Of Fealty and Fish Plates

What with my penchant for profiling troubled merchants, I've been rightly called the Grim Reaper of Retail. It's simple: if you look up from your cash drawer to see me and my tripod wandering around the parking lot, your ledger is red. 'Why's that?' you ask... I'll tell you. Because the suits don't send me to check on businesses operating in the black. Rather, they dispatch me to the brink of ruin. By the time that I arrive, registers are wrung dry, regulars are dropping by with sympathy cards and soemone's always sleeping up. Yep, I've stumbled into more Mom and Pop shops on their very last day of existence than most inventory liquidation teams...

Which is why today was such a pleasure. Instead of picking clean the bones of a failed business plan, I got to bask in the glow of hope, promises and hush-puppies. See, Mayflower Seafood may have been down, but they were never out. Three years ago, news crews from every outlet turned out to watch the restaurant chain's original location spit fire into the sky. Today, when they flung open their doors to slather the Piedmont in popcorn shrimp, only one electronic lenslinger had the decency to wipe his feet. When I did, I found a sprawling Greek family with names impossible to pronounce. Rather than try, I rambled around like I owned the place, sticking my lens into kitchen, waitress station, even the Men's Room once the sweet tea got to me. Along the way I scored plenty of shots of people chewing; a neat feet considering most folk don't wanna be pictured masticating. No bother, I was too busy envisioning a giant breaded trout rising from the ashes of the old Mayflower site before taking flight over that city locals simply call 'Winston'...

Perhaps it was something I ate.

What Lies Beneath

Okay, so it's NOT the Lost Ark of the Covenant, but I DID just crack open a crypt without a single eyeball sliding down my face. WHEW! This might just be a box of rotting videotape to you, but to me it's a time-capsule stuffed with dust from The Stupid Years, a trunk-load of broadcast talismans once believed to no longer exist. Okay, so it IS just a crate full of tapes, but within this haphazard collection lies the beginning of an accidental career. That and at least a half dozen used car commercials so bad a single viewing could get me kicked out of the Lenslinger Institute - and I've already paid my dues this year! Thus, I view my latest discovery with just a hint of trepidation, for I squint my eyes and read the tape labels just right, a flood of emotion drowns my senses and suddenly I'm rockin' a pair of acid washed jeans as I try to figure out how to white-balance in dying sunlight. Been there. Got the sweaty station t-shirt.

Of course all my speculation on what lies beneath this pile is probably pointless, as I haven't exactly been keeping them in a cryogenic chamber. Instead they've been shuffled from closet to closet, sometimes in air-conditioned spaces - other times not. For all I know the only thing I'll see when I find a three-quarter inch or beta-machine to stick 'em in is static and snow - hard evidence that the embryo of my ambition is forever lost to science. Then again, these incriminating cartridges could contain proof of camera-mismanagement, gross misconduct and enough dated fashion to fuel a couple dozen episodes of My Two Dads. Therefore, I reserve the right to screen these vintage clips in my secret laboratory, far from the likes of the mullet-loving public and their YouTube trigger-fingers.

But silly hairstyles aside, there is much to be gleaned from this musty pile of pixels. If the labeling proves correct, this particular strain of tape covers my transition from local commercial hack to news unit neophyte. Thus, a reel of thirty second spots for fat lady dress shops share real estate with the recording of a head-on collision I felt compelled to hold on to for some unknown reason. Throw in my little brother's wedding master, some early attempts at one-man-banding, a cheesy campaign I once did for a waterbed emporium, my thought-to-be-lost skydiving piece, drunken stuntman buffoonery with a particularly troubling tape labeled 'Mondo Metal Madness' and you got a pretty good idea why I won't be leaving this particular treasure trove unattended at El Ocho.

I will however, gentle visitor, share some choice highlights with YOU - the moment I run across something the least bit aggrandizing. Count on it...

Riley Wrangles Wrenn

...And there was much rejoicing in the El Ocho village two of its favorite citizens joined together in blessed matrimony. Yup, Angie Riley and Kevin Wrenn got hitched. It's a union many friends of the longtime couple thought might never happen, but in the end Wrenn Dawg did Siler City proud, choosing for his bride the one woman most photogs I know adore, report to and fear - should they skip out of work without cutting their bumps. The nuptials themselves were delightful; an afternoon ceremony attended by far-flung friends, foxhole buddies and more than a few local icons. All in all, it was the most fun I've had in Gibsonville since my last visit to the county's prison farm and the greatest intra-station wedding reception I've attended since Carolyn and Vernon jumped over the broom.

Congratulations Kevin and Angie!

NAB: Here We Ain't!

Awww yes, on this misty Sunday afternoon there's no place I'd rather be than lazing about my chalet. Except maybe Vegas. Okay, definitely Vegas - for as I sit here watching the dog chew something unsanctioned, broadcast prophets, gadget-happy madmen and assorted TV sleaze are descending on that glittering scab in the desert. Yes, NAB '09 is upon us and no, Team Slinger won't be in attendance. Last year of course the Mighty Weave and I rendezvoused with a certain Turd for a contemplative stroll through the globe's largest Electronic Media Show. Shots were hoisted, gizmos ogled, a treasure trove of tall tales traded and a number of doofy videos were made. It was a large time and if money grew on tripods, I'd be shaking off jet-lag right now as the Benefactor signaled the nearest cocktail waitress. Instead, I'll probably hit the hay early, then - you know, wake up and shoot an anchor package. Meh...

