across the planet for his jaunty stance and gleeful spree of Tweets. You've heard me yammer about him... You've seen him on The Today Show! Soon you can even enjoy this goofy news shooter on The Apprentice: Ehhhh...THAT Guy! For now, you'll have to dig the cut of his jib from afar, as he's busy trailing Secretary of State Clinton through the middle of Iraq. Or maybe he's back by now. Hell, with panache like that, the world's your runway. Now, Vogue-Vogue-Vogue-Vogue....

Pining for Myrtle

Scrum Envy: I’ve wrestled with it the better part of this week as screens all around me showed Myrtle Beach burning. It’s not that I mind sleeping in my bed, but that plume of smoke rising off the Grand Strand is a black, twisting beacon for schlubs like me… I don’t wanna hinder any heroes, mind you - but a little glass time around the edges would be good for the soul. Third Responder’s Curse, if you will. Nobody wants localized apocalypse, but if the shithouse is gonna go up in flames, I’d at least like to get the smell of it on me. Don’t ask me to explain why. It’s just … my newsmaker’s DNA, a deeply embedded code that gets my hackles up every time a sat truck gathering of a certain size forms in the Carolinas. Granted, I’m the guy who avoids local remotes like the plague. But I’ve raised that mast and watched traffic pass a thousand times… I’ve yet to see the neon jewel of Horry County scorched. Must I now do so through a curtain of pixels?

Apparently, YES.

Which I why I walked the dog three times this week while a lot of lenslingers caught the last train for the coast. One satellite encampment far from the action boasted a sizable fleet. Local, state and regional crews mingled with the network set amid endless live shots, bartering between broadcasts and trading favors; a loose-knit economy of charger squatting and restaurant directions, the Currency of the Camera-Yard Don’t know what I mean? Obviously, you’ve never knocked on the door of an out-of-state TV truck and tried to convince the strangers inside your bosses know each other...

“Hey, I know you’re booked on both paths with three crews of your own but we’re from THE Lower Upcountry’s Dedicated News Channel, a-a-a-n-d were wondering if we could squeeze in a look-live? No? Okay, I’ll be sitting over there in that day-glow station wagon if you change your mind… in the backseat, brushing my teeth with this rusty Leatherman…”

Okay, so it's not a love-in, but there is some haggling behind that continuing team smotherage. Especially in the current economic blight. Stations are spending less than ever to fill the same amount of newscasts, fewer bodies turning just as many stories. What has always been a bare-bones operation is often being operated by a skeleton crew. Just ask that guy, the zombie ’tog from three hours away who hasn’t slept in almost as many days. If you’d ever get him to stop talkin’ to that tree, he’d tell you a story about a last minute voyage with a fiery end, of thundering scrums and gas station bathrooms, of screaming shoulders and twittering witticisms. Then, he’d ask you for a cigarette, despite the fact neither of you smoke. Waterboarding my arse! Sleep deprivation, a viewfinder glued to your face and enough Red Bull to drop a longhorn should uncover any secrets our enemies have, let alone rattle the gourd of your above average photog…

Now that I think about it, I’m glad I stayed home.

(Thanks to NBCNewsCrew and Joey Flash for pictures and inspiration.)

Overheard on the Hunt...

"Sooo, if you'll just push that button there on the top, that'd be cool ... preferably before Dumbledore here decides to rip my lips off. Yeah, I know he's attached to his keeper, but if she's pushin' 90 pounds I'm Quentin Tarantino. I've seen heftier security guards at Easter Egg hunts - and those Sunday School ladies don't play. One of 'em once marched me off the playground for teaching her nine year old a word she didn't like... Hmm? Naah, I don't remember which word exactly, but if you'll just snap that picture, I'll make up some new ones. What's that? 'What's it for?' Well, I got this website, see ... more of a blog really. I post pictures and stories from my many adventures. Two days ago I was at a seafood restaurant re-opening. No real photos-ops there, but I did dig on some righteous popcorn shrimp. Last week it was the zoo. By the way, you guys ever think about making one of those paper-mache first graders and filling it with wild bird food? Crowds love that stuff. I once saw a busload full of Shriners give one keeper a Standing O 'cause she sic'd a sea lion on a cardboard cut-out of Miley Cyrus. No joke - I'll send you a dub! Say again? ... No, I don't have Leah Beno's phone number... Tell ya what though, I'll see if I can send you an 8 by 10 glossy if you'll j-u-s-t push that but-ton..."

