The Wryest of Lifers

Those seeking fresh perspective on Hurricane Katrina would do well to peruse the views of a Louisiana lenslinger by the name of Turd Polisher. It was two Septembers ago this veteran photog sat down and pounded out an unflinching account of the agony and inaction that then gripped his beloved Gulf Coast. Rick Portier, had found his voice. Since then he’s used that toxic tongue and a lifer’s eye to excoriate the many gas-bags and gang-bangers he puts on the news every night. Sounds familiar, really. At once taken with and tormented by a job that never stops, the Polisher seeks healing by soaking nightly in the written word. The resulting posts seethe with street-cred eloquence that‘s impossible to fake, wether he’s weighing in on the audacity of housecats, or simply riffing on his charismatic kid. Give him a visit and you’ll be glad you did as I am every time I go to his site, which is damn near daily. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Just because Portier and I are both southern photog bloggers on the edge, we got a little mutual admiration society goin’ on here. Mayhaps. But if one can’t link to the things he likes, than what’s the use of referring to one’s self in third person anyway. Hmm? Am I right? Hello? Is this thing on?

Pimp-Daddy Smoove

'Pookie, Ray-Ray, Pimp-Daddy Smoove, Lil-Bit, Shorty Tim, Slim-Tee and the whole damn hood done lost their frickin' minds. Thugs have been slinging lead like beads off a Mardi Gras float. On Jassamine St., just outside Indian territory in the northern part of the city, we've been to three shootings in three days -- on the same damn corner.'

Thus begins the latest installment from Rick Portier, the Baton Rouge photog who's found a potent voice as Turd Polisher. It's no secret I'm a fan of this guy and it's not just because we live parallel lives. Rick's the real deal - a veteran TV news photog who can shoot, edit, hustle and write. His nightshift missives are always strong, but Turd really shines when he rolls up on a blue light convention and callls a spade a $#&%! shovel. See if you agree...

Across the Photograsphere

Those with too much time on their hands will notice I've jiggered with my right-hand margin, pushing the 'Photogs Who Blog' section way up high. I'm doing so in hopes my half-dozen readers (thanks, fellas!) will visit these sites and tell their friends. Beyond my primary mission of pimping out my own drivel, I wish to explore every world of this burgeoning galaxy. Besides, I need my co-pilots to prop up my own warbling orbit as of late. So strap on your crash helmet, burn your press pass and hold on as we throw the old news rocket into Warp Speed and pierce the very heart of the Photograsphere....

Whether he's jetting across the globe on special assignment or staring into the empty bedrooms of his empty-nester's house in L.A, beFrank is always working on his own personal state of Zen. Introspective and outward bound, he is a Master of the Form.

Over on this coast, a quirky communicator who goes by name Little Lost Robot is as giggle-inducing as beFrank is intense. With a mercurial wit and advanced PhotoShop skills, LLR can make you spit soda through your nose in any format. Best of all, chicks dig him!

Here at El Ocho, veteran photog Chris Weaver takes a regular break from kickin' my arse to do a little blogging of his own. My personal tech-guru, this McGyver type is at his best when taking his readers to the Pits, where no one covers the Nascar circuit like da Weave.

Known only as Smitty, there's a hulking Kentuckian who likes to get his blog on. Though we only shared a logo for a little while, I love to catch up on Smitty's home state, shop and growing family. Plus, he features area photogs on his growing site. Give that man a blue ribbon!

Last seen hanging with a certain furry photog at Hurricane Camp, Colonel Corn continues to log his adventures. Now headquartered in Charlotte, this veteran lenser has pulled more than a few tours of duty. And unlike me, he suffers over every word of his most worthy blog.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas - unless you're the irreverent Ewink, a Libertian by way of Springfield who likes parking garages, all things animation and the rest of the funky kicks goin' down in Sin City. Just don't get him started on President Bush. You ain't got the time.

He drives around Hippieville in a pimped-out news unit drenched in sarcasm. If I were you I'd get my white-boy dredlocks off the street, for the driver's name is Mr. Guapo and he may be the most dangerous cat on the photog block. Check out his site and see what its like to be Jorge-for-a-Day. Just don't get any on ya.

Finally (for now), a new arrival with the priceless moniker of Turd Polisher. If you don't know what that means, then you've obviously never milked a twenty second photo-op for a two minute retrospective. Turd has, and he blogs about it in a way that almost makes you want to give it a go. Almost.

Sadly, all is NOT well in the photograsphere. Too many well-meaning shooters have set up sites only to let them die on the vine. PhotogTony went to sleep with the fishes, Pixel Wrangler put down the lasso and Screen Left, well...left. What's up with that?

