Evidence of Malevolence

For years I hid behind the lens and a twenty yard stare, racing from wreckage to spectacle with the same lack of concern in my eye. These days however, I cannot pretend I don't care like I once could, especially when confronted with such evidence of malevolence. Meet 'Chamberlin', a hapless lab mix who, until very recently, was left chained to a tree in High Point. For at least two months he laid there, until his limbs constricted and his muscles atrophied. Animal Control Officers found him in an abandoned yard three weeks ago, along with another mutt so forgotten, so withered, so delirious - authorities had no choice but to end his pain. The grim discovery made headlines and led newscasts, competing with another equally queasy animal abuse case involving a burned puppy. I caught it all out of the corner of my eye, but managed to avoid close contact with the atrocity of the week by wrapping myself in a protective bubble of soft news.

That is, until today,

You ever hovered over a neglected pet as animal techs worked his diminished limbs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth? It's enough to make you drop any pretense of cynicism as you hold a tight shot of the creature's plaintive stare, enough to make you pity people who say there's no real evil in this world, enough to make you sit in your car for a good fifteen minutes before cranking up the engine and driving away in silence. This isn't my first brush with animal abuse. I've ridden along with dog catchers as they collected cadavers, watched other officers wrangle hoarded cats from apartment buildings, seen horses so underfed you could trace their internal organs. I've negotiated those cases with an unhealthy dose of indifference. Sure, it made me sad, but I always found a way to stave off the knavery. It helped that I wasn't much of an animal person myself, having never really had a pet that forged that kind of visceral connection with another species' soul.

Then my bride brought home this guy and everything changed.

Now I find myself rolling on the floor with a certain pooch, slinging nicknames and kisses as the world's silliest poodle mix tries to prove to me he's a total bad-ass. This wiggly addition to the Pittmans has enriched my life (and marriage) in more ways than I could ever have imagined. Why it took me 43 years to forge a bond with an animal is complicated of course. Just know that the reasons melted away whenever the little yapper we call 'Ollie' first put his head on my knee and looked up pleadingly. that's just the look Chamberlin gave me today as his caregivers praised his every push across the floor in a specially made canine cart. I managed to keep my eyes dry as I twisted the glass, but the sight of this dog's broken body seared into my vision, as if I'd witnessed all those other animal abuse cases behind protective goggles. Still, I stuck with it, knowing my efforts would result in another update and give my station another reason to spell out the names of the couple thought responsible for laying waste to this innocent creature...

High Point residents Nellie Brock and Wilbert Morrison Junior, both 55, stand accused of abandoning Chamberlin. Won't you e-mail j.douglas.henderson@nccourts.org and ask that they receive the maximum penalty?

I just did.

Shame about Sean...

Way I heard it, he straight-up FREAKED. Went from total comatose zone-out at some L.A. press conference to stark raving nut-bag. Guy I know who was there said he suddenly crawled up some entertainment reporter’s back, snatched a red-hot bulb out of some guy’s light and ATE the damn thing! After that he starts yelling about the live trucks not being gassed up, then threatened to take a weatherman hostage if people didn’t hoarking his food from the station’s refrigerator. Everyone just kinda stood there and watched; I mean, how often do you see a cameraman go mental? Wait, don’t answer that - I got kids to feed. Anyway, none of the crews got any footage of the freak-out. Guess they were too busy eyeballing all the Double-AA’s he spilled when he knocked over that run-bag. It wasn’t until he started snatching press passes that someone tried to tackle him.

That beefy stringer from across town almost got him in a Figure Four, but Sean somehow slipped out of his grip and dog-piled the podium. Too bad about that city council lady. I’m sure her clavicle will pop back in place. Hey, I wouldn’t have believed it myself if the surveillance tape hadn’t surfaced. Did you see dude take off after he got back up? Seriously, WHO even tries to moonwalk in 2010? Too bad, too. Sean’s always been a little loopy, but he’s no crazier than that dude who keeps calling the newsroom asking for Mr. Green-Jeans... Anyhoo, they say he’d have probably gotten away had Animal Planet not been shooting some segment outside. Yeah, some llama wrangler winged him with a tranquilizer dart. They found him curled up under his news unit, babbling about running sound on a Mork and Mindy episode. Not really sure what happened after that, but from the look of his mug shot, he’s gone Total Nolte --- Hmm? What's that? It’s just some lame publicity shot from a Law and Order junket?

My God, he’s sicker than I thought...

I Know Why the Caged Clerk Sings...

