Betty and Me

When I first met Betty Lynn a few years back, I didn't know who she was! Bob Buckley and I were surfing the crowd outside the Billy Graham Library dedication and he struck up a conversation with a most delightful redhead. Imagine my shock when halfway into the chat, I realized the jolly septuagenarian seated before me was none other than Thelma Lou. Thelma Lou! For those of you living off-planet, that's THE Thelma Lou - rock steady girlfriend of one Barney Fife - protector of Mayberry, keeper of bullet. Understand, The Andy Griffith Show is damn near religion down here. It's been showing on television non-stop since before I was born and while I was never the completist some of my friends were, I knew enough to be devout. So when I met the charmer that brought Thelma Lou to life, I did what any Southern boy would do: I told her how much I loved her. Betty laughed and said she knew. A friendship was born.

Which is why I bristled a bit when I heard she'd been robbed. Last Sunday Betty was leaving a Mount Airy shopping center when some jackhole snatched her wallet from her hands and ran off. Cops caught the fiend but Betty got less than half her money back. Clearly, this was a job for Lenslinger. Not quite a crime-fighter, I knew the most I could do was spread the accused man's mugshot across the land and score a visit with my favorite 80-something year old in the process. So, with the help of Bob Buckley and our mutual friend George Sappenfield, I uncovered the location of Mayberry's Sweetheart and headed that way. I found her holding court at The Andy Griffith Museum in Mount Airy. She was charming a room full of travel writers and I hung back until they were through asking questions she'd answered a million times. When they cleared out, I moved in. Betty didn't really want to publicize the incident - but because she'd never met a cameraman she didn't like - she consented. What followed was a most pleasant interlude as Barney's gal and I kibitzed like old school chums.

The TV piece below that resulted from my visit won't change much. Betty's fine and the tool that tried to make off with her lunch money is in sitting behind bars. But I enjoyed smearing his ugly mug across the land, and any reason to hang with the Miss Lynn is a good one. Here's hoping The Accused runs into some hulking Mayberry fan down in County Lock-up who will remind him how unwise it is to eff with Betty. Now go find your own 80 year old to hug.

Duck and Smother

Wanna totally throw off that pesky media scrum? It's easy: grab the back of any TV photographer's shirt and pull. He'll follow. Of course when he realizes you've led him away from the defendant and toward that soup kitchen, he'll probably want to brain you with the tripod he left in the truck, but hey - you're the one with nothing to do. The point of the matter is most photogs operate on pure muscle memory. Whether we're covering a hero's homecoming or a fresh felon's first stroll to the pokey, proper camera management only requires about 37 basic moves - 35 of which consist of walking backwards with one eye shut. Couple that with our natural herd mentality and you have quite possibly the key to media control. Just remember, what I'm about to jokingly suggest is highly ill-advised. If you cannot withstand a beatdown out by the satellite trucks, DO NOT attempt the following...

1) TV trucks surrounding your home? Have some neighborhood kid float a rumor that the local Radio Shack manager flipped out and is practically giving away duct tape and video connectors. Half the fleet should vanish.

2) Pushing through a gauntlet of heavily logo'd lenses? Start shouting every news slogan you've ever heard. Most photogs will wince at hearing their own, a few will lose their will to shoot and those two cats from the cable outlets will most probably turn on each other.

3) Remember how those hippies would stick daisies in the National Guardsman's gun barrells? Replace those flower petals with crisp Twenties and you Sir or Ma'am have bought your way out of three out of four walks of shame.

4) Sure, you can lower your skull and plow through the crowd of cameras but you'll only seem guiltier on the evening news. My advice? Head up, chest out, knowing chuckle at the ready. Yeah, you'll still make the broadcast - but think how chipper you'll look!

5) If that doesn't work, belt out a showtune or two. The former Sports guys will feel all icky inside, the old drama club techs will secretly swoon and the rest of us will trade enough quizzical looks to give you a chance to get away...

Just don't try to hide. We lenslingers take that as a personal challenge and will risk life and lens to hunt you down ... even if we were never really sure why we were pointing our camera at you in the first place. Now you know.

(Special Thanks to Charleston, West Virginia photog Adrian Mosby for use of his photo)

Speaking of Roy...

What an honor it was to speak at the Roy Hardee Memorial Press Conference - a not so solemn occasion marking the many adventures of one legendary news man. A special thanks to Roy's son Lee for taking note of something I wrote and allowing me to voice it to the Hardee faithful. No, Toastmasters won't be calling, but I did leave the podium feeling better about the debt I owe my very first News Director. Roy, of course, would have shrugged the whole thing off had more than his spirit been in attendance. As it was, he probably had to bite his tongue as his legion of descendants, proteges and rabid admirers gathered to chat about the man whose very name meant News for no less than fifty years.

