Snide Goeth Before the Fall

When John Edwards' federal trial kicked off a month or so back, I was more than prepared to loathe him. After all, the former Senator hastened his wife's demise with an unseemly affair, a surprise love child and more lies and alibis than his staff could categorize. He played a doddering old widow for every dollar he could get, financing his fling with ill-gotten dollars while hectoring America about its conscience and poverty. Did I mention the sex tape he made with a self-avowed videographer? Yes, there are many reasons to hate on this tarnished golden boy. Not that I have much malice on tap. That takes energy I ain't got, not after perching atop a step-ladder as the planet's most vilified widower shuffles to and from his date with justice. All I could really work up is a case of distaste and even that was rooted more in my aching back than any sense of chivalry misspent. But a funny thing happened on the way to the whipping post. I started feeling sorry for the dude. Not full-on pity mind you, just a gnawing feeling in the back of my brain that the philandering candidate is taking it on his telegenic chin.

It's a feeling I first got Friday afternoon. By then the jury had deliberated for only an hour, but to the throbbing mosh pit of photographers stationed outside, the verdict loomed barely out of reach. The pieces were certainly in place. A podium stood at the top of the steps, ready to prop up any displays of grace. With cables splayed this way and that, the fleet of sat trucks idled in anticipation. Public stoning or tearful atonement, whatever was about to go down would soar to the heavens in righteous hi-def. You can imagine our surprise when the Marshall charged out of the building, insinuating to many they might want to man their fancycams. Seconds later, the reasons became clear when who else but Johnny Edwards rounded the corner of the federal courthouse, jaw firmly set, eyes scouring the middle distance. Seems he'd tired of waiting for the jury inside, so he'd stepped out of the back door and found the feds in charge wouldn't let him back in. He had to walk around to the front, where a living, breathing gauntlet hardened in the midday sun. When suddenly he did appear, those walls of glass began to crack.

Though most of us stayed atop our stools, several shooters broke away and rushed the once viable Vee-Pee pick. Edwards didn't make sound as the lenses moved in, his jaw remained set as the rude questions rained down. I myself was among the throng, though mostly to prevent my chief from backpedaling into traffic. Before I broke away though, I got a good look in John Edwards and to my consternation, his gaze remained hollow. What must be going on in that carefully coiffed head, I thought. Dude did wrong, no doubt about that. But this plunge from grace is picking up speed and I can't help but wonder how that loss in altitude feels to a man so staggered by his own swagger. Will I set down my camera and try to hug it out? Not unless I want to taste pavement. But I can no longer pretend the man is pure evil, for the last time I checked, we all fall short of the glory. Should John Edwards do time for his distasteful behavior? I'll wait for the jury foreman to clear his throat. Meanwhile, let he who is without sin cast the first update. Me, I got my hands full.

(Photo Courtesy of Jake Barlow)

Photogs Anonymous

Meanwhile, back outside the John Edwards trial, an unforgiving sun is melting brains along tripod row. Or maybe it's just me. All I know is that some time this afternoon delirium took over and for a second TV News felt like a viable career choice. Then suddenly I snapped out of it and realized I was A.) perched on a step stool, B.) dressed like a third grader and C.) perspiring at an alarming rate. About that time someone shouted "Lawyers UP!" and, like Pavlov's sweatiest dog, I swiveled at the hips as three sharply-dressed strangers filled my lens. As they passed my position, I zoomed in after them until they disappeared inside the federal courthouse. Rinse and repeat. For more days than I can count, I've weathered the elements on the stoops of justice, only my fellow castaways there to mock, er comfort me. Okay, so there ain't a lot of comfort available when you're clocking some philanderer's shame at three thousand feet.

Me, I'm just trying to pace myself. Prosecutors have yet to rest their case and the temperatures are already in the 80's. By the time John Edwards gives us the collective finger and runs back to Rielle, it'll damn near be a hundred. I'll be passed out on the pavement by then, but don't be surprised if my inert form is sporting a grin, for I have (almost) enjoyed my time at Camp Edwards. Can't explain why, really. The hours are long and the work is tedious, but the company can't be beat. Sure, there's an ass-hat (or three) in every crowd, but as whole, the motley collection of freelancers, locals and network news crews have been delightful. That's high praise coming a from a guy who doesn't particularly like people. It helps of course that we're all tasked with the same silly mission: Document Edwards' every step between his chauffeured Suburban and this hall of justice. Oh yeah, get everyone else who walks in or out, too. We'll figure out something to say about them later...

Got it? Good. Just show up here around seven with your favorite fancycam. Pack some snacks, too. Court breaks for lunch, but you'll probably spend that time hunched over an steaming laptop editor while your reporter checks her tweets from the front seat of your smelly live truck. Afterwards you'll wanna boot-scoot back over to the courthouse steps - just in case Edwards face-plants, confesses or breaks into song. Scoff if you will: the ONE time you bail on a federal defendant's walk-down is the day North Carolina's sexiest lawyer goes all Jim Bakker and you're the only news crew without fresh footage of a quivering millionaire being frog-marched in front of the judge. Okay, I'm projecting a bit but can you blame me? Watching our once celebrated Senator waltz in and out of court, one gets the feelings he like his odds. That's cool by me, I guess, but I didn't give up six weeks of profiling dogs in funny hats just to watch Edwards melt back into his wealth. I want drama! Intrigue! Indemnity, even!