Fire on the Bayou

We now take you live outside Baton Rouge, where photog-blogging phenom Rick Portier files a report on a garden variety apartment fire. Not only was it the second-most watched video on the CBS feed, but this two alarmer provided our loveable 'Turd Polisher' with an opportunity to bag a smattering of jaw-dropping shots and feel good about the people he works with. That IS news...

NAB 08: The B-Roll Bash

By the time the B-Roll Bash kicked off, Team Slinger had been on the ground for twenty six hours. That’s an eternity in Vegas, where a strict city ordinance requires all visitors to forgo sleep in lieu of sensory overload. Add a few time zone jumps, an enthusiastic bar tab benefactor, six hung-over hours of convention floor camera schlepping and you have an inkling of how spent Rick, Chris and I were when we finally rolled into the Harley Davidson Café.

Not that a restraining order would have kept us away, for of all the distractions so readily available here, it was this humble summit that drew us to the desert. See, b-roll.net is a tight community - a cyber-tribe of news shooters who spar and commiserate on a daily basis. Many industries have vibrant message boards, but few match the breadth of Kevin Johnson’s creation. Network freelancers, station staffers, television legends and the rawest of rookies trade tips and spittle on a website that’s grown to encompass most of the English speaking TV News community. Not bad for one photog’s odd hobby.

That photog would be Kevin Johnson. More than a decade ago he returned from an assignment overseas with a passel of pictures he wanted to share. Soo, he stuck ’em on the Information Highway and waited for something to happen, When it didn’t, he began to tinker with his own site and b-roll was born. A thousand hacks later and a message board rose from the ooze, enabling shooters from every greasy crease in the map to get in on the rhetoric. Suddenly, the Photog Nation had a watering hole, a place to stop in and chat while the reporter chick gets her hair-did.

For the past few years, Johnson and others have gathered outside the National Association of Broadcasters’ annual convention for a beer-soaked gathering in glorious 3-D. This year that assemblage promised to be bigger than ever, with nearly twice the number of news shooters set to attend than just last year. Three steps into the Harley Davidson Café, we found the place bursting at the chrome-covered seams with photogs of every description. ‘These are my people’, I thought as I took in the crowd. About that time someone placed a hefty vessel of barley and hops in my hand, at which point the observations grew a little less clear.

A bleary brand of fellowship ensued. Among the throng, strange faces with familiar screen roamed the room. Latin Lens, (Sin)ical, Todio: just a few of the many cryptic monikers floating through the room. High fives and How Ya Been’s filled the air as a breed known for their aloofness truly came together as one. Once everyone was properly sloshed, Kevin Johnson stood on a chair to address the crowd, a useless maneuver for a cat who’s already, what - nine foot six? No matter, he had everyone’s attention the moment he started hurling b-roll schwag into the crowd - for no profession values a free t-shirt than those who walk beneath the lens.

With light kits and a tricked out tripod given away as door prizes, most everyone had their eyes on the numbers tattooed on their tickets, in hopes a badly needed piece of gear would soon be their own. Not me. I was too busy meeting readers, as half of the caustic bastards in attendance stopped to say hello. It was ... highly affirming. What else do you call the act of receiving praise? MaybeRick Portier can say as the Turd Polisher himself was being recognized as well. This pleased me greatly, for I wanted him to know just how many TV geeks know his name. But more on him later...

As the evening raced by, I thought back to something I worried about when first I began sharing my war stories with the Photog Nation. Sure, my friends and immediate family dug my budding lore, but would my stories cut it among those who knew all too well the life I was trying to write about? Would my penchant for hyperbole wreck any shred of credibility? Would I alienate those in the know by simply pouring it on too thick? Would members of a notoriously cranky profession see through my thwarted ambition and deem me a poser to the throne?

No. At least not judging from the acknowledgements I received there among the Soft Tails and Hogs hanging on the walls. Ego unduly boosted, I made a mental note to keep on writing in hopes of this niche would only grow. Heady stuff for a schlub who props up others all day and sits down alone to write about it every night. So don’t be surprised if I campaign the wife to return next year or so, for the love of the prickly cinematographers is reason enough to endure the sleaze, the fees and the endless neon of Las Awful Vegas. It even beats free beer.

