Schmuck Alert: OH N-O-O-O!!!

Schmuck Alerts were once reserved for crimes against the video community, but as technology grows so too must the wisdom and vigilance of the Lenslinger Institute. Thus, I submit the first ever Schmuck Alert issued solely for still photographer abuse...

Woody Marshall was doing what you might expect a newspaper photographer to do at the scene of a press conference: taking pictures. That was until a lumbering oaf took issue with his technique and tried to wrestle the camera from his hands. Or maybe 28 year old Malik Brown had another reason for rolling through the lobby of Macon, Georgia's City Hall like some evil Mr. Kool-Aid bent on ripple and vengeance. OH Y-E-A-H? Oh shit. The evidence is on the tape. It begins with Malik Brown pinning the smaller Mr. Marshall against a wall, then attempting some kind of do-si-do maneuver before exiting the building with all the grace of a buffalo in his death throes. Once outside, Mr. brown grapples with another snapper, pushing and pulling the man while imploring him to relax. "Better calm down, better calm down..." the concerned citizen is heard advising. Hey, I got an idea. Keep your beefy meat-hooks off me and my pulse will slow. Until then, I'm gonna do everything to distract you until some bailiff decides to man up and hit you with his Taser. Or tranquilizer dart. Schmuck!

2010: The Best of Viewfinder BLUES

Sure, Twenty-Ten is all but finished - that doesn't mean I can't milk it for (at least) one more blog entry. Pathetic, I know, but we all have our little tics. Some folks wipe down each doorknob they touch; I drape the day in platitudes. If that sounds obsessive, it really isn't. Most nights, I forget what I've written before I ever hit the pillow. Still, there were a handful that didn't make me cringe too bad the following morning:

When it comes to still cameras, I'm little more than a tourist, but on a totally frozen February One, I snapped a frame I'm still quite proud of. The scrum was thick that day, my friend and I was determined to bring back something for the blog. When one mother of a mosh pit formed around scissors and a ribbon, I saw my chance and risked missing the snip for a shot of The Perfect Swarm. The rest, I believe, was history.

For a brief shining moment this year, it looked as if former Sheriff Gerald K. Hege might actually pull off his comeback. It was not to be. But when the fallen lawman swaggered before the cameras looking fabulous enough to both win back his jurisdiction AND drop-kick Steven Segal, well - the fashion critic in me swooned. Black jeans, a matching Henley, a high-waisted motorcycle jacket... this gas-bag has panache! In an instant, I knew how to cover the controversial constable, not for his hillbilly-ninja history, but for his Back in Black apparel and para-military flair! I'm just glad he didn't win his constituency back. Johnny Cash fashion aide, dude's a loon...

Just when I thought I'd mined my past for every possible parable, an old mentor appeared out of nowhere and dropped a time capsule at my feet. Woody Spencer has always been an American Bad-Ass. Through his tutelage, I sharpened my street level news gathering skills early, long before I assumed the position of curmudgeon in the making. In Scenes From A Pot-Pull, I actually got to see a younger me in action - and thanks to my lack of balance , I can honestly tell you, it was a trip.

We all have individuals in our past who left us better than before. In my case it was Roy Hardee, legendary News Director of WNCT-TV. Gruff yet lovable, this pioneering newsman took me under his considerable wing and infected me with his wisdom. I've been chasing current events ever since, though it took me years to process all that Roy taught me about guts, hustle and chopper struts. When he succumbed to illness early in the year, I felt compelled to Remember Roy Hardee. When his son Lee asked me to share my impressions at Roy's memorial service, I was honored. To be honest, I still am.

It was damn near the hottest day of the year when I came up with a little counter-programming. 'Hey, I know - let's go find the coldest job out there! How about those cats who pack boxes at the ice cream factory?" The Bosses bit and before I knew it, I was headed over the dairy with visions of wide shots in my mind. Too bad I didn't have a parka in the trunk. At Twenty below Zero, I could have used it. But then again, I wouldn't have come up with Frosty the Moron had I properly prepared for combat that day. Three weeks later, my spleen finally thawed.