And some lemonade. Some really COLD lemonade. Perhaps with a little vodka in it. You know, for the medicinal value...  
 

Tempest Spent

Well, America, it looks like our long national nightmare is finally over. The John Edwards jury reached a verdict. Sort of. They found the former Presidential candidate Not Guilty on one charge of campaign finance fraud and they deadlocked on the rest. It was a fitting end to a seriously weird ordeal. For me though, the John Edwards trial was less about the legal wranglings that went on inside the courthouse and more about the shenanigans that played out on the sun-baked steps. For that's where I spent the better part of seven weeks: waiting, laughing, occasionally losing consciousness.

It would have been singularly miserable were it not for the misfits that joined me there, a ragtag group of journalists who traveled a lot farther than I did to watch what passes for justice dribble out of that courthouse door. It was an experience I will never forget, no matter how much I pay for therapy in the coming years. Few hurricanes I've covered have left me as exhausted, sore or uncomfortably numb. You might say I'm glad it's over. And while I won't particularly miss taking Market Street by force every morning, I will miss the friendships I formed there.

Funny how the world works. A philandering millionaire bangs a videographer and a hundred other camera nerds make new friends as a result. I don't know if that's quite what you call 'the butterfly effect', but it's exactly what happened here. And while this probably wasn't the snark you dropped by for, right now, it's all I got. If you really want to know what's in my head, just take a look at my new pal Chuck Liddy, who found a way to express how every journalist who covered the John Edwards trial is now feeling...

 (Top photo by Jerry Wolford. Bottom photo by ...Chuck Liddy?)

Eyes Without a Face

Sure, they look relaxed, but at the first sight of their quarry these mild-mannered camera handlers will pounce, forming a tight knot of glass around whatever felon, suspect or superstar is deemed newsworthy that day. On this day, it was none other than that feathery worm John Edwards. Long before his lawyers  arrived at Greensboro's Federal Courthouse, a leathery collection of skeptics formed on the sidewalk outside. There were grievances aired and crude jokes told as the lenslingers leveled their weapons and eyed the horizon. Not far away, a gentleman with a real weapon on his hip sat hidden in a hut, watching the watchers and fondling the knob of his walkie-talkie. Cameras and foolishness aren't allowed in Federal Court and a sworn army of serious men make sure that remains enforced every single day. Wanna get water-boarded? Play Chinese Fire Drill outside a Federal Courthouse. You won't make it to the driver's side door before three beefy men in black tackle and shackle your goofy ass.  Okay, so that's a bit extreme but the fact of the matter is the older cats who prowl these halls of justice take their jobs very seriously and I wouldn't so much as pass gas inside there without asking permission.

Outside, there was still no sign of the Man with the Golden Haircut. John Edwards is no stranger to these streets. For months now the former Presidential candidate and his lawyers have fended off the beginning of his trial. He's facing six felony and misdemeanor counts for allegedly using campaign donations to hide his pregnant mistress, a (GULP!), videographer. (I know, it's sick.) Throughout the hearings, Edwards has shown his face, popping out of a low-slung roadster and sashaying down the runway, er sidewalk. Never one to shy away from his own reflection, he usually beams and occasionally preens as the cameras close in, smiling all the while as if he's walking into the Fellowship Building to go teach Sunday School. I myself have backpedaled before the man a half dozen times and I can assure you, his hair was perfect. This time, however, I wouldn't get a chance to ogle his tresses, for the man who once fancied himself a potential POTUS simply didn't show.

But his lawyer did. I was long gone by then, but footage has been filed of Edwards attorney Jim Cooney exiting the building looking wary and embarrassed. Why wouldn't he be? TV cameras were coming right at him, held by swarthy pirate types - guys with nicknames like Skeeter, Rad and Chim-Chim.  Pirouetting off his every step, the clot of photogs dodged, bobbed and weaved around streetlights, stealing every glance they could of the nebbish attorney without braining themselves in the process. As walk-downs go, it was pretty long and I imagine it was fascinating from afar, like watching a noisy storm front move across the horizon. Back in the scrum, the man in the middle uttered nothing but chuckles as the cameras and questions kept coming. I myself laughed when Piedmont news vet Margaret Johnson chided his silence. "One or two words will do." At that, Cooney finally responded, if only to say that he couldn't respond. It wasn't much of a soundbite, but with everyone under deadline, they'd take what they can get. Besides, the Edwards affair is far from over and even if the millionaire philanderer buys his way out of a trial, he'll have to come through us to close the deal. 

Nothin' personal.

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?

Barbarians at the Gate

'Groundhog Day', 'Cool Hand Luke', 'Pee-Wee's Big Adventure' ... there are LOTS of movie you could compare the John Edwards trial to and most of us hanging around outside would agree. That's because we're numb. Fourteen hour workdays will do that to a crew. I'm lucky. This tawdry opera debuted five miles from my home. The rest of these jokers gotta drive in from out of town every morning, or worse yet, stay at the Marriott. Whatever their routine, they show up around dawn, less than fresh from a fitful night sleep and ready to seize the day. Or at least the stepladder. Seriously, I haven't spent so much time perched on an aluminum stool since I scraped the popcorn ceiling off my playroom. Okay, so I would never scrape the popcorn ceiling off my playroom. I'd call The Man, overpay and whine about it on-line. But that's not important right now. What is important is that I get some sleep, for in eight short hours I'm due back down there, lest the good people of the Piedmont be deprived of their daily shot of the former Senator ignoring my lens...   

