After the Interview...

Yeah, just surf around for a minute so I can get some video... Hmm? Doesn't matter what you click on I won't show the screen. I'll shoot that back at the studio so I can get all fish-eye on it. No, I just need you to act like my kids and ignore me. Just sit there and click around, never the mind the fact that a strange cameraman is hovering over you, zooming in on your every eyebrow twitch, isolating your least favorite body part. Don't be nervous. I'm not. In fact, I once shadowed a group of street performers as they prepared to jump a nearby mime and I never once broke a sweat. Hmm? I dunno - I think he was selling weed on their turf. Just do me a favor and don't look at ME, look at the COMPUTER. You can play Angry Birds on that thing, I don't care. Just give me a few seconds of silent focus or else my entire lower body's gonna fall asleep. You know, I once wanted to make movies, but then life and lack of talent kicked me square in the 'nads...now I'm here with you. Just feel lucky I don't make you do one of those weird walks to nowhere, 'cause people hate that. Hey, ya know what I hate? Folks who don't trust the cameraman when he says 'act natural'. If you'll do just that. I'll be out of here and making love to a drive-thru value meal before you can power down that laptop. Trust me. I'm a professional. I've shot chopper landings with no viewfinder, ant farm conventions without a tripod and Presidential debates without the proper press pass. I got this. Just do me a favor and stop looking over here. I got an early morning live shot tomorrow and I'm going to need some sleep before I get up and mismatch my sweatsocks... No? Can't even pretend for a moment that I'm not here? Tell ya what, sport. Just go down to the end of the hallway and walk back toward me all natural like. I probably won't even use it. Hmm? What should you do with your hands? Uh, grab a clipboard and radiate importance. Just...walk. I'll be wedged in that corner by the ferns, wishing I'd paid more attention in high school. You can act like my guidance counselor and ignore me. I'm begging you - please!

The Raddest Catch

Richard Adkins works well with anchors...

Turnstile etiquette at the DMV, a recent dearth of butter-beans, fresh outrage over inner city sidewalk height ... the stuff we cover will put you under. But every once in a while something cataclysmic happens and you just happen to be there with a viewfinder in your face. Such was the case Friday when nothing less than Blackbeard’s anchor (BLACKBEARD'S ANCHOR!) broke the surface and to my eternal regret, I wasn’t there to receive it. Richard "RAD" Adkins was, however, but he explains below how he nearly wasn’t.

We ALMOST blew this assignment off.... other pressing issues, holiday weekend, short staff due to vacations... Glad we didn't. Once the Anchor actually broke the Water's surface, I thought Man! Just like in the Popeye Funnies! Is was a stereo typical old fashion anchor. And covered with just what you'd think, right out of the Dead Man's Chest. Once on board, a star fish actually fell off the thing. We has some decent waves on the trip out, and a few fellow media types started getting green... Once we arrived on site and started to drift, I overheard the captain ask a mate to "Pour some Tide down the head to reduce the fumes", I assume someone got sick in there. There are a few stories I get geek about... this was one, once I got a good look at the anchor and realized just how cool it was to be that close to Blackbeard's ship, I did get someone to take a picture of me with the anchor. It proves I'm a goober, but hey, At least my daughter thinks I'm cool.

As do we, Adkins. As do we.

End of the Innocence

Next Stop: Rehab... Alfonzo and Scotty

One's a fresh faced country crooner, the other's a mustachioed videotape. Together they're gonna take on the mob, raise an adorable orphan and crash every wedding from here to Gardenia! Okay, so I don't know the exact pitch, but I guaran-damn-tee you Alfonzo Beta suggested some kind of buddy pic project to our newly ordained American Idol. Ya know, Scotty McCreery seemed like a nice kid when we cornered him in Garner last week. It's a shame to see him hanging with skeevy show-biz types so soon after his coronation. Then again, it's impossible to dodge this bright yellow gadfly. For years now, he's skirted the edges of Hollywood, never letting the fact that he's an old Sony SX tape with a scribbled-on face stop him from hoping on private jets, cadging free drinks and bedding the occasional starlet. Now, he's gotten to Scottie. I just hope our teenage phenom was able to shake him. See, Alfonzo left a wife and a couple of Mini-DV's back in Sacramento and he's known to stay out all night clubbing with little regard to his state of rewind. That may be fine for an industry standard, but young Mr. McCreery needs a healthier influence if he's gonna survive the pitfalls of sudden stardom... I wonder if Charlie Sheen is available?

