Jokers Eleven

Okay, so we're not the Rat Pack - but the motley photogs who joined me in Vegas have a swagger all their own. It's a loping, cocksure stride forged in heavy glass and crippled sticks. You'll find sexier beasts wandering Sin City, but few pedestrians are quite so street as the battered souls who call themselves Team 'Slinger. We are TV stevedores and our every step is tempered my decades of deadline met. Alright, so mostly we're suburban Dads with questionable backs and creaky knees, but the vagaries of the chase have left us inured to this glittering desert scab, for a career spent bent over a lens won't put too many chips in your pocket, but it will lengthen that thousand yard stare - which comes in damn handy when fending off the absurdities of The Strip. Now let's meet the players:

Anyone who's read this blog more than twice knows I have a deep abiding dependence on one Chris Weaver. What they probably don't know is that we knew each other well before El Ocho or that our Mamas live about a mile apart. That would make us partners from the start - which is just how we approach our little Vegas jaunts. Whereas I'm full of lofty notions and ten dollar words, Weaver possesses the street level sense to get us to the airport on time. That kind of common sense comes in handy - whether you're trying to make a flight or convince a race car driver to take your camera for a ride. Here Weaver can be seen tweaking a JVC for maximum time space continuum sensitivity, solely because I told him it couldn't be done. A good man to have in a scrap -- or anywhere else...


Attention: Should I choke on poker chips or comp tickets, this is the one man who can continue Viewfinder BLUES. Rick Portier (Miss Jackson if you're nasty) may call himself Turdpolisher, but he's selling himself short. Shooter, writer, philosopher; this Louisiana lenslinger is all that and more. Honestly, I shouldn't like the guy so much - as he's a lot like me. But his caustic wit and expansive hand motions win me over every time, 'cause I'm just a sucker for folks deeper than they first appear. Lately, he's even been gracing local airwaves with his stubbly mug and no one's thrown themselves off any tall buildings yet. Oh - ask about his theories on how monkeys and midgets can save local news, but buy a round of cocktails first: it's a lengthy pitch.

Far less familiar to readers is our next operative: a man known only as Adam K. I first met him ages ago - when he called himself 'NewsHawk', chased traffic accidents for a daily wage and regularly slept in his self-appointed news car. But don't let the lumbering facade fool you. There's not a lens he can't manipulate, an edit session he can't improve or a free buffet he cannot lessen. There's only one problem: He's a shadowy cat. Five minutes into the world's largest electronic media show and we all but lost him. That's just how he rolls, I guess, set at his own indecipherable speed, receiving phantom updates only he can hear. I just hope he's careful. A man that dangerous could end up dumped in the desert - or worse yet - babysitting a city council meeting...

But more on that later.