It wasn't always that way. There was a time when Senator John Edwards met my camera with his customary twinkle. He smelled of snake-oil even then, but what was a lowly photog to do? Call him out for being Bill Clinton, Jr.? And if I may be so bold, can I ask a simple question? 'What is it with powerful men and ugly women?' If I had that kind of scratch and was the cheatin' kind, I do believe I'd finance a few exotic dancers' cosmetology studies - instead of reaching out to the nearest skank I could find so I could trade success and stability for a walk of shame and the inevitable case of genital warts. But that's just me. No, on second thought, that's most of us here. We've discussed the matter at length and can only surmise that power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely and after enough fawning press junkets, the average politician will tag and bag anything that stumbles into range.  But just because we've dissected the amorous urges of the ruling class, don't think for a moment we care what the jury decides.

Sure, we have our opinions. But they hardly matter in this arena. We're far more concerned with the logistics of all this justice, rather than the lascivious nature of our elected officials. They're all crooks anyway, we've decided - an opinion formed after years of close contact to candidates, incumbents and other power-mad miscreants. No, what worries us is the gang-bang that's gonna go down on the courthouse steps once the jury convicts John Edwards or decides to release him back into the wild. That day's coming quick, but whenever I think about it I get dizzy and have to climb down my stepladder long enough to breathe into a paper bag. That usually tickles the hell out of my thirty closest competitors and before I can ascend to my eighteen inch perch, new life is breathed back into our once feckless scrum and the movie comparisons continue unabated. We still haven't pinpointed an exact film to describe what's about to come, but it definitely needs to be one of those new zombie flicks where the undead swarm the tawdry and innocent alike until nothing is left but blood, entrails and one perfectly preserved hair-do...

That, or one of those stupid new musicals where a shirtless Tom Cruise sings reheated radio schlock.

Driven to Jeers

 Top Ten Signs You've Covered TOO MUCH of the John Edwards Trial

10.)  You've stopped looking for Rielle Hunter to pop out of a bush, but you still hold out hope of seeing Anderson Cooper in spats and a pith helmet.

9.)  A group of homeless men signed a petition urging you and "the rest of the undesirables to just move along".

8.)  One more shot of you picking your nose on CNN and that dealer you bailed on in college is gonna wake you up one morning with a cattle prod to the fruit basket.

7.)  You've heard every one of the sound guy's jokes and they ALL center around the size of his boom pole.

6.)  Some of the fellas were heard pining for the good ole days when Andrew Young would undress everybody with his eyes as he stomped into the courthouse. 
 
5.)  NBC's Lisa Myers won't so much as return your morning fist-bump anymore.
 
4.)  You've scored stinky green chalk off that same sketch artist hippie SIX times. 
 
3.)  You're on a first name basis with the parking cop, the Jimmy-John's delivery guy and that weirdo on the corner who hands out sporks in the name of Beelzebub.

2.)  Edwards no longer responds to your "Two Americas > One Crazy Slut" trucker hat..

And the Number One Sign You've Covered TOO MUCH of the John Edwards Trial...

 1.)  You're STILL blogging about it.

Early Herd Gets the Worm

Photo by Chad Tucker, Esquire

Perhaps the coolest thing about the crush of cameras outside John Edwards' indictment hearing is the fact that I wasn't there. (Instead, I was thirty minutes away,babysitting a big ole hole in a nearby Apple Store and wondering where in the hell everybody was. Now, I see.) That, friends, is a respectable collection of press representatives - one befitting a visiting prince, a shackled Sasquatch, or some preening worm who cheated on his dying wife with a (GASP!) vid-ee-OG-ruh-fer. That's right, I - like most North Carolinians - consider John Edwards to be a nothing short of a greasy orifice. Back when he was a media darling, we'd travel to his hometown of Robbins for a chat with his longtime supporters. There were none. Then there was the time I waited outside the Koury Convention Center for his limo to arrive. When it did, he bounded out, all teeth, dimples and feathered bangs. I didn't like him then. I don't like him now. Of course you might think my low opinion of the man would compel me to be present when a Federal judge laid six hefty charges on him. You'd be wrong.

See, a scrum of that number doesn't form without a few bumped shots and bruised egos along the way. Be it for a fallen lawyer or rising Idol, reception parties of that magnitude usually devolve into madness. Especially when man in the middle of it all stops for a few more seconds of face time. That's just what Edwards did today and while the world may have hung on his every syllable, I spent the interview scanning the backdrop for familiar, pain-racked faces. There - among the out of town stringers and network jet-setters - that guy ... who I see every week but whose name I've never learned. He looks...constipated. And over there, in front of that dude on the ten foot ladder, it's El Ocho's own Joe McCloskey! Why, he must be positively entranced with the political drama at hand, thrilled to be a part of tar Heel history, breathless with anticipation at what scandalous nugget will be revealed when Mr. Aqua-net emerges from the Hall of Justice. Isn't that right, Joe? ... Joe? 

"I was staking out one entrance for two hours, Duffer was at another one, and the Chief showed up and thirty seconds later... Johnny walked past his camera."