Paging Ned Beatty...

Modified technology ROCKS(!), but occasionally those radical new gadgets spawn strange and ugly phenomena. Such is the case with the latest lens to take TV crews by storm. I'm talking about GoPro Face. You know, the first frames of video retrieved from those fantastic new POV cameras. Invariably, the first thing you see upon upload is a quizzical, squinting grimace; a pained expression on a photog's face that screams "IS THIS THING ON? Lately, it's even been capturing talent. How else to explain the look of constipation on Chad Tucker's face as I attached a station-owned GoPro to a free-range kayak the other day. If my good man appears distressed, it's only because he's got a camera between his legs. Me, I look worried because I am. All I could envision as I blessed the camera's suction cup was Chad thwacking it into the drink with his mad oar-fu skills. Fortunately, all went swimmingly. Chad paddled, I perched high above on a shaky bridge and everyone's favorite dashboard cam stayed mercifully above the waterline. WHEW! Now, if we could just attach one of those puppies to a toy helicopter, I might not be needed at all! On second thought, scratch that. I live with teenage daughters, which means I need each and every paid safari I can swing. Besides, no troubled shoot, twisted gizmo or horny mutant redneck packs half the peril of a walk-in closet stocked by a Justin Beiber fan.  Now hand me that banjo, wouldya? The locals are getting restless.

Kevin Johnson: Towering Still

I look UP to Kevin Johnson - and not just because he's six and a half feet tall. No, the local news photog who launched a globally known website has impressed me simply by the way he handles his business, from providing an on-line watering hole for TV photogs to backing that concept up with free beer and fellowship at his annual b-roll bash. Thrice now I've attended that event and I always come away nursing a righteous hangover and a great deal of respect for the towering figure with the unending grin and suitcase full of free t-shirts. But Kevin's influence on news-makers goes well beyond the logowear he foists on tipsy photogs every year. His core creation, b-roll.net, has provided an invaluable source of information and empathy for a group of people unaccustomed to feelings of community. And he's down it all without ever beating his chest about it. No heroic portraits, glowing profiles or extended self-exams litter his site. Instead you'll only find a vibrant community of seasoned pros and neophytes, riffing on the biz from every angle while taking shelter in the house that Kev built. You'd think a guy like that might lord his influence over his minions...

But you'd be wrong.

Back when the web was stilled called things like 'the information superhighway', a vital pit-stop popped up on the horizon. B-roll.net, a website named for an old film term, offered TV insider tips and tricks as well as a fledgling message board. That 'board' provided a forum like no other, a cyber-spot where veteran staffers, freelancers and an endless parade of wide-eyed rookies could swap war stories and stroke their egos. Perhaps that last part spoke to me, for soon I was contributing grist and calling myself 'Lenslinger'.  Kevin liked my stories and he told me so. That early encouragement led me to believe  there might be something there and I found myself writing more and more. Long before the word 'blog' ever crossed my mind, Lenslinger sprung to life on an industry message board that suddenly everyone was reading. Quite simply, b-roll.net changed my life for the better. When I met Kevin a couple of years later in D.C., my goal was to thank him. But a few minutes in his company left me less focused on the website and more impressed with the man. Like I said, Kevin's impossibly tall with a rich baritone and unassuming manner. The way he dodged praise and deflected credit told me a lot about the guy and over the next few years we both enjoyed knocking back a cocktail or two in the name of news. Across the country and beyond our shores, other photogs benefited from his energy as well - even those who've never come close to meeting him.

Which is why Monday's news of Kevin's heart attack was so hard to process.

When word broke that the patron saint of photogs everywhere was in critical condition at George Washington University Hospital, a nation full of crusty bastards reeled in disbelief. Kev's a young guy, seemingly fit and bereft of the bad habits that plague so many camera junkies. While that's not enough to guarantee good health, it seemed impossible that our towering benefactor is in any way down. But he is. Which is why I'm asking you to summon up any prayers, good vibrations and positive energy you have in you and direct it to our nation's capital, where a lanky leader of a thousand crusty souls could really use the help. Kevin Johnson has elevated our profession in a most unassuming way. He's provided a gathering spot, allowed others to shine and made our fractious world of newsrooms, live trucks and crime scenes a good deal more bearable. Right now his lovely wife Clare is holding up strong and I hope she knows a nation of news shooters has her back. As for Kevin, here's hoping all that good karma he's created will visit him tenfold. Get better, Kevin. We ain't done yet. 

