Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Man Who Fell to Earth
If harassing a super-villain is on your bucket list, grab a press-pass and get thee to Greensboro. That's where you'll find white hot pariah John Edwards, a man whose million dollar grin is conspicuously missing now that his trial for campaign fund violations has finally begun. I was outside the federal courthouse when jury selection kicked off and I can tell you many of the lenslingers behind our golden boy up there feel like they're the ones on trial. You would too, if you were facing six weeks of long commutes, meter maid negotiation and the strangely unsatisfying sensation of televising a federal trial. See, the big boys allow no cameras inside their courtroom, turning the sidewalks outside into a loose confederation of lenses that hardens into a knot every time Johnny sashays to or from his date with justice. If the possible witness list is any indication, it's gonna be a regrettable, skank-filled affair.
Just like in real life!
But who am I to judge? If the man who came thisclose to the Presidency wants to keep denying he fell into bed with a flake at the height of his campaign, then monkeyed with the funds to cover up love child, well, that's his decision to ignore some very expensive legal advice. Throw in a dying wife and you got more than enough reasons to consider this ambitious attorney the lowest of his seedy breed. Me, I'm just a cameraman - one who's backpedaled before this asshole when he was sporting thousand dollar haircuts while spouting off about two Americas. Back then, any news crew that traveled to his hometown of Robbins found only one America and it was filled with folks who had nothing but bile to spew when you asked about 'John Edwards'. "How bad could he be?" I used to wonder.
Turns out, pretty bad...
But I'm not here to vilify this feathery worm (not much, anyway). I'm here to shoot him! Now, before you call security, know the cross-hairs in question are attached to my camera. The only ill will I wish upon John is the Trump-like disintegration of his celebrated hairline. Screw with that 'do and he might very well implode, for one gets the feeling his day begins and ends with more than a little mirror time. Which begs the question: Does Edwards realize his boyish good looks and fat wallet might not keep him out of the Pokey? For as long as I can remember covering him, he's waltzed from limo to photo op to hidden floozie's chambers with that same arrogant air. Sure, his trademark grim is gone, but I can't help but get the feeling that this dandy still believes he can charm his way out of this white hot mess of his own creation...
What do you expect from a dude who sleeps with a, (GULP) videographer?