Covering the Spread

Okay, so there was this monkey, see, and for the longest time he enjoyed a quiet life of captivity up in Rock County. But the poor primate's luck took a nosedive just a couple of days ago when he bit his sitter - a lady friend of the owner's grandson who presumably just wanted to go through life without being gnawed on by some damn monkey. Well, the gnawing occurred nonetheless, 911 was dialed and a police report detailing the unlikely attack was put forth in the public record. Not too much later, the people who make it their business to read police reports noticed this juicy tidbit and before you can say "Bedtime for Bonzo", news crews were flocking to Rock County to interview the bitten monkey-sitter. Soon the Piedmont's airwaves were bristling with tales of Primates Gone Wild and among the many consumers of such pseudo-news were people in authority to do something about this semi-menacing simian.

Well, no more than 12 more hours pass before The State decrees that such a reckless pet cannot be allowed to dine on the citizenry and before anyone can so much as check their spelling, it is announced the little fellow should meet his maker and the sooner the better. You heard me, state officials were gonna put that monkey down in front of God and everybody and no amount of fawning news coverage was going to stop them. That announcement sent journalists into a frenzy and soon scribes of every stripe are making a beeline for the front porch cage the monkey calls home. One news crew in particular had been on the scene all morning and was just wrapping up when their cell phones began to melt. 'Stay there!' they were told, "we're sending a sat truck your way." So they waited while the photog who was scheduled to help a sports guy launch a fitness campaign instead headed for the hinterlands...

All of which is a roundabout way of explaining how I came to be pointing a camera at one panting Danny Harnden as he did his best to keep up with an aerobic instructor's commands while delivering his entire sportscast into a sweaty, handheld microphone. What can I tell ya, it's sweeps. Besides, an assignment hasn't got to make sense; it's just got to make deadline. Trying to work through the elements that conspired to bring you on scene is pointless. You may as well guess which pixel shines brightest in your TV screen. If you're smart, you'll realize that a sweaty sports guy makes just as mush sense as some doomed monkey and even though that pounding music is splitting your skull, it surely beats waiting for the Grim Reaper to do in some poor exotic pet in a sequence of shots that will never make air anyway. I only wish someone had explained this to all these fine folks in spandex who one by one danced up beside me to find out why I was slinging glass around their aerobics class...

"Okay, so there was this monkey, see..."

Loss of the Silver Fox

Kevin Kelly can tell a story. Just ask anyone who's tried to brush by him in the hallway of a TV station. But you'd better pack a lunch, because the man known as 'The Silver Fox' has spent nearly four decades traveling up and down the dial. Today that long, strange trip came to an end as Kevin officially retired from his assignment editor post at El Ocho. We only had him for eight years. In fact, this five time News Director had already won scores of awards, fans and followers by the time he wandered through our door. Viewers from Massachusetts to Maine to Ohio to both the Carolinas watched their newscasts improve under his tutelage. From slinging a newfangled Bell and Howell film camera to building a newsroom from scratch, Kevin Kelly has repeatedly displayed guts and integrity in an industry that rewards neither. He once filled 25 positions from a pool of 940 applicants, no doubt earning acolytes and enemies along the way.

But that never stopped Kevin Kelly from speaking his mind. Known for his gravely voice and intense candor, Kevin was never afraid to call a spade an effin' shovel, no matter who was listening. If more managers shot that straight, you'd have a better newscast to ignore every evening. As it is, Kevin's plainspoken ways and sober-eyed assessments are usually on target. Then again, it's hard to bullshit a guy who mastered the art of news-gathering before you ever figured out your primary colors. Countless are the times I'd watch Kevin Kelly dole out assignments to folks who could be his Grandchildren. What must that feel like - to bite your tongue while a twenty-something colleague makes gross assertions about a world they've not even bothered to explore - I don't yet know. But at the rate I'm aging, I'll probably soon find out.

As for Kevin, he rightly considers himself a realist. Thirty seven years of paying attention to the world around you will do that to a fellow. That's way more than most folks will spend in broadcasting these days, which makes Kevin part of a vanishing breed: a newsroom survivalist who's accumulated worldview knows no logo. People tell me I should write a book. Not until I have the kind of material Kevin Kelly does. He'll tell you of towing live trucks to breaking news scenes, of shooting wrecks on the way home at night just to fill the next morning's newscast, of hand delivering reels of freshly-shot film to Greyhound bus stations so that the news of the day could travel throughout the land. It's those priceless parables we at El Ocho will miss the most. For eight years, we've listened to the wisdom of one mortal man who's spent a lifetime offering sacrifices to the News Gods and lived to tell the tales. Try fitting THAT into a fifteen second tease.