UPDATE! Kevin's wife Clare just reported that Kevin is awake! Kevin experienced a dramatic and wonderful period of responsiveness this evening. The medical staff temporarily reduced the level of paralytics and Kevin began to move, opened his eyes and was clearly aware. It is too early to say what this means for Kevin's recovery, but it is safe to say there was loud and tearful rejoicing on the fourth floor ICU at GW.

UPDATE!! After 48 hours of somber visits with doctors and far more questions than answers, the doctors have told Kevin's wife Clare that they are, "preparing for the best possible outcome." The medical team is being very cautious and there is a lot they still don't know about Kevin's condition, the damage done by the cardiac arrest, and how his recovery will progress from here, but they said, "It's a really good starting point." The neurological team will begin to assess Kevin as early as today and doctors have mentioned the possibility of removing Kevin's breathing tube.

UPDATE!!! The family got their first glimpse of the old Kevin on Sunday. Kevin is having CONVERSATIONS with everyone, seems to recognize them, and has…A SENSE OF HUMOR! Now that’s signature Kevin! Less than a week after doubtful doctors were trying to prepare the family for the worst, Kevin is proving them wrong with the best progress anyone could have imagined at this point.

UPDATE!!!! One week after he was first rushed to George Washington University Hospital, Kevin was able to sit in a chair! He has a lovely view from the 4th floor of the ICU and has spent much of the day near the window looking out at the courtyard and trees. Kevin recognizes his visitors, engages them in conversation, and is cracking jokes. He remains weak and sleepy, but is a sight for sore eyes to Clare, their family, and the friends that surround him. Kevin is getting his first nourishment courtesy of a feeding tube and relished his first ice chips today! Doctors want to make sure he can safely swallow before we start bringing him chicken nuggets - one of his faves! Tomorrow Kevin will have an exploratory procedure to assess the condition of his heart and surgeons may implant a portable defibrillator in Kevin's chest. Weeks of recovery and rehab lie ahead, but the incredible and consistent strides Kevin is making every day continue to astound us all.

UPDATE!!!!! Clare reports both the heart catheter to look for blockages or problems in Kevin's heart (none found!) and the placing of an implantable cardioverter defibrillator or ICD in Kevin's chest went well today. Neurological testing continues and, while hearing Kevin talk and joke is comforting and a cause for celebration, it could be some time before the extent of the damage and the potential for a full recovery will be known. There is still a long road ahead and the family appreciates your support and well wishes as Kevin continues to recover.

UPDATE!!!!!! Kevin truly is an overnight sensation! *Clare reports a lot of progress since yesterday: Kevin has been moved from the ICU to the cardiac unit, one floor down. He is eating solid food - and what a feast it was: apple sauce, mac and cheese and a turkey sandwich! And he's been sitting in the chair again. And...drumroll, please...Kevin isn't connected to any machines! Kevin will try walking for the first time tomorrow and doctors say he could be heading home by next week. Another great day at GW for Kevin and Clare - who deserves special mention here: With the exception of going home for a few hours of restless sleep each night, Clare has been by Kevin's side since the moment he collapsed. From holding his hand those first awful days, to comforting him as he regained consciousness, to greeting and consoling his visitors and answering countless emails and phone calls - she has been there. From calling 911 and performing CPR to planning for his rehab, Clare, too, has been through an incredible ordeal and will also need time to heal, recover, and readjust. She is included in our prayers and well wishes, as are Kevin's mother and father, his brother and sister-in-law, and his mother-in-law and father-in-law.