Ever had life jump up and slap you silly? It happened to me in August, when, while wondering what I might blog about next, I noticed the answer forming before me. Some companies have a dastardly habit of blocking the sun. No sooner have the dogs and ponies been unpacked, than they usher everyone underneath one of these rented Tents of Resentment, where a little show and tell with what looks like gangsters on the run plays out far from the glare of that oh so shiny sun. Meh - it may make for comfy CEOs, but it results in lousy television. Made for a good post, though.

Speaking of dark spots, things looked pretty bleak back in May, when the El Ocho elders ripped the Fancycam from my grip. In its place they gave me a slimmed-down Panasonic that shot glorious Hi-Def, yet felt like an empty shoebox on my shoulder. If that weren't enough, they also upgraded our edit suites with the tough but clunky Final Cut Pro. What followed were a few painful weeks in an old dog learned to make TV by turning a few new tricks. Wracked with uncertainty, I eked out a thesis Questioning my Weaponry. Since then, I've grown to love Final Cut, but the FetusCam still feels like something ripped from the womb too soon.

Luckily, I was still rockin' a full sized rig when tornadoes turned High Point into one Twisted Vista. Good thing too, as I needed every inch of glass to capture the madness of Guilford County's newly dented motor fleet. 148 mile an hour winds will stir-fry even the nicest of neighborhoods, which was certainly the case when an EF3 tornado skipped over the trailer parks and took a not so righteous dump on the suburbs. Moments after this picture was taken, I flew counterclockwise loops around the planet until everything wrecked was once again upright and whole. I don't like to brag, though...

Hey, ever had America's favorite Dad dismiss your on-camera query as 'fundamental'? None other but The Cos himself did that very thing to me back in the Summer and I still wanted to high-five him for it. What can I say? The man had a point and obviously I didn't. Chances are I was still chuckling over his presentation. He'd just told a room full of Bennett College belles not to act like a bunch of hoochies and, being a dad of daughters myself, I was kinda taking notes. Who knew when I finally got a chance to bend his ear, he wouldn't really dig my MushMouth impression?

Speaking of celebrities, you're better off NOT meeting them. All too often, they disappoint, never living up to your delusional ideals. A glaring exception is Betty Lynn, that national treasure better known as Thelma Lou, Barney Fife's faithful date. When I first met her a few years back, I was taken with her gift for gab a good half hour before I realized who she was! So you can imagine my displeasure when I heard some jackhole stole her purse. He's already been caught by the time I caught up with my favorite septuagenarian - so I smeared his ugly mug across the airwaves and stopped for a hug with my favorite gal-pal. Yep, that's Betty and Me...

Reality Bytes...

“Ya’ll here talkin’ about that murder?”



G. Lee glanced up from his camera and took in the beefy mailman. He seemed older closer up. A few minutes earlier, the postal carrier had been but a distant silhouette in G.’s viewfinder screen.

“Not really. Cops released a study saying they cleaned up the neighborhood. Called last week’s murder a, uh...”

G. Lee turned to the pretty blond mumbling to herself underneath the street sign.

"Hey, Cammie, what did the chief call that murder?"

"An anomaly," she replied, never looking up from her narrow notepad. "First homicide in a year and a half. Says community policing is to credit."

G. Lee noticed the mailman's eyebrows rising. "What's the real deal?"

"Off camera? This whole street's a shithole. There's not as many prostitutes walkin' around as they're used to be, but the kids from the high school over there come over here and smoke rock in the middle of the street. Suck on them pipes like their Popsicles."

The mailman's voice trailed off as he stared off into the distance. G. Lee couldn't help but stare at his thick neck straining the man's blue uniform collar.

"There's an abandoned house one block over the city needs to bulldoze. Last week I watched eight Mexican girls crawl out from under the porch. Told 'em I was gonna call the law if I saw 'em there again."

G. Lee nodded but said nothing. He could tell from the mailman's clenched jaw that the riffraff really bothered him.

"Well, the Chief says it's nuthin' but butterflies and cupcakes up in here... You know that is."

"Yeah," the mailman said as he readjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Chief needs to walk my route."