Enjoy your new den, Silver Fox...

A Lack of Tactility

Normally I have only some imaginary malady to blame for my lack of transmissions. This time however, I got a less ethereal excuse. My right thumb is whacked! That's my VTR trigger! It began back on my birthday when I joined some friends for a life-affirming mountain bike ride. Barely a mile into the woods, I chose a relatively flat expanse to execute an I.E.D., better known as an Involuntary Ejection Drill. Yes, with so much as a warning lamp the bike's front tire bit hard into the muck and sent my silly ass flying over the mud-encrusted handlebars. Very soon after, I began losing elevation and while the slow motion memory of it is all 'tuck and curl', I've come to realize I did what they always tell you not to do when engaged in terrestrial descent: I reached out to break my fall. How else to explain the throbbing I feel in this most intrinsic of digits?

That was eight days ago. While I didn't let it slow me down on the job, it's only because the lens I now sling weighs the same as an empty shoebox and not due to any semblance of managed care. I do remember making gored woodchuck noises the first time I grabbed my gear on Monday, but when you twist random incidents into ninety second stock operas, you ain't got time to bleed, er, bitch. So I went about my less than merry way, waiting all the while for my right thumb to go back to opposing again. It has not happened. Sure, I can move it again, but it still feels like I tried to stop a forty four year old father from cartwheeling down a hill - which is what I did. Now after treating the whole hand to a few nocturnal bourbon-wraps, I've perused a websites and figured out what exactly I did to my thumb. Medically speaking, I janked it.

Thus, I broke down and bought one of those Velcro thumb and wrist numbers from the nearest drug store and swaggered around the joint like a pro bowler. Eventually the pharmacist asked me to leave and I would have to had my sixteen year old returned with the pickup. I tried to text her, but with a hinky thumb, my attempt to use hip cyber jargon failed and I fat-fingered my way into a lengthy discussion with the good folks at a Papa-Johns in Fuquay-Varina as to why I was repeatedly ordering sixteen cheese pizzas. Anyhoo, when I did get home, I conferred with my private nurse, the same wise and ravishing creature I've been married to for more than two decades. A veteran of many a weekend ER shift, she looked down at the considerable lack of carnage and promptly told me where to stuff it.


Actually, she pried herself away from the salad she was making long enough to make sure the extremity in question wasn't detached. Upon finding it whole, she shrugged toward the medicine cabinet before turning her attention back to the bag of croutons she was insisting I keep my one good hand out of. I did as told, lassoing a half-filled bottle of Ibuprofen that I actually kept track of for more than a fortnight. Now whenever I mention my thumb hurts (pretty often, I'm told) she asks me if I'm taking my medicine. When I mumble a response, she cocks that one eyebrow up and gives me the same look she gave me when I told her I was thinking of applying at that local first TV station. What can I tell you? She's of heartier stock. Me, I'm an American Southerner of Irish descent. I don't bottle up my feelings; I foist them upon others - most often in wheezy, purple verse.

Is it any wonder she sent me to my room?

Schmuck Alert: Memphis Melee

You know, nothing sucks the fun out of a Schmuck Alert like video of an injured colleague. Nonetheless, we here at The Lenslinger Institute have been gravely reviewing the stretcher-side soundbites of one Mike Moore, an award winning photographer/producer working out of Memphis, Tennessee. Seems he and FOX13 reporter Lauren Johnson were working on a story about boys and teen pregnancy Wednesday night when a passing group of youth embraced barbarity. That's a fancy way of saying a bunch of young thugs attacked Moore, pelting him from eventually every angle...

"One kid would draw my attention and before I knew it, it was like kids hitting me from every side and I don't know where the hits are coming from..."

Moore sought care at Methodist Central Hospital being released. Memphis Police charged two teens with Simple Assault and Vandalism over $500. The accused duo are students at Northwest Prep Academy, an alternative school for kids with behavioral issues, where apparently these reprobates are earning their keep. Hmmm, with Emmys and years of experience under his belt, Mike Moore sounds like the kind of guy any troubled young student could learn a lot from. Instead, you attacked him for seemingly no reason. Schmucks!

