Schmuck Alert: Milwaukee's Worst

Since my only visit there was as a drunken sailor, I have fond if fuzzy memories of Milwaukee. Which is why it's such a buzz kill to see a member of that fine city's police force acting like an utter choad. Hmm? Well, what else would you call a cop who stopped staring at a house fire just long enough to hassle the oldest photog he could find? Sixty-eight year old Clint Fillinger was shooting footage of said fire from behind the police tape when a sergeant (who should know better) suddenly insists the accredited news photog back up. All the way up. Fillinger does, but as he's shooed away from an area where the public is allowed to gather, the veteran of forty-five years on the street doth protest...

"Don't give me that bullshit!" he snaps after the cop tells him moving back is for his own safety. This apparently was more than the sergeant could bear, for a few seconds later he sets aside his concern for the sexagenarian and pushes him to the ground. Fillinger is soon in cuffs, all because he spoke up when a confused constable decided the Bill of Rights only applies to people without TV cameras. Oh well, at least local residents were able to sleep better that night, knowing that Sergeant Safety rid their streets of this journalistic scourge. I guess that's one less house fire the people of Milwaukee will have to bothered with.

All sarcasm aside, this case is just the latest in a series of disturbing encounters between cops and photogs. Seems every week someone with a badge makes a rash judgment call that results in an awkward YouTube clip and new footage of their chief trying to explain why they put some camera-guy in a headlock. Why is that? Have the laws of our land grown too numerous to manage? As a news shooter I'm expected to recall every major intersection within three counties, any and all accepted light temperatures and enough greasy spoon locations to choke a mortal man. Is it too much to ask the police to remember what it is that gives the authority to arrest people? Doesn't seem like too much to ask...

Schmuck.

 

A Rut Above

Sure, I've had a tiff or two with reporters over the years, but as far as YOU KNOW, I've never pulled a knife on any of them. These days, however, that kind of thing wouldn't be a problem. Hell, it might win you an Emmy! Now, where is that new category? Ah, here it is...

'Best Use of Cutlery in an Overwrought Stand-Up' 

At least I think that's what a Columbus, Ohio news crew was trying to win they other day when they broke out a blade to better convey their message. Their message? I dunno - something about some lady defending herself with exaggerated hand motions. Truth is, I was so distracted by the shimmering knife and artificial urgency, I didn't hear what the breathless reporter was saying... you know, kinda like a viewer would feel!

But hey, who cares what those annoying folks at home think? The important thing is the reporter found a way to differentiate himself from the pack, a move I'm sure sparked a round of clumsy high-fives in the newsroom (if not shame elsewhere). You know what they say... Every time a reporter find a new way to 'walk and talk' on camera, a consultant gets his bonus. Not that I am totally guilt-free. Back in the re-creation craze of the early nineties, I alone barrel-rolled over squad cars, posed as evil silhouettes and ran through the ghetto my camera held low and rolling more times than I'll ever admit in a court of law. I just ... grew out of it. And chances are out industry will too, shortly before our needless theatrics  are relegated to the internet-ready wristwatch, where the screen is so small, no one will notice what that the reporter is (over)doing.

So remember, newsies, props are BAD - even when they won't poke somebody's eyes out. Step out of those hip-waders, put down that giant thermometer and for the love of all that's holy, take off that Catholic priest collar. Just report the freakin' news, in a manner that won't embarrass either of us. You'll both thank me when the Blowtorch Bandit rolls into town.

Rebel Without a Head

In the justly underrated 1958 horror flick I Was A Teenage Cameraman, movie-makers attempt to cash in on the young werewolf hit of the previous year with the story of Stanley Troubleslate, a bumbling young news shooter who begins turning into a TV camera after he accidentally locks himself inside the station's equipment closet and falls asleep in a pile of goo. Though its clunky transformation scenes made for a decent preview, the film's premise peters out early when Stanley becomes so encumbered with then state-of-the-art broadcast gear that he can barely move - let alone lumber menacingly toward breathless ingenues. An acne-ridden Leonard Nimoy stars as young Stanley, though the Star Trek legend distanced himself from the movie after it was savaged by critics, ignored by audiences and generally thought to be a waste of perfectly good television equipment. Too stupid to be taken seriously; not funny enough to lend itself to irony. (Showing every three hours all month long on HBO)   

Sidewalk Soliloquy

As one who sticks a microphone into stranger's faces, I can tell you it's a pretty perfunctory process. Monotone drones, tangential sentences, bouts of vernacular: they pop up time and time again, foiling most folk's wholehearted attempt to hold the cameraman's attention. Not George Lindell. THAT dude's a tour de force, working his hat as a prop, providing his own sound effects and dropping a catch phrase for the masses on his way out. Look for the t-shirts,  coffee mugs and Conan cameo to follow. In a world where Dane Cook is actually considered funny by some, is there not a comedic vehicle out there for a madcap motorist who does his own pyro? Certainly Jack Black has turned down something. As for me, I'll be sizing up strangers a little differently now, knowing that somewhere out there, the next sensation in waiting wants to tell me how he put the dumpster fire out with his neighbor's cat.