Schmuck Alert: Aso in El Paso

It's hard to know what set off this Texas lawman: his midday assignment, that glowing orb in the sky, the troublesome chafe of his polyester tunic. Whatever it was, it caused the veteran cop to lose his freakin' mind. Press PLAY on the video above and see a constable unglued... he jumps over a barrier, demands an ABC-7 news crew leave public property and eventually detains the two for boldly refusing to resist. I don't get it - and judging from the reaction of reporter Darren Hunt and photojournalist Ric Dupont - neither do they. That's probably because they're used to covering news in the U.S. of A., where members of the media can go where looky-loos do and flipped-over semi-trucks DON'T cause seemingly rational police sergeants to come out of their skin. Big ups to the the shinier badges at the El Paso Police Department; they released the unoffensive news crew minutes after Sergeant Neck-Vain hauled them into the Westside Regional Command Center. Thus, we exclude much of the law enforcement community down there in the Lone Star State when we level the following charge... Schmuck!

Sparky's Machine

Burt Reynolds moustache...Check. VCR in a bag...Check. 750 yard stare...Check. Apollo-era monopod...Check. Unironic trucker hat...Check. Cock-eyed toplight. Check. Totally kick-ass station windbreaker...CHIGGITY-CHECK!

Sure, it's easy to make fun of Ron Mounts now, but had I seen this cat back in 1983 I'd have followed him around until he let me fondle his microphone cube, or at the very least rub his shiny jacket. Alas, that opportunity is lost. Thank God there's North East Ohio TV Memories, a living compendium of news station photographs from around the Buckeye State. I only wish there was an equally worthy shrine from my neck of the homeland. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a few Polaroids I have to destroy...

Of Fealty and Fish Plates

What with my penchant for profiling troubled merchants, I've been rightly called the Grim Reaper of Retail. It's simple: if you look up from your cash drawer to see me and my tripod wandering around the parking lot, your ledger is red. 'Why's that?' you ask... I'll tell you. Because the suits don't send me to check on businesses operating in the black. Rather, they dispatch me to the brink of ruin. By the time that I arrive, registers are wrung dry, regulars are dropping by with sympathy cards and soemone's always sleeping up. Yep, I've stumbled into more Mom and Pop shops on their very last day of existence than most inventory liquidation teams...

Which is why today was such a pleasure. Instead of picking clean the bones of a failed business plan, I got to bask in the glow of hope, promises and hush-puppies. See, Mayflower Seafood may have been down, but they were never out. Three years ago, news crews from every outlet turned out to watch the restaurant chain's original location spit fire into the sky. Today, when they flung open their doors to slather the Piedmont in popcorn shrimp, only one electronic lenslinger had the decency to wipe his feet. When I did, I found a sprawling Greek family with names impossible to pronounce. Rather than try, I rambled around like I owned the place, sticking my lens into kitchen, waitress station, even the Men's Room once the sweet tea got to me. Along the way I scored plenty of shots of people chewing; a neat feet considering most folk don't wanna be pictured masticating. No bother, I was too busy envisioning a giant breaded trout rising from the ashes of the old Mayflower site before taking flight over that city locals simply call 'Winston'...

Perhaps it was something I ate.

What Lies Beneath

Okay, so it's NOT the Lost Ark of the Covenant, but I DID just crack open a crypt without a single eyeball sliding down my face. WHEW! This might just be a box of rotting videotape to you, but to me it's a time-capsule stuffed with dust from The Stupid Years, a trunk-load of broadcast talismans once believed to no longer exist. Okay, so it IS just a crate full of tapes, but within this haphazard collection lies the beginning of an accidental career. That and at least a half dozen used car commercials so bad a single viewing could get me kicked out of the Lenslinger Institute - and I've already paid my dues this year! Thus, I view my latest discovery with just a hint of trepidation, for I squint my eyes and read the tape labels just right, a flood of emotion drowns my senses and suddenly I'm rockin' a pair of acid washed jeans as I try to figure out how to white-balance in dying sunlight. Been there. Got the sweaty station t-shirt.