You know that sequence in the local news where three random people pop up on screen and comment on the subject at hand? It’s the dreaded Man on the Street interview, of course, a newscast crutch favored by lazy reporters and producers who never leave their cubicles. Personally, I’d rather dry-clean my spleen than solicit the opinions of those too uncoordinated to avert my gaze, but sometimes it’s just unavoidable. Take the other day, for example, when I was forced to loiter at the corner of ‘No Comment’ and ‘Back Off, Furball!’ for what felt like a lifetime. Okay, so it was only 45 minutes, but when you’re questioning pedestrians, time draws out like a blade.

Once upon a time of course, any self-respecting shooter could hide behind the glass while his /her prettier partner quizzed the homeless about nuclear proliferation, but NO MORE! Actually, I’ve been polling folks solo since Bush the Elder was throwing up on foreign dignitaries. Jeez, drop a few one-liners in the morning meeting and The Suits just assume you’re a people person. Truth is, I’d rather play Wooden Indian than Game Show Host, but when a handful of meaningless soundbites are all that stand between me and lunch, the bodies are gonna fall! Or at least pause in front of my lens long enough to hold forth on why the city won’t pinstripe the bike lanes, or how they feel about the new flavor of urinal cakes or some other such manure we foist upon a suspecting public.

Does that sound bitter? You’d be a little edgy too if you found yourself panhandling for points of view on such a regular basis. Worse yet, I’m pretty good at it! Maybe it’s hereditary. My father, a verbal wordsmith if there ever was one, could talk a junkie out of his fix. Me, I only got a fraction of his powers of persuasion, but two decades on the streets how to profile the garrulous, where to eye-gouge the reticent and when to simply let the logo do the talking. When all else fails, I can always fake a seizure and hoodwink some good Samaritan into weighing in on the pros and cons of using tasers in Sunday Schools. Sure, it’s politically incorrect, but when you’re eyeballing Goth Kids and Grannies for the very same reason, manners are the first thing to go.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a college kid in front of the toy helicopter kiosk that deserves my undivided attention and - if he’s lucky - a complimentary pretzel from that weirdo down the Mall.

Cameraman Included

I love/hate it when a big man cries. It happened again just the other day and while I guess I should have put it on television, I refrained from framing his pain. Maybe I felt sorry for the guy, maybe i didn't want my own man-card yanked, maybe I was afraid the beefy firefighter would hunt me down months from now for the mother of all pummelings. Whatever the case, I averted my gaze just in time, robbing watchers a few voyeuristic tears while shielding a man most comfortable in a helmet and Nomex coat. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

By the time his van pulled up, I'd been loitering in the fireman's yard for the better part of an hour. I wasn't alone though, as half his firehouse was waiting there with me. Eleven days earlier, the firefighter we'll call 'Pike' met with a most unpleasant fate. While closing out a charity motorcycle ride, Pike and his wife were struck by a passing car. Contusions ensued and bones were broken, but the couple survived. While both convalesced in a distant hospital, Pike's firefighter buddies moved in and rendered assistance.

They built a wheel chair ramp in front of his humble home, trimmed limbs and cut the grass among many other amenities. When the day came for Pike to come home, they gathered on his stoop and waited, even chatted up a cameraman who'd gotten wind of their good deeds. As always with idling firefighters, a great deal of grab-ass followed, but the chicanery faded when the van pulled up and their fallen friend poked his head out from the backseat. Pale, fatigued and pretty much beat, Pike quickly vanished under the thrust of his buddies' embrace.

And even though I'd never met him, my lens and I were welcome at his homecoming. In fact, I was there among the crush of first responders as they fell over themselves helping him out of the van and into a wheelchair. They were just about to stand him up when he stopped them. "Marv, "he said, "Gimme my rag". A hand appeared from inside the van and gave Pike what appeared to be a washcloth. Pike took it, lifted his wraparound sunglasses just a shade and dabbed the rag at his unseen eyes. That's when I lowered my glass.

A few seconds later, he regained composure. I lifted my lens and began to backpedal as the pack of firefighters lifted their big, burly friend into the king-sized wheelchair he'd be calling home for awhile. Nothing was said as they positioned him in the chair, but the silence said what all those brokenhearted stoics could not express. Soon Pike was as comfortable as his injuries would allow and his comrades carefully propelled him toward the door, everyone on the ramp was dabbing at their eyes...

Cameraman, included.