The Fast and The Furious

Ever meet someone for the first time only to soon wonder if they’re about to kill you? The thought crossed my mind Saturday as Mike James plunged his Porsche Carrera into a hairpin turn at what felt like three hundred miles per hour. I’m told it was barely a third of that, but when you’re not entirely sure of your driver’s state of mind, it feels A LOT faster. As it turned out, I had no need to worry, for like Dustin Hoffman in that most overrated movie, the man behind News Blues is an excellent driver. Of course that didn’t stop me from making little girl noises each time Mike waited until the last possible second to tap the brake. When he did, the car’s momentum invariably shifted and we’d make it through another curve that had seconds ago seemed destined to be my final resting place. I’d been inside the Virginia International Raceway for less than thirty minutes, and as my host tried to press the accelerator through the floorboard of his souped-up import, I found myself wondering just what was in that waiver they made me sign at the front gate. Sensing my unease, the dude known as Your Surly Editor threw his head back and laughed. Good to see one of us was enjoying this.

I’d been wanting to meet Mike James for years, ever since he began featuring my work on his popular newsblues.com, the website of record for anyone willing to cough up some coin for the latest in TV industry dirt. Each and every link spiked my own traffic and a whole new class of broadcaster came to know the blogging blowhard known as Lenslinger. For that, I’m grateful. The e-mail alone from News Blues readers has enriched my life, though so far no one’s stepped forward to line my many photog pockets with silver. Whether that will ever happen remains to be seen, but its safe to say that The Irascible One has done more for the Lenslinger Institute than anyone (outside of Chris Weaver, that is). Sooo, when I heard one Mr. Mike James was spending the weekend driving in circles an hour from my house, it didn’t take much convincing for me to climb in my pick-up and head his way. Twenty four hours and a fresh set of skivvies later, I’m still glad I did.

But as I snaked my way through the bowels of Southern Virginia, I had to wonder: Who would be there to meet me? The snarling arbiter of industry drivel? A grizzled distiller of vinegar and piss? A snarkier-than-thou outsider unafraid to excoriate strangers and fans alike? Not so much. The Mike James I met was welcoming, warm, affable even! In fact, this cuddliest of curmudgeons and I got along famously, finishing each other sentences, lamenting the bent of modern day broadcasting and sharing the kind of sordid war stories I don’t dare include in these (somewhat) publicized pixels. Yes, if I were to ever dig deep and write a book, Mike James would be the kind of guy I’d like to see edit it. But who reads books theses days? Everyone’s far too busy poking at social media with self-aggrandized sticks to crack open a tome from a cameraman they’ve never heard of. Maybe a blog is all Viewfinder BLUES will be. That is, until I twist it into a seminar of sorts and launch a cross country tour of affiliates under fire. I’d even meet up with MY Surly Editor somewhere along the way and wage a campaign of unvarnished truth across the goofy, fruited plain.

I just wouldn't let him drive. Dude’s a menace.

Stop Believing. Please.

It ain't all sturm and drang at the office. On regular occasion, puerility erupts. Take yesterday, when I rolled in from a shoot only to find the house-cats gettin' their Glee on. Seems a local weather legend is coming to El Ocho and his name is the same of a certain third banana. The promo gang got to thinking and before anyone in the newsroom could duck and cover, it was lights, camera, wise-ass. And while it's hard to write a news story with five of your favorite coworkers butchering Journey at top-lung, it's part of the fabric of life inside a television station. I wouldn't have it any other way. Frankly, some of your workplaces scare me. I visit all kinds, from the toothpaste factory where the staff is wrapped in gauze to the executive secretary's antechamber, where everyone is polite, quiet and clearly miserable. Give me a room full of goofballs any day, a crack squad of trivia buffs and karaoke champs who, when not distilling the travails of an entire region, are more than happy to trade in their dignity for a few seconds of face-time. That, my friends, is what makes America great, which is why you'll find me at full salute each and every time the room goes stupid. These are my people, hear them roar. I just wish I could say they're acting....

Some Calibration Required

Just as soon as I can remember how to turn on the TV, I'm going to watch Freedom Riders, PBS's potent tale of a bus ride into Hell. It's been fifty years since a caravan of activists gave Jim Crow the finger, traveling deep into the South to protest the segregation of the day. Recently I backpedaled before a group of young people retracing that dangerous journey and because I wasn't careful, learned a thing or two along the way. Mainly, check your equipment before diving into history. Seems a would-be auteur borrowed my gear and switched enough internal settings to offset space and time. This in itself is a violation of the cameraman code, but by the time I stumbled across the crime, I was deep into the International Civil Rights Museum. You remember the old Woolworth's building in my adopted hometown, the very store where four college students once plopped down at a lunch counter and helped bring a generation of bigots to their knees. A couple of Februaries back, the former five and dime reopened as a shrine to the sit-ins that followed that courageous act and though I was inches away when the ribbon was cut, I'd yet to venture inside. Too bad I had to do it under duress.