Naturally, it was something of a reunion. A Park Station era Channel Nine crowd showed up en force: There was Lori Scott - the woman who suckered me into minimum wage servitude back in 1989. Farm News elder John Spence brought his memories, baritone and supply of smart-ass remarks. Thomas Cormier and I chuckled over that day we jumped out of a mostly okay airplane. Woody Spencer materialized, told me 'these aren't the droids you're looking for' and vanished. Neal Fox and I toasted to the hard time we served together in Chocowinity. And a still quite fetching Johnna Miller told me how Roy's silent assurances filled her with confidence early in her career...

Explains all those times she kicked MY butt.

The Nerve to Swerve

Here's the thing: when the story a news crew has been working on all morning falls apart, said news crew does NOT simply take a longer lunch. After all, there's still a gaping hole in the evening newscast and now a pissed-off producer to boot. If the news crew is lucky or smart, they'll conjure up something quick and pitch it to a desk suddenly under duress. Otherwise, they could be sent on just. about. anything. Leper festival, moratorium orgy, infected puppy follow-up: the scenarios are grisly but who has time to wretch? Not YOU. You've got two minutes of broadcast to patch - not to mention a lactose-intolerant show-stacker who's pretty pissed Ellen is being interrupted by your selfish needs. Sheesh!

So where am I going with all this? In circles, apparently. It's one of my specialties. I can throw a late model hatchback into a controlled 360 quicker than most cops can execute a PIT maneuver. Practice helps. Tell me on the cellie the widow/Congressman doesn't wanna talk anymore and I'll turn this Escort wagon around so fast the logos will glow. Ya see, shit. Falls. Through. Plans so grandiose they could only come from a morning meeting can smash upon impact on the cold, hard shores of reality. There are many reasons. Broken phone tag. Secretarial insulation. That weird habit people have of working during the day. Yes, a million different ripples can capsize your news-craft and cause producers back at the shop to spill that swill in the break room that passes for coffee all over their Glee mouse pads...

But I'm not here to run down producers - or anyone else for that matter! I only want to go home at the end of the day and not cringe should I wander past my story of the day playing in the corner of the living room. That requires focus: a narrow state of mind that must hold steady even when everything falls at apart three hours before showtime. How do I know? It happened to me three times in a row last week, for reasons I've already forgotten. Not that it matters. NOTHING matters when there's gaping stretch of dead air looming in the distance, a dulling abyss of static and shame with your name all over it. So when you see me blowing past on the interstate, take no offense. I'm merely racing for my livelihood - running headlong into a deadline with precious little to appease a most truculent News God....

Reason enough to get her up on two wheels...

Under the Thumb

In this little scene sequel to Over the Top, Sly's brother Frank stars as a struggling trucker's half-cousin bent on world forearm domination. All goes well for the monosyllabic Stallone until an especially grisly bone break at an Ohio tournament becomes a YouTube sensation. From their the picture devolves into standard buddy-fare as Frank and the young photog who made his famous embark on a cross-country dump-truck chase. An unbilled Cloris Leachman collects a paycheck in the third act as the Ghost of Ma Barker. (Don't ask.) Unrated. Straight to Cable. Panned for its many musical numbers and slow-motion knuckle explosions. 89 minutes - give or take a dance sequence...

(Photo by David Heasley. Special Thanks to ColumbusCameraOp)

Scenes from a Pot-Pull

As marijuana eradications go, it was pretty weak. An armful of spindly plants, some overheated deputies and a far higher 'slog to weed' ration than I found logical... But truthfully, it was a buzz just being there. That's because it was 1992 and I'd yet to overdose on the thrill of the hunt. It wasn't my first pot-pull (please - no jokes!), but it was an early one and my field training was far from complete. When I noticed Photog Elder Woody Spencer pointing his camera at the the media pack, I looked forward to seeing what magic he'd craft from it. I just didn't know that nearly two decades would pass before I got a peek...

Seems Woody sold The Suits on a story about news crews themselves. His weekly features, Woody's World, were brilliant and I learned something from them every Friday evening. Still, I was a little surprised his bosses let him turn his camera on his office mates. But by doing so, they commissioned a rolling thesis on my biggest mentors, starting with this guy: Paul Dunn. Part good ole boy, part car salesman, ALL photog, Paul didn't teach me how to use a camera. He taught me how to take it to interesting places. I could write books on our many adventures, but for now, know this: TV News became a less interesting place the day he left the business.

But even swashbucklers have better halves. In Paul's case, it was his then girlfriend/now wife: Carolyn Kusbit. A forthright young woman from Pennsylvania, Carolyn was the kind of person my Father might call a Yankee. Watching her assimilate into the not so deep South was always a kick - until she started kicking ass and taking names. As a local reporter she was exacting, relentless and annoyingly committed to the truth. Our many, many crime scene conversations were the very basis for my humble blog and yellow tape billowing in the breeze still brings her cackle to mind. In Woody's piece, she comes off as Holly Hunter's character in 'Broadcast News'. That's no act - but it was a limited appearance. A full blown educator now, she was recently spotted defending her dissertation. You go, Dr. Dunn!