On the Down-Low

For folks who like to brag about that growth on our shoulders, we 'slingers sure do like to set the cameras down. Especially if there's a reflection involved. See, foreground is hardly an afterthought when you look at life through a tube. You seek it out wherever you go, hoping that a little added perspective will keep your viewers at least halfway glued to their screens. As for your screen, it's a one inch square shimmering in the distance, a scratched-up palette that can absorb sorrow and bombast in the very same frame, a humble enough platform that, when pointed in the right direction, can spark a revolution. Or at the very least freak out everybody at the VD clinic. Yes, it's a powerful tool and a heavy one to boot. Is it any mystery we occasionally set the thing down and let the ground choose the next shot? Michael Humphries did and on that hot August day in South Texas, it was probably his wisest course of action. At least he wasn't waxing poetically over a raw sewage spill while dressed in a tie and action-slacks...

That would be awkward.

Holt of Lightning

Ah, the stick-mounted fancycam. Only a wheelchair will get more people out of your way. But when you're schlepping one through delicate territory, you gotta be careful where you step. Toxic waste dumps, debris fields ... cafegymnatoriums. Yes, a lot of 'togs would rather pick their way through a sewer pipe spill than navigate the shoals of a kindergarten assembly. Me, I'm not quite so cantankerous - yet. For now, I still like crashing elementary school gatherings, if only to see how much I make out of the smallest of news items. In the above case, I had help from a Grammy winner. David Holt is a living compendium of American folk music, a master of the banjo and slave to the steel guitar. His recent performance at Madison Elementary School not only electrified the young student body but also the crusty cameraman at the back of the room. I was so impressed that as soon as his last jaw-harp solo began to fade, I rushed the stage for an interview and a little friendly chitchat.

So I stepped on a few third grade fingers along the way. They'll only need thumbs to text...

Pop Quiz, Hotshots...

When Tom Lassiter asked me to come speak to the Triad Final Cut Pro Users Group, I had to laugh. Not at the invitation, but the irony of it all. It was only seven months ago that I began using Final Cut, the most sophisticated editing software this then 43 year old had ever laid callouses on. “I need to be able to blow into a bay with the smell of house fire on me and lay the whole tragic smack down in under a few minutes,” I fumed at the time. How I was gonna do so with the candy-colored hell that is an FCP keyboard worried me, so much so that I almost did something about it. But instead of getting all proactive, I chose instead The Photog Way. That’s right: I grumbled, pouted out in the open, launched a campaign to defame the good people at Apple. Then I figured out Final Cut the same way I’ve learned every other piece of gear in my career: under extreme deadline. That makes me a survivor of sorts, but it hardly qualifies me to address a group of computer enthusiasts.

Or do it? I’d be less than frank if I didn’t admit I like public speaking. It’s like performing stand-up comedy without having to be funny. Not being funny is something I can usually pull off, especially when the subject at hand is familiar as, say, a highly sophisticated editing system I never bothered to properly learn... Yeesh. Knowing my particular strain of bullshit would only get me through the first fifteen minutes, I dialed up the one individual whose technical grasp matches my own knack for self-aggrandizement: The Mighty Weave.

Come on - who didn’t see THAT coming? Chris Weaver and I have been indulging each other’s distraction for almost as long as we been friends. It’s a good partnership: He’s detail oriented, I get lost in long hallways. He can prattle off any gadget’s schematics, I know most of the Lizard King’s on-stage tirades by heart. Who better to provide usable intelligence once my own fuzzy thinking ran dry? Apparently no one, for I dare say Weaver and I fell into a groove - right there in front of twenty-five or so Final Cut fans. We detailed our work-flow, told how we used a byzantine system to make simple cinema under horrendous conditions. Weaver showed them a handful of time-saving techniques. I described how handy those moves could be when you were slicing away on some laptop bolted to the back-cabin of a stranded live truck, searching for the cursed HOME button as your partner for the day squirts hair spray in your one eye not out of whack from viewfinder abuse.

By the end of the session, nearly three hours had passed and unless I was hallucinating, nobody was in any rush to leave. Maybe that's because Weaver and I covered each other's gaps. Maybe it's because we covered methods, motivation and the madness surrounding daily news. Maybe it's because we knew when to lay off the minutia and roll that beautiful bean footage of a certain person imploring his colleague to "Call the Law!".

Hey, no need to bore 'em.

