A Life of Slice

Hopefully those blokes at the Beeb won't mind if I share their fare, for this dissertation is simply too good not to showcase. In it, White House News Photographers Association's Editor of the Year Bill McKenna riffs on the mental calisthenics that go into your above-average edit sesh. McKenna captures it all: the dimly-lit booth, the frantic search for the next transition, the clockwork interruption by coworkers with juicy gossip or Ju-Ju-Bees. It's a tribute to anyone who spends their afternoons slumped over a candy-colored keyboard and an eloquent exposé of the invisible ordeal that is slicing under deadline. Not only that, it's really well edited...

Guess I should have seen that coming.

Expedition: Wednesday

Sure, you can watch four strangers hack through the wilds of Africa all summer, but when you travel around with a tripod in your trunk, every DAY is an adventure. (Yes, even those endless shifts spent clinging to life at the edge of some City Council meeting.) Blame it on the glass, not the press pass - for the only thing that will get you into more controlled scenarios than a laminated badge around your neck is a pockmarked Sony on your shoulder. Backstage at the Tractor Pull, front row at the Flu Clinic, ringside at the Crown Vic convention: there's damn few places you're not ushered into. Only problem is, you gotta watch it with one eye. For example, have you ever witnessed an implosion? I've been to several, but only seen one - for most often I' m zoomed in on some looky-loo's mug when the building falls down and goes boom.

Still, it beats the view I put on the news, no matter how well I think I may have shot it. So enjoy your couch cushions this summer as pseudo-explorers retrace the path drawn in this intriguing tome. I'll be picking bugs out of my teeth closer to home - as will the rest of the photog nation. That's okay: most of us get antsy after thirty minutes in a newsroom cubicle, yet we'd traipse through a half mile of bayou if that's where the biggest chunks of airplane landed. As for those City Council meetings, not with out a little combat pay. I mean, have you seen the way those crazy bastards treat other? A few more barbs slung at that civics geek and she's gonna go all Lord of the Flies on her crosstown rival over there. Then where will we be? There's only ONE cyanide pill in my light kit...

Get your own.

Resistance is Futile

You know, I'd wondered what happened to my old pal Steve Kiggins - ever since he fled the Piedmont for the faster traffic jams of Atlanta back in 2006. Now, photographic evidence has surfaced that leads me to a few conclusions. Clearly he's been assimilated. That, or sucked into some doomsday cult where they hang multiple microphones off their fancycams and walk around all dead-eyed. Or maybe that's how you have to dress in a city where every other street is named Peachtree. Either way, it's a damn shame, for this masked mutant was once the jolliest of photogs. Now it seems he's a cyborg or a survivalist or, judging from that backwards hat, a charter member of Hootie and the Blowfish. It's probably just as well; dude used to me run me ragged trying to keep up with him at news scenes.

The Return of Daughtry

No, I didn't DISCOVER Chris Daughtry - but I did meet him days before he sang for Randy, Simon and the animatronic nutbag known as Paula Abdul. By then Shannon Smith and I were grizzled veterans of the American Idol audition circuit; we'd interviewed hundred of hopeful vocalists and tried not to cringe as one by one, they caterwauled into our microphone. Chris was different. First, he didn't seem at all insane. Second, dude could wail. When he first opened his throat for us in a downtown Greensboro parking lot, Shannon and I were flabbergasted with what came out. She was sure he'd win the judges over. I figured he'd have a fine career singing Alice in Chains cover tunes. Neither of us knew he'd breathe new life into the world's cheesiest talent show, let alone sell five mee-llion copies of his debut CD. Perhaps you've heard of him...

Anyhoo, Daughtry's been kind of busy since Shannon and I last sat down with him in Los Angeles. A tour with Bon Jovi, a handful of American Music Awards, hogging the top spot on VH1's Top Twenty Countdown: these things can keep a fella pretty occupied. But Chris did a funny thing on his way to world domination. He threw down roots right here in the Piedmont, the same region he called home when no one knew his name. That officially makes him 'a local boy' - albeit one who regularly jets to the West Coast to hang with the music industry elite. Lately though, Daughtry's been busy in the studio, crafting the follow-up to his initial release. Now that it's completed, he's kickin' back for a bit before 'Leave This Town' drops in mid-July.