Ahhh, spoken like a seasoned professional who'd rather be anywhere but in the middle of it all. He should have joined me at the Apple hole. Chick Fil-A showed up and handed out free sandwiches. You don't get THAT at federal indictments. Do you?

Duties May Include...

ATTENTION ALL! Swing by John Edwards' criminal trial and we may very well put you to work. Mostly, we need you to loiter out front, then pounce on the former presidential candidate every time he strolls into or out of justice. There's no real skill involved so you should do just fine, but remember: we do other stuff too. In fact, your duties may include:

Convincing a steady succession of meter maids that you're simply not qualified to move that live truck away from those fire hydrants, even if its logos do match the one on your less than heaving bosom.

Pretending the very alignment of our solar system depends on you getting a fresh fourteen second sequence of Edwards walking to and from the courthouse. (You know, in case he suddenly confesses or breaks into song.)

Bouncing the day's last rays off a co-worker's bald spot, all while trying not to cave in the roof of your - ahem - mobile newsroom. Sunscreen not included.

Pulling eight hundred feet of live truck cable from beneath the tires of a minivan your competition convinced a soccer mom to abandon.  (They must have promised her a coffee mug or something.)

Falsely assuring your reporter that the live shot in which she unwisely referred to John Edwards as 'Richie Rich with a stiffie" might not be her last.   

Informing curious pedestrians as to why there's two dozen satellite trucks double-parked along Market Street. (Try to work in the supernatural.)

Extracting network crews from favorite booth at nearby eatery with claims that 'Rielle Hunter just rolled up in a tube top slathered in Go-Daddy logos.' (Hey, it could happen.)

Pining for the good ole days of simple videotape as you and three other photogs hold a seance over a freshly-filled SD card someone thought to soak in Dr. Pepper.

Trying to convince that courtroom sketch artist that A) you ARE part of the station group paying for her chalk masterpieces and B) she should probably let you hold onto her debit card just to make it all legal-like.  

Fighting the urge to hand your reporter a notepad (or napkin) as she repeatedly interrupts your nap by screaming at the antiquated laptop that - surprise - won't let her log on. 

Other than that, it's all point and shoot.

The Professional

As a freelance sound engineer for one of the networks, Neal Gettinger didn't just monitor the microphones at the John Edwards trial. He set the tone. With his trusted heads-up that defendant's vehicle was near ("Suburban!")' to the crisp salutation that followed ("Good morning, Senator."), to his insistence we TV swine clean up after ourselves ("All right, you filthy animals..."), Neal boosted more than his client's audio levels. He boosted morale. And he did so with a deft touch, one he's no doubt honed over years of hoisting that boom mic over tripe and travesty. Of course it helps that he's a bear of a man with a Yankee's accent; the kind of guy who can get away with saying ANYthing - and not just because he's looming over you with a ten foot pole. Not that he'd need an equalizer. Dude's got a thick stash of zingers somewhere in that mixer board he wears. (Think W.C. Fields with headphones.) Why, I dare say John Edwards himself came to appreciate the towering sound guy who apparently ran the show along press row. I know those federal marshals cracking up behind their sunglasses certainly did. Hell, even the 'scribblers' Neal kicked out of the tent seemed to savor his savoir faire (well, most of 'em, anyway). I myself came to count on the man, for he more than anyone kept the growing scrum of cameramen, reporters, still photographers and attendant weirdos from embarrassing ourselves too badly. Yes, you'll find a quieter recordist than our friend Neal - but you won't find one who holds his audio, his assignment, or even his colleagues - to such exacting standards.

Just don't get in between him and his subject. Dude will flatten ya and make you feel like it was your fault. Now THAT'S a professional.

Fracking the Lackey

I was foraging for Cheesy Poofs when the scrum began to stir. Sensing the disturbance, I set aside my appetite and leaned out of the live truck. There, across the street, a clutch of rogues and pirates were once again assembling outside Greensboro's federal courthouse. Squinting into the distance, I searched for hoisted lenses. Twenty minutes earlier, I'd helped form a corridor of glass as John Edwards, his daughter, parents, lawyers and (for all I know) personal hairspray caddy filed past. I'd scoured their every glower as they entered the courthouse, a musty building where my kind and camera weren't allowed. Fine by me. Back in my station's live truck, a small cooler packed to near hurricane status held the highlights of my day. Now, with said snacks nearly in my grasp, I had to grab my fancycam and hustle back across the street. Dodging traffic, I couldn't help but wonder what my high school valedictorian was doing this drizzly Monday.

Chances are he (she?) wasn't playing Frogger with the planet's most unpopular millionaire. Once across the street, I slowed my roll. Hey, one doesn't bum-rush a federal courthouse - not unless one enjoys the taste of pavement with a side of highly shined boot. Me, I'm a lover (not a fighter), so I slipped in all quiet-like among the freelancers and network crews loitering by the entrance. At the top of the stairs, a man I'd come to know as Lord of the Feds was eyeballing his kingdom. At the curb, a few uniformed officers were standing around as only cops can. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a sound guy's boom pole was growing erect, its swarthy operator stroking the shaft. Now, I'm no network jet-setter with a list of fixer's phone numbers in my vest pocket, but I've taken in enough life through a tube to know when shit is fixin' to go down. Besides, a certain someone was fondling his own microphones nearby, a sure sign something recordable was about to happen. But what? All the expected players were already inside. Opening statements were on the day's agenda but for now, lawyers were still badgering possible jurors. Who could be rolling up now? Gloria Steinem? Nancy Grace? Carrot Top? (Ever seen 'em all three together? Hmmm? Have you?)