But how else do you describe the mounting frustration at a camera that doesn't work as advertised? Never once suspecting sabotage, I ran through a series of system checks but couldn't figure out why the pixels before me seemed so grainy, so dim, so... orange. Turns out it was someone's idea of Cinema Verite, a shallow fixation that hosed me at the worst possible time. Sure, you'd hope I'd focus on more noble goals while backing up through time, but when you're paid to caddy history's first round, mulligans aren't allowed. Thus, the grimace on my chin in the above photo has less to do with the injustice at hand and more to do with the out of tune instrument in my face. If that makes me a technician, so be it. At least I know how to return tools like I found them! Yes, halfway into the museum's  'Hall of Shame', I was in a pretty good lather. That's when I noticed all the stark images around me: African-Americans scorned and tortured solely for the skin they were born in. Suddenly, my umbrage seemed so out of place and before I escape that corridor I had more on my mind than a simple lensman's revenge.

Guess the museum works, after all.

Scotty McCreery: Idol Rising

Okay, so before last week I was only tangentially aware of who Scotty McCreery was. What can I tell ya? My American Idol involvement was waned since the days of jetting to Hollywood to cover a certain bald rocker. These days, I’m far more likely to empty my dishwasher twice in one day that tune into the world’s most overcooked singing contest. But alas, duty calls. See, when a North Carolinian makes it to the upper echelon of Idol-dom (pretty often, actually), a special pager I wear begins to beep, summoning me to the deepest, darkest reaches of the El Ocho compound. There, I find another A.I. operator: seemingly mild mannered morning reporter Shannon Smith. Yes, when it comes to fawning over American Idol finalists with ties to the Tar Heel state, Shannon and I are Seal Team Six. Minus the top secret helicopter and federal protection. All of which explains why we both gave up our Saturdays to infiltrate the very heart of darkness: an American Idol hometown hero concert. You know: that ninety seconds or so of video that Ryan Seacrest tosses to while torturing the final three contestants on Idol. To much of America, it’s a quick look at how their favorite finalist spent their weekend. To those of us on the ground, however, it’s special ops combat, a surgical insertion behind enemy lines. Sure, there were no grubby terrorists flinging Ninja stars at us, but when thousands of rabid Idol fans turn out to genuflect in the direction of their favorite phenom, it can feel like an awful lot like Jihad.

By the time we infiltrated Lake Benson Park, the mania was in full effect. Scotty McCreery was still nowhere to be found, but thousands of his followers were already in place, turning the sloping green lawn into that wide shot from Woodstock. It made me glad I’d commandeered a marked news unit, for nothing parts a sea of Idol supplicants like an SUV with the F-word on it (FOX). Even the hardened security guards waved us through, some believing we had the guest of honor stuffed in the floorboard. I didn’t stop to argue. Instead we found a parking spot, grabbed our gear and waded into the unwashed masses. Heads swiveled, Frisbees dropped in mid-flight and sandwiches stopped being eaten as the mob of ‘tweens, Moms and weird uncles descended upon us. Now, I don’t know what it feels like to be Mick Jagger. But I’ve slung a lens at enough Idol crowds to get just a glimpse of mass adulation. It’ll spin your melon, which is what Shannon and I kept moving, interviewing some, fending off others and avoiding eye contact with the crazies. Soon, we had what we needed and made our way to the camera platform, where an act of grace awaited us.