Of course all my speculation on what lies beneath this pile is probably pointless, as I haven't exactly been keeping them in a cryogenic chamber. Instead they've been shuffled from closet to closet, sometimes in air-conditioned spaces - other times not. For all I know the only thing I'll see when I find a three-quarter inch or beta-machine to stick 'em in is static and snow - hard evidence that the embryo of my ambition is forever lost to science. Then again, these incriminating cartridges could contain proof of camera-mismanagement, gross misconduct and enough dated fashion to fuel a couple dozen episodes of My Two Dads. Therefore, I reserve the right to screen these vintage clips in my secret laboratory, far from the likes of the mullet-loving public and their YouTube trigger-fingers.

But silly hairstyles aside, there is much to be gleaned from this musty pile of pixels. If the labeling proves correct, this particular strain of tape covers my transition from local commercial hack to news unit neophyte. Thus, a reel of thirty second spots for fat lady dress shops share real estate with the recording of a head-on collision I felt compelled to hold on to for some unknown reason. Throw in my little brother's wedding master, some early attempts at one-man-banding, a cheesy campaign I once did for a waterbed emporium, my thought-to-be-lost skydiving piece, drunken stuntman buffoonery with a particularly troubling tape labeled 'Mondo Metal Madness' and you got a pretty good idea why I won't be leaving this particular treasure trove unattended at El Ocho.

I will however, gentle visitor, share some choice highlights with YOU - the moment I run across something the least bit aggrandizing. Count on it...

Riley Wrangles Wrenn

...And there was much rejoicing in the El Ocho village two of its favorite citizens joined together in blessed matrimony. Yup, Angie Riley and Kevin Wrenn got hitched. It's a union many friends of the longtime couple thought might never happen, but in the end Wrenn Dawg did Siler City proud, choosing for his bride the one woman most photogs I know adore, report to and fear - should they skip out of work without cutting their bumps. The nuptials themselves were delightful; an afternoon ceremony attended by far-flung friends, foxhole buddies and more than a few local icons. All in all, it was the most fun I've had in Gibsonville since my last visit to the county's prison farm and the greatest intra-station wedding reception I've attended since Carolyn and Vernon jumped over the broom.

Congratulations Kevin and Angie!

NAB: Here We Ain't!

Awww yes, on this misty Sunday afternoon there's no place I'd rather be than lazing about my chalet. Except maybe Vegas. Okay, definitely Vegas - for as I sit here watching the dog chew something unsanctioned, broadcast prophets, gadget-happy madmen and assorted TV sleaze are descending on that glittering scab in the desert. Yes, NAB '09 is upon us and no, Team Slinger won't be in attendance. Last year of course the Mighty Weave and I rendezvoused with a certain Turd for a contemplative stroll through the globe's largest Electronic Media Show. Shots were hoisted, gizmos ogled, a treasure trove of tall tales traded and a number of doofy videos were made. It was a large time and if money grew on tripods, I'd be shaking off jet-lag right now as the Benefactor signaled the nearest cocktail waitress. Instead, I'll probably hit the hay early, then - you know, wake up and shoot an anchor package. Meh...

Still, not ALL is lost. Thanks to polymer technology and the always tall Kevin Johnson, I'll roam the floor from afar. The b-roll founder, along with dandy Andy Grossman can ALWAYS be counted on to ricochet from booth to booth, dodging the windier exhibitors and sticking a lens in whatever else finds their fancy. This year they won't have a blowhard like me hoggin' the glass, so look for some in-depth reportage and even a few outbursts from this thing the kids call Twitter. Why it'll be like being there without all the foot pain! I'm just sorry I'll miss the B-Roll Bash, for both times I've disgraced that particular gathering I've come away the better - minus the bed-spins. Oh well, there's always next year. In fact, more than a few of us have already vowed to share some air at NAB 10. You know, provided there's still some form of tee-vee being practiced then.

Young Joe Dirt

I'm on a badly needed Spring Break. While I recover, enjoy this recently unearthed high school photo of a young lenslinger, courtesy of a friend's upload. Make your own joke. Be back soon...