Don't answer. Just know that I was wracked with doubt as the camera crews drew close. Moments later our preternatural knack for self-preservation paid off when the Marshalls stiffened at the sight of an approaching sedan. The car slowed to a stop in front of the courthouse and though no one could really see inside, two dozen calloused thumbs twitched as tiny tally lights began to glow. My stomach rumbled as I pulled the vehicle into focus. That's when a driver the size of a Zamboni popped out and double-timed it around the parked car. Wondering just what I might say to Oprah, I loosened my grip and made sure I was rolling. Suddenly Andrew Young appeared, looking thick in the chest and pissed off everywhere else. John Edwards' opportunistic confidant returned the cameras' unblinking gaze with a prison yard stare of his own. I fought the urge to blow him a kiss and in an instant he was gone. But with photogs flanking the way, his six second journey to justice was well documented. In fact, it would bounce to outer space and back before he ever took the stand. I myself could not get back to my stash of snacks before receiving texts that I'd just made a cameo on Headline News. In the coming days, that fleeting footage would seep up and down the dial and flood the far reaches of the internet. Friends I rarely talk to would call and congratulate me, for what exactly, I do not know. 
I'm just glad it happened when it did. Five more minutes and my furry mug would have been covered in smuggled cheese dust.



Then again, might have gone viral...

Show of Hands

Most people think of 'The Media' as a bunch of heartless bastards and quite often I'm inclined to agree. But an incident outside the John Edwards trial today reminded me of just how compassionate the Fourth Estate can be. It happened just after lunch. Inside the federal courthouse, jury members were busy trading digits, er, deliberating while a sweaty collection of photogs, scribblers and recordists simmered outside. Suddenly, families of varying ethnicity began showing up. At first, they seemed confused at the rows of cameras flanking the courthouse door but after some encouragement they made their way inside and upstairs. There, out of reach of our many lenses, a naturalization ceremony was taking place. You know - that final part of the immigration process where said newcomers raise their right hands and swear allegiance to this wonderful country of ours? It's a wonderful thing to witness and I've put several such ceremonies on the news. But cameras are banned from federal courthouses, so the many news crews perched outside could only continue their marathon of tall tales and dick jokes while inside, Democracy itself unfurled.

A little while later, our nation's newest citizens began dribbling out, many clutching flags and wearing grins. That's when the damnedest thing happened: members of the press, camped out in lawn chairs and awaiting John Edwards, began to clap. The first time it was spontaneous. By the third time a new American family bounded down those steps, it was tradition. I myself was busy on the periphery, but even my crusty, shriveled heart swelled with pride if not good cheer as a much maligned sector of American society welcomed our newest neighbors into citizenship. Will we dive through a dumpster to see if you're swindling old ladies? With pleasure. Will we crawl up a fresh widow's porch and ask for a better picture of the departed? In a skinny minute. Will we sleep in our cars if it means snagging a shot of a Senator's mistress with a baby in her hip? With pleasure and considerable flair. But we'll also champion the underdog, comfort the afflicted and celebrate all the good our country represents - when we're not shining a much-needed light on the bad and the ugly.

Just don't tell anyone, would ya? People will start to think we're Human.

Trudge to Justice

It's been four days since jurors began deliberating John Edwards' fate and the former Presidential candidate ain't the only one getting antsy. Outside, a growing gaggle of local, regional and network news crews are locked in mid-fidget as hour after hour passes without an awful lot of anything to report. Why, it's enough to make you interview each other, a scurrilous practice I try to avoid unless it's the only thing that will satisfy my bosses that day. That proved to be the case on Friday, a twelve hour shift that now seems so distant all I can remember is the hamburger I had for lunch. Oh wait, I had that same hamburger three days in a row. Or was it four? Whatever the case, know that I haven't forgotten you, dear reader. In fact, the only thing I want to do besides never climb another stepladder is to one day tell you all about it. At the moment though, I'm too sunburned, numb and sleep-deprived to do it justice so I leave you with friend of the blog Chuck Liddy's time-lapse of Edwards and his lawyers morning arrival. That's me - fifth from the left - dressed in light clothing and wishing I'd listened to my dear old Mom when she said I'd better put down that ratty paperback and focus on my studies. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go sleep six hours and get up to do it all over again...

Rarefied Stare

I can no longer tell you how many times I've shot John Edwards as he left and entered court, just that  I fully expect him to be shuffling his elderly parents through the back-alleys of my brain for... oh, the next thirty years. That's how it works, see. Squint through the glint of current events and you're gonna get few shards of history in your mind's eye. If you're not careful, it can get infected and the next thing you know you're lying awake one night soaked in sweat as the last two decades of defendants, damsels and dogs in funny hats dance across your darkened ceiling. It's enough to make one request a roofie. But enough about my night-sweats, let's meet the players!
 