There, nearly dead-center on the riser, was El Ocho’s official call letters spelled out in gaffer’s tape. It wasn’t act of Allah, but rather a photog solid, done by a certain shaggy Capital City news shooter (Thanks, RAD!). For the next several hours, I stood upon that tape as local politicians, radio dee-jays and Idol producers stalled the growing crowd with promises of their chosen one’s impending arrival. After what felt like days, it happened. Scotty McCreery, perched atop a convertible, rode in like a conquering General. When his phalanx of cars finally hove into view, senior citizens and toddlers alike lost their collective shit. But I could only think of the seventeen year old at the center of the vortex. Not so long ago, dude was bagging groceries in the shallow South. Now Scotty McCreery is a household name. For the past few months, he’s been in the Idol bubble, his every move and moment choreographed by showbiz handlers. Now, he’s witnessing the frenzy unprotected, staring out in disbelief as thirty thousand friends and strangers clog up his hometown, all so they can screech and clatter their support. Word is, Scotty is a person of faith. He’d gonna need it.

But enough introspection; on with the show! A deafening roar drowned out everything else as Scotty took the stage. Unfamiliar with his repertoire, I squinted into my lens and followed him. Teenagers singing antiseptic country ain’t exactly my thing, but I’ll give him this: kid’s got charisma. Between winking to the girls and high-fiveing his backup band, it’s apparent he seems to have a showman’s instinct beyond his years. When bonafide country star Josh Turner strode onstage to join Scotty in what’s become his trademark song, it was a joy to watch the seventeen year old double over in disbelief. But as fun as that was, compressed shots of simulated stagecraft weren’t what Shannon and I had sacrificed our Saturday for. We needed an interview. In fact, promotional scripts had already been written touting that very thing. It was with this knowledge I broke away from the platform and huddled with my Idol accomplice. See, there are many approaches to gathering news with a video camera. You can plot, cajole and apply pressure by your very presence. Sometimes, though, you just gotta bum-rush the show. That’s the tactic we chose and while it was particularly pretty, it was damned effective.

As the final chords of Scotty’s closing song echoed across the park, Shannon and I exchanged nervous glances. We’d spent the past few minutes fighting through a hysterical crowd, only to be stopped cold by an overenthusiastic security guard. Sharp words followed; it’s possible I showed my country ass. In the end, we stormed off and found another blocked entrance to the backstage area. As Shannon and I stood there silently plotting, a guy in a security t-shirt told a woman she could not pass. She did anyway. It was then we knew t-shirt man was not a professional security operative. Shannon smiled and mumbled something about meeting an Idol producer backstage and Mr. T-shirt shrugged and let us through. Which is how we came to loiter in the No Press area, Shannon with her big logo’d microphone hung low, me trying to pretend I wasn’t cradling a professional fancycam. At that point, most of Hell broke loose. Cops, Idol producers, handlers and Scotty himself poured offstage, surrounded by a sea of fans who’d broken through security as well. I stepped in front of Scotty and his goons as Shannon produced a microphone out of humid air. She fired off a question, Scotty responded and I stared at the glowing red RECORD light as the crowd carried us backwards. At one point, Shannon peeled away and I stuck with Scotty, backpedaling on sheer faith. No one pushed me away so I fired off a couple of more questions. I couldn’t really hear what the Idol finalist had to say, but the dancing audio meter in my eyepiece assured me I was fulfilling my density.

Forty seconds later, Scotty was gone, swallowed by a sea of cops and the Idol machinery. I was drenched in sweat, Shannon’s hair was out of place and we were both elated.

I wonder if that’s how the guys who popped bin Laden felt...

 

 

Key Features Deleted

No doubt about it, editing video under heavy deadline can be a face-erasing experience. Just ask El Ocho's own Mike D., who recently lost all but his proboscis in a horrible cut-and paste incident. I was outside the edit bay when it happened. The sounds of his screams still haunt me. Hmm? His facial features DIDN'T get deleted? It's just a blurry shot due to movement? The kind of simple in-camera flaw that would take me twenty minutes and a Final Cut Pro tutorial to replicate in the bay? Oh... Well, even if Mike didn't involuntarily join the Witness Protection Program, that doesn't mean editing isn't stressful. Hell, there are times I'd cough up an extra eyebrow if I could just get a few more minutes to tweak my piece, ifyaknowwhatI'msayin...