G. Lee chuckled and found himself nodding. Three houses down, two grown men huddled on a porch and passed a bottle back and forth. One nudged the other and pointed at Cammie, who seemed oblivious to everything but the Blackberry in her clutches. G. Lee couldn't really blame them. She looked like a Playmate.

"Tell me somethin'," G. Lee said to the mailman. "News crews can go about anywhere and be left alone. What do the gangbangers say when YOU roll up?"

"Ah, they leave me alone, too" said the mailman, s smile creeping across his face for the first time, "but mostly 'cause I got their checks. Plus they know I'll go to that ass..."

With that, the muscled mailman turned to leave, then stopped for one more look at Cammie's short skirt and clingy top. "Speaking of which, you may wanna get her outta here before dark."

G. Lee laughed and told Muscles to be safe. When he turned his lens back on Cammie, she cleared her throat and nodded to no one in particular, before launching into her stand-up.

"Three-two-one... Police say if any one neighborhood's benefited from community policing, it's THIS west-side community, where violence was ONCE commonplace, but is NOW virtually crime free..."

Last Man Standing

Having long voiced my loathing for logowear and live trucks, it's difficult to explain why I was recently spotted atop a snow overpass, holding forth on driver safety while swaddled in a station parka. In short, The Suits made me do it. Obviously, they've a sharp eye for talent. Obviously, they're embracing a whole new paradigm in solo journalism. Obviously, not another living soul was available. I'm cool with that; nothing like the occasional on-air appearance to put you in your place. As a younger photog I flirted with the spotlight, only to discover that to really succeed on camera you had to be A) totally comfortable in your own skin, or B)  a totally smokin' Hispanic chick! I was neither, so after a few years my career as a reporter ended as dimly as it began. Oh well - no more getting recognized by Holly Housecoat - something that only seemed to occur when I was either hungover or buying condoms.

These days, I enjoy a full life without thrusting my furry mug on the unsuspecting public. No doubt the Piedmont appreciates it. Most days, I do. But I've more than enough ego to want to do it well and while popping up on some frozen roadside once or twice a year isn't gonna help me get better, the bosses didn't have to twist my arm to try. The resulting chunks of television won't win me any Emmy's, but I did manage to climb down from that overpass without ever having said 'booger' on the air. Small victories, my friend. Just don't think I'm some kind of pioneer. At my shop, dirty weather always brings a few photogs to the surface. One by the name of Weatherly has shot his own live shots for years and most recently our own Chris Weaver did it very, very well. It's all part of becoming a dominant hominid, a free ranging species that shoots, writes, edits, hustles and yes, occasionally fronts their own stuff. Will it change the face of television? Naah, probably not. But it will make me more employable than that Barbie down the hall, though no one's going to fire some polished hottie to make room for a suburban father of two with thinning hair and thickening lenses. This IS television folks. Pretty people will continue winning.

Still, it's fun to make an occasional cameo, even if I have to do two jobs at once to make it happen. I just wish I could appear on camera without having to 1) constantly fiddle with a handful of dying Double-AA batteries that threaten to bring the whole show to an ignoble close, 2) don thermal underwear and suffer through a morning of snow blowing up my nose, or 3) keep a third eye on the steady line of homeless men passing by my unlocked live truck. Oh well, enough excuses. I should just feel lucky I didn't have to shovel all the snow off the blacktop as I warned home viewers not to do what I was doing. Come to think of it, I'd better shut up before The suits get any more bright ideas. Now roll that beautiful bean footage...

Hunk of the Junket

Sure, fake vampires are all the rage right now, but for my (lack of) money the real celebrity in this photo is the guy behind the glass. Check him out: Drab dress, frozen pose, dead expression... What a bloodsucker. Wait a minute, that's no glammed-out parasite -- that's The Senator, a Louisiana lenslinger with immortality issues of his own. Legend has it he's knocked around Baton Rouge for years - haunting the Legislature, affecting the airwaves, propping up the walking dead. But unlike most ethereal beings, the good Senator doesn't avoid reflections. In fact, he excels at them. Since 2007, he's operated a blog that's won him legions of fans - myself included. I swear, one of these days I'm gonna wing my way down to the Pelican State and tip a few spirits with the many lubricated shooters that populate that not so sacred place. Until then, you'll find me here, avoiding those silly chick flicks and re-reading Queen of the Damned.