The Deadliest Couch

As a lover of the Discovery Channel, there is much to admire about The Deadliest Catch. For example, I like how the show has made heroes of smelly, working-class Joes. I also like how so many of the crew members smoke incessantly, knowing full well lung cancer is the least of their immediate health concerns. I like the way sea-spray looks in high-definition. I love the fact that Sig Hansen is now something of a celebrity (Here he is hobnobbing with Sir Paul McCartney!) More than anything, I love the way producers have crafted a compelling 'reality show' that doesn't involve confession rooms, dance numbers or multi-colored buffs. But for everything that I adore about this venerable hit, there is one thing I despise: the idea of slingin' a lens on either of those wretched vessels. Don't get me wrong, scoring a crew hat from the Cornelia Marie would earn me a lifetime of love at the nearest pub, but I'd still rather shoot a colostomy bag insertion than grace the deck of a paid fishing boat.

And it ain't that I'm skeered! I'm domesticated!! Fancycams are fun - even the tiny ones wrapped in plastic. I'm not sure I wanna sling one for 18 hours a day on the Bering Sea. I was in the Nav, remember? I know better than most landlubbers that Mother Ocean will gladly suck you into her briny embrace - whether you're trying to shoot a reality show, attempting to evade the crosshairs of a Navy Seal or just minding your own business at the scene of a hurricane. No Sir, I'm not this guy! But I'm glad brave young souls like him exist, for how else could I entertain myself when there's nothing to stare at on the internets? Don't bother answering, just know that at age 42, I fully grasp where I belong and it's not dodging some fisherman's wrath out there in The Drink. Right now, I much prefer my sofa - where the most hazardous thing I can do is sit on my oldest daughter's iPod and blame it on her little sister. Yes Sir, sibling insurrections I can handle. Rogue crab pots to the face? Not so much.

Eau De Photog

Sure, you might watch a lot of news - but until they perfect Smell-O-Vision, you'll never know the aroma of your average broadcast. Then again, why would you want to? Just ask any reporter who's been embedded with a ripe photog and they'll tell you: some fragrances are better left unsavored. It ain't that we stink. Well, most days we don't. Hey, you chase a cadaver dog through a homeless camp in the month of July ... see if YOU don't start losing friends. I mean, it's not like we're construction workers! No doubt those cats work even harder than your local TV stevedore, but at least they're relegated to hard-hat zones all day. We lenslingers have to intermingle with the delicate set. Businessmen in thin black socks, overly-perfumed reporter chicks, University elders with their own trademark scents... it's tough to carve soundbites out of thin air when the guy behind the camera smells like he lunched in a dumpster.

But like that green cloud I picked up at the county landfill, I'm getting ahead of myself. With the Photog Equinox still weeks away and Swamp-Ass Season just beyond it, there's really no reason for any interloper to melt the plastic off his dashboard with an indefensible whiff. So, HIT THE SHOWERS! But when you're done, have a splash of what and ex El Ocho photojournalist and gifted Twitterer 'Joey Flash' describes as...

...The cologne of news: structure fire smoke and motor oil are the top notes, with accents of sweat and whopper jr. Sexy as hell...

Sexy, yes - in much the same way a hand-me-down news unit with a third-generation funk is sexy. In fact, allow me to round out the bouquet: Eau De Photog would build upon your basic smoke plume, as would it feature the metallic tang of a live truck generator belching exhaust across the inner city. Add a trace of reporter hair spray, toss in the dollar menu item of your choice along with a vial of day-old bile and you have a pretty good idea what that bloodmobile slash manhunt slash circus clown orgy smelled like the other day. If that's not enough, put on this rain slicker and lean in realcloselike to your set... A buddy of mine wants to tell you about his walking tour to the penitentiary and luckily for you, he sweats in HI-DEF!

Don't say I didn't warn ya...

The Worst Good Friday

When I heard tornadoes were swooping through central Tennessee, I knew my old sensei wouldn't be far behind. Then a stream of Facebook updates confirmed it: Andy Cordan was on the ground in Murfreesboro. The following account is that of a sole news gatherer operating on adrenaline and muscle memory. Is it any wonder I used to try snatching the pebble from his hand?

Friday starts with my 125 pound gas grill flipping upside down on my deck outside my bedroom window at 4am. I thought it was SWAT setting off a flash bang grenade - executing a search warrant. 6 hours later, I am driving into the heart of the animal. Rain lashing my windshield.I am alone. Dangerous. The car is rocking back and forth as my tires hydroplane at 70 mph. This is a true set back for the VJ system. where's my boy Al when I need him. I have one hand on the steering wheel. One hand on my cell phone. My third hand is holding the camera. Yes - my third hand. Have you ever chased a tornado by listening to four weathercasters storm- track? Welcome to the Merry Go Round Ride of Insanity...