It's ... the same gang of drifters and layabouts I been smellin' for six weeks now. Ya know, it's pictures like this that do my breed a disservice, for it tends to convince our station-bound bosses that we lenslingers are locked in some sort of mortal lounge-off in which the photog with the most bloated expense report wins dinner for six at the high-end bistro of his liking. No charge. (Don't ask), just know that for every time you see of us sitting down, a homeless guy takes a dump behind our live trucks. I won't say it's happened, but if you see a guy who with 'Flawless' tattooed on his lip eyeing a patch of pavement anywhere near your mobile newsroom, know your little weather garden is about to get fertilized. And if you catch him in the act, wait 'til he's done. Otherwise he gets all pissy about the tip. Forget I mentioned it. In fact, let go off all that unwanted knowledge: things like your computer password at work or what level of the parking deck you left your news car double-parked in. You won't need any of that once you summit your own personal step-ladder and peer into the abyss. Just don't look for too long...

Or something like this could happen to you. We'll call him 'Richard'. Rumor has it he's some kind of hot-shot from out of town. He seems to have a lot of toys and they say has just as many trophies at home, but from what I can tell he's a nervous shell of the fellow who first appeared here a month and a half back. Dude used to have opinions about EVERYthing, but lately he just fixates on the middle distance and tries to call in airstrikes with an iPhone that hasn't seen the business end of a charger in nine days. I figure when it's all said and done, we'll pick his pockets and point him towards Capital City before abandoning him altogether. Someday he'll thank us, provided he regains the ability to speak in anything other than satellite coordinates. Until then, your better off avoiding this once coherent cameraman altogether. That, or hit him with a lawn dart and be done with it. Now this: 

View to a Skill

The jury for the John Edwards trial has yet to even be seated and I AM OVER IT! The waiting, the walk-downs, the existential angst of choosing where to wolf down lunch ... quite frankly, I could do without it. But even an alleged loner like myself recognizes the benefits of all this pack journalism: forced socialization. See, with cameras of any kind banned in federal court, we photogs have nothing much to do all day but trade lies, snap towels and constantly eyeball that courthouse door. It can make for a long day, but those very same hours would come to a standstill were it not for the calloused community of cameramen (and women). Yeah, we're a little sweaty around the edges and few of us are burdened with any real fashion sense, but I wouldn't trade this rugged class of individuals for all the hipsters on Elm Street.

Why? They're pragmatic, blunt and perhaps a little tortured. But unlike the skinny jean crowd, TV News photographers base their assertions on reality - not some ingrained disdain for the Hoi polloi. Me - most of what I know about life was learned under heavy deadline. That makes me an expert on absolutely nothing, but at least my opinions weren't formed by some scribbled mantra I read on a  coffee shop bulletin board. No, my worldview first flickered to life on a tiny black and white screen at the shallow end of an eyepiece. For years it held me mesmerized, until I became a parent and realized some things could only be figured out at the business end of a dirty diaper. But enough about me, let's meet the players!

You ever meet someone who could walk backwards over a stack of mattresses and never get the shakes? Who could string together a minute and a half of coherent television in the time it takes most folks to find the remote? Who could stroll into a crowded ballroom dressed like a stoned pool cleaner and feel pretty damn good about themselves? Who keeps the region's movers and shakers on speed dial but is most proud of his ability to burp all the words to 'Freebird'? I know tons of guys like that and a few ladies too. Together they make up the most tolerable tier of the chattering class. Sure, anchors drive nicer cars and producers' socks match more often, but if I wake up one day and see a bunch of monkeys on horseback coming at me with a giant net, I'm high-tailing it to the nearest photog lounge, where I and a bunch of new buddies will figure out how to go cinematic on their ass.

Now if you'll excuse me, Edwards just walked into the courthouse and I gotta get some sleep. Knock on my live truck at your own peril.

Safe Return Doubtful...

Hey Moms and Dads, got a kid who's interested in broadcasting? WE CAN HELP! Just send him (or her) to The Lenslinger Institute's first ever field seminar - currently being held outside John Edwards' federal trial! Drop your (clearly troubled) teens off with us and we'll teach 'em how to read light, measure sound and fold time. For a limited time, we'll even school your adolescent in the fine art of asshole avoidance! HOW do we do it? Simple! We strap them to a wobbly stepladder, pummel 'em with elbows and browbeat them nearly senseless! But wait, there's more! Get 'em here before the defense rests and we'll make sure they'll never again express an interest in Communications. It starts with a pre-dawn cable course, transitions into a midday endurance test and culminates with the kind of late afternoon panic attack that'll send your little layabout running straight for the nearest Coast Guard recruiter! It's cheaper than reform school, better than water-boarding and nearly as senseless as those team-building workshops corporations spend your bonus on...

But just WHO can turn your TV News wannabe into a useful member of society? Our crack staff of highly jaded journalists, that's who! This rough but loving crew of camera operators, sound recordists and assorted engineers are committed (or should be) to preventing future generations from making the same mistakes we did. We'll treat your once precious youngster like they owe us money, douse them in fast food grease, even show them never before seen footage of the Tanning Mom. Don't ask where we got them! Just know that your child's future is as important to us as our next deadline. In fact, we won't rest until they're broken mentally, physically unsound and unwilling to even turn on the TV, let alone aspire to work inside one! But our instructors won't stop there. We'll relieve them of their pocket change and share with them the kind of real life road stories that would make a TMZ shooter blush.   