Merry Christmas...

You there - with the mouse in your hand and glazed look in your eye - THANKS! By simply clicking on this site, you've made a delusional father of two just a little bit happier. Why that is exactly, I can't really say - but knowing there are humans out there who willingly give my drivel a spin warms the cockles of my cold photog heart. Look at it this way: until I get my shit together and turn Viewfinder BLUES into a book (projected completion date: Spring, 2027), you have an exclusive inside look into the mind of a guy the rest of the planet hasn't even heard of. Okay, so that was a lousy sales pitch, but that's wholly appropriate since I'm not trying to sell you anything. Yet. All I'm really trying to say is THANK YOU. Your sporadic patronage almost makes me think there's hope for an undereducated schlub with a writing compulsion. Whether or not this blog ever turns into anything more doesn't entirely matter. I could stop writing right now (honest!) and still have exceeded my literary expectations. Lower your standards and the world's your oyster. Now if you'll excuse me I have a host of other goals to fall short of. This kind of mediocrity doesn't happen by itself, ya know.

Oh - there is one more thing: If you really want to do me a solid (or even if you don't), do yourself a favor and pick up this guy's new book. Brian Clarey's a friend of the blog, his writing is warm and funny and he's a righteous dude to boot. Tell him Lenslinger sent ya. Just don't expect a discount. Fella's gotta eat, dontchaknow... Now go have yourself a Happy Holiday. You deserve it.

The Least I Can Do...

Ya know, as I sit here: warm, dry, perhaps a little stir crazy, I can't help but think of all those lenslingers out there less lucky than I. Photogs like El Ocho's own Stephen Clapper - seen here assembling what can only be an earth-shattering report on our seasonal precipitation. No doubt about it, dude's a PRO, a highly-seasoned 'slinger who's not only working Christmas because he'd dedicated to keeping the public informed, but because he couldn't get the holiday off. That's moxie - the very kind that enables old farts like myself to sit home and avoid talking to our families. Sooo, here's to you Clapper (and all the other half-blue news shooters out there): your youthful exuberance and endless energy are just the kind of qualities I'll gladly toast - just as soon as I pour my next tumbler of Maker's Mark.

After all, it's the least I can do.

Points for Style

What DOES one wear to a mudslide? I never really know. But that doesn't seem to be the case for Jose Hernandez Jr., a freelance photojournalist for NBC LA. Recently, he was spotted rockin' a bonnet straight from Down Under as he picked his way through a Laguna Beach neighborhood. It's a look that says, "I can document destruction all day long and still look like a complete bad-ass!". Touché, Jose, touché... I only wish I could pull of such a look. Every time I try, I look like Crocodile Dundee on a three-day bender. Perhaps a beret....

(Photo by Toni Guinyard)

We Get Letters...

...and by that I mean email, tweets and Facebook messages. The latest comes from friend of the show Guy "Crash" Ayers, who touches upon a fundamental:

"Why do the stations send a reporter & camera crew to remote locations to do a shoot where nothing is happening? I saw one recently, it was 630am, the reporter was talking about some misfortune that had happened to a little kid, from the kid's elementary school. No kids/teachers/anybody around, it's dark and very cold. What numb-skulls send you out to do that? It hardly seems worth the time for a remote on something like that.

"Well, Crash (if that is your real name), you're obviously not a very sophisticated TV News viewer. If you were, you'd know that seemingly meaningless live shot actually added immediacy, heft and intrinsic street cred to your local affiliate's continuous team smotherage. At least that's what those well-dressed strangers told us back in the 80's. Since then, the notion that unrehearsed remotes lend credence to important stories has morphed into the same old song and dance. Stations beefed up their fleet and now they move them around the region like so many overly logo'd chess pieces. "Live for the sake of Live", the field rats say as we unwind the same spool of cable we've unwound a thousand times before. Which leads us to a most unworthy term.

DOG LICK LIVE SHOT: A live shot performed at a place and/or time that is fundamentally irrelevant to the story. Spawned by consultants, done by rote. Named for the old joke "Why does a dog lick himself? Because he can."