Which is why it was so cool of him to drop by El Ocho - even if he did so a full 24 hours before we expected him. Originally tasked with helming the interview shoot, I was uncharacteristically out of pocket when Chris rang up Shannon and said he was on the way. A great scramble ensued, one in which managers spoke in tongues, studio techs were torn from their post-show coma and a cat by the name of Weaver stepped in and stepped UP. When all was said and shot, they did quite fine without me - though I couldn't resist dropping by with the wife for an after-camera chat. If this kind of thing interests you, go check out Weaver's backstage account, peruse the exhaustive photo gallery or simply watch the first in a series of breathless reports. After all, I still had to edit the damn thing...

Thanks, Chris -- Daughtry AND Weaver...

Beacon of Grief

“There’s always the dead kid.”

G. Lee grimaced, but only for an instant. After that he realized the producer was right. His repo-man friend wasn’t going to call back - not in time for him to shoot the tow truck in action and get it back by six. That’s what time the newscast he was assigned to started and if something interesting didn’t happen soon, it would feature 100 seconds of dead air. G, Lee couldn’t let that happen - even if it meant robbing the night crew of a perfectly good follow up. Besides, he was the one who’d rolled out of bed early that morning, who’d fought with a road map through most of Cornwell County ’til he found the low bridge with the underbrush all bent, who’d looked and looked for skid marks but found none, who’d settled for bits of windshield glistening at the bottom of a twenty foot drop.….Why shouldn’t he be he one to hang a face on it? G. Lee could think of a dozen reasons why not, but all told they didn’t add up to a hundred seconds. So he grabbed his keys and left the newsroom.

This time the bridge was easy to spot. No sooner had G. Lee crested the hill than a twinkle of light led his eye to the troubling abutment. There, a single Mylar balloon twisted in the afternoon breeze, catching sunlight and sending it skittering across the quiet valley. It hadn’t been there earlier, this beacon of grief, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see it now. Not with Cromwell High two short miles away. Not with one of its promising Juniors now lying on a city slab. G. Lee blew threw his teeth as he coasted past the little bridge. A tenth of a mile later he turned onto the same dirt road he parked on earlier, but this time he drove further down the path until the tree branches totally obscured his news unit’s garish logos.

Hopping out, he raised the back lid and fished around in back for what he needed. Camera, tripod, run-bag: he gathered them all together and closed the lid, leaving his feelings safely inside. A few minutes later, G. Lee settled into the shadows of the forest overlooking the bridge - far enough in to be missed at first glance, out in the open enough not to be accused of hiding. Overhead, a family of small brown birds looked down in judgment as he plucked at a few blades of grass, dickered with his cell phone and glanced at his watch. 3:05. Closing his eyes, he drifted and almost convinced himself he heard a bell ringing. G. Lee thought he knew what was about to happen. He only hoped they’d be on time.

They were. First a pick-up truck, then an old Volvo approached; their young drivers parking on the narrow shoulder of the road before abandoning them altogether. Then more cars rolled up until both sides of the asphalt were lined with vehicles sporting Cromwell High parking stickers. As the engines crackled and cooled the cars’ passengers disembarked. Cheerleaders, cross-country runners, Goth kids and teenagers of little description gathered around the little bridge. Some cursed, many cried, a few smoked. All grieved the inconceivable absence of their classmate, a young man of seventeen who’d managed to kill himself with little more than bravado and momentum. From his perch, G. Lee watched it all in tiny black and white, rolling on the makeshift memorial in the making. But the bosses would want more than distant distress. They’d want tears, up close and in focus. G. Lee knew what he had to do. He collapsed the tripod with a single latch release, slung his camera over an opposite shoulder and turned his wireless microphone on. Spotting a young girl sobbing over a opened yearbook, he began making his way down the hill, even before the competition’s news car pulled up and greatly quickened his descent.

It bothered him sometime, how it didn’t bother him anymore.

Crockett, Tubbs... Whipple

(Via Amanda Emily) Long before he dedicated his life to protecting toilet tissue, Mr. Whipple enjoyed an invigorating career as a Miami news man... Okay, so it's actually Warner-Pathe News photographer Cliff Poland back in the autumn of 1950. Back then, things were different: news organizations shot on film, no one left home without a wristwatch and grown men ALWAYS tucked in their shirttails. And what a shirt! I think I have that same floral print in the bottom of a drawer somewhere, though even on my least wrinkled day, I never rocked it quite like this Über Photog. But he wasn't just fashion forward. Poland was a storied lenslinger; he was even aboard the USS Missouri when General MacArthur and a couple of dozen Japanese ended a little thing called World War II. Ever the stickler for protocol, MacArthur didn't want a bunch of newsman jamming microphones in his face during the surrender. So Poland fabricated a curved stand that would place the mics in front of the general, but below his ornery eye level. The ceremony got underway, a temporary peace fell over the globe and a press conference practice was born. Not bad for a guy in a tropical top...