Bloggus Interruptus

Most times when I sit down to blog, I have at least a vague idea of what I want to say. Other times, a simple phrase gets lodged in my noggin' and the only way to work it out is through intensive syntax gymnastics. Lately though, I've just been ... empty. Mind you, I've got a half dozen subjects lying around, but for the life of me I can't think of a satisfactory way to unravel them. Not that I ever out too much forethought into my posts. Rather, I slump in front of my (gleaming new) keyboard and watch my fingers rub the letters off. As for re-writes, you gotta be kidding me. Count yourself lucky if I think to hit Spell-Chcek. You might say I'm blessed in that department, for I can usually throw myself into enough of a trance and let the guy in my head take over. Lately though, it's been tougher to summon that voice, to focus on my odd hobby as if my very paycheck depended on it. It doesn't, but my mental health sure as hell does. Fret not, however, for I'm climbing no towers (I'm WAY too lazy for that). Neither am I checking into rehab, shaving my head or even planning to exit my limo sans panties. Nope - I ain't crazy, not even depressed. But I wrestle with melancholy more than you know. Occasionally it gets me in a headlock I cannot escape and I find myself hovering over the delete button...

Relax. I'll never deep-six the blog. My ego couldn't stand it. I'll probably concoct these operas 'til I'm old and sputtering - at which point I hope my oldest daughter will wheel me away from the computer before I resort to posting song lyrics, pet photos or recipes... A word on my eldest: Like her younger sister, she's an intriguing creature and if this were a different kind of blog I'd gladly expound on both my kid's' many talents. As it isn't, I'll refrain - but it's about time I divulge one undeniable fact: The oldest one HAS IT. Yes, she of the cello and heightened IQ can put words to paper in such a way that leaves me reeling. At this typing she hasn't much interest in freestyle composition; she'd much rather ruin the grade curve for the entire student body or drag me through another dress shop. But mark my thesaurus; that child can WRITE. Whether she ever chooses to, one can never tell, but for the time being her term papers read like the effortlessly florid essays they are. Though never the student she is, I KNEW from a young age I could communicate on paper far better than in person. I just assumed everyone else could too. Who knew?

Now then, where was I? Let's see: I've made some excuses, bragged on my children and totally ignored where this last paragraph was headed. I can live with that. What i can't abide however, is losing focus on these mystical pixels, for what little you may have gathered from them all these many moons pales in comparison for what they've done for me. Ego strokes notwithstanding, this humble blog has greatly attributed to my quality of life. It's provided an outlet for my half-baked aspirations, given me a discipline I used to fantasize about and kept me engaged in a career I long ago fell out of love with. Well, that's not entirely true. One cannot write as much about a single subject as I have without some underlying affection. And as much as I dream of one day writing for a living, I can't imagine what I'd yammer on about if I didn't have a steady supply of froth and atrocity waiting for me every time I lifted the lens. Hell, my 13 year old recognizes that and she still thinks Justin Bieber will have a career in 24 months. Soooo, while I clean out the cobwebs in my head and try to straighten up this place, know that YOU have my eternal thanks, for there's a fair chance you remember more of what I've written so far than I do.

What do you want for nuthin'?

All Apologies...

Pity the local media pack. Not only do they have to elbow their way to the middle, turn soft-centered stories on a dime and fend off crazies outside their live trucks, but they have to deal with me popping off shots of them during press conferences. Really, it's inexcusable. I mean, would you want to look up from your TPS Report to see me looming over you with lenses and one-liners? Probably not. But then, that's the role I've chosen as lenslinging defender of the news crew nation. For more than half a decade now I've toiled over a coffee-stained keyboard to spotlight their plight; not because anyone's asked me to, but because I find the plugged-in data-gatherer to be a particularly intriguing breed. That doesn't mean I like everybody. Or they me.

But hey, I'm not about to run down a list of who I think should and shouldn't be allowed to slay deadlines all day. No, I'm way to in debt to do that. But while I have you, there is one detail I've always wanted to share about the making of Viewfinder BLUES... If you and I cross paths or lob lenses together on a professional basis and I haven't gotten around to featuring you on these humble pages yet, there's one of two reasons why: A) Your charisma mystifies me and I'm waiting for just the right frozen frame to capture but a fraction of it. or far more likely, B) I consider you a complete and utter putz and wouldn't darken these pages with your visage if it brought me all the web-hits in Googledom. You know who you are.

So, why am I divulging all this? Eh - no reason. Okay, okay, I was rifling through some random photos I'd collected on a card and I came across one serious case of Stink-Eye. I give you Kira Mathis: reporter, photographer, fitness enthusiast. I know this because she once chased me off her lawn. Okay, not really - but we DO live in the same neighborhood and I think I once freaked her out by saying "Hi" one day on a dog-walk. Hey, who knew the drifter looking dude in the ball cap being dragged by a small white Eski-Poo was an official member of the Fifth Estate? Apparently not Kira, who for only a second, looked like she might drop-kick me in the thorax. Thus, it was with special chagrin that - upon closer inspection of said photo - I realized I'd once again weirded her out.