That's right, Crash, you fell upon a 'Dog-Lick Live'. You might want to wash your hands. But while you do, know that those of us under the shadow of the mast are (mostly) at peace with our roadside fate. Sure, we may whine a little when we're ordered to babysit a four day old pothole, but anyone who bitches for more than a minute is wasting everybody's time. You might as well stop by the vending machines and yell at the Moon-Pies for being more than six months old. Lately, I MYSELF have been spotted working the mobile newsroom. Why, just the other evening the tough yet lovely Katie Nordeen and I camped outside the Alamance County Sheriff's Department, miles away from the scene of the crime we'd spent the day digesting. The particulars were grim, the shift was long and the weather so frigid, I wiped away my eyelashes. As for Katie, she held up well - though you know it's cold when the Minnesota girl is shivering. Luckily, we could warm ourselves us with the knowledge we were doing important work.

Just ask the consultants.

Is there a Photog in the house?

Could it be? "Satellite Dan" - reconfigured as a top flight surgery nerd? We had the technology. But since I'm prevented by microchip implant from divulging just what operating rooms my old pal might be stickin' a lens in, I'll just say this: Dude's in South Carolina, working for fancy-schmancy hospital and living on a boat. Could I make that up? Okay, yeah, I probably could, but the fact remains that five months after the grizzled vet left El Ocho, he still tops the very short list of ex-employees we actually miss. Ya know, every so often a phone rings in the feed room and a voice very much like Danny tells us all how much he loves us. I'd almost swear it was actually him, but dude sounds so ... content. We pass the phone around nonetheless, but no one's thoroughly convinced the man we knew as a video ninja is now dressed like a smurf and radiating inner peace. Still, this recently leaked photo sure makes it look that way, though until I see an unobstructed head shot, I'm just not prepared to believe Danny made that quantum leap.

Next, you'll expect me to believe there's life after TV News.

So You Want to Be in TV News...

I don't know much about this video, other than the fact that it's brilliant. While the dialogue is most probably fiction, anyone who's dodged the latest Newsroom Barbie or been repeatedly excoriated by some tortured news executive can attest to its veracity. But enough with the SAT words, enjoy the above video and know that you won't even be quizzed later. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to explain to the college senior intern why I don't have a sound guy like he sees in the movies...

Pity the Fools...

Ten years ago, a crack unit of camera commandos was sent to prison for a crime they did not commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the local television underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as 'slingers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else shows up, if you can help them find their focus, maybe you can hire... The A/V Team.

"The Chief" - Reportedly the group's leader, this alleged British expatriate hides behind affability and a pleasing accent. Do not be fooled. He's trained in the art of over-lighting, favors clean head-shots through distant doorways and once choked an intern with his own resumé tape. Not above using nonsensical foreign colloquialisms to impress the lay-dees, he indulges a four dollar a day ice cream habit. Thought to originally be from Iowa.

"Joe-Joe" - With his laid-back nature and total recall of Country Music Classics, this Tennessee native draws his victims in by posing as an easy going good ole boy. In fact, he's a video assassin, the group's hopped-up trigger man with legendary edit bay speed, deep knowledge of satellites and barely concealed survivalist leanings. Can kill a man with a single fishing lure or lone tripod screw. Personal friend of Bigfoot.

"Puppet Master" - This shadowy figure has been on the agency's radar for decades, as he's been skirting the edges of legitimate news scenes since the Reagan Administration. Known for his mastery of all communication formats, collection of all-terrain vehicles and love of folksy knick-knacks, he's said to hold several on-air personalities under his svengali-like mind grip. A self-trained pilot, he holds a black belt in Shaq-Fu.

"The Siler City Assassin" - Another of the group's rural combatants, this one's especially slippery. Able to frame a spiraling football at a thousand paces, the man sometimes known as 'Wrenn Diddy' is believed to oversee several backwoods sleeper cells. A master of improvised weapons, he can kill a man with a single half-filled spit-cup. Thought to be THE off-air technician responsible for Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction.