Fool by the Pool

So the local water park blew some coin on a sick new ride and the suits in the room thought it might look good on television. Clearly, this is a job for Lenslinger. Actually, Weaver was scheduled to unveil Wet and Wild's new pitch-black plummet, but a whiff of aviation fuel lured him to the hills of Wilkes County - where, being Weaver, he conjured up a manhunt. All of which goes to explain why Nicole Ferguson I spent the morning of the Photog Equinox poolside, as two members of the park's management team hurled themselves into a watery void. It's a living.

Doctor Von Dark's Tunnel of Terror. THAT'S what they named the damn thing. Guess Captain Flatulence's Angry Intestine was taken, probably by some water park up in Flushings. Heh-heh, Flushings. Actually, Lawn GUY-land is the only other place you'll find a similar structure - a contorted stack of tubes featuring a forty foot drop in complete darkness. Think of it as Paul Bunyan's turlet tank! Or don't. It's not like I ain't gonna push you down a pipe just for being disagreeable.

Not when I have such willing victims as Kathy and Kerry. Officially, they're part of Wet and Wild's crack sales force, but a clause in their contracts allows them to act as turds in the punchbowl whenever a news crew comes a callin'. Around here that's pretty often, as W&W is known far and wide for its ample camera fodder. Don't believe me? Drag a fancycam past the Lazee River one summer day. You'll see more farmer's tans, open beer guts and leaky Speedos than can be found in a fortnight at Myrtle Beach. And that's saying something...

Today however, the Carolina's largest water park was damn near empty, mostly because it's yet to open for the season. Only plumbing ninjas and landscapers roamed about, punctuated by a small legion of teenage lifeguards twirling whistles this way and that. I suppose they're training for when little Pugslie gets stuck in the drain at the bottom of the wave pool. That, or the food court fry cook runs out of chicken nuggets and bands of adolescents stage an insurrection outside Pirate's Cove. Maybe they should give those lifeguards tasers, too.

Speaking of weapons, I rolled up with a few of my own. In addition to my fancyam, sidearm digital and rainbow collection of half-dead batteries, I brought the station's camcorder and underwater housing. It's not the kind of thing I normally eff with, but knowing Weaver would have arrived in full scuba gear, I opted to engorge my own McGyver. It's not exactly my wheelhouse, but rough waters call for extra vigilance. Besides, what's more comforting than twisting a ziplock bag around a handycam you don't own and handing it to a total stranger in a bikini. All I asked is she not pop out the other end of the tube withOUT my camera and its condom.

She didn't. In fact, we may have awakened the inner cinematographer in our waterpark mouthpiece, for Kathy and Kerry giggled a bit harder each time we sent them down the drink with contraption in hand. I only wish I'd thought to make sure the damn thing was zoomed OUT, for undefined frames of bubbles and swish do but so much for a finished piece. In the end, we got some decent footage, but considering the word DARK is in the ride's name, we didn't rewrite any new paradigms. Only Nicole distinguished herself with a lens, popping off these shots while managing not to drop the camera or her Crackberry in the Urination Station kiddie pool.

All that and looks too.

A Need to Know

There is no ONE PATH to becoming a TV News Photog; no series of checklists, no governing body, no filigreed sheepskin proclaiming you Doctor of Cameraman Thropology. Sure, you can study broadcasting in college or send your checks to NPPA, but you’re not truly a photog until you’ve worn a groove in your right shoulder, backpedaled before shackled madmen or sat through a month’s worth of fruitless city council meetings. Yes, as a field of discipline it’s wonderfully disciplined, one of the few remaining professions through on the job training. I myself only began mastering the craft after failing at other professional endeavor, a career path I wouldn’t suggest to those fond of paying their bills on time. But lucky as I was to find my special purpose, I know that, compared to some, I’m barely a cameraman at all.