Goldslinger

(2006) Rated R 88 min. In the little seen fourth Austin Powers movie, even the International Man of Mystery is skeeved out by his lenslinging nemesis, Pervy White-Balance. Decked out in a bushy Van Dyke and thick Russian accent, Mike Myers tried to invigorate the once thriving franchise with his Communist cameraman character, a leering swinger slash spy known for his swanky threads and inappropriate save-tapes. Despite elaborate dance sequences, buxom co-stars and laser shooting robo-cams, the - ahem - film, failed to win over critics or crowds. Its dismal box office is thought to have led Myers to the even more disastrous ‘The Love Guru’. No Stars.

Six Degrees of Sharpton

For every celebrity you meet in this business, you buzz a dozen more. Just ask Kyle DuBreuil. The Burlington, Vermont news shooter recently swooped in on Al Sharpton, a semi-intimate encounter that didn’t happen by accident.

When I saw he was exiting I ran up the aisle on the right side of the church to get a close up of him shaking hands with the hosts of the event. This photo was taken maybe only a second after I had shouldered my camera.

Now, I’ve never side-stepped around the good Rev’rend, but I’ve danced with his partner a time or ten. It’s that tenuous connection that, I’m convinced, holds the universe together. It certainly makes the world feel a lot smaller. Then again, maybe I’ve just been locked in the scrum too long, racing crosstown rivals to fleeting sweet spots, all for a lasting glance at the dignitary of the day. At times, it can feel quite silly. But when you’re poorly paid to waltz alongside the rich and infamous, you rarely stop to name-drop. Sure, you work phrases like “Hey, remember that time I chased Nikki Sixx through an underground parking garage!” into polite conservation, or blurt out “Bill Clinton smells of elderberries!” during fast-food orders, but eventually you learn to look past the marquee.

By treating the fleeting encounters with VIP’s as just another day-shift, you’ll not only become easier to be around, but you’ll grow exponentially as a PHO-tog. That windbag who shows up at every school board meeting to rail against segregation in the lunch room’s chocolate milk cooler? He deserves every bit of focus you’d lay on Miss Hawaiian Tropic, should you choose to point a camera his way. And the homeless man you’re about to turn into an internet sensation - isn’t he entitled to the same crisp, clean audio you’d insist upon should Bono bum-rush through the local orphanage?

No, it’s not as much fun to brag about the backlight you laid on some jittery tax accountant as it to dissect ever inch of your forty second slow-dance with Janet Reno. But by approaching every assignment with the same cockpit concentration, you’ll elevate your rep, spread information across the land and not look like an utter putz just because some C-Lister entered the room. Hey that reminds me - did I ever tell you about the time I fought to the death for a clearer shot of Clay Aiken? It was a mosh-pit of galactic consequence, my friend...

Grace Under Fire

What's worse than witnessing a deadly explosion? Having a fancycam by your side and NOT capturing the blast. It's easier than you might think - missing the shot, that is. Lenses don't affix themselves to the action; they're schlepped, aimed and activated by folks who do a lot more than loiter under glass. Just ask Geoff Nichols. The NBC10 photojournalist was on the scene of a damaged gas main in the Tacony Section of Philadelphia Tuesday Night when the sky turned to fire.

"I had my hand on the camera and it almost threw me back."

But Geoff managed to hold on and using instincts honed by experience, he reflexively zoomed OUT. It may not sound like much, but when a giant plume of exploding gas appears before you, the right finger-twitch is a monumental movement. I know next to nothing about Geoff Nichols, but judging from his performance, I can tell you this wasn't his first gas leak. Tragically, it WAS a 19 year old PGW employee's last such encounter. His body was found after the fire was brought under control. Four other employees and a firefighter were also hospitalized.

"Those guys are really unsung heroes ... they deal with a lot of dangerous stuff all the time."

That's Geoff Nichols again, describing victims of the blast during his obligatory live shot. Those of us lift lenses for a living do so because we like it there. Stepping in front of the camera to talk about the last moment of another person's life isn't something we volunteer for - if only because we know how badly it can go. But Geoff did his beleaguered breed proud, adopting just the right tone to depict the blast recorded in an instant without further wounding those who will forever suffer its aftermath. That's more than jabbing at a button. It's retaining your humanity.

We should all be so nimble.

Smells like ... Freedom!

In the latest Darren Bailey print, The Artist explores the desperation felt when an individual takes on the media elite. Bailey's use of light and mechanized depth sets the stage for an eery encounter, as the nameless citizen shimmers into existence with ethereal splendor. Note the canyonesque wall of cameras Bailey uses to build the barrier represented by the formidable Fourth Estate, a chasm accentuated by the laissez-faire posture of the vultures at bay. Why, one can almost smell the dread washing over the lone interloper as the carnivorous cameras begin to whir-- What? That's just gas?