As talented as we deeply believed ourselves to be, nobody held a candle to this cat: Andy Cordan. A whirling dervish of lenses and machismo, Andy perfected the cop-car ride-a-long well before Bertram Van Munster pioneered COPS. Though I never could quite fully emulate his chutzpah, his balls-out approach to news-gathering left deep, deep imprints on my neophyte psyche.I still have a fond memory of Andy shoving a lens into a freshly shackled bank robber’s face and ’suggesting’ he show more emotion. Unlike Paul, Carolyn or even Woody, Andy Cordan is still at it, pounding the means streets of Nashville. If you see him down there, say 'Hi' for me. Then get the hell out of his way.

But enough of my rambling; just watch Woody's piece below. If memory serves me correct, it never aired, as Woody's bosses decided it was too 'self-serving'. (Pfft! What must they think of reality show contestants cluttering up newscasts now?) Thus I had to wait nearly 20 years to see just what my elder was up to. I should have known it would feature me floundering...

The Doctors Will See You Now...

In the latest episode of 'SCHLUBS', things get hinky on the surgery wing as a few visiting news crews slip away from a prostate operation photo-op and begin terrorizing both patients and staff. It's all harmless grab-ass at first, but when the rogue photogs towel-pop the wrong proctologist, a fist-fight ensues that threatens to quarantine the entire hospital. Special Guest Star Lou Ferigno as the overzealous security guard who restores order by tasering the trio until they shriek like little girls, soil their purloined scrubs and offer to shoot ANYONE'S daughter's wedding if only the big green guy will lay off the zapper. Viewer Discretion Advised.

Three Men and a BabyCam

Okay, so we TV News Photogs may not take the most elaborate trips - but our vacation videos are OFF THE CHAIN! At least that's the case with this latest moving picture opus featuring our Vegas adventure. Minutes after landing back in Raleigh, Chris Weaver began whittling away at all the footage we'd brought back - on a brand new editing system, no less! (Final Cut Pro, if you must know. Did I mention there's a gleaming new Mac in Team Slinger's future?) Anyway, the resulting clip has EVERYTHING: Bad Acting, Simulated 3-D and enough shots of my thinning hair to make me finally blow some coin on that bottle of Rogaine. But enough about me - how about that Weaver? and Rick? And Adam? And the soon to be featured Amanda Emily? Without any of them, none of these indulgent videos would have ever seen the light of day and you'd have no real idea what a goober I am in person. Come to think of it - whose idea was this anyway? I just wanted a quiet few days in Vegas: play a few slots, maybe take in a show... Now I gotta defend myself to the Photog Nation just 'cause we broke an axis or three, ditched our light kit and stuffed a rather large Californian in a rented sub-compact! Pfft! Like you don't do any of that on YOUR vacation...



Anyhoo, that's the last you'll hear about NAB 2010 for a while. It was great fun hanging out under no deadline but our own and to anyone who appeared in our silly little videos, I'd just like to say: Don't sweat it. Dignity is way overrated. Now, go watch these bloopers and be thankful you're not in them. Kinda wish I wasn't.

Have YOU Seen This Man?

MISSING: 30-something Man-Child. Last seen hovering over deviled-egg section of a questionable Las Vegas buffet. Answers to 'Adam', 'News-Hawk' and the occasional "Dude, you're blockin' the shot!" Originally from California; spotted on 4/13 trailing camera crew in seedy casino region surrounding Convention Center. Possesses limited social skills but highly trained in all things video. Supposed high intellect masked by slovenly facade. Known to frequent camera shops, tripod dives and photo shows. Easily dazzled by shiny objects. Information: Contact lenslinger@triad.rr.com NO Reward...

Queen of All Media

We here at the Lenslinger Institute have enjoyed Peggy Phillip's web presence for years, so when she strolled up on on the convention floor Monday, Weaver fired up the looking glass. (Adam even wandered by and snapped a photo before stumbling off toward the Steadicam tent.) Why all the fuss? Peggy's a TV News blogging pioneer and a nice lady to boot. Plus, the newsroom she runs calls its staffers Multi-Media Journalists or MMJ''s. That's a rather unsavory sobriquet in most cameras circles, where many an old school photog wishes the world would begin spinning the other way. It ain't. So while we cling to this heartless orb, let's listen to the lady herself, as Peggy Phillips tells us what color the sky is in her world. Hit it, Weave...

Jokers Eleven

Okay, so we're not the Rat Pack - but the motley photogs who joined me in Vegas have a swagger all their own. It's a loping, cocksure stride forged in heavy glass and crippled sticks. You'll find sexier beasts wandering Sin City, but few pedestrians are quite so street as the battered souls who call themselves Team 'Slinger. We are TV stevedores and our every step is tempered my decades of deadline met. Alright, so mostly we're suburban Dads with questionable backs and creaky knees, but the vagaries of the chase have left us inured to this glittering desert scab, for a career spent bent over a lens won't put too many chips in your pocket, but it will lengthen that thousand yard stare - which comes in damn handy when fending off the absurdities of The Strip. Now let's meet the players:

Anyone who's read this blog more than twice knows I have a deep abiding dependence on one Chris Weaver. What they probably don't know is that we knew each other well before El Ocho or that our Mamas live about a mile apart. That would make us partners from the start - which is just how we approach our little Vegas jaunts. Whereas I'm full of lofty notions and ten dollar words, Weaver possesses the street level sense to get us to the airport on time. That kind of common sense comes in handy - whether you're trying to make a flight or convince a race car driver to take your camera for a ride. Here Weaver can be seen tweaking a JVC for maximum time space continuum sensitivity, solely because I told him it couldn't be done. A good man to have in a scrap -- or anywhere else...