That’s because I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the innards of my many gizmos. Yeah, I know which model of fancycam I drag across the Piedmont each day and I grasp the limitations of my wireless microphone, but I harbor no flowcharts in my pea sized brain and not once have I EVER referred to an audio cable as an X-L-R. There are those who do, of course, mostly freelancers who know more about their gear ’cause they’re the ones who bought it. Some station staffers can also be counted on to know every inch of their glass and plastic, but I think it’s safe to assume most photogs out there know a lot more about story execution than internal schematics. In my not so humble opinion, that’s as it should be, though there are legions of lenslingers who’d like to hang me by the tripod for peddling such heresy.

Take the crowd over at b-roll.net, the on-line watering hole for those of us with camera batteries on porta-bake. Smart folks, they are: from the newsroom neophyte to the terminal burnout to the sore shouldered sage - each group slathers passion and piss over a living compendium of issues and opinions. This latest conundrum should be a fun one, but already gifted lensers are getting their panties in a wad because someone or another told them the world was not as they see it. It’s kind of pathetic really, like watching buggy-whip makers argue over who sports the best leather while Henry Ford rolls new Model T’s off assembly lines in the background. But I didn’t log in to denigrate the b-roll army. I just wanted to move that latest mullet photo a little lower down the page. But while I’m at it…

I DO think it’s important for anyone with a lens in their life to understand all that it will do. That said, I’m not sure what good it does to spout serial numbers by heart- unless you‘re trying out for the role of C3-PO in your community theater. I’d much rather you know how to work a room full of pissed off officials, how to pretend you’re not shooting when you are, how to tell the suits your mast won’t stay up when thunder falls on your live truck. Master that and you’ll be in demand long after the techno-tog has fallen out of fashion, for the era of the specialist is coming to a close. I’m not saying it’s right, but fancycams are about to come with candy-colored buttons. If you thought the rise of video over film dumbed down the craft, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Now move out of the way, would ya? I want to point this shiny thing on my shoulder at that bent sheet metal over there...

Swagger to the Max

It was the end of the 80's and I was not known for my wise decisions. But even my heftiest of skeptic had to marvel at what I'd brought back from my military stint: a beautiful, brilliant, beaming girlfriend. 'What could SHE see in HIM?' they wondered. I knew better than to ask. Instead, I quietly thanked God for doing me a solid when he ushered this beguiling creature into my life. It was no less than a cosmic upgrade, for suddenly I found myself a civilian again, with a hot blonde on my arm. It's amazing what that will do for a young man's swagger. Yes, with her by my side, I wasn't even troubled bu the fact that my man-do would make Conway Twitty twinge. I credit the presence of this pretty woman with convincing me I had something to contribute to this globe; imagine her chagrin when I decided it would be (gulp!) local television. Still, that didn't scare her off. She pursued nursing, I learned to zoom with my feet and before you know it a wedding date was set. That was nineteen years ago today and even to my surprise, we're still going strong. Somewhere along the way, my lovely wife replicated herself; now I'm the father of two beautiful girls who I pray will hold off a bit before bringing home some lucky schlub like the one pictured above. When they do, I'll damn sure give him the business, for no one knows better than I the residual benefits of a good woman. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take out the trash. Life ain't ALL romance, ya know...

Turd at Rest

No bloated prose goes here; just a simple shout-out to my friend Rick Portier, that Louisiana lenslinger who keeps the mean streets of Baton Rouge safely awash in piss and vinegar. A potent scribe in his own right, the artist known as Turdpolisher doesn't blog as much as he used to; instead he toils away on an off-line project, a novel of sorts he once promised to let me read. It just goes to show ya: there's more going on inside your average photog's head than wondering when he last white-balanced. As for me, I'm looking forward to NAB 10, where I hope to join Rick and quite a few others for the kind of monastic reflection one can only get in Vegas. Party on, Turd...

In Other News...

Never fails: I get into a good blogging groove and everyday life slaps me back into reality. How real writers foster their muse I don't know, but I'm guessing it doesn't involve forty hours a week of overland recorder portage. No bother, I've been push-button publishing long enough to know when to force it, when to chill and when to turn the damn thing off lest the Missus turn my upper lair into a sewing room. Thus, my output will always fluctuate - or at least until I figure out a way to make a living off dispatches both snarky and maudlin. In the meantime, forgive me if I go missing now and then, for as much I love this time we share together, I live with three females and greatly enjoy sleeping inside. So while I attempt to make this space as nifty as it appears on the dirty windshield of my news unit every morning, take heart in the fact that I think of you dear reader far more often than you think of me. If that creeps you out a little, I understand. Just promise you won't sit there in awkward silence as I rid my lid of residual squibs...