I hate when I do that.

Men Who Stare At Goats

Guess what I did today? Okay, so the title and picture pretty much tells you that, but allow me to elucidate anyway, won't you? I'd barely strolled into the morning meeting this fine Monday when an odd combination of letters screamed at me from the dry-erase board: Stewart/Goats/Edit... Scratching my head, I withdrew from the room, wondering what all this goat business was about when it hit me: I did shoot a bunch of goats last week! You know, the fact that I can travel out of town just to hang out with a bunch of cloven-hoofed beasts as they masticate AND THEN FORGET ABOUT IT FOUR DAYS LATER should tell you a thing or three about the mental capacity of a forty something photog. Especially one like me - who churns out TV News at such a steady boil that very little of it is left simmering in my brain-pan. You might also chalk it up to my powers of focustration, for I'm quite able to walk through a squad of riot cops and remember only the glint of light on that one guy's visor. Not sure that's always a good thing, but an eye for detail comes in damn handy when you're locked away in an edit bay all day.

Well, not ALL day. There were the few minutes I spent trying to open that bag of Doritos, the half-hour I devoted to trick-clipping my fingernails into a trashcan, not to mention that whole post-lunch period where I tweaked one clip so many times I finally lost consciousness. Dude, was my neck stiff! Luckily, I had a chance to stretch it, for no sooner had I awoke and finally leaned into a sequence than a shadow fell over my edit bay. Minutes later, I leaned into a steering wheel instead, racing to record the image a building in Winston that, frankly, wasn't going anywhere. But who keeps score? Not me. I'm way too busy 'making slot' (deadline), which is basic Tee-Veese for "you get to come back to work tomorrow". Most days though, I go it alone and whatever I chase down in the morning I serve up fresh and steaming later that day. This gig, however, was different. This was deeper, delayed, more densely formed. This was from the mind of the Piedmont's Premiere Journalist of His Generation. This, was a Buckumentary.

"Buck-yuh-men-tuh-ree". That's an insider El Ocho term for 'any pre-recorded report helmed, hosted and/or written by Senior Reporter Bob Buckley. Ya know, it's not every talking hair-do who enjoys eponymous bonding with the glass-handling staff, but then again, there are very few Bob Buckleys. In fact, I've only met one, a rather adept fellow from the Midwest who never met a subject he couldn't wrap several layers of television around. Just ask any of the many shooters who've accompanied Bob through some of the most esoteric reportage this side of that guy who throws darts at the map. They'll tell you there's no one better than Bob at illustrating abstract issues on screen. Why he once explained supply-side economics using only a half dozen eggs, shadow puppets and the long lost transcripts of Copernicus. You can't get THAT in some tiny feeder market! Nor can you acquire the kind of crushing headache a full-on Buckumentary can provide from some live truck script hastily scribbled onto the back of a Jimmy John's sandwich bag! No Sir, for that particular migraine you need a stack of neatly typed analysis, highlighters in five fruity colors and and soundbites gleaned only from the wrinkled corners of your tape. Speaking of which, I'd better get busy...
First though, any chance you can help me with these Doritos? It's like they're hermetically sealed or something...

"Pretend I'm Not Here..."

A seasoned 'slinger knows how to blend, all right, but there's only so much camouflage you can manage when you're the proverbial bull in the all too real China shop. That's why when you see a pro like Weaver hunched over at lunchtime sans tripod and light, you can guarantee you're having a better day than him. That's because unlike what most people think, TV News Photographers aim for realism. That's right, if we'd wanted to sit around twiddling C-Stands and reciting bad movie dialogue we'd have gone to film school. We're way too impatient for that! Give us the open road and the jack-knifed semi, the police car cockpit and the hopped-up SWAT cop, the eternal meeting and shiny-shovel pre-speech. And yes, give us the charity bake sales and all-night diners, somewhere right in the middle of everything where there's lot of foot traffic and absolutely no expectation of a cameraman. It's there I'll thrive, for as a fully licensed photog, I’m most comfortable at being uncomfortable.