Hope I'm rollin'.

Power Lines Fall on Crashed Vehicle, Driver Trapped: MyFoxPHOENIX.com

Rinse, Blather, Repeat

I keep my fancycam's controls proudly set on MANUAL, but my head ... it's stuck on Auto-Reflect. It's always been that way - even before I shouldered a Sony and started repeating myself. What's that, you say? Isn't a life behind the lens the very definition of exciting and new?  Well, Yes and No. Mostly No. Truth is we news shooters adhere to a routine. We follow our own tracks so often, even mailmen shake their heads. We trot out more old props than a magician's assistant. And we repeat ourselves more than your Uncle Louie does when he lies about killing all those guys in Korea. Don't believe me? Here, I'll prove it - using nothing more than four photos I just now found on my phone. Let's review:

 
Hey look - it's a freakin' polar bear! Actually, his name is Wilhelm and he's a friend of mine. We first met back when the North Carolina Zoo rescued him from a Puerto Rico traveling circus (you read that right). Wilhelm (Willy to his peeps) is a fairly rare bear whose goofy grin and lackadaisical style has made him a crowd favorite and keeper sweetheart. I know this, because I've dragged my glass around the North Carolina Zoo 7,000 times. Not that I'm complaining. (It just sounds that way.)

Ever raced to the middle of nowhere just to lay eyes on a cop car convention? I have - and so has every other tripod jockey on this heartless orb. In fact, the far-flung car wreck is such a staple of news-gathering, they even teach it in college. I'm kidding - they're far too busy pontificating on The Fourth Estate to touch on something as esoteric as when to slip the state trooper your business card, or how to handle that nineteen year old volunteer firefighter who wants you to park six miles back and hoof it up to the scene with half a TV station on your back. 

TIMMMM-BER! Yeah, whatever. Once upon a time, chasing storm damage really appealed to me. Then I picked my way through about a thousand debris fields and the novelty of playing pick-up sticks wore more than a little thin. As is stands (or leans) now, I've hovered over more fallen trees than a first year lumberjack. But it only took a half dozen to realize all that broken wood is nothing compared to the stunned expressions found on the sweet people whose yard you're standing in. I'l just let myself out - through what used to be your garage.  

Of course, I don't turn intrigue into monotony all by my lonesome. Well, not EVERY day. No, on regular occasion I work with our fine staff of on-air reporters and among that lot you'll find none finer than Winston-Salem bureau chief Brent Campbell. That's him - adjusting his microphone and wondering just what in the hell I'm up to. Pity the reporter who has to hear my schtick long before its turned into pixels. Brent, though, he can take it. Dude's seen every bit of inanity I have and he doesn't even blather about it on-line. Guy like that's got a real future.

I just wish this silly business did.

Schmuck Alert: Dumb and Dumber

I guess the news crews had it coming. After all, they had the audacity to knock on the door of a Longview, Washington union hall and offer coverage of an ongoing dispute. They were roughly rebuffed. And that's when those jackals from the Fourth Estate stepped over the line. They pointed their cameras at an official note posted on the union hall door. It was more than one schmuck could bear. In a flash, a seething figure wrapped in shrunken flannel burst from the building and in one fell swoop, lowered all the boats in the harbor. "I say, good man, won't you refrain from videotaping our premises?" he did NOT say. Instead, this bellicose nutbag put on a performance that proved not all stereotypes are wrong, lashing out at the reporters and photographers with enough guttural language to make a drill instructor blush.

It seemed it wouldn't end as the longshoreman bounced from one camera to the next, grabbing lenses, threatening everyone and setting back his cause a hundred years. Really now, sir. Wouldn't your stance be better served by reasoned discourse, or even the unimaginative 'No Comment' - rather than the homoerotic comeuppance you slung all over that parking lot? Down South, we call that 'showing your ass' and we generally discourage it unless blood has been shed (or a pitcher of sweet tea has been spilled).  Rarely do we endorse the kind of infantile vulgarity that seems to be your strong suit, if only because it convinces people their prejudices are correct. Didn't you notice the photogs were having a ball? Throbbing veins and flying spittle are a challenge to shoot, but when you back it up with a vocal performance like that, it is a pleasure to bleep and disseminate. Something to think about as your and your pals crack open another Meister Brau, or whatever cut-rate beer you guys drink for breakfast.

Schmuck!

Oh, and if that wasn't enough moronic showboating for you, a clip has surfaced of an EMS official accosting a WNBC photojournalist. " I told you to stop!" the medical technician yells, mistaking his dangling walkie-talkie for the Sword of Grayskull. The photog appears as perplexed as we the audience, but that's a natural expression when an otherwise mild-mannered first responder tries to wrestle your livelihood from your grip. Hey, you don't see us media types snatching stethoscopes from the necks of unsuspecting medics, do you? Do you? Hyperbole aside, I'm most troubled by this last clip, as we news shooters have great respect for emergency medical technicians and work hard