Anyone who wants to know what it's like to be a TV news photographer in a faltering economy should immediately flee this place and read a most prescient post by the great John Dumontelle. Yes, the photog known as 'Lensmith' has a couple of years on me and none of the high-dollar word addiction - all of which makes his latest manifest sad, noble and needed. Newsrooms the world over should display his post where all can see it - at least until half of them go semi-dark.

'What the hell are they looking at?" I thought as an elderly couple gaped and grinned at me during a recent red light. That's when it hit me: the news unit I'd borrowed for the day was festooned in look-at-me logos. It's been less than two years since I joined the ranks of unmarked news-gatherers. In that short amount of time I've totally forgotten what it feels like to pick your nose in a rolling billboard. Can't say I really miss it.

They say a sailor can sleep anywhere and they're right. Back in the Nav I learned to sack out in the ship's empty spaces, during on-deck inspections and while pretending to stare at a glowing radar scope. For better or worse, this ability followed me into civilian life; today i can catch wide-open shut-eye at long stoplights, short press conferences and - most tragically - my oldest offspring's orchestra performances. At least the houselights were dimmed...

I must be slipping. Today I let a fresh-faced photojournalism intern shadow my every move and I enjoyed most every minute of it. That's a real switch; I'm as adept at losing newbies as any other lenslinging lifer. Don't believe me? Hold this empty tape box while I low-crawl to the parking lot. Better yet, believe me when I say that teaching comes easy when your source material is etched in what's left of your soul. The wife is right, though: I come off pretty bitter. It's really just sarcasm soaked in twenty years of met deadlines...

Whenever I grow too satisfied with something I've scribbled (damn seldom as of late), I go back and read a little Rick Bragg. The Alabama native doles out his sordid family tales with Southern aplomb, twisting haunting narratives from everyday skeletons. All Over But the Shoutin', Ava's Man, and Prince of Frogtown make my heart ache and head thrb. Mostly it reminds me of the kind of writer I want to become when I grow up. Now wonder he's got a Pulitzer Prize...

In Theaters Then...

Forget the new Star Trek, I wanna see THIS! Considered by some to be the best film ever made in Australia (Up YOURS, Mad Max!), Newsfront portrays political turmoil, the birth of workplace feminism and a whole bunch of dudes in suspenders and fedoras! What's more, producers made use of a then revolutionary technique: seamlessly editing old black and white newsreel footage into their 1978 feature fill-um. Your chocolate's in my peanut butter! Anyway, I've yet to find a real plot synopsis, but judging from the poster alone it involves a romance, some car chases and enough pleated slacks to fuel a Mens Wearhouse. Best of all, there's no CGI effects, no black-shirted hipsters dripping in sarcasm and not one cursed live truck in sight! Awwww, the good ole days...

UPDATE: Having secured her very own copy, archivist extraordinaire Amanda Emily posts her own review. Should the Lenslinger Institute ever truly materialize, I'm putting Amanda in charge of the library wing...

Nuthin' But Bungee

Leave it to my Surly Editor® to post photographic evidence of the apocalypse now upon us... Okay, so it's just a picture of a handycam hog-tied to a tripod from the Reagan Administration, what's so globe-splitting about THAT? Well, plenty if you happen to sling a lens for a living. Even if you don't, it's hard to excuse the incongruities of a camera the size of a baked potato resting on this launch pad of a pedestal. The yellow and red bungee... eh, it's like noticing that banged-up Hyundai with the spinning rims has duct tape on the door handle. It's a sign of the times, all right; one that troubles News Blues' own Mike James:

The jury-rigged contraption, we think, represents perfectly the current state of local TV news.

No argument there, but from my admittedly low spot on the totem-pole, things are actually looking up. Nooo, I didn't bang my head on my news unit's open tailgate lid. I'm well aware good people are losing their jobs, just as I recognize the drop in overall quality that downsized gear and untested newbies will bring... but as someone who's learned how to turn vague story ideas into ninety second epics without any of that pesky glory, I can tell you: more of the same is on the way. That's fine by me, as I'm convinced TV news would be a lot more watchable if we removed the thick layer of sheen we've let build up on our sets all these many transmissions...