Even if you don't, realize that all those muscles strained on the shoot cannot compare to that sour spot in your stomach when you realize that A.) the crumpled paper under your foot is actually a missing page to the script you're cutting, B.) you haven't clicked 'SAVE' since the Bush Administration and now half your dream sequence is missing or C.) that progress bar won't speed up just because you made up whole new curse words. Why it's enough to make an old fart like me harken back to the days of tape-to-tape editing, when instead of simple drag-and-drop skills, you needed duct tape, rhythm and the occasional exorcism to make your daily deadline. At least no one ever lost an eyelid...

Behind the Lunge

It's not often you see a TV news photog step out from behind the camera and own up to what he's shown, but that's exactly what WKTV's Tim Fisher did and the results are sobering. It all began Monday when four people perished inside a raging house fire in West Utica. Outside the two and a half story duplex, chaos reigned. Well meaning witnesses urged first responders to save the family trapped inside, but fears of a collapse prevented crews from entering the inferno. When firefighters did cross that threshold, they found the bodies of a Mother and three children. Tim Fisher caught it all. Like any 40 year veteran of breaking news, he positioned himself just out of the way and let the red light glow. At one point, a stricken witness lashed out at Tim's lens, before accusing fire crews of not doing all they could to save the family.

Tim shrugged off the lunge, but the accusation that firefighters didn't try hard enough bothered him - so much that he and his station did something rather extraordinary. They spoke up. In six thoughtful minutes the veteran photojournalist calmly describes what HE witnessed on scene and provides extensive video to back up his assertions. His pictures show rescue crews working to the point of exhaustion and family members absorbing the unthinkable. It's not easy to watch, but WKTV is to be commended for providing a painful but potentially healing view of a story no one wanted to see happen. Best of all, the station didn't wrap their good intentions in the usual broadcast hokum. No smarmy uncle type in a shiny suit reciting a script someone else handed him; just an unvarnished storyteller who doesn't need expensive recording equipment to convey perspective. At the end of his soliloquy, Tim Fisher addresses the question directly:

"Did they do all they could?? I wish you could have watched and listened and felt what I did yesterday. Then I would be happy to leave it up to you. But I hope this helps."

Judging from the many viewer comments, it did.

Clearer Than They Appear

Wanna confuse a TV news photog? Ask him (or her) what he (or she) shot two days ago. Chances are neither of them will know. And it's not because we didn't pay attention. In fact, it's that ability to forget that enables us to hone in on the immediate - even when 'the immediate' is an elementary school principal reading her talking points from giant cue cards she had her underlings tape to a wall. Really, that very scenario happened just last week to Charles Ewing and I. Pros that we are, we let her continue, knowing none of it would ever make air. Why we were even there to begin with, I couldn't begin to tell you. But I could pen a paragraph or two about the red blotches creeping above her collar, the daylight spilling through those classroom slats or the sound of her off-camera assistants quietly rolling their eyes. I guess that makes me detail-oriented. That, or I've peered through stacked glass long enough to truly develop tunnel vision. All I know is that I have total recall of soundbites from a decade back, but couldn't tell you all that I covered last week without consulting my calendar.

Scratch that. I've consulted my calendar and the only thing I can make out are a few broken lyrics to Peace Frog and what I wanted on my last steak and cheese sandwich. Guess I'm not just detail-oriented: I'M A PHOTOG! That would explain my heightened sense of inattention, those extra points hanging off my driver's license and all that bold logo-wear stashed in the back of my closet. Yes, twenty years of street-level lensmanship has left me more addled than most TV techs. I'm convinced it's because of all that minutia I've shoved through my right eye socket, all those uncut deadlines I've snorted off the dashboard of a poorly-parked live truck. Throw in a daily diet of lunch specials and you got a pretty good idea why I haven't given up news to take on some far-flung super-computer in a global chess match. That and I look really bad in turtlenecks.

Come to think of it, there's really only one upside to my photog state of mind: I can speak to anything. Well, not intelligently - but reel off a half dozen unrelated topics and I can cough up something tangential about them. The airworthiness of modern day dirigibles? I once rode in the Goodyear Blimp and lived to embellish the tale! Can perverts be rehabilitated? Dunno, but I once toured a sex offenders unit where a whole lot of folks were pretending they already were. Do locally-elected city officials have your best interests at heart? Errrr, NO. I have sat through enough council meetings to know those people are drunk with power and hopped up on their own wardrobe. You'd be better off voting in a bunch of TV news photogs who would quickly institute a just, no-nonsense form of local government - provided someone could pipe up and remind 'em what it was they decided at the last meeting.