Never mind.

Gunning for Rubbish

When's the last time YOU chased a garbage truck? It had been many months for me, which meant I was falling behind on my QPR's. That's Quarterly Photog Requirements for the uninitiated - a strict regimen of unsavory assignments I must complete if I'm to retain the title of Cameramanthropologist, let alone find business cards long enough to accommodate that imaginary appellation. Why, it's right here in the handbook:

QPR Sec.4/Para.3/Line 1 - Each and every licensed lenslinger must within ninety days of last such assignment follow but not accost a mobile-based lower level public works employee for the purpose of education, enlightenment and any all possible promo material. Said pursuance should serve to realistically portray working conditions and never interrupt the subject's flow.

Ah, but there's the rub, for any schlub can stop a road crew in its tracks as he fumbles with his fish-eye in the middle of the road. That's inherently uncool and a waste of taxpayer cabbage to boot. More importantly, it's an inefficient time-suck that left to rest could very well delay the most important part of the news-gatherer's day: Lunch. Besides, gumming up the public works sucks whatever sliver of soul a story like this could hope to have. Let's face it: this ain't exactly Watergate. Rather, it's a scintillating glimpse of planetary conditions and their effect on sanitation engineering, or to put it in TV news parlance, it's a buck-fifteen of fluff that should keep a few commercials from bangin' together.

Of course, where and why my half-mangled masterpiece will hang in the newscast is the least of my concerns. I only know that my day won't end until I've tagged and bagged enough refuse to pile up neatly between Weather and Sports. But I'm not just making slot. I'm making friends! Namely, one Darryl Poole, who dropped none of what he was doing long enough to cart me around the 'burbs. Sure, I could have driven myself, but when the guy who knows where ALL the trash trucks are at any particular moment offers you a ride, you wipe your feet as you crawl into his cab. Which is exactly how I rounded up every bit of footage I needed without once leaving any tell-tale news unit tire tracks on Shadow Ridge Meadow Bluffs or wherever the hell the scent of rotting food and dirty diapers took us.

But enough about MY trademark scent, let's meet the players! Er, trouble is I'm not really sure who's who. The one homeowner who made it through Final Cut wouldn't give his name. Even more tragically, I never even identified the star of the show! That's him, about thirty seconds in. Yeah, the guy who sounds like James Brown choking on a pair of nylons. Though I only caught every third syllable, I enjoyed every word he said - even the ones consisting of only two letters! In fact, some of the fellow's best stuff came as simple punctuation. Here a 'Heh!', there a Hmph!' Yes, I dug this working man's verve long before I managed to lay a lens on him. When I did I made sure to feature him one last time toward the end, lest I not find a better example of the bold and noble proletariat.

And you thought I was just chasin' flies...

But That Trick Never Works...

Hey, remember when the game warden popped that moose with the tranquilizer dart and we all took turns taking pictures with it? Yeah, neither do I - but when you run around with a camera in tow, vamping with some animal just goes with the territory. Don't believe me? You've never watched a volunteer fireman try to corral a runaway steer using nothing but a garden rake and his own beer gut. I have and I can tell you it is the kind of thing that sticks in your craw. In fact, the memory of that afternoon is something I plan to chew on long after I've traded in my own teeth for a pair of dentures, some high-waisted slacks and one of those fancy new iLid implants. While I'm at it, I'll probably cue up the time I dropped gallons of sweat over a 300 pound lion named 'Pacino' Did that really happen? By then I'll probably wonder but for now I can tell you the experience ranks right up there with feeding ostriches from the back of a pickup truck. For some forgotten reason, it seemed like news that day... And the moose? He wandered into Salt Lake City recently where officials promptly drugged him, called our friend Darren Bailey and put it all on the news...

Wait 'til Squirrel finds out...

Schmuck Alert: Pole Dancer

Sigh. You know, just because took a solemn vow to to spotlight camerabuse everywhere doesn't mean I enjoy it. Not when such bad reactions are reaching epidemic levels. Okay, it's still a little early to use the "E-Word", but at this rate 2011 may very well go down as The Year of the Schmuck. Case in point: the latest crime against innocent recording equipment, this time on the streets of San Francisco. Stanley Roberts was the operator in question. Since 2006 the burly journalist has earned the admiration and ire of viewers by turning his lens on people behaving badly in a series he calls People Behaving Badly. With the entire Bay Area at his disposal, Stanley's rarely ever at a loss for victims, er viewers, er violators. Such was the case just the other day when a gentleman took exception with the KRON-TV lens pointing his way. Soooo, 25 year old Israel Marron Castro did what any lucid bystander would do to escape notice. He shoved two ski poles into the rolling camera and babbled something about being high - 'cause Hey, that's how you lay low in San Francisco! Or not. Soon, however, a cameo on the news was the least of Castro's problem as cops moved in and determined he had outstanding warrants - not to mention fresh new charges of assault with a deadly weapon, vandalism, battery, and resisting arrest. As for Stanley, he's fine - though like one Chris "Call the Law" Weaver, he's still scratching his head a bit.