Now I'm not saying we should all sell our tripods, don black turtlenecks and mumble into the microphone like some newspaper hack imitating his favorite NPR host. No one wants more of THAT. But in the name of all that's banal, have you watched a commercial newscast lately? Even the good ones, like those I toil for, follow the same tired architecture forged back when Mary Tyler Moore was on the air. What led to this industry-wide case of arrested development? Consultants? Monopolistic technology? Those fuzzy cheese crackers in the break-room vending machine? Sure, they all played a role - but with staffing down and story count UP, who has time to place blame?

I certainly don't. Neither does my fellow photog Chris Weaver. Together (yet separately) we're cranking out finished pieces without much help from anybody. Got a three o clock event you want to lead your 5:30 show with? Yeah, we can do that. Wanna send one of us to go check out mysterious lights over the worst hood in town? Race ya. Need me to babysit a live truck while someone takes notes on footage I've already committed to memory? Are you HIGH? Don't answer that; just know there's a certain underclass of employee watching all this newsroom upheaval out of the corner of their eye. Remember that scene in Planet of the Apes when Charleton Heston awakes to find the monkey ON TOP of the horse? I'm pretty sure those saddles were held in place with bungee cords....

Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!

Jesus, Take the Wheel

I don't mind hanging out in YOUR office, if it'll get me out of MINE. Luckily, I get that opportunity a lot. High-rise headquarters, mid-level partition farms, basement dispatch cages ... I've crashed 'em all. Today, however, I lounged about in my favorite kind of workplace: the kind that moves. J.D. Bricken was behind the wheel. It only seemed right; as manager of the Pee Dee National Wildlife Refuge he knew tons more about its 8,443 sprawling acres than some goofy-ass cameraman. Soooo, after a thirty minute commute and a ninety minute trip to Anson (where the hell is Anson County?) County, I gladly settled into the shotgun seat of a federally owned F-150 and let J.D. do the driving. But he didn't just drive. He took calls, put out paperwork fires and called out every species of fauna, flora and flattened frog we passed along the way. I tried to shoot 'em all - but with a manly man like J.D. at the helm it was tempting not to find my happy place, knowing that even if we toppled over into the rushing Pee Dee River he'd call out to the fishes, launch a few emergency flares and order up a helo strike l-o-n-g before I could pen my first polysyllabic ode to suffering. Whew! He even proved his readiness later in the day when somebody took an ant-bite to the hand and commenced to blathering about rogue crocodiles lurking in the marshes... Yes, it pays to have a well-equipped naturalist around when you're on safari.

The tranquilizer dart, I could have done without, though. My left cheek is still throbbing...

Dashing through Discovery

With the May ratings period on the wane, these fluffy little travelogue pieces won't last long. Soon enough they'll vanish into the morass of 'general assignment' and I'll spend much of the day trained on something sedate. But as long as the suits keep sending me to not so distant spots on the map, I'll shut my piehole and hit my mark. Case in point, the above digest on Discovery Place: that Charlotte institution I admittedly rushed through the other day. Hey, YOU attempt cinema while being harangued by hyped-up middle schoolers. I can get THAT at home...

Wayne's World

ATTENTION: The following is NOT some pithy attempt to gain the favor of social media superstar Wayne Sutton. It only reads like one...

By the time we got to Raleigh, the Novocaine was beginning to wear off. Thus, what had felt like a sleeping caterpillar under my lip now twitched and throbbed like a wasp waking up from a three day bender. And yet still I had to grin upon entering The Edge, for there sat a cyber-wiseman the likes of which you don't stumble upon every day. Meet Wayne Sutton: technology evangelist, new data strategist, dude with an iPhone stuck to his face. When I realized he was taking our picture, I tried to smile, but the hour old filling made it tough. It didn't matter; Wayne seemed satisfied with the frame and sent it to Flickr before I could wipe the drool off the face.

'This geek's got game' I heard myself think.

Boy does he. 86 Facebook fans, 24,746 followers on Twitter, a longtime blog, gobs of podcasts, umpteen vlogs... this is one techie who likes to talk - be it via the laptop he packs, the fancy-phone he fondles or whatever babbling gadget Apple masters next. Whether it blows, glows or floats, Sutton is apt to early-adopt, provided it helps him siphon more disciples. Unassuming in person, this nattily-dressed nerd-star knows how to network. From Friendster to Linked-In to something called brightkite, this quiet cat lords over more dominions than a thousand creepy Burger Kings.