Still, not ALL is lost. Thanks to polymer technology and the always tall Kevin Johnson, I'll roam the floor from afar. The b-roll founder, along with dandy Andy Grossman can ALWAYS be counted on to ricochet from booth to booth, dodging the windier exhibitors and sticking a lens in whatever else finds their fancy. This year they won't have a blowhard like me hoggin' the glass, so look for some in-depth reportage and even a few outbursts from this thing the kids call Twitter. Why it'll be like being there without all the foot pain! I'm just sorry I'll miss the B-Roll Bash, for both times I've disgraced that particular gathering I've come away the better - minus the bed-spins. Oh well, there's always next year. In fact, more than a few of us have already vowed to share some air at NAB 10. You know, provided there's still some form of tee-vee being practiced then.

Young Joe Dirt

I'm on a badly needed Spring Break. While I recover, enjoy this recently unearthed high school photo of a young lenslinger, courtesy of a friend's upload. Make your own joke. Be back soon...

The Deadliest Couch

As a lover of the Discovery Channel, there is much to admire about The Deadliest Catch. For example, I like how the show has made heroes of smelly, working-class Joes. I also like how so many of the crew members smoke incessantly, knowing full well lung cancer is the least of their immediate health concerns. I like the way sea-spray looks in high-definition. I love the fact that Sig Hansen is now something of a celebrity (Here he is hobnobbing with Sir Paul McCartney!) More than anything, I love the way producers have crafted a compelling 'reality show' that doesn't involve confession rooms, dance numbers or multi-colored buffs. But for everything that I adore about this venerable hit, there is one thing I despise: the idea of slingin' a lens on either of those wretched vessels. Don't get me wrong, scoring a crew hat from the Cornelia Marie would earn me a lifetime of love at the nearest pub, but I'd still rather shoot a colostomy bag insertion than grace the deck of a paid fishing boat.

And it ain't that I'm skeered! I'm domesticated!! Fancycams are fun - even the tiny ones wrapped in plastic. I'm not sure I wanna sling one for 18 hours a day on the Bering Sea. I was in the Nav, remember? I know better than most landlubbers that Mother Ocean will gladly suck you into her briny embrace - whether you're trying to shoot a reality show, attempting to evade the crosshairs of a Navy Seal or just minding your own business at the scene of a hurricane. No Sir, I'm not this guy! But I'm glad brave young souls like him exist, for how else could I entertain myself when there's nothing to stare at on the internets? Don't bother answering, just know that at age 42, I fully grasp where I belong and it's not dodging some fisherman's wrath out there in The Drink. Right now, I much prefer my sofa - where the most hazardous thing I can do is sit on my oldest daughter's iPod and blame it on her little sister. Yes Sir, sibling insurrections I can handle. Rogue crab pots to the face? Not so much.

Eau De Photog

Sure, you might watch a lot of news - but until they perfect Smell-O-Vision, you'll never know the aroma of your average broadcast. Then again, why would you want to? Just ask any reporter who's been embedded with a ripe photog and they'll tell you: some fragrances are better left unsavored. It ain't that we stink. Well, most days we don't. Hey, you chase a cadaver dog through a homeless camp in the month of July ... see if YOU don't start losing friends. I mean, it's not like we're construction workers! No doubt those cats work even harder than your local TV stevedore, but at least they're relegated to hard-hat zones all day. We lenslingers have to intermingle with the delicate set. Businessmen in thin black socks, overly-perfumed reporter chicks, University elders with their own trademark scents... it's tough to carve soundbites out of thin air when the guy behind the camera smells like he lunched in a dumpster.

But like that green cloud I picked up at the county landfill, I'm getting ahead of myself. With the Photog Equinox still weeks away and Swamp-Ass Season just beyond it, there's really no reason for any interloper to melt the plastic off his dashboard with an indefensible whiff. So, HIT THE SHOWERS! But when you're done, have a splash of what and ex El Ocho photojournalist and gifted Twitterer 'Joey Flash' describes as...

...The cologne of news: structure fire smoke and motor oil are the top notes, with accents of sweat and whopper jr. Sexy as hell...

Sexy, yes - in much the same way a hand-me-down news unit with a third-generation funk is sexy. In fact, allow me to round out the bouquet: Eau De Photog would build upon your basic smoke plume, as would it feature the metallic tang of a live truck generator belching exhaust across the inner city. Add a trace of reporter hair spray, toss in the dollar menu item of your choice along with a vial of day-old bile and you have a pretty good idea what that bloodmobile slash manhunt slash circus clown orgy smelled like the other day. If that's not enough, put on this rain slicker and lean in realcloselike to your set... A buddy of mine wants to tell you about his walking tour to the penitentiary and luckily for you, he sweats in HI-DEF!

Don't say I didn't warn ya...