"I really thought the guy would back off but he just kept coming ... had I gotten hold of one of those ski poles I would probably have been put in jail!"

Why bother, Stanley, when such esteemed organizations as the Lenslinger Institute are around to watch your back. Now if you'll excuse us we have an important message for Mr. Israel Marron Castro.... "SCHMUCK!"

Turd Surfaces...

When last we saw Rick 'Turdpolisher' Portier, he was helping us bury evidence in the desert outside Vegas. Since then, he's really laid low. But recently, the veteran photog as seen rising from some Louisiana sewer. Hey, Batman's got his cave, Rick's got his cesspool. They both wear tights. But that's not important right now. What is important is that we get to the bottom of Rick's subterranean homesick view. Turd?

"It ain't easy serving up the fecal buffet. Don't believe me, spend a few minutes with any Assignment Manager. These hearty souls have an entire newsroom to please: interns who want to be stackers, stackers who want to be reporters, and reporters who want to be anchors not to mention wrangle photogs only concerned with where their next free meal is coming from. Throw in a cacophony of scanner traffic and the chaos of CNN, FOX, MSNBC, and the competition's newscasts blaring in the background, and you can see why your average Assignment yearns for calm, and thrives on symmetry.

For someone with a crappy handle, symmetry means your name is at the top of the shit-list every time the word 'sewer' poops up on the menu. So when a few industrious rednecks decided it might be profitable to swipe the iron sewer grates in a spiffy new neighborhood, I grabbed my rubber boots and a change of clothes and headed to the land of milk and hayseeds that is Livingston Parish.

You know the not so old saying, "You gotta get dirty to polish a turd"? It's true -- especially when your reporter wants a cool looking stand-up for her escape tape. That's how I found myself wedged into a place too small and too nasty for Mike Rowe. But the joke was on the Assignment Guy, because after all that work, the local constable who phoned us about the story backed out, and our mas"turd"piece never graced the flat-screen.

Now if you'll excuse me, I know where there are scanners that need their volume knobs removed."

Numb from the Scrum

Thanks to a series of fresh press passes, my twenties were pretty intense. Since then, however, the sudden rush of understanding felt when golden shovels break topsoil has subsided a bit. Don't get me wrong. I still feel a thrill when the rent-a-cop wants to pat me down and loitering outside a burning meth-lab never does lose its buzz. But the less glamorous aspects of news-gathering haven't aged nearly as well. Neither, for that matter, have I. Back when I was a neophyte with good intentions and a wicked mullet, I tackled every assignment with hustle, gusto and a really rad jean jacket.

These days, I rarely ever go double-denim. But as my wardrobe has evolved, so too has my attitude. No longer do I volunteer for all-day stake-outs. Where as I used to fall in behind each and every passing siren, I usually now drop to the floor and hide under my desk. And that three part consumer investigative piece? I'd rather pretend I watched it than shoot a single miserable frame. How did I get to be this way? Overexposure to all manner of inanity, I think. Truth is, I don't really know. See, I was just a pup when I wandered off the street and into my very first newsroom. Thus, I can't tell if I'm half-bent and cynical because I've carried a camera everywhere I gone for more than two decades, or if it's the other way around. I don't suppose it even matters. One thing's for sure: I learned to work the knobs pretty quickly, but it's taken me years to gain even a little perspective.

What IS that perspective? Hard to say. All I know is twenty years behind the lens has left me half-convinced I've seen it all. No doubt that comes from repeating myself so many times over the years. Example: I've produced more 'Back to School Shopping' stories than I can shake a three-ring binder at. Somewhere at the North Carolina Zoo there's a cage with my name on it - not because I'm so damn furry but because I've showcased every species that place has to offer - including the veteran janitor dude who'd rather dry-scrape the monkey pit than clean up after one more third grader. I don't blame him, for that kind of time in office can only lead to scandal, graft or petulance. For we 'slinger types, a long career manifests itself in a kind of practiced aimlessness, an urgent insouciance, a feeling of being well connected yet utterly detached...