And not just physically, either. Any camera carrier worth his (or her) weight in dying batteries can suffer the slings and arrows of public opinion with the toughest tax collector out there. Why, in many ways we’re protected from heckling, impervious to nerves and unaffected by shunning. How do we work up such callouses on our candy-coated shells? Exposure to the elements, I guess. I know in my twenty years behind the lens I’ve learned when to cower in the eye-cup, when to stop, drop and (always) roll, and of course, when to sling it around the room a little. As a result there are few places I won’t trod - provided I have a highly logo’d camera to hide behind. Otherwise I’m a bit remote, difficult to pin down, harder to impress. Maybe that’s because I’m used to folks talking into my shoulder, calling me “Mom” or struggling just to spell Tee-Vee as I pass. Hey, I’m not ignoring you. I’m extending your dignity with one snug-ass lens cap. Don’t worry, you won’t thank me later.

But what does the preceding screed have to do with my partner in crime all bent over the baked goods like that? Meh - not a lot. But something about that lady’s expression plus the posture of all involved in said snapshot tells me there were some awkward moments there in the sweet shoppe. I don’t know why some folks get so vexed whenever something shiny points their way. Some are simply not where they’re supposed to be: off work, up and around, entwined in the limbs of some unauthorized other. I get that - and will do my best to protect your identity if not infidelity. Flash me a badge and I’ll really stay out of your way. Still, even at his svelte new weight, Weaver’s a little big for a fly on the wall. So just keep walking and no one gets hurt for while there’s no need to reach for that swatter, it’s equally unjust getting your muffins in an uproar.

Besides, that kind of thing usually costs extra.

Glower at the Tower

There was a time TV News Photogs spent every second of a breaking scene buried in the cup: inspecting crevices and scanning canyons for shots the other guys ain't got. These days, we stand around and fiddle with our phones. It's especially vexing to a gentleman of my vintage. The first cellular device I had was the length of a lava lamp; it came encased in a black (p)leather shoebox with a quick-snap lid in case you wanted to ring up Marty McFly in a hurry. Back then, whenever I bailed out of the capsule over a raging breaker, the horn stayed in the floorboard. Back to the future however, the lowly phone has achieved a magical status: a palm sized portal that's holding the globe's attention - one distracted driver at a time. Which is why it's not unusual to see a flock of photogs standing by the highway, surrounded by thousands of dollars of highly sensitive recording equipment, yet jabbing at a handful of plastic.

It happened again just yesterday when a cop car party broke out around a broken ultra-light; an underpowered parachute thingie with more style than lift. Two men tried to steer it skyward, but it only got so high before suddenly plummeting. The pair escaped serious injury, but in their ambulance's wake microbes formed, surly parasites wearing long-winded stares and cargo shorts. I was among that scrum and while the PO-leece stopped us short of encroaching upon the lack of wreckage, we three did our best to stretch the view. These days that includes pleasing whatever web editor has your digits, for the only way he's gonna bet the other station's web staff to the virtual punch is to post whatever gossip and flotsam they can harvest from those folks in the field. That's where I come in, squinting intently at a loaner phone as my competitors scrunched their own brows in solidarity.

Actually, the others guys filed their photos, such that they were, with little to no headache. I however fat-fingered the alien icons in a vain attempt to find the camera-phone's zoom control. I never did, but in further molesting the touch-screen I managed to 1.) order a cheese pizza, 2.) vote for that Goth Kid on last year's American Idol and 3.) totally chafe the house-cats, who couldn't fathom why their windiest lenslinger couldn't come up with a closer shot. They're right: Google Earth provided better coverage, but until you can train a satellite how to bluff his way past a volunteer firefighter, I'm not worried about being replace by Sputnik. Besides, it takes more than plugged-in chutzpah to earn your keep in this not so brave new world and he moment I think of them, I'll send it over in a shiny new text message. Meanwhile, has anyone seen my Box-Phone? Faces are fading on the Polaroid in my pocket and I gotta make a call...

As soon as I find a quarter.

Wild Goat Chase

A lot of reporters I know wouldn't grab the camera if their photog got sucked into the belly of a spaceship. Not Bob Buckley. No sooner had I wandered back to the car today when El Ocho's seen-yore reporter grabbed my rig and got all bent. Look at that form! Knees relaxed, lens low, fingers all a tingle ... a classic cameraman crouch. Of course, most news shooters would rather their partners keep all paws off the axe, but for this erudite explainer of all things esoteric, I'll make an exception. After all, I've know him since he was 'Bob Buckley, BIG BOARD SPORTS!'; I've dodged flying stop-signs while he waxed poetic on Mother Nature's wrath; Hell, I even drove him over the Tennessee mountains once without ever tossing his wretched Van Morrison CD's off a single scenic overlook. After all THAT, what's a little grab-glass between friends? Or even longtime co-workers? Don't answer, just know that as I watched Bob close in on his favorite goat (don't ask), one thing occurred to me...