"Bruisers Two" - Less is known about these two goons than any other members of the camera cabal. At first glance, they're comic relief, but a closer look reveals their collective role as the group's 'muscle'. Dude in Blue never shows his face in public, lest his many victims seek their vengeance. Guy in green once held a packed school bus hostage until a missing 9 volt battery was returned. Approach with extreme caution. And maybe a Pizza Inn coupon.

"Blowhard" - Perhaps the most despicable member of this unsavory association, this slinger of mud fancies himself a wordsmith. Mostly, he aggrandizes his own sordid history, when not acting as the team's Minister of Disinformation. Not above inflating his own skill-set, this weasel actually believes the lies he writes. Weaknesses include a love of leather jackets and a deep seeded fear of live trucks. Widely considered mentally unsound.

No wonder their plans rarely come together...

View to a Kill

For all the thought posited upon the tragedy at Jonestown, it's a pity so little has been written about NBC Cameraman Bob Brown. After all, he alone provided irrefutable proof of the madness that first overtook members of the People's Temple in November of 1978. In doing so, he recorded his own death. It was late in the day when Brown and other members of the media covering Congressman Leo Ryan's visit to Guyana tried to fly out of that troubled land. But Jim Jones wouldn't allow it, sending his henchmen to gun down Ryan's group at the Port Kaituma airstrip. Bob Brown's TK-76 was rolling when the gunmen arrived. Witnesses say the 36 year old news vet immediately moved forward, lens up...

"Bob Brown stayed on his feet and kept filming what was happening, even as the attackers advanced on him with their guns. He was incredibly tenacious."

Seconds later, the gunmen cut Bob Brown down, first wounding him from afar before moving in and executing him and others at point blank range. His footage, both of the splintering village itself and the last few seconds of his life, helped a shocked planet grasp the events that led to the mass suicide of 909 Temple members. But who WAS Bob Brown? A cursory search of the internet uncovers few details of the man before the massacre. The most I was able to discover comes from this dated NBC profile of Brown and slain on-air partner Don Harris. It describes Bob Brown as an former local TV reporter turned network photog; a man known for his sense of style and flair for human interest stories.

Bob Brown reportedly expressed concern over the Jonestown trip, but it didn't stop him from showing some Guyanese children the wonders found inside his camera's viewfinder. It's the photo of that encounter that has stuck with me long after I finished 'Raven', Tim Reiterman's exhaustive history of Jim Jones and his doomed followers. The picture shows a man in his prime, bending at the waist to share his everyday view with a child who most certainly has never seen such a thing. That alone makes me want to know more about Bob Brown, a dashing photog from another era who deserves a far better legacy than the flickering images leading up to his violent demise. I'm not sure anyone reading this can help me in this endeavor, but I'll gladly share whatever I learn. Now do me a favor and go hug a cameraman.

Above Photo: NBC Cameraman Bob Brown shows his TV rig to Guyanese children as NBC sound technician Steve Sung looks on. Brown was among the journalists killed by Jonestown members shortly before the mass suicide. (Photo by Ron Javers, San Francisco Chronicle)

Deplete the Fleet!

For some time, management and market forces have conspired to take the crew out of 'news crew'. Now, they've come for our cars. That's right, some local news photogs in the nation's fourteenth largest market will have to drive their OWN vehicles to all those ribbon-cuttings, house fires and county commissioner meetings. The mind boggles. Station-owned news units - those functional, tacky and often odorous automobiles - have been a staple of electronic news-gathering ever since the first affiliate slapped a logo on a driver's side door and tried to pass it of as a 'mobile newsroom'. These days however, every thing you ever knew about local broadcasting is crumbling, er, evolving. Just ask the news shooters at WFLA. Soon they'll be piloting their private rides to exciting news scenes across Greater Tampa - all at a reimbursement rate of 32 cents per mile - well below the federal rate of 51 cents.