WHY do we do it? Because underneath our scruff and gruff, we really care! At least as much as a member of the media can. Truth is, our staff is pretty emotionally damaged, if not outright estranged from most of their family. We didn't plan to become like this, but decades of deadlines and  the rub of a thousand newscasts have rendered us virtually empty inside! It's a condition we wouldn't wish on many, which is why we won't let your teenager so much as sleep until he (or she) renounces all interest in mass communications of any kind. It's not always a pretty process, but once we're through with that little bastard, he (or she) won't so much as plug in an iPod without suffering post traumatic stress disorder. It sounds harsh, but when a kid fixates on the Fourth Estate, a future math teacher dies. That's bad for America and while most of us are banned from campuses, the further decline of western civilization is something we simply can't abide. So don't delay, for the very quality of your retirement home lies in the balance. Act now and receive a souvenir photo of your kid grimacing behind a philandering millionaire! Otherwise, we'll soon see you outside your family therapist's office. We'll be in the bushes, snapping towels and taking over/under bets on which of your kids lives with you forever! Just don't say we didn't warn ya!

Disclaimer: Four out of five participants return home so sufficiently shell-shocked they can't even spell T-V. However, certain personality types cannot be helped. Their precognitive conditions are so deeply ingrained they could become even more inflamed with the idea of multimedia fame and fortune. The Lenslinger Institute cannot be held responsible for these hopeless headcases, though we're more than willing to help place them as tradesmen (or women) in Panama City's fledgling porno production industry, or, worse yet, we can put them to work making infomercials. (Cost of restraining order not included.)

So That Others May Vedge...

Knowing what all the knobs do will get you started in this business, but if you're really going to last behind the lens, you must know how to GET BENT! Just ask Jimmy Hall, the self-described 'camera mang' we first met chillin' outside the John Edwards trial. Better yet, leave the man alone 'til he's done up there. Whatever bucket list he's working on, it looks like he's about to check off another box. Why, it's enough to make his Momma nervous, leaning back like that. Not me, though. If I know Jimmy, he's got two green sneakers wrapped around his speaker's spleen. My only concern is how I might have to catch that fancy-cam in the unlikely case he drop it. Then again, if said rig suddenly loses altitude, dude's comin' with it - Wile E. Coyote style. I can only hope to break his fall with a nice soft anvil I ordered from ACME. But enough of my thought bubbles, let's get to our feature!

You now, a smart guy like Jimmy could find a much easier way to make a living. But legal tender isn't ALL this admitted cinephile is  after. It's the lifestyle. Yes, it's tough making the S-word (style) stick when you're aiming it at a  news shooter, but put all thoughts of my cargo jorts aside for a minute and consider where even an entry-level lenslinger might find his (or her) self: Holed up in a cabin with some mountain drifter turned reality show darling, high-stepping backwards with both eyes crossed as the man America loves to hate tries to step on your shoes, living in a van down by the river as police in scuba suits scrape the bottom for hints of where the limo went ... and that's all before lunch! Yup, it's not my tax bracket that lulls me to sleep at night. It's the quiet knowledge that the best views don't always make the news. Instead they roll around in my head for damn near decades.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get some sleep. My chiropractor's kids needs braces and I told him I'd hook him up by riding along with a bunch of bike cops as they crack a stolen moped ring.

THAT should be worth a couple of visits.

Back in the Saddle

There are days this gig feels like an enema. Friday wasn't one of them. That's because I paid a visit to Kirby Creek Equine Center, a 52 acre horse farm nestled in the hills of central North Carolina. They weren't expecting me. Instead the people that run this rescue ranch for waiting on horse trailers - the kind you see a lot of 'round Surry County. Needless to say when I rolled up in a Ford Freestyle with GPS pinging, the lady at the gate could tell I was no cowpoke. She was a little shocked to see a man with cameras and questions about Kirby Creek's first vaccination clinic and in truth, so was I. See, I take requests and lately all anyone with a newscast has wanted to hear is the End of the Economic Good Time Blues. The last time someone in charge wanted something sticky and sweet, John Edwards was considered a viable running mate. Thus, I didn't blush when a manager handed me a print-out about a place called Pinnacle, I made for the door before they could change their mind and send me to some paperclip parade downtown.

Of course, I didn't explain this to the lady, intoning only that I wished to take a few pictures. She seemed agreeable, but before she could radio the others, a battered horse trailer arrived and pulled through the gate. I jumped into action at the sight, leaving the lady alone with her clipboard as I jumped back into my horseless carriage and followed the cloud of dust in the distance. Looking back, I guess I should have slowed my roll, for less than a quarter of a mile later, the caravan of two came to a halt. I jumped out and grabbed my gear, shouldering my weapon before rounding the corner. When I did, a woodsy looking gentleman stopped me with questions of his own. "What's all this then" he kinda sorts asked and the next voice I heard was me explaining from which I came. The must have liked the look of my logo, for minutes later I was leaning over the veterinarian's shoulder, as he poked and prodded his first patient of the day. I love it when a lack of plan comes together.