After driving down I-65 twice, to the Dyer Observatory once, and through Cool Springs. I finally get on 840 East to Murfreesboro. I get as far as the I-24 exit. Cars are stacked a mile long. Two dozen THP cars are racing up the shoulder. Fire trucks are blaring down country roads. Cell phones don't work. People are shell shocked and it feels, at least for a moment like the world is coming to an end. The sky is still angry.

A Murfreesboro cop yells at me to get my car out of the road. I drive through the road block figuring he can't leave his post and I can always tell him i didn't hear what he said. I drive to the Blackman community. Trees are tooth picks. Roofs are stripped clean. Roads are impassable. I walk through a swamp of mud and 3 inches of water. I get to a woman with a muddy face crying in a truck. She is petting her little dog....she starts to cry. She tells me about praying to god and watching her television swirl over her head as the roof flew off to munchkin land. She tells me that is the worst Good Friday but also the best Good Friday. "God protected us" she will say over and over.

I want to take my video back to the station to get it on the air, but dryer people order me to stay put and wait for a live truck that is still caught in all that traffic I have fought and cheated and lied my way through. I drive over a curb and down a one way street. I am running over metal and bricks and how my tires don't shred I don't know. I end up parking at a BP station and lugging all my gear half a mile to the live truck.

Within minutes I am on live TV for as long as I can talk. I don't know a damn thing about this part of town, but as most of you know I can talk, so I start spewing. Cars are upside down. Buildings torn apart. People look like zombies. I'm sopping wet and I keep talking. Live shot after live shot. I can't see any of the coverage, but I hear it in my earpiece. it sounds to me like the old News 2 showed up for this bad boy. All in all, I'm beat...Happy Easter all. --- Andy Cordan

Anchorman 2: Road Trip!

Above, the Channel Four News Team hits the road in the follow-up to Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. This time however Will Farrell only makes a fleeting appearance, as much of the action takes place in the scotch-free field. But that doesn't shitcan the hi-jinks! Not with turtlenecked wonder Monte Oliver, swingin' news shooter Lenny Shalopowitz, some nameless female and the ever swaggering Dax Braxton along for the ride. Together these leisure suited Lotharios make their way across a disco-infested heartland as they go live and local across the fruited plain. All goes groovy until a crosstown station launches their own road show, setting up a cross-country rally that ends in a fireball of Winnebago parts and overly decorous belt buckles. Early screening garnered favorable reviews - with only a few critics objecting to the 17 minute fight-scene montage. Soundtrack by Mac Davis - with special appearance by Snoop Dawg. PG-13. In theaters July 4th.

(Thanks and apologies to Sean Browning and his father David for abiding the desecration of this treasure.)

Cue the Ruminants

I first dragged a camera into the North Carolina Zoo twelve years ago, eager to show my El Ocho elders I could do more than chauffeur ingenues in musty live trucks. Boy, did I score - for you ain't gotta be Spielberg to cop killer footage at a zoo. We're talking hillocks and aviaries, swishing hippos and packs of giddy ten year olds...yes, if your nerves can take it there's easy cinema where the wild things are. Case in point: today's quickie visit to the longneck exhibit. Seems two new arrivals lacked proper monikers and my pal Rod Hackney thought our viewers might like a crack at it. Clearly, this is a job for your friendly neighborhood lenslinger - which is why I followed a giant "L" in the sky all the way to Asheboro. What unfurled won't be shipped off to the Smithsonian, but I'll remember it always as a thoroughly good Thursday. Or at least until I return for a ostrich lobbyist, a flatulent rattlesnake, a polar bear dance-off...

You get the idea.

Text of the Wretched

According to the research team here at the Lenslinger Institute, THIS is post number 1,444. As totals go it's pretty random, but it feels significant if only because Viewfinder BLUES has been a bit hazy as of late. What can I tell ya - even career cameramen lose their focus once in awhile. But rather than bore you with my usual sesquipedalian soul searching, I'll just say this: Writing is HARD! If I could summon the muse whenever I wanted, I wouldn't still be lifting heavy objects for a living. As it is, my penchant for bleeding on the keyboard each evening has morphed into a fortnight of utter frustration. That's a lot of angst for what's ostensibly a hobby, sp lease understand if I pretend this lapse never happened. There, I feel better already. Now let's get to the news - or lack thereof...