Attention: Should I choke on poker chips or comp tickets, this is the one man who can continue Viewfinder BLUES. Rick Portier (Miss Jackson if you're nasty) may call himself Turdpolisher, but he's selling himself short. Shooter, writer, philosopher; this Louisiana lenslinger is all that and more. Honestly, I shouldn't like the guy so much - as he's a lot like me. But his caustic wit and expansive hand motions win me over every time, 'cause I'm just a sucker for folks deeper than they first appear. Lately, he's even been gracing local airwaves with his stubbly mug and no one's thrown themselves off any tall buildings yet. Oh - ask about his theories on how monkeys and midgets can save local news, but buy a round of cocktails first: it's a lengthy pitch.

Far less familiar to readers is our next operative: a man known only as Adam K. I first met him ages ago - when he called himself 'NewsHawk', chased traffic accidents for a daily wage and regularly slept in his self-appointed news car. But don't let the lumbering facade fool you. There's not a lens he can't manipulate, an edit session he can't improve or a free buffet he cannot lessen. There's only one problem: He's a shadowy cat. Five minutes into the world's largest electronic media show and we all but lost him. That's just how he rolls, I guess, set at his own indecipherable speed, receiving phantom updates only he can hear. I just hope he's careful. A man that dangerous could end up dumped in the desert - or worse yet - babysitting a city council meeting...

But more on that later.

The King and I

Some seek out Elvis when they get to Vegas; I make a beeline for one Kevin Johnson. There I bask in the mellifluous baritone of the b-roll.net founder. We talk shop, hoist a few highballs, maybe close out with a song. Invariably, someone strikes up a lens and before you know it the whole damn thing is documented. So press the PLAY thingie above for more insider TV tech talk than you can probably stomach and know that no photogs were harmed in the making of this tape...

The Slingover

There's still tons to come in Team 'Slinger's smotherage of NAB 2010, but tell me: you ever buried a friend in the desert? Legal-wise, I can't say that I have - though the above photo sure makes it look that way. What can I tell ya? Gather enough TV News shooters on the edge of Vegas and something untoward is bound to happen. What exactly did I'll keep to myself, but rest assured this incriminating shot will all be explained in an upcoming video. In the meantime, I have to unpack, decompress and hope a certain rock-pile doesn't get discovered before I can establish a proper alibi. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go Photoshop someone else's head onto my shoulders - lest the authorities round me up before dawn and the Greater Piedmont Googolplex is deprived of yet another frothy, feel-good feature piece. Stay tuned...

B-Roll Bash 2010

Sure, we talk about going to the National Association of Broadcaster's electronic media show for all the new technology, but the real reason we fly to Vegas every couple of years is the B-Roll Bash. Why? It's a good time. B-roll.net founder Kevin Johnson goes out of his way to put on a spread: free beer, finger food, complimentary vendor trinkets ... did I mention free beer? Still, it take more than hops and barley to drag me to this synthesized oasis. It takes people. And the people who attend the b-roll bash are kindred spirits. sure, there mostly TV news photographers who speak in light temperatures and body bags, but one can't choose who they naturally identify with, can one? Don't answer that; just know that for a guy who spends way too much time hunched over a keyboard alone, it's downright revelatory to meet who folks who actually read his drivel... There I go speaking in the third person again. Hell, if anyone should refer to themselves that way, it's a couple of gentlemen I had the pleasure of clinking glasses with last night.

First is Les Rose: the CBS News legend known for lensing Steve Hartman's brilliant 'Everybody Has A Story' pieces. Beyond that, Les is also known for his work with the Poynter Institute and university work. He is, in my line of work, a rock star. Not only that, he's a heck of a nice guy. Both times that I've met him, he's made a point to say he reads my stuff; an admission that quite honestly makes my head spin. If the Les Roses of the world can stomach the contents of my lowly blog, I must be doing something right. It's that quiet knowledge that will help keep me sane the next time I'm trapped at a ribbon cutting, or stuffed in the front seat of a police car with a viewfinder in my face.

Secondly is Al Tompkins. If you work in TV News, you most probably know who he is. If you work in TV News and don't know who he is, you are a fool. A senior guru at The Poynter Institute, his "Al's Morning Meeting" is read by more than 20,000 people a day - most of whom aren't nearly as clever as him. There's a reason his book, "Aim For The Heart: A Guide for TV Producers and Reporters," which is used by more than 70 universities as their main broadcast writing textbook. It's unadulterated wisdom: the kind of thing every young TV journalist should commit to memory. I did - a long time ago.