Ambushing Gustav

YOU may be enjoying a long holiday weekend, but a friend of mine's nursin' a hurricane. Yes, none other than Turd Polisher left his beloved Baton Rouge hours ago, aiming his station's satellite truck at Grand Isle, where he'll lay in wait for a killer named Gustav. Enthralling as it may sound, it's not how Rick Portier would choose to spend his Labor Day. He's covered many a storm before, including a marquee wind that's still headlining his homeland - Hurricane Katrina. That cured everyone's appetite for tropical weather, silly live shots or not. But with a Class 4 storm headed for his native state, this mild-mannered family man is once again racing toward that furious shore - just to get an electronic look-see. Makes sense to me.

If it seems illogical to you, count yourself among the normal. Making a logo'd bee-line for the beach as backed-up traffic staggers off the island can be downright erotic. It's also incredibly uncomfortable as civilization quickly breaks down around you. Power goes out, businesses close and sensible people disappear. As your live shots multiply, menus choices dwindle. Tobacco habits reappear, recording gear falters and sand rubs everything raw. And that's before the first shard of sheet metal even takes flight. Yes, rushing to continent's edge under such conditions sucks beyond compare. Thank God I've got a job that lets me do it anyway. As for Rick, he's a pro; I expect him make the best television of whatever Gustav throws at him. While he's at it, he's obligated to blog, both for his station and for the solace it provides him. Check 'em out and while you're at it, pray for their safety. I am...

Photog Fashionista

Big Ups to Turd Polisher (NOT pictured here) for alerting me to the Photog Equinox - that special time of Spring when Southern news shooters pack away their winter britches and break out the bermuda shorts. It ain't pretty - but there's more to Mother Nature than puppy kisses and sunsets. Hey, you put on a pair of rough-cut dungarees and run the deadline guantlet in 100 percent humidity. I'm chafing just thinking about it. What with Al Gore's endless plume of hot air, even the planet is convinced global warming does exist. Here in central North Carolina, tomorrow's high is in the low 80's and might I remind you we're still on the calendar page labeled 'March'? That sucks from where I sit, which by the way is in the floorboard of Unit 4 - where the air conditioning vents taste better. Not that I've ever barricaded myself in a station car while waiting for a crazed gunman to throw his revolver out on the sunbaked stoop. More than once, anyway.

Yes, with the sweltering air soon to settle in for a long summer's nap, I suppose I'm lucky I can even wear shorts to work at all. Problem is, I rarely ever want to. Sure I still do, but given my sartorial druthers I'd pick something a bit more sophisticated than a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts and one mother of an ugly palm tree shirt. See, I never really know where I'm gonna drag my camera to from day to day. Dressing like a tourist is no problem when you're watching meth-labs burn, but sport those too-tight jean shorts and billowing hula girl print to the Republican fundraiser luncheon and you're gonna feel a little conspicuous. Sure, photogs pull it off all the time but it's hard enough to get the Governor to take you seriously when you're blessed to be without a reporter - let alone when you're dressed like Charlie Brown on a field trip.

Perhaps I'm just getting old. What 40 year old wants to feel like a fourth grader picked out his outfit, anyway? Mine actually did; the ten year old in question told me just yesterday she prefers Daddy suitably bearded and sporting something tropical. When I told her I wasn't exactly Magnum PI, she cocked her head to the side and asked what kind of car was that exactly. Not knowing what to say, I followed her to the Clearance rack where this child - the one who changes outfits three times a day - picked out the loudest, most obnoxious Hawaiian shirts allowed by law. Trailing behind her, I realized I'd never make that cover of GQ, when my job involved heavy gear portage, patrol car contortions and spontaneous ghetto safaris. No sir, until I get a real job, I'm just gonna have to pretend to grin as I mix and match Garanimals. I guess there'll be plenty of time to be dignified when I'm dead. Now, what shoes can possibly tie together these pink and green plaid golf shorts with a pit-stained Hanes beefy-Tee?

Countdown to Vegas

It’s Monday night and, besides plowing through Neil Young’s exhaustive biography, I ain’t doin’ a whole lot. But in six short days, all signs of stagnation will evaporate as The Mighty Weave and I touch down in sunny Las Vegas. No, we’re not going to count cards under the tutelage of Kevin Spacey (based on a great book, by the way); we’re gonna rip the lid off NAB! What’s that you say? Only the world’s largest electronic media show - an annual gathering of more than 100 thousand broadcasters that overtake the neon blight of the Vegas strip every April. It’s been twenty four months since Team Slinger tripped the showroom floor and with the jet lag from that red eye finally wearing off, it’s high time to do it again. This year however it won’t just be us country bumpkins on the prowl, for the one and only Rick Portier of Turd Polisher infamy is bringing his sequined jumpsuit along for more than a little photog karaoke. If that weren’t enough, we’ll be rubbing sore shoulders with our lenslinging brethren at the Harley-Davidson café as the lovely and gracious Kevin Johnson leads us all in quiet reflection at the B-Roll Bash. So what’s in it for you? Eh…perhaps we’ll shoot a few videos, take some pictures, gather analysis or just up-chuck on a cactus. Either way, we’ll do our best to represent, all while keeping our fifteen collective readers in mind. No promises, though! After all, what happens in Vegas ... quickly becomes a tired cliché. Just sayin’.