No doubt part of my recent literary inaction results from too much social networking. A while back I told you of my fondness for Facebook; lately I've been diddling with Twitter. That makes me no different than any other on-line blowhard. These days it seems everyone is blathering in 140 characters or less. I was skeptical at first, but since then have crafted an incoming stream of industry updates I'm quite happy with. That said, tell me more than twice what kind of sandwich you're having and I'm un-following you faster than you can type one more masturbatory sentence about the cable guy being late...

But enough new media, let's go old school. Broadcast Engineering is an industry magazine known for the kind of schematic analysis that makes this lonely technophobe's temple throb. But even a caveman like me has cracked open an issue or two, thanks to a burgeoning friendship with one Spring Suptic. I first met Spring in Vegas last year. It was the B-Roll Bash; I was pounding free liquor and she was asking interesting questions. Since that chance conversation we've kept in touch and recently she generously interviewed me on a wide range of broadcast topics. Though she never led me to believe I'd make the cover, I do have a skimpy swimsuit or two ready - just in case. For now, you'll have to settle for a few juicy quotes in this article...

Finally tonight, I'd like to do something I swore I never would: the obligatory pet post. Ever since Al Gore pulled the first intact blog out of his nose, push-button publishers have extolled the virtues and vitamin regiments of their respective Fluffies and Fidos. Well, this is different - for just this week my lovely bride found the canine companion she's been looking for all these many moons. Meet 'Stravinsky', a rescue mutt my 15 year old daughter named after one of her favorite composers. He's only been with us a few days now, but already this once imperiled pooch has wormed his way into my hollow photog heart. I just wonder if the little guy yet realizes he hit the lottery, for now he has a fenced-in empire, three doting females and a crabby master who has to admit, he's awfully cute. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go dodge a few droppings on my way to the mailbox. Perhaps I'll write about it.

For the Love of Groucho

Growing up, it never dawned on me what a fan of Groucho Marx I was. I thought whoever drew Bugs Bunny invented that wandering wiseguy shtick; I even gave Hawkeye Pierce full credit for perfecting the leering retort. Little did I know they - and countless others - merely co-opted that persona from the middle child of a rambling vaudeville brood. Julius Henry Marx was that and so much more. Acerbic, goofy, aloof: some of my favorite adjectives describe the man most Earthlings knew as 'Groucho'. I know this because I just finished Stephan Kanfer's exhaustive biography of the man. 437 pages, to be exact. Sure, it seems excessive, but when you consider all that Marx accomplished in his 87 years in show business, it averages out just right...

Groucho of course came to prominence in the dying days of vaudeville. Led by one mother of a stage-mother, he and his brothers formed a kind of comedy heretofore unseen in the seedy dives that passed for live theater back then. All the Marxes were funny, but the middle kid Julius possessed a rare mix of verbal lethality and loose-limbed goofiness. Those qualities and a truckload of bad puns helped propel the Marx Brothers to superstardom, a novel enough concept back then. Just as their gowing fame outstripped their diminishing venues, along came radio, followed by cinema. Soon, audiences the world over were imitating Groucho's slouching lope, rapid fire delivery and elastic eyebrows. Yes, long before Howard Stern built an empire on his own shortcomings, Chico, Zeppo, Harpo and Groucho were the Kings of all Media.

But it didn't stop there. When the Marx brothers disbanded to chase their individual demons, Groucho wiped the greasepaint off his upper lip and conquered the burgeoning world of TV quiz shows. For 17 years he hosted 'You Bet Your Life', leaving all who passed before him humbled by his lightning quick one-liners. If that weren't enough the middle Marx brother harbored literary ambitions as well. While he never wrote the book he felt he had in him, his comebacks and prose are studied to this very day. And yet still, Groucho wasn't through. Thanks to the piss and vinegar that flowed so freely through his veins, the man with the ever present stogie outlived his siblings and his critics. Perhaps his only miscue was dying the same week as Elvis Presley, a rare bit of bad timing that robbed him of the post-mortem acolytes he so deserved.