Both Al and Les were generous with their time last night. It's probably no secret I'm frustrated with where my writing is and isn't taking me and together both of these legendary figures plied me with praise, sound advice and the ocasional chicken wing. Thanks, gentlemen. If I fail to achieve my literary goals, it won't be your fault. Sure, I'd sacrifice a limb for a peek at your collective Rolodex - but by granting me a moment or ten of your time, I can leave Vegas with both arms and legs - provided I stay out of the casinos.

NAB in 3-D!

I have seen the future of television news and it is 3-D! Okay, so I can't think of a single reason why you'd want to watch your local newscaster in three dimensions, but if the National Association of Broadcaster's Show is any indication, you soon won't have much a choice. Every other booth here at the world's largest electronic media show requires those doofy glasses...3-D cameras, 3-D sets, I'm pretty sure I even saw a 3-D weather hotie hurling frontal systems and shout-outs from on high... It's all alarmingly easy to mare fun of - until you don the oversized specs - and then I have to admit: it's pretty freakin' cool. It's the kindof thing you have to see to appreciate and no amount of my purple prose can do it justice. But enough about gratuitous gimmicks; let's talk about the show...

The Las Vegas Convention Center is currently packed to the rafters with satellite trucks, high-end editing suites and enough snotty Europeans to fill a thousand Diehard villain casting calls. Throw in an army of plaid-shirted engineers, several dozen silent spokesmodels and smarmy sales weasels of every stripe for a clearer picture of the mob Team 'Slinger has been fighting for oxygen inside this cavernous space. Much of the technology I've seen is beyond my grasp, but I can tell you this: if ever you wanted to buy a gleaming fleet of sat vans, add to your collection of levitating monopods or just feast your eyes on endless Jumbotrons bristling with masturbatory graphics, then Vegas is the place for you this week. Now let's meet the stars!

More than every before, my ad-hoc coverage of the annual NAB Show is a team effort. Chris Weaver, Adam Krolfifer and Rick Portier are roaming the floor with me: shooting video, snapping photos and haranguing rival camera crews. This despite the fact we're all suffering from three hours sleep, residual whiskey and altered time zone hallucinations! Whatsmore, we've already ran into several featured players. B-roll.net founder Kevin Johnson stopped by to play tee-vee with us, resulting in some goofy videos that I'll probably regret when I fully sober up. Amanda Emily has also joined our troop, providing additional camera coverage and technical support - provided we promised never to point a lens her way. News Director Peggy Phillips even consented to an interview and made us all feel better about being photogs. i even received a personal phone call from El Ocho ex-pat Council Bradshaw, who promised to rendezvous with us once he left his private jet. And the best part: we're just getting started!

I just a couple of hours we'll travel to the Harley-Davidson Cafe for the B-roll Bash for shop talk, fellowship and more hair of the dog that bit us. It's a hangover in the making! So while I go shave my eyelids in preparation for tonight's festivities, peruse these photos, watch this video and know that much, much more is on the way...

Alas, it will only be in 2-D. Sorry - budgetary constraints, don't ya know...

Destination: Vegas!

After an election cycle, a couple of tornadoes and more b-block masterpieces than you can shake a tripod at, Team 'Slinger is about to take on Vegas. Our mission: pierce the very heart of the world's largest electronic media show, all while collecting as much swag and complimentary cocktails as possible. It's been two whole years since Weaver and I last winged our way out West and a lot has happened since. Namely Twitter... and Facebook... and Foursquare... and every other social networking site I'm too provincial to grasp. My point is there are more ways to over-communicate than ever before and that's exactly what we plan to do: Over-communicate. Don't get me wrong. We're gonna chill. But between the gadget swarms and contemplative strolls, it's my intention to keep my half dozen readers updated and on occasion, entertained. But to do that, I have to loosen the reins on this humble sight. See, normally I spend all of 30 minutes on an entry before slamming home the POST button (I hope that explains the spelling errors). But in order to file reports from the field, I've resolved to spend even less time on my tortured soliloquies and more time playing simple show and tell. I still reserve the right to clean things up when I get back home, but while we're on the convention floor I wanna throw everything against the wall and see what sticks. Soem things to look for:

Twitter: With a limit of 140 characters, it's hard for a gasbag like me to convey my thoughts. But it's also the easiest way to share burst of information past, so keep an eye on my Twitter feed to the upper right and know any cogent content was still hammered out with two jet-lagged thumbs....

Flickr: Longtime readers know I'm a sucker for the 'point and shoot' and my particular Flickr Photostream is rivaled only by that of my oldest daughter's. Sooo, be sure and check out my photo page regularly for all the pictures I'm too embarrassed to explain...

Livestream: Right now the little video box to your right is playing the winning entries from a recent b-roll.net contest. It's stellar television, but once site founder Kevin Johnson puts boots on the ground, he's not start issuing live reports. Look for a couple of Southern fried photogs to make steady cameos.