Feeding the Beast

Anyone still hanging around this dump should immediately proceed to the home of Turd Polisher. Seems the Baton Rouge photog was recently drafted into satellite service, forced to point his Raggedy Dish Wagon towards nearby Jena and not stop 'til he got there. Egads. That's one camera crush I'd rather watch from afar than smell up close. I don't care what your politics are (really!) - you get that many TV news crews in one place and whatever message you champion gets lost in the exhaust of all those sat trucks. Already, the pictures coming out of that tiny Louisiana town remind me of the Virginia Tech camera massacre - with a little Duke Lacrosse thrown in for color, of course. Speaking of color, can't we all just get along? Not likely, I know - but if the race card's gonna be used to once again fan the flames of controversy, I'd just as soon sit this one out. Besides, I've already chased Jesse through a broken landscape - and came away feeling dirty for the part I played in the ensuing photo-op. Which is why I feel so lucky to have one Rick Portier on the case; his lovingly irascible account of the fustercluck that is currently Jena, Louisiana is rivaled only by his outstanding images. Go check 'em both out and perhaps you'll understand why I'm so eager to buy my kindred spirit a drink or two someday - just as soon as we washes all that exploitation grease off him.

Pilgrimage Imminent...

Now that passage is booked, I guess I can start talking about the B-Roll Bash - that drunken summit of professional TV News photographers held every year in oh so wholesome Las Vegas! Some of you may remember the spotty coverage that resulted from our 2006 trip, in which Team Lenslinger first tripped the showroom floor of NAB, an annual gathering of more than 100 thousand TV geeks from all over the globe. Well, his year we're making another pilgrimage to that neon blight - not so much to have ourchains yanked by cheesy sales reps (we ain't buyin' nothin') - but to break bread and liquor bottle seals with the cream of the photog crop. And what a cast! Not only are The Mighty Weave and I trekking West, but the one and only Turd Polisher will make his Vegas debut (drenched in sequins, of course). Once convened, we'll lead the group in quiet reflection, cadge all kinds of worthless freebies and shoot a few cheesy videos for a certain website! then on Monday April 14th, we'll all put on our leather and head over to the Harley-Davidson Cafe, where the towering Kevin Johnson will no doubt insist we get all sloppy. Join us, won't you? I promise stimulating conversation for the first thirty minutes, followed by a lightning round of clumsy high-fives and perhaps even some photog karaoke. Of course if you cannot make it, simply twist some tinfoil around your rabbit ears and point 'em this way - as I'll be babbling on about the matter long after the jet lag and hangovers have dissipated.

After all, I don't get out much.

A Special Place in Hell

I was scouring a few sites for possible story fodder when Turd Polisher's latest entry stopped me in my cyber-tracks. 'Horror' is a bracing account of a roadside atrocity, an unthinkable scene our narrator doesn't particularly want to witness, even as he finds himself racing toward it:

A few vehicles parked akimbo on the shoulder of Interstate 110. Drivers and passengers lined along the retaining wall separating opposing traffic. All had clipboards. All were stooped over writing. I didn't want to become part of the scene, but the news desk is screaming for this non-event. So I shoulder the 700 and sprint across four lanes of northbound traffic...

What follows is an unflinching description of a completely evil deed. Far from easy reading, it contains imagery that will not quickly fade away. So, proceed at your own imagination's risk. Then consider the collective psyche of the cops, firefighters and yes, even TV news cameramen, who rarely have that option.

Horror, indeed.

Schmuck Alert: Men in Tights

Via the aptly-named Turd Polisher...

25 seconds of why I don't shoot football (that, and men in tights bore me senseless). Derron Dequano does, though. He was on sideline patrol at last Sunday's Saints/Packers game when a freight train by the name of Deuce McAllister jumped the tracks and flattened the freelance photog. Hey, is that a shoulder-pad in your face or did you just decide to eat your lens? Either way Dequano was sent sprawling, his camera losing a few vital gizmos in the process. O-u-c-h. I can only hope the NFL did something nice for him, but chances are they only berated him for helping to televise their global commodity. Schmucks!