Now if you'll excuse me there's a drive-by shooting I gotta get to. Seems they're fresh out of knock-knock jokes and it's my turn to bring the fondue set...WHAT?!?

I hear the chase scene is AWESOME.

Fish Eyed Glitz

There's more to a life behind the lens than fending off rabid rednecks. Sometimes you get to go to fancy premieres! Okay, mostly you get to huddle outside fancy premieres with three dozen of your closest frenemies while the beautiful people parade past. Just ask Sean Browning, left coast lenslinger and proud new owner of a Go-Pro camera. That's the tiny POV device Sean used to snap this pic of the Oprah Winfrey Network Manufactured Red Carpet Affair. It's the glitzy debut of a whole new way of life! It's an event women everywhere have been waiting for! It's a rented parking lot with a custom backdrop! Oh well, at least no one started swingin' a 'Git-Stick' and cussin' like Yosemite Sam on a bender....

That is, until Steadman showed up.

Schmuck Alert: Call the Law!

Since 2005, we here at The Lenslinger Institute have issued countless Schmuck Alerts: snide little jabs at ass-hats dumb enough to attacking a functioning fancycam. This one, however, is PERSONAL.

How could it NOT be, when founding member Chris Weaver is the victim of what can only be termed a felonious assault? Sadly, that's exactly what happened this afternoon when he and reporter Katie Nordeen found themselves on the side of the road in Davidson County. They were there following up on repeated claims of animal abuse; seems a local equine group noticed two horses they deemed malnourished. When a few phone calls didn't stir up much, Katie and Chris drove out to the address in question to have a look. Weaver was standing in the right of way of a public road, shooting video of the horses when a frothing crackpot straight out of a Stephen King novel rolled up and rolled up HARD.

"I knew when he jumped out of the car I may be in trouble....all I could think is...."Uh, Oh...this is gonna hurt."

Ya know, I though I'd met every type of unhappy customer there is. I don't remember ANY as unhinged as one Mr. Kirkus. In his world, it's perfectly acceptable to attack a cameraman if you perceive him to be your land, to go after him with a stick, to rant, rave and threaten in a manner that makes those Mel Gibson phone rants sound like the sweetest of all booty calls. Really, Mr. Kirkus - what universe do you live in where acting like a cartoon character is permitted? Did you think such behavior would all the queries about your suspiciously skinny horses? Are you as inbred as you look? Or did the greasy mullet and demented spittle come with the hat? Either way, you've got a lot more problems on your unwashed plate than mere neglected equine. You Sir, are facing two (2) Felonies. That's big city talk for 'little gray room'. I certainly hope you get to explore every crack and crevice of one real soon, for you appear to be little more an incoherent menace.

"He swung a few times hitting me on the lower right leg calf muscle and then on my camera lens as he swung the stick higher."

Unlike the near-murderous Mr. Kirkus, Chris Weaver was the essence of restraint. When the room went stupid, he kept his cool and followed the most basic tenant of Cameramanthropology: "Always Be Rollin'". Not only did Weave keep the red light glowing, he kept his own temper in check. That's no easy feat when a camouflaged madman is attempting to go agricultural on yer ass. But then Weaver's a pro. He knew anything more than self-defense would only agitate the jackal. He knew "the law" was on his side (and hopefully, on the way). Most of all, he knew the camera was recording EVERYTHING and rather than have to explain any lopsided drop-kicks, he'd be better off forgoing the heroics. That said, it is a pure act of providence that Kirkus backed off when he did, for it is the nature of grown men and detached tripod handles to want to strike back. I wasn't there of course, but I can tell you with great confidence that the Chris Weaver I know wasn't going to take another lick of that stick.

"He left a mark on my leg...It's a nice bruise...but otherwise I'm fine."

That's a rather charitable position, Chris. Others I know would have limped away, collapsed into a ditch and demanded at least few days off to grapple with the trauma of it all. Remind me to keep tabs on Kirkus' case as we make him the poster child for unhinged simpletons the world over. Schmuck!