Youtube/Qik: Between myself, Weaver, Krolfifer, Turd and Amanda Emily, we'll be packin' more glass than most headshops. While much of the video will expertly edited at a later date, we're gonna try really hard to fire off a few 'off the cuff' videos (something that's very hard to do when you erase mistakes for a living). Oh yeah - they'll even be in Hi-Def!

NewsBlues: My surly editor Mike James is expecting some kind of correspondence from me for his well-traveled gossip sheet, newsblues.com. If you're a subscriber, drop in often. If you're not, consider ponying up some coin and becoming one. Why? You'll be supporting the man I plan to strong-arm into editing my memoirs.

Caveat: No, it's not some social networking site your kids are into (as far as I know). Rather, it's my little disclaimer explaining how very little of this shall come to pass. After all, this IS Vegas! It's hard to be trenchant let alone grammatically correct when your eyelids are soaked in bourbon and the cops want to know whey there's an emu in your room...

I'm SURE there's a logical explanation, Occifer......

Set Up, Stand Up...

Ahhh, the Solo Stand-Up. If you're not careful, they can be as painful to watch as they are to shoot. But Stephanie Stillwell has the process down cold. She should. Everyday the News 14 reporter goes it alone: shooting, writing, editing and FRONTING news stories from across the broadcast spectrum. It must get old. In fact, doing it ALL is a recipe for Burn-Out: that feckless feeling you get when the weight of one more assignment feels like more than you can bear. Yet Stephanie soldiers on - often with a better attitude than that wordy, furry photog she runs into so much. Hey, I may consider myself the King of Most Media, but at least I haven't got to cap off each grueling shoot with a star turn in front of the lens. Been there. Got the sweaty dress-shirt.

Perhaps that's why I have such mad love for all the one-(wo)man-bands out there. News crew purists will balk at that assertion; they'll claim the solo news-gatherer produces substandard work, that their pictures are less cinematic, their coverage less complete. Meh. You can't judge one journalist's output by the egregious sins of another. Neither can you convince me that someone willing to schlep hardware across the shifting landscape of news deserves to be there less than some overly-perfumed princess who tweets and primps and poses in the car while her photog slays the dragon of the day. Granted, Stephanie would welcome the help, but she's not letting her lack of a partner stop her from getting the job done and earning MY respect in the process. Guess I should tell her that one day...

Perhaps I just did.

Rick's Epiphany

Rick Portier is many things. Subtle ain't one of 'em. Instead, the Louisiana lenslinger is known for his vicious wit, bedevilling stare and glaring lack of fructose syrup. Which makes his latest findings all the more landmark, for a guy who calls himself Turdpolisher isn't about to rent his mouth out. I knew he'd had a change of heart recently over working solo. Now it seems he's wrapped his head around it as well and - like your humble author - concluded there is indeed a future for broadcast journalists as long as they're willing to work outside their comfort zone...

"TRAITOR"

There it was, big as day. A friendly comment on my Facebook status. To be sure, Alfonzo Beta meant it as a joke. Hell, the mustachioed video tape is known cut-up in the photog world, but he hit the conflict I've been feeling right on the head.

Ya see, when ABC sent lots of sore shoulders (and stackers) packing last month, it caused lots of other guys with a permanent half-wink to reconsider their lot in this business. Sure, we all saw the change on the horizon. In true photog fashion, we bitched and moaned, and did little to stem the tide of change, but the bean-counters and their new BFF, Satan Rosenblum, would not be deterred. The dawn of the new age in journalism is on us, and last week I -- gasp -- crossed over to the dark side.

Actually, it was more like three weeks ago. It started with a lot of soul searching. Okay, it started with a six-pack of Bud Light. But however I sliced it, there was no denying the fact that in the evolving landscape of this leaner business we all love to complain about, a talented photog can be king. The only thing stopping us is us.

Think about it. Who logically can make the seamless switch to one of Rosey's minions, and your penny-pinching Adult-in-the-Room's favorite, a fresh face from the halls of academia who's studied all about prepositional phrases, double negatives, and polished their telegenic grin, or a unshaven, scruffy-haired shooter who's learned the hard way when to ask the tough question and when to blend into the background? Sure, said bobble-head might look better doing it, but when the pictures from the point-and-shoot come back blue, out of focus, and over exposed, there ain't much that Avid can do to improve it.

Now if the same an experienced photog goes out, shoots the story, asks the questions, and can -- gasp again -- even write it as well or better than the starry-eyed intern, who's more valuable?

And who can make the transition to a one-stop-shop for all the Adult-in-the-Room's needs? The easy answer is the experienced photog. Simply because we already got two-and-a-half of the three parts to storytelling down cold. Any photog worth his salt is gonna bring back better pictures than a reporter pressed into shooter duty. Any shooter around long enough to develop his hundred-yard stare understands storytelling and all the tools at his disposal, and they already have an idea of how to write. Hell, I'd even argue that you can't shoot a story without being able to write it.