We're lousy at that kind of thing...

Special Address:

Friends, photogs, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come not to bury Lenslinger, but to assuage him.

Okay, so much for the catchy lead. I'm ... stuck. When I started this blog in late 2004, I had no idea how long it would last. I only knew I had a few stories to share and once I got started, I just. Couldn't. Stop. Not that I've ever wanted to. In fact, my seven year foray into push-button publishing has been one of the most rewarding things I've ever done. And make no mistake: I am FAR from finished. But lately, a malaise has fallen over the Lenslinger Institute and considering that the Lenslinger Institute is really just the bonus room over my garage, it's been a stone-cold drag. The good news is I've been through this before. Every blogger has. But never before have I been so utterly bereft of ideas, let alone clever ones. Hopefully, this troubles me more than it does you.

Understand, the very idea of pulling back the curtain and acknowledging the gears are jammed offends my sense of wizardry. Needy screeds, pet photos, witless lists; these are the things that make blogs so Two Thousand and Late. I always wanted this site to resemble a magazine of sorts, a glossy periodical bristling with endless riffs but never straying from its core material. But any weblog worth its weight in pixels is a fairly personal one and this isn't the first time I've had to lament my lack of mojo. Weird, isn't it? A person not paid to write feels guilty for letting a handful of anonymous readers down. If that's not the basis for a new strand of psychotherapy, I'll sell my leather couch... and my tweedy sport coat - the one with the elbow patches and odor of clove cigarettes...

Anyhoo, all I'm trying to say is this: Viewfinder BLUES isn't dead. It's a little down, but not out. Please bear with me as I fend off this existential meltdown, for much like a bad case of gas, it too shall pass. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go figure out something to write about....

B-Block Apostle

As a jaded purveyor of local TV news, I gotta watch what I get worked up about. After all, the same grim demeanor that helps one navigate a crash site ain’t half as handy at the home and garden show. I know; there’s been a time when the sheer pace of what passes through my glass has left me strangely out of sync. How else to explain my crappy attitude at the disabled pet-blessing? Or all those dark maxims bandied about in the glow of fire truck lights? My Mama taught me better. Which is why, on occasion, I stray from the chase. Not physically, mind you. I still can’t afford that. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t slept-walked through another person’s worst day ever, or jungle-stared some struggling keynote speaker just for the fun of it. I’m not proud of it, but compared to the other long-term effects of news-gathering I’ve seen (affectation, self-hatred, logowear), it’s an affliction I can live with. I just can’t always write about it.

What I can testify to is the power and the (lack of) glory of the B-Block. Years ago I gave my lens over to the Church of Charles Kuralt. It was He who first discovered life after those commercial breaks. In doing so, he forged his own languid style and inspired millions of lesser storytellers like me. Which is while you’ll find me far from the opening moments of that oh so average newscast. I’ll be bringing up the rear - or more likely the middle - serving up the quirky and the absurd to all those viewers faithful (and lazy) enough to stick around while that Viagra spot peters out. A couple ties the knot at a Jiffy Lube, a marching band finds out they’re gonna strut through Manhattan, roadies fluff the mother of all Bluegrass festivals.. what do tehy all have in common? I wrestled them into existence under heavy deadline and still left the station that day before most photogs had loaded up their live trucks.

So why am I grumpy? I’m not really. This sourpuss mask is all for my protection. One quick glance and people leave me alone, allowing me to aim, gather and try to move you with heavily-edited television with a light and loving touch. I can’t help I look pissed in the process. You would be too, if the desk expected you to overshoot, undermine and out-perform the competition on a never ending basis. You know, whether you’re chasing an Amish Mime troupe or the leader of the free world, it really doesn’t matter. I’m photagnostic. It matters not to me if that Bigfoot fella is fake or if he just tore through an orphanage. I’m going to bring the big guy into focus just the same. I just gotta smile once in a while, lest I become the most grizzled dispenser of frothy news topping this side of that Andy Rooney Ice Milk Hut. Besides, who wants to be the simmering presence at the Easter Egg hunt? Not me. My life’s too short to be kicked out of a(nother) Kiwanis Club.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice my scowl. It came with the cape.