'He's gonna write to this...'

Glints of Contentment

Let’s see: twenty years into a dead-end job, diminished vision from decades of eyepiece abuse, callouses on my soul the size of truck-stop omelets... yeah, for a career camera carrier, I’m right on schedule. Problem is, I’m nowhere near as miserable as I should be right now. Oh, don’t me wrong. I won’t be leading the company cheer anytime soon. Nor will you see a flock of songbirds trailing behind me (unless they’re looking to take a Number Two on Unit Four). And can still pick a name from the seven dwarf’s roll call to describe my mood (Is there a “Pissy”?) Still, for a guy who toils at the bottom of a business that’s rapidly collapsing onto itself, I got a pretty good attitude. Why is that - you didn’t ask... I’ll tell ya, smart -ass! Soon as I figure it out. Until then, stand by while I spin my wheels for a few paragraphs....

Certainly, a good portion of my Zen-like tendencies stems from the fact that I (most often) work alone. What can I say - I like me better than you. That, and I’m a lousy collaborator. Blame the late great Roy Hardee, if you must - for he taught me long ago the value of doing it all. It is a skill-set that has served me well over the years. In fact, I dare say it’s extended my career tenfold. If I had to pilot a live truck from one humdrum conundrum to another, I’d find another way to make a living - and perhaps join Triple AAA! As it is, I change my own flat tires, but more times than not when the news unit’s rubber hits the road, I’m behind the wheel in an otherwise empty cockpit - only the previous night’s half-remembered blogpost to keep me company. Most days, I love it. Even when I don’t, it beats carting around some hair-do from victor to vanquished every third hour.

It’s an odd accessory, this new found peace. And who knows how long before it turns my neck green? My head to shoulder connector is already a little red - and not just because I cut my mullet lo those many years ago... No, this mental feng shui comes from rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic blight that was my bad attitude. Funny thing, that - for I was counting on my surly outlook to see me over the next several months. See, the last five years of my so called career have been field research for a book I’m justnow figuring out how to write. And since all that angst contains potent story-juice, I kinda wanted to savor my rancor. That’s when I wake up with this peaceful easy feeling inside, knowing that whatever the News Gods demand of me, I’ll simply cough it up and scram. Great, now I have to write a gritty memoir while humming the theme to Mr. Rogers under my breath. What’s next, total enlightenment?

I’m not sure I need that right now.

Lurking for Peanuts

Just when I think Amanda Emily has unearthed every early broadcast photo of note, she excavates another frame for the ages. Her latest discovery deserves to hang in some hallowed hallway of The Lenslinger Institute, or at the very least printed on the kind of postcards one finds at one's seedier t-shirt shops. Either way, it's a safe bet the story behind this image is a lot more interesting than whatever Sexy Robot Fairy Wars (in 3-D!) Hollywood is cookin' up.



From Feeding the News Beast...

At the Jack Dempsey vs. Tommy Gibbons world championship heavyweight fight at Shelby Montana on July 4, 1923, newsreel cameraman were not permitted to shoot footage of the fight. Henry Hardy, disguised as a peanut vendor, shot footage on a hand cranked camera he smuggled in. He got the pictures of the fight and came back to the office somewhat of a hero among his peers.

Haranguing a Saint

Ever bum-rush a lunch lady in the name of news? I have and I sleep fine at night. But before you brain me with that cafeteria tray, understand this: I got mad respect for matriarchs, moms and even the occasional maven. So when I say I bum-rushed a lunch lady, please know I did nothing of the sort. Sure, I cornered Miss Shirley, hooked a microphone on her without really asking and told her I wasn't going to leave until she talked to my lens. But I did it with a smile! And wouldn't you know she softened a bit, relaxing just a fraction and uttering something humble. I smiled and nodded, despite the fact I couldn't hear a single word. The sun room was packed, you see, teeming with administrators, kitchen help and more than one millionaire's daughter. Between all the well wishes and privileged giggles, I couldn't hear myself stink, let alone hear how Miss Shirley was fending off my inquisition. That's when she started to cry. The mic I'd attached to her polyester lapel picked up her every syllable, but sixteen inches away, her words were lost in the adolescent din. So I nodded again, while silently praying I wasn't standing on her foot.        