You can imagine how he'd intrigue a web-megalomaniac like me...

Still, I played it cool, occasionally thumping my upper lip to stun the grumpy arthropod within. Sutton didn't seem to notice as he answered Bob's on-camera queries. Instead, he dropped a workshop's worth of knowledge on the habit of interacting on-line. Making sure to record every word, I added to the inquisition with a few caveman like grunts and furtive motions. Luckily, Sutton spoke Spittle and we soon found ourselves lost in conversation. 'The Force is strong with this one,' I thought but did not say. Instead we stuck with the highly probable, like how pretty soon we'll be able to scan the interweb on our kitchen toaster - as it burns our bread to pre-selected perfection. I must admit, that more than butters my loaf - if only 'cause I likes to read.

How will I ever finish (er, start) that book if my waffle-iron comes with wi-fi?

You probably don't know and that's understandable. I myself have shifted visions, as it's hard to commit to building a hardback when soft-copy thoughts are so easy to share. Perhaps I should drop some coin on a fancier phone, pimp out my Twitters, make over my Facebook. Even if I do, I'll likely never gain the following of The Man from Wallace. Wallace! Last time I checked the only thing they had there was a Mad Boar Restaurant on the way back from the beach. Do the town founders there know they got a new media guru so transparent you can see through him on sunny days? Once I break down all this ole fashioned lights and mirrors, I swear I'm gonna tell them - in 140 mumbled syllables or less...

Maybe I'll wait until I can fully feel my face.

Rogues' Gallery

Lest you think the idling media scrum originated at the O.J. Simpson trial, Amanda Emily proves otherwise with this artifact from Cle Elum, Washington, circa 1920. I'm especially taken with the cat third from the left; that jaunty stance and lack of camera...Could he be a (muddy) field correspondent? Amanda think's he may the be the 'contact man', what we think of today as a field producer. Either way, it's an impressive bunch even if most of them do look like Winston Churchill. Yup, I wanna party with these guys...

YOU THERE...

...with the clingy tops and delusions of excellence: Congratulations - you made it into The Book of Lenslinger. Where exactly, I'm not really sure, but that line you laid on your erstwhile partner today won you a prominent place in the chapter about bad behavior. I only wish I could share it with my visitors here. Instead, I'll have to wait. While I do, let me thank you. See, burgeoning satirists like me pray for displays like yours today. Talented scribes have wandered in the wilderness for years in search of that kind of real life dialogue... and to think you gave it away for free! Honestly, I don't deserve it. But I'll take it, take it and save the whole thing verbatim 'til fate presents me with a proper showcase. I just hope my readers won't think it too over the top. God knows I wouldn't have believed it myself had I not witnessed up close and personal-like. That vast sucking sound you heard when you stopped talking? That was me, trying to force air back in my lungs after your words drop-kicked that dude in the sternum. I thought I'd heard it ALL during my twenty year tenure, but YOU, dear, just added to my memoirs.

It's sad, really - watching a promising young broadcaster devolve into a haughty cartoon. But it ain't like it's the first time. See, I was watching small-market anchors throw big city tantrums back when you were humming along to that big purple dinosaur. So was the cat you so thoughtlessly upbraided. Now, I know that doesn't mean much to a superstar like you. After all, we've never been the subject of our very own promo and I don't get fan mail complimenting me on the way my mouth looks when it moves, but I know a thing or three about where television is going and I'm delighted to report You're Not There. Yes, there will always be pretty people reciting the day's events, but as the last traces of vaudeville fall away from our crumbling craft, I sincerely hope we'll find away to dispose of your ilk... Surely there's a reality show casting about for a primadonna who prefers the taste of her very own Kool-Aid. Maybe there's an endorsement deal waiting with Deluded Shrews, that Lifetime series currently in search of a diminutive villainess ....

Then again you future is not my concern. Happily, neither is the health of your escape tape. In fact, I'm merely a bystander, one of many colleagues currently whispering behind your well formed back. We all owe you a debt of gratitude, for asinine behavior like yours is a welcome diversion in such tough economic times. Why you're a natural treasure! Or at the very least a local laughing stock! That must be worth something, for what better cure for performance anxiety than the quiet knowledge that no one's taking you the least bit seriously anymore. Quite an accomplishment, indeed. So, if you'll excuse me I have to retire to my lair and scribble down just. what. you. said. Thanks for reminding me that pomp and petulance are alive and well in the 21st Century. Thanks for reminding me about the downsides of adulation. Thanks for reminding me WHY I like to work alone....