Predictably, the depletion of their fleet hasn't set well with the fine photog staff down Florida way (or anyone else with a tripod in their trunk, for that matter). Who might be responsible for insurance liability, what happens when equipment is stolen, and just how long might they have to wait for reimbursement... they're just a few of the unknowns troubling the WFLA photojournalists -- and with good reason! Now, proponents of the plan will point to newspaper photographers, who've been driving their own cars to news scenes since before that soggy lump of fish-wrap you backed over in the driveway this morning lost all relevancy. Have you SEEN a newspaper photog's car? It's not the kind of thing you'd want to cover in rainbow-colored peacocks. Think 'Hoarders: Pimp my Ride Edition'. Or better yet, frequent a few tempests around Tampa in the coming months. Chances are you'll find all kind of half-crippled hoopties slathered in hand-drawn logos and freestyle, rhyming lies. At least if this highly entertaining thread is to be believed...

You know, it's tempting to go with that line of thought, to joke about thirty year old Gremlins stuffed to its ugly gills with high-tech recording equipment worth ten times the P.O.S. it sits in. But, really, there's very little funny about this soon to be standard practice. Company cars have long been an unspoken incentive to this less than lucrative line of work. While (most) managers wouldn't dare encourage a photog to speed en route to a story, they're regularly expected to bend space, time and physical feasibility. It's quite the grind, even behind the wheel of a late-model SUV full of scanners and free gas. Replace that with the beater your pizza delivery guy tools around in and you have one more HUGE reason why this gig ain't what it used to be. Just how station owners will hammer out the details remains to be seen, but one aspect is a foregone conclusion: Other stations will soon follow suit. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of hackery. I just wonder, what's next? Producers bringing in their own TV's to stare at at all day? Assignment editors kicking in for newspaper subscriptions? Anchors doing their own hair?

You're right. That's just crazy talk...

Insanity Be Damned

(Photo by Matt Gephardt/ KUTV)

No snarky remarks tonight, just a great big dip of the lens to Elizabeth Smart, seen here addressing my ilk outside a Salt Lake City courthouse. After what she's been through, it would be perfectly understandable if Ms. Smart shunned the scrum. Instead, the now 23 year old has exhibited unswerving courage, offering crisp testimony that helped convict the reprobate that enslaved her. That she has remained so poised under the crush of numbing inquiry has (almost) restored my faith in a legal system that too often adds to the maladies of the bankrupt and the vanquished. Elizabeth Smart is neither and her resiliency is to be admired, if not studied. As for her tormentor, he can trumpet his delusions in the penitentiary, where hopefully there's an even bigger victimizer just itching to feast on the bones of one Brian David Mitchell.

Were it up to me, they'd be soot by now.

Paint the Town Brown

Ever wonder what it's like to be a UPS Driver? Me neither, but when the bosses brought it up, I knew enough to feign interest. Next thing I know, I'm strapped into the jump-seat of a speeding cargo van, wondering if all that truancy in high school was completely necessary. Turns out it was, for without that lack of career planning, could I have possibly enjoyed the spoils of so many different gigs? College professors don't get to dress up as delivery men and play 'fly on the dashboard' - and with good reason! Would YOU wanna sit through some labored dissertation on the repetitive ebb and flow of the proletariat? Hell to the No! You'd much rather half focus on a series of flickering pictures as an off-screen voice dribbles out factoids in a rhythmic, soothing cadence. Looks like this IS a job for Lenslinger!

All of which still doesn't explain WHY I'm decked out in resounding brown. Quite simply, they made me. Yes, when the savvy folks at the local UPS hub green-lit our story pitch, they had but one condition for the cameraman: Dude better represent! I chuckled at first, but having already worn everything from a surgical scrubs to an insincere grin just to score a story, I quickly crumpled. When I called in my measurements a day later, it was all I could do NOT to request my shorts be of the Jim Dangle variety. That was probably wise, as the day I chose to ride along didn't see temps rise above the thirties. Luckily for me, I was by then swaddled in the finest non-broadcast logo-wear this side of that Hooter's down by the airport. You know the one...

In retrospect, the undercover duds were a stroke of genius, as it allowed me to blend into the scenery. When my host driver - a prince of a fellow by the name of Christopher Pritchett - stormed the gates of a swanky office building, I fell in behind him and buried my face in the cup. Let the security guard wonder why that UPS dude is rockin' a TV camera, instead of a box of printer ink. Later, I found myself loitering outside as my brand new bestie dashed in and out of businesses. Had I NOT been incognito, a few passers-by might have called the law on that scruffy putz hanging around the UPS truck, As it was, I only caught one lady fondling her cell phone and that thing was so outdated, it had an exhaust pipe! Still, lady had my ticket. Must have been the beard.