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

An hour or so earlier, I pulled up to the fancy girls' boarding school, a cameraman on a mission. Seems a certain cafeteria worker had spent half a century doling out cakes, pies and wisdom to upscale offspring from around the globe. Miss Shirley's many friends were excited about her sesquicentennial and had conspired to honor her with a small ceremony - whether she liked it or not. that's where I come in - a pre-seasoned 'slinger eager to pay his station's respects. Trouble was, Miss Shirley was famously averse to hoopla. I was repeatedly warned any attempts on my part to pay homage would be met with stiff indifference - if not a highly-polished frying pan upside the head Sooo, while she mingled with her peeps in an inner room, I did my best to blend in with the lunch crowd. It was there, among the dinner trays and debutantes, that I planted my tripod. I gotta say though, standing there amid a sea of screeching fresh(wo)men, I felt a little less than invisible  

Maybe it was the hula shirt. 

Or maybe it wasn't, for once friends coerced Miss Shirley into the sun-room, I melted into the backdrop, determined to fill my destiny as fly on the wall. It wasn’t easy, as the moment the lunch lady in question spotted the newspaper photographer huddling in a corner, she froze. She stared, she grimaced she even attempted a little evil eye as her many admirers urged he to let loose with a few of those stories she was famous for. She did not. What can I say - some folk view a cameraman pointed their way as an otherworldly specter that should be examined only out of the corner of the eye. This makes it tough to document unencumbered, but when a hews shooter’s lunch is on the line he (or she) will do just about anything to get through the shoot. Thus, I didn’t really worry, as nothing short of Sharia Law was going to stop me from interviewing Miss Shirley. Actually, I’d won the match long before I cornered her with questions. Ten minutes in, the crowd convinced her to cut the cake. She did so and broke out in the first of her fleeting smiles. As she turned her head, she barely noticed the pesky news fella right there, or the fact that he too was finally smiling.

Kinda makes me feel bad I made her cry.

Glassing the Masses

If you're looking for a place to major in cameramanthropology, you'll do no better than your local water park. There you'll thrill to the splendor of a thousand double-takes, spark panic in the hearts of housewives and emit a contrail of eleven year olds. It's a target-rich environment, but if you're not careful, YOU could become the hunted. Don't know what I mean? Apparently, you've never slogged through a county fair with a lights and logo on your shoulder. Or plowed into a tailgating party with your number two sports guy trailing close behind. I have and can tell you with great sincerity that few arena parking lots compare with your average water-slide emporium, a modern day Colossus with a milieu somewhere between moonshine bust and American Idol audition. Trust me, I been to both. And while no one threw corn liquor in my face or insisted on singing Streisand, I can assure you, it was a grueling experience.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly the Bataan Death March. But my sixty minute slog through concrete and Dippin' Dots packed its own kind of casualties. Namely, the collective dignity of the human race. Falling bodies, hairy uncles, turbo wedgies: for the fully-loaded photog, it's a sea of possibilities. Why if you can't stroll through such as place and this and fill your tape or disc or card with memorable images, well then, you might want to remove that lens cap. And while you're at it, take the following advice from your Uncle Lenslinger, patron saint of distracted glass masters...

Keep Moving - Though many in the crowd will try to hide from your lens, a fair contingency will pivot on your every move. Bear this in mind when backing up, lest you crush a phalanx of frothing fifth graders - who’ve been flashing made-up gang signs at you and your tripod ever since you two entered the place.

Wear Your Game Face - Ask any of those %$@#& I work with, I’m an expressive, loving person. But in unruly crowds as this, I’ll not hesitate to go total robot. No emotion, eyes darting, little whooshing noise when I walk. How else are you supposed to survive when your only eye protection is a thousand yard stare?

Do No Harm - Mere happenstance determines where we take our lens. Don’t make others pay the price. See those bendy straws sticking out of the kiddie pool? Those are the life support systems of three stay at home Moms who didn’t count on a cameraman when they put on that swimsuit that used to fit. Move along - they’re almost out of air.

Eyes OFF the Prize - It’s a water park and you are human. Whether busty coeds or chiseled frat pukes trip you trigger, do NOT indulge in any eyeball reconnaissance. You are, after all, carrying an oversized recording device with incredible zooming capability into a sea of scantily clad citizens. Don’t be that guy. The world’s got enough of that guy.

Bite Your Tongue - People don’t see you. They see that logo. Thus, now may not be the time to use those zingers you heard on the Comedy Central roast. You will be tempted. In fact, the lower back tattoos, butt-encrusted Speedos and occasional pair of black socks will virtually demand your clever commentary. Do not - I repeat, Do NOT indulge in any --- excuse me, won’t you?