And now for something completely different:

No Swine Before Its Time

Most TV people want their work to begin each newscast. I live to end them. That's why when the suits suggested I investigate a local restaurant's colossal creation, I merely rose from the conference table and left the room. Some crews would scoff at such a frivolous gig. Not me. Not when the alternative assignment may center on kidnapping, collusion, or worse yet, county commissioners. Besides, silly's in my wheelhouse. If you got a house-cat that levitates, a collection of boat anchors or simply a mammoth sammich in need of a name, well, I'm your huckleberry. The resulting piece of TV won't win me anything sparkly for the trophy rack, but chances are it will distract - and in a broadcast chock full of economic apocalypse, that's a good thing... Now if you'll excuse me, I have to knock back this bottle of Drano. What else goes with 12 pounds of pulled-pork?

Detached from Reality

A recent rash of narrow escapes by camera crews has many lenslingers reviewing their emergency egress policy. Mine's pretty simple: When something wicked this way comes, I try to choke it with heel-dust. Unmanly? Perhaps, but twice now lethal forces have zeroed in on my bony ass, first in the form of water, then in the shape of an out-of-control truck. Hey, I've plowed through enough Stephen King novels to recognize overwrought foreshadowing when I see it. If you don't think I'm always on the lookout for Leviathan Number 3, well you've never seen me run like a lee-tull gurrrrl. But enough of my paranoia, let's do the news:

Dateline: Halifax. A CBC news crew was covering a forest fire when winds pushed a wall of flames toward them. Realizing they were surrounded, the producer and photog beat a hasty retreat, but not before recording a few potent moments. Trust me, when a member of a TV news crew is screaming "Leave your tripod!", the oscillator hath already been shat upon.

Dateline: Kansas City When another 'bad economy' story was interrupted by a swirling storm, a KMBC crew scrambled toward the convection in question. They found it alright, but couldn't quite get ahead of it. The resulting mad dash, captured by fancycam, is the most intense escape tape you'll see not featuring computer generated flying cows.

Dateline: Irving, Texas Rookie players from the Dallas Cowboys were practicing before quite a few cameras when their tent-like facility collapsed around them. Lights, support beams and other heavy things came crashing down, scaring the bejeezus out of everyone and paralyzing a scouting assistant. Through it all, the cameramen behaved like, well, cameramen: they kept rolling

But why? Why do otherwise rational souls risk loss of life or limb simply because there's a Sony on their shoulder? I've postulated opinions before, but let's hear from photojournalist John Woods, of the above tornado ordeal...

There’s something about being behind that lens. I almost feel detached from reality. You can be taping something a block away and feel like you’re miles away. I mean how imposing can a little black and white screen be? When I’m looking through that viewfinder, I feel pretty safe. And to feel that way is stupid, I know this. But there’s a sense of comfort behind the camera. It’s been my home away from home for years now. I know it. I’m familiar with it. It’s been a pain in my neck, an ache in my back, and I swear it’s made my right eye nearsighted, but I love it.

Couldn't have said it better myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go cower under my news unit. Rain's comin...

You ever have that dream...

You know: the one where lost out in nature but the light's just not right, where odd sounds and familiar silences fog your cerebellum, where the only sensible about the whole damn scenario is the fact that there's a camera next to your head? WHAT? You've never had that dream? You must not be a photog. If you were, you'd know what it's like to schlep metal, glass and plastic across a shifting dreamscape, to wander the confines of your frontal lobe with a reassuring recorder in tow.... Call it Chimeras Lenslingimus. Or don't; it won't change the fact that rent-a-cops dream of roughing up skateboarders, newspaper reporters dream about scribbling in skinny notepads and TV news photogs dream of dragging lenses into trivia. Then again, maybe it's just me. Perhaps my overactive vocabulary, cinematic imagination and well-worn shoulder groove make me an easy mark for occupational hallucinations. Or, perhaps that late night goat-cheese enchilada was, like Sarah Palin, a poor choice. Either way, it's time to end this little delusion. So, at the count of three I want you to begin opening your eyes and s-l-o-w-l-y wake UP. But remember...

Those aren't pillows.

(Big ups to Kentucky's own Jon Smith for letting me riff on his pitcher)