Willard and The Kid

Sure, you got a Western-themed Willard Scott on the verge of his millionth free meal, but for all those seasoned lenslingers out there, this is a shot of technology lost. Just ask Mike Borland. He's the strapping young shooter in the corner there, the one so lovingly wrapped around that rusting-edge gear. Actually, it was pretty radical at the time. Just check out that Sony industrial with the sweet pistol grip. And that bag? He ain't goin' to the gym later. Not when he's spent the day schlepping a top-heavy cyclops on one shoulder and a VCR from the set of 'Mannix' on the other. Technically, it's a BVU-110 - but you can think of it as a straight-up hip-killa. It clicks! It whirs! It throws you off balance when you're stalking hammy weathermen! Speaking of ham, I sure hope Mike got something to eat before Willard upended that buffet. How else he gonna live to be a hundred?

Handling the Pan

“Hi folks, wanna tell Channel 8 what your New Year’s Resolution is?”



The old couple looked my way, their necks jerking in unison like two frightened birds. The woman’s thin lips curl into a sneer, but before she can say anything her husband deems me a degenerate and pulls her away. I smile as if they tipped me and let them pass.

‘Was it something I said?’ I ask myself. My tone, perhaps? I look down at my clothes and decide they’re perfectly suitable for approaching strangers in a parking lot. Unfazed, I glance around and spot three teenage girls walking out of the Old Navy. So lost in conversation about their very next text, they don’t notice me until I’m within arms reach.

“Hey ladies,” I say, waving the stick microphone I’ve been concealing in my sleeve, “Ya got a second to tell Channel 8 about your New Year’s Resolution?”

Minutes later, I’m still squinting through the lens as the high schoolers yammer on about their plans. I nod and act interested as they chirp in what can best be described as a foreign tongue. In truth, I’m not even listening to them. There’s no need to - not when the glowing red light in the corner of my screen and the dancing green audio lights tell me all I need to know. ‘WHEN will this be on?’, I hear them think. When they run out of complete sentences, I tell them. Tonight at Six. Only half a dozen hours before Twenty Ten runs out.

As they scamper off to text their friends, I scan the parking lot for any signs of a security guard. Amazingly, I don’t see one. Was a time I couldn’t wave a station bumper sticker around these parts without getting wrestled to the ground. Now, it appears I could shoot a reality show on the Ben and Jerry’s patio and not get hassled. Makes me glad I didn’t ask permission to be here.

Two men, both dressed in khaki pants and dark golf shirts head straight for me. They look like IT guys looking to score copier paper. I let them pass and center in on a trio of Goth Kids smoking on the corner.

“Wanna tell the local news what your New Years Resolution is? Guaranteed to piss someone off.”

They look at me like I just licked my eyelid, but I only gaze back. Twenty years of panhandling for sound has thickened my skin and lengthened my stare. But when they fail to utter an interesting syllable, I shrug and walk away. Guess Marilyn Manson fans don’t believe in promises - no matter how they try to convince Mom to change the wallpaper in their bedrooms. ‘No bother’ I think. Plenty of fish in the sea; plenty of gasbags in the parking lot. Just a few more on tape - er, disc, er, card and I can start my own New Year’s Eve ritual - which basically consists of avoiding shopping malls, strangers and microphones. Glancing at my watch, I try to do the math to see how much time I have left, but the numbers hurt my brain and I’m reminded why I’m holding a TV camera in the first place.

That’s when I spot them. An African-American family pouring out of the Barnes and Nobles; impeccably dressed, the youngest one in dreds. ‘Yahtzee’, I think as I heave my camera into first shoulder position and hit RECORD for what would be the final time that year...

“Hi there folks, care to cap off two Thousand Ten with a quick confession? Just wanna know your New Year’s Resolution. Limited time offer...”

Dominant Hominids

There's nothing terribly provocative about this archival photo, but it does go to show Chris Weaver and I weren't always the best of buds. Sure, we've long been cordial, but back in 1997 when this picture was snapped (by a non-digital camera, no less), our relationship was a lot more ... competitive. Just check out dude's body language: right knee drawn up, arms folded, shades in place. Why, he looks like he's about to pounce! Or at the very least, sidle up and steal my best camera battery while I wasn't looking. Luckily for me, I was well armed with a shiny new Leatherman and a space age device called a "pay-jur". (Remember those? Didn't think so.) These days of course, we're thick as thieves: stealing away for lunch, plotting photog domination, exploring the outermost reaches of self-aggrandizement. Okay, that last part's mostly me, but the fact remains that Weave and I eventually put aside our differences and formed something very close to a partnership. I just hope now that he's all skinny and fly he won't dump me for a younger, less distracted news shooter. Might have to pummel him with dead nine volts if he did. That, or simply sneak up and cut the brakes on his news unit...

Provided I could find the Leatherman, of course...