What followed was a fairly glorious morning. A slight breeze whispered through the valley as I tried not to stare at the iconic outcropping looming overhead. From Kirby Creek, the reported inspiration for Andy Griffith's much mentioned 'Mount Pilot' hung like a painting in the sky. That made it tough for me to focus on the horse whisperers at hand, for I'm a flatlander by birth and tilted topography still renders me agog. Inoculation or not, it was difficult to pinpoint the equestrian needleship on display when a Bob Ross watercolor floated in the corner of my eye. Not that the locals noticed. Jamie Renzi and Susan Bingman opened this place back in August. Since then, they've boarded many an abandoned steed, from neglected nags to post-prime thoroughbreds. It's a bucolic, pleasing place and the weddings and festivals they hope to hold there should attract all kinds of attention. Certainly should you ever find yourself traveling through the shadow of Pilot Mountain, I urge you to mosey on over.

In fact, of my short time there, I left but with one regret. On my exit the kindly proprietors directed me to the barn where refreshments reportedly waited. I begged off at first but acquiesced when a certain pastry was repeatedly featured. Following my hosts past the stable and into a small anteroom, I saw, among other things, a box of Krispy Kremes sitting on a table. I did what any Southerner would do, scooping up a glazed confection before rejoining a walking tour of a couple dozen stalls. Tell me, have you ever eaten a cold doughnut while your nostrils were swaddled in fresh manure fumes? It's a flavor you won't soon forget, no matter how many times you shave your tongue. I don't know if such sensitivity will eliminate me from competition but something tells me I'll never fulfill my dream of becoming a rodeo clown...

At least the day made for pleasant television.

Songs of the Doomed

Just when you thought I couldn't find a more surreal landscape to explore than the John Edwards trial, something called 'The X-Factor' rolled into town. It's no surprise, really. Back in 2006, that prickly Brit known as Simon Cowell brought American Idol to Greensboro and in doing do helped launch the career of Kellie Pickler, Bucky Covington and other artists whose music you don't buy. Now the man with a gazillion bucks but no properly fitting shirts is back! Sort of. Actually, Simon was nowhere to be seen today as no less than eight thousand delusional hopeful vocalists invaded the coliseum grounds and took Whitney Houston's musical legacy hostage. They also stabbed Etta James' memory square in the throat, but hey, what's a dead legend worth when you covered head to toe in body glitter? Don't answer that - just know that your not so humble lenslinger thought he'd seen it all. Remember, I've covered more Idol auditions than Paula Abdul even remembers attending and while we both may need therapy as a result, I've chosen to just bury the pain. Which is why I scoffed at the idea of an X-Factor audition in my fair city. What could possibly compare to the scads of nut-bags that turned out to shout in Ryan Seacrest's highly man-scaped ears? Isn't X-Factor just a retread of the same old song and dance academy that is American Idol?

Yes and no.

Looking out over the crowd today, I only had one question: "Who pulled the fire alarm at Wal-Mart?" It's the kind of thing I asked myself at every single American Idol stop, but as my eyes adjusted to all that blind ambition, I noticed a distinct difference... Over there, that guy working on his moonwalk - is that my mailman? And the lady spitting out Kesha lyrics - didn't I see her on a retirement village billboard? That's when it hit me: there's no age limit! It seems like a small thing, but it's huge. Whereas Idol kept laser-focused on crushing twenty somethings' dreams, The X Factor is out to humiliate Americans from every age group. Plus, every single crew member seemed to have a thick British accent! Why it's enough to make the likes of Toby Keith write another song about boots up asses. Nobody wants that! Nor does anyone really wanna witness what I did today. I mean, it's one thing to watch a pack of thirteen year old girls ape Lady Ga-Ga. It's quite another to see a man who looks as if he might have been an investment banker before retirement shake his pudgy butt through a gravely rendition of 'Poker Face'. Some things can't be unseen. Which is why I'll be taking a toothbrush to my eyelids for the better part of the evening, in hopes that I'll be ready next week when Rielle Hunter pops out of her limo in a sequined t-shirt and begins singing the chorus to 'Fame".

It could happen...

Lavender Crush

Keep your wretched Sex and the City sequels; we need a movie about the modern news woman. Take Sheeka Strickland. As a general assignment reporter, she dashes from palace to crack-house and back again in the course of a single morning. Why her lowliest notebook contains the kind of rare characters and gory story arcs those Hollywood phonies would trade their spray-tans for - and that's just the stuff she remembered to write down! Most of that data traveled straight through the wireless microphone she wields like a diamond-encrusted laser-sighted truth beam. Hell, I once saw her use it to make an entire Wal-Mart parking lot freeze - and that was before I told her the batteries were dead. Yes, Tinseltown would be wise to stop bedding bimbos and instead dramatize the lives of interesting women the globe over. And where better to start than a certain Ms. Strickland?

Yeah, I'm a bit biased. Sheeka and I have logged many a news mile together, broken bread in a half dozen counties, even picked through misery as family members strapped on sidearms. Of course the last time we saw Sheeka, she was picking bits of Hurricane Irene from her lipstick and swearing off Granola bars forever. Now it seems she's in the middle of another storm - a roiling cloud of fancycams, fishing vests and middle fingers all directed at one John Edwards. That's right, none other than the feathery worm himself is making cameos in The Sheeka Strickland Story and I for one have urged her to lock her trailer late at night. Otherwise, she may need more than a posse of photogs to have her back - something any of the lensers who've accompanied this pleasant vet into the fray would be more than glad to do. Hell, we might even take a bit-part in her upcoming bio-pic...you know, provided we ain't gotta talk on camera.

We photogs hate that.