So we should be, hands-down the logical choice when it comes to transitioning the newsroom to the new, sleeker model. But as everybody with an electronic lump on their shoulder knows, newsrooms are anything but logical. Bean-counters would rather hand a pretty face a point-and-shoot babycam that Uncle Fred used to shoot his son's wedding than foist a photog on their precious viewers. So I decided it was time to move myself one step up the food chain. I've been doing my best Lenslinger for three weeks now. Sure, I'd rather it be nat packs for the B-block, but I've written a couple for the pretty boys to voice and made it into the A-block a time or two.

Last week when the face was late, my lack of vocal talent was pressed into service. It still ain't what I'd prefer to do, but I've got a feeling that as the business gets leaner, we'll all be doing whatever we gotta do to stay on top. In the land of the bean-counters, the guy with the most to offer usually keeps his job. Build a life raft with the talents you have. Where else are the suits gonna find a camera monkey that can shoot, edit, run every live truck, run the satellite truck, write and occasionally report the news?

Bash in Sight

I may be forced to watch the NCAA National Championship Game tonight, but in seven short days I'll be prowling the sausage party that is the B-Roll Bash. But I won't be alone, for Team Lenslinger has grown considerably. There's The Mighty Weave, Adam "I used to sleep in my news unit" Krolfifer, the artist occasionally known as Turdpolisher, the prodigal photog Brad Ingram, archivist extraordinaire Amanda Emily and the very kewell Kathy Newell. Once on-scene we're sure to chat up b-roll.net founder Kevin Johnson - along with a room of friendly pros and heavy hors d'oeuvres that makes the Harley-Davidson Cafe such a cocktail friendly environment.

But as fun as the bash may be, it's only part of the NAB experience and this year we here at Lenslinger Labs hope to bring more of it to you than ever before. Look for tweets, quick videos and a myriad of goofy photos to flood this page once we set foot on the convention floor. That's the plan anyway; things kinda get loopy in the rarefied air of indoor Vegas. Just know we'll do our best to document every turn of our journey, if for no other reason that it's kind of what we do. And if by some chance you find YOURSELF surfing the floor of the world's largest electronic media show, do get with. I'd feel awful if I didn't give you each and every one of you an opportunity to buy me a drink...

If It Pleases the Court...

As a standing rule, I'd rather watch the Slap-Chop guy's audition tape than endure too much college basketball. Call it a quirk, but I get littel joy from the roundball. Still, it IS religion down here, so I feign allegiance- lest I get Gillooly'd in some hallway scrum (worst place to get Gillooly'd). Which is why I'd yet to form an opinion on the NCAA Championship currently winding up - other than to embrace the 'underdogma' inherent in Butler's unlikely rise. That is until the station called. Now I'm pulling for those Nancy Boys at Duke thoroughly disembowel those scaborous Bulldogs, for reasons I'll detail in a minute. First though I'd like to share with you a favorite pastime of mine for matchups as big as this:

I call it Name That Photog!

Yes, few things annoy my teenage daughters more than my little version of Where's Waldo - a staggered round of Dad-like gestures in which I spend the entire game giving couch-side shout-outs to cameramen and sports shooters I recognize on the sidelines. Look - there's my buddy Bill Welch - all pleated pants and poker face as Coach Whats-His-Nuts soaks in the adulation of a sweat-shirted throng. Last time I saw Bill, he was picking his way through an ocean of broken lumber in a tornado-ravaged neighborhood. Or was it a sea of sixth graders at a middle school science fair? Tell, the truth they both had the same vibe... At any rate, I had no idea he was anywhere near Indianapolis, let alone on the edge of where so many sports fans would love to be. Ya know, Greg Pell is right - that Bill Welch fella has a real future in this business! I'll be sure to look for him during tonight's coverage - though for all I know the NCAA only allows logo'd robots to hover on the hardwood during such a sacredly commercial event. Still, a 'slinger can dream - which is why I'll keep my eyes peeled into the wee hours, for nothing makes me chuckle like catching a glimpse of a buddy scratching his ass in Hi-Def. Hey, we ALL got hobbies...

Oh and why am I pulling for that dark blue blight known as Duke? Simple, if the Blue Devils win, I roll out of bed early and head straight for a Rockingham County bunker - where dozens of hopped-up screen printers will be cranking out Duke Champ t-shirts by the pallet. There's easy tee-vee to be had in those piles of nylon, and perhaps a friendly biscuit for my troubles. If Duke loses, no t0-shirts will be made and I'll be forced to attend the morning editorial meeting - a tepid enough summit that could very likely end in my being dispatched to cover a urinal cake taste-test or some other such unpleasantry....

Go Duke.

Remembering Roy Hardee

Roy Hardee, a journalist who chronicled the news of eastern North Carolina for more than 50 years through words, pictures and film, died in his wife's arms Thursday. He was 79... From his early stint as a one-man news operation to his storied career managing newsrooms, Hardee was a local television pioneer who always called his shot. In the beginning, Roy photographed, filmed, wrote, edited and anchored countless newscasts. After a successful sojourn into print, he returned to his broadcasting roots as WNCT-TV News Director and helped launch a thousand careers. One notable protege is CBS Chief National Correspondent Byron Pitts - who remembers Roy fondly in his recent book Step Out On Nothing.