“YO MISS - in the rebel flag bikini and strawberry blond dreadlocks - Has Bill Cosby gotta come back in town and choke a bitch!?!”

Now then, where was I?

Anatomy of a Walkdown

As perp walks go, it’s pretty pedestrian. But this twenty second journey of an accused killer is worth reviewing anyway, if only because someone caught it on their fancy new phone. In it we see the backpedaling begin, a fugacious parade of shackles and glass that fed the opening moments of a half dozen newscasts. I wasn’t there, but have waited on enough Crown Vics to know what to do when what passes for Justice rushes up. So too do my cohorts, who set aside the small talk long enough to bag their prey - in this case a man accused of murdering his mother and setting her home ablaze. That's Top Story Strong and nothing would do for either of them to miss their mark. Still, nary an elbow set sail as an ad hoc welcome wagon surrounded the guest of dishonor. The competition ain't always that friendly, but in our analysis, the Lenslinger Institute finds no foul. Thus, the analysis that follows should be used only for entertainment purposes and not even linked without the express written permission of that sweaty executive I put on TV last week. Remember, no shrubberies were trampled in the making of this report. Names have NOT been changed to protect the indifferent. Please, no wagering...

:02 The footage begins with Weaver (in light blue) trailing the suspect closely, tossing out a question and getting a cryptic response. For Weave, the rest of the trek is but a cutaway. Meanwhile, Justin (in black and white) backpedals before the approaching trio like a man walking on marshmallows. Why you'd wanna walk on marshmallows, I haven't the foggiest.

:04 From screen left, lovely Caroline (in white) enters the field, sashaying across the lawn like she’s at a garden party. Do not be fooled. She’s a seasoned operator and can crunch scrum knuckles with the ugliest of us. As she swoops in, Weaver pries an eyelid off his screen long enough to notice an approaching pole. He dodges it.

:06 Justin too comes up for air, sees an ill-placed cement thingie and deftly slithers around it. His lens never leaves the mug of the man in the middle. At precisely the same time, a second shooter (in blue) appears, choosing a crossed ankle lope to smooth out the middle distance while working the far end of his full-sized lens.

:08 Corner fully rounded, the seven people proceed toward the Sheriff's department door, four squinting through lenses, two bearing arms and in one in a paper jumpsuit authorities made him put on after they found him naked near a swimming pool. You can’t make this stuff up. I’ve tried.

:10 The scrum congeals as the straightaway opens up. Weaver and Caroline fall into cadence on the arrestee's right. To his left Justin juggles his wriggling baby-cam. It is here lenslingers dare to zoom, darting in for a close up at the risk of eating an ill-placed phone pole. As for the man of the hour, he's entering 'the squeal zone'.

:12 "Why'd you set a house on fire" It's the only audio of note, a vexing question lobbed at a bloke well on his way to the pokey. He chose not to answer, keeping the details of his day to himself. But many times men in handcuffs do tell tales, so you'd better be rollin'. I've seen 'em confess on cam...

:14 No such luck this time. the suspect grooves on his shoes as he shuffles past on (mostly) his own power. No comment personified. Justin, Weave and Caroline trail alongside, lest he change his mind. Second shooter pans the passing parade. Nelson from the newspaper fires a closing shot.

:16 A squeal of feedback can be heard as the video freezes. I'd like to report that it was a passing spaceship dropping off Sasquatch for a press conference on Osama Bin Laden's whereabouts, but in reality the phone stopped recording once a call came in. It was a nightsider, wanting directions to the scene. Funny how news works.

...So, there you have it. Gratuitous perusal of found footage, the likes of which prove little more than I've logged too much time on my new Mac. If nothing else, perhaps you'll put some names to faces the NEXT time you're being frog-marched into a county-owned enclosure. Tell 'em Lenslinger sent ya...

Quiz's Rig

Once upon a crime scene, you knew what to expect when you glanced at the other guy’s gear. These days, not so much. Take this set-up, for example: a stack of plastic and glass so nonsensical Dr. Seuss might hide it in the live truck. Me, I’d strap that contraption to one sore forearm and wade into the fray, oversized logo lit by a lone tally light. So what if Rube Goldberg wouldn’t shoot his kid’s bar mitzvah with that rig? We got menus to cruise through! Besides, it ain’t the components you tote, it’s the moments you scope. And who knows, this plastic axe may be just what you need for that upcoming clown-car ride-along. Imagine the pride when you all pile out, knowing that A.) you’re rockin’ the very latest in news-gathering technology, or B.) those virgins down at Radio Shack have been playing Jenga in the back room again...