Thirty-five years later, his legacy endures. Perhaps the original one-name celebrity, he is instantly recognizable even in silhouette. To don a pair of Groucho glasses is to instantly adopt a wise-ass attitude - even if you're so young, you don't know why. A cursory search of YouTube unearths more material than one can watch in one setting. That said, Groucho was not an easy man to know. Indifferent if not cruel to the many women in his life, the most famous Marx (Karl notwithstanding) carried with him more than a little misogyny. Vindictive, cheap, and insensitive, the master of snappy comebacks was, as his latest biographer so aptly puts it, 'a depressive clown' who grew into the most influential comic of the 20th century. Not bad for a mouthy Jewish kid with a painted-on moustache...

Ever the Specter

"...I see you downtown sometimes. Always on the go."

I closed out my friend's e-mail and thought about her last four words. Actually, I only started thinking about it, but then my cell phone rang and I was suddenly late for a ribbon-cutting on the other side of town. Or was it a prostitution round-up? I don't really remember. Nor do I recall exactly how I felt the very first time I took a fancycam out for a day of errands. Chances are I felt important. Logos and lenses will do that to an unschooled rube from the sticks. Since then of course I've pursued my education - but not that fancy book learnin'. No, I've stretched the corners of my mind by dashing from one blind news item to the next. Sometimes, I don't know why I'm rushing to a certain locale until I arrive. Other times, I still don't know why(?) by the time I'm leaving. Not that it matters; as I'm usually due somewhere else - quicker than I can get there...

So what's all this fugacity done to your overly wordy camera-nerd? Hard to say; I have nothing to compare it to. Ever since I flunked out of used car salesman academy, I've churned out groundbreakings and train derailments as if either had a lasting effect on the community at large. Along the way, I learned to stop paying attention. It's not that I don't care about my assignments, but after covering a couple of thousand school board stand-offs/untimely demises, you learn to shove a few extra batteries in your pocket and compartmentalize your emotions. How else is your above-average TV news photog supposed to withstand multiple months of processing newscast fodder? Take it from me, there's no support group for surviving years of county commissioner melodrama ... I've checked. The closest I got was Narcotics Anonymous and they get all jumpy whenever I substitute 'mayoral press conference' for 'overloaded crackpipe'. It ain't like both won't kill your brain-cells.

But there I go again, overstating the implicit, pouring on the hyperbole, re-capping at every juncture. It's just the kind of broadcaster doublespeak that gets me glared at in polite society. Maybe that's why I never get to hobnob with the higher-ups. They're afraid I'll dash in at the last moment, say something scurrilous and take with off with a few pictures and impressions in tow. Come to think of it, that's exactly what I'd do given the choice. I've hurried from one advertised calamity to the next for far too long to know anything but how to shoot and move. No wonder my cocktail party invites all dried up. I'm crass, transitory and swaddled in look-at-me logos. At least I ain't alone. Across this great nation of ours, an army of anonymous photogs wanders the fruited plain in search of the next forty second burst of filler. For proof, check out the musings of The Senator, pictured above. Chances are he'd regale you with the stories behind all those pockmarks on his soul, the kind of thing you pick up from traveling the same road over and over and over again...

Just don't ask him what he shot last Monday. That was like, a whole week ago!

Rock(lob)Star!

(9:00pm/NBC/TV-14) Wackiness ensues as an anonymous lobster forgoes the boiling pot for a life of spotlights, limousines and groupies. Hologram-or-not Donald Trump bestows earthly riches on a lazy crustacean named 'Gus' in the long-shelved mid-season replacement. Part of NBC's failed "Royality Show" series, Rock(lob)Star! was the first to feature Peacock network cast-offs thrusting the perks of B-List celebrity onto inanimate objects. Unlike the episode where Martha Stewart lionizes a random push-broom, R(l)S! shows initial promise - especially when a feisty chef threatens to broil Trump's comb-over should he liberate just one more crayfish. But the "Royality" concept falls apart quickly, when - after being put up in a posh Manhattan penthouse - Gus fails to fall in love with Bret Michaels. Special guest appearances by Charo, NBC News photographer Dwaine Scott, plus a special performance by the B-52's. (60 Minutes)