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If WNCT-TV was my college, then Roy Hardee was its Professor Emeritus. Legendary, gruff and unapologetically old school, he probably didn't think much of the new production punk with the goofy 'do. But then fate intervened in the form of an unlikely hostage stand-off and I found myself manning the lead camera on the Story of the Year. This apparently impressed Roy, for a few days later he whisked me into the General Manager's office and offered me a job I didn't yet know I was applying for.

"I'll hire you as a news photog, " he said with a huff, "IF you cut that hair."

The fact that I did proves how seriously I took his offer, and in making me get a haircut, Roy Hardee added to his already long list of accomplishments: He mercy-killed a very bad mullet.

From there, my training began - all of it on the clock. A photographer at heart with scanner codes embedded in his DNA, Roy encouraged my burgeoning spot news skills. He also insisted I 'act like I had some sense', a new found skill which enabled me to fill my new Rolodex with the phone numbers of cops, politicians and crackpots. I didn't know it then, but I was being taught by The Master - for Roy Hardee seemed to know everyone important (or notorious) in the state and they him. For the first few years of my career, I found his name alone could get me into places my camera couldn't. When after a few months of shooting for reporters filled me with an urge to try it myself, Roy flatly challenged me to prove I could do it. Then he put me On-Air, long before I had any business darkening local TV sets around dinner time. Though never one to shower his people with praise, I got the distinct feeling Roy liked me. Once he arranged for me and my lens to ride along on a CH-53 SuperStallion attack helicopter - then teased me all week that I'd have a great story IF I made back down alive. Well, I did and no one made a bigger deal over the footage I brought back than my suddenly avuncular boss. Looking back I realize it wasn't so much me; Roy just loved the art of the grab.

I was 22 and full of myself. He was pushing 60 and had documented more of life than I'd yet to experience. Still, he treated me with begrudging respect - especially as I proved news was in my blood as well. I can still picture him sidling up to me in the newsroom. He'd jam his hands in his pockets and jingle his change, grumble something under his breath, clear his throat and apply some more ChapStick. I learned to read his mood by the condition of that ever present black and white tube. Not that he ever got too upset. In fact, I remember being regularly dumbfounded by his implacable demeanor. My home phone would ring in the middle of the night and a dead calm voice would intone, "There's a bunch of folks trapped in a burning warehouse downtown. Need you to go check it out." If he told me Martians had landed on the Town Commons and were demanding to be interviewed, I'd head there without question - figuring the aliens were like everyone else in town - somehow indebted to Roy Hardee.

It should be noted that I eventually quit my job at WNCT. Angry that others were getting better shifts than me, I left Roy a pissy note one night and walked out never to return. It was a punk move and I sure did regret it the next day. But Roy never held it against me - even when I showed up on the competition's newscast a few months later. I didn't yet know that equity was hard to come by in a newsroom and that constantly working nights and weekends were the price of admission. Roy surely did, but he never used his considerable influence to punish me for my youthful insolence. When I caught up with him at an alumni luncheon a few years back we had a laugh and it felt good almost being his equal.

You know, chasing the news of the day - and catching it - was the first thing I was ever good at and Roy Hardee told me so. Of course, he never pulled me into his office and raved about my latest collection of close-ups and cliches. But he did keep his eye on me and subtly let me know whenever I managed to do something right. Early one one summer evening around nine o clock, the scanners erupted with talk of a small plane crash on the Wayne-Greene County line. Having grown up not very far from there, I knew the remote location well - so I grabbed reporter Amy Burkette and jumped into whatever white Chevy Blazer I'd finagled the keys for that day. To make a short journey even shorter, let's just say I beat some of the firefighters there. Amy and I grabbed just enough sight and sound to tell the sad story before jumping back into our news unit and racing back to the station. That night, our story of the still smoking plane crash led the 11 o clock news.

The next day, Roy passed me in the hallway and just as he drew beside me he looked over and said two words I can still hear today: "Nice hustle." ...Understand I was a bit of a buffoon back then, often ignoring sound advice for fear I'd miss whatever smart-ass remark was about to burble up from my own lips. But Roy's brief praise left me thunderstruck, for something in his voice told me he KNEW what the word "Hustle" really meant.

So thanks, Roy. Thanks for granting me the chance to prove myself. Thanks for not firing me when I found exciting new ways to mess up. Thanks for all the tips on composition, glass and decorum. Thanks for not holding it against me when I let my young man's anger get the better of me. Thanks for giving me the best four years of my professional life. I've been using what you taught me ever since...

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A 'Press Conference' celebrating the life of Roy Hardee will be held at 2:00 pm on Saturday April 24th at the Hilton Hotel in Greenville, North Carolina. See you there...