See, UPS drivers are clean shaven. Maybe some of them have mustaches, but the kind of chin cabbage I grow is strictly forbidden! I nodded knowingly the first time one my new brethren in brown mentioned it, but by the third time, I was beginning to wonder if they expected me to shave for the occasion. No bother - ten minutes into our stop-and-start journey, I was pulling my hair out, thanks to a wondrous device known as the Go-Pro. A high tech HD camera in a rugged case, the Go-Pro resembles little more than a cube on a stick. But plant that sucker on a windshield and watch the point-of-view footage pile up. Or, do like I did and screw with the damn thing while it records your frustration in a series of unflattering JPEGs.

But enough of my mug - let's meet the players! Christopher Pritchett is a 20 year veteran of the corrugated force and, given any opportunity, will tell you just what Brown did for him. A few syllables in, you realize the guy is sincere. Then you realize what a stand-up company UPS must be, for when the local news crew came calling, this global giant didn't refer to us to some suit in New York. Instead, they threw open the doors and let me shoot whatever I saw fit - as long as I sported the appropriate colors in the process. As a result, El Ocho got their sneak peek, UPS generated a little local love and I added more coursework to my Doctorate Studies in Cameramanthropology. So thanks, UPS! I don't know that the following piece of TV will win you many new accounts, but I for one will never look at those big brown trucks in quite the same way again...


But I ain't shavin'.

Logos in the Mist

Sure, it's just a snapshot from yesterday's Obama visit, but something about this picture Weaver took yesterday morning really weirds me out. The threatening sky, the blurry logos, all those retractable masts - YEESH! Makes my skin crawl. Still, I do recognize my hives for what they are - an allergic reaction caused by overexposure to these ornery beasts. Too many times I've hunkered down inside one of these immobile newsrooms while a hairspray addict clamored for a clever way to narrate calamity. Am I projecting? You betcha, but we all have chinks in our armor and mine is a deep-seeded disdain for box-vans wrapped in gaudy promises. Luckily for me though, these vessels of editing and angst are already on the road to extinction, soon to be replaced by wafer-thin eyelid implants. Yeah, it may take a while, but I envision a day when all it takes to go live(!) is a twitch of the temples and a pile of wi-fi enriched recyclables...

Though chances are I probably won't like that, either

Two Guys Named Mike

Either there's been a rift in the time-news continuum, or key members of the Fourth Estate have switched brains with my teenage daughters. How ELSE do you explain a picture of two battle-hardened photogs gaping at their phones like a couple of food court zombies? What's up, fellas? Hello Kitty drop a new cat counting app? Justin Bieber tickets go on sale? Candyland finally offer dual citizenship? Hey, how you spend your downtime is up to you, but it's awfully hard to mythologize our breed when you guys go all Hannah Montana on me. Hmmm? What's that? The President is in town and you're killing time during the security sweep? No problem, I once knitted an entire Cosby sweater waiting for Bill Clinton to polish off an intern.

Or was it the other way around?

Signs Your Presser is Tanking...

10) The unmistakable sound of Droid Tetris is emanating from deep within Tripod Row.

9) The TSA Agent you convinced to drive the VIP's over from the airport is insisting on a cavity search.

8) The lavaliere microphone the in-house audio guy insisted you wear has slipped down your trousers and is amplifying your flatulence.

7) Your intern stocked the press kit bags with muscle relaxers and cans of Red Bull.

6) The perky PR flack you hired to beam reassuringly at you from the back of the room is for some reason flipping you off.

5) That jack-ass with the blog has turned off his fancycam and is now pointing his camera-phone at you

4) That tool from Wikileaks switched your opening joke index card with a recipe from The Anarchist's Cookbook.

3) Who knew the all-nude bagpipe revue rehearsed in the space next door?

2) That writer from the free weekly is using the press release you handed him to de-seed his dime bag. Don't worry though, it's medicinal.

And the Number One Sign your press conference is tanking...

1) You turned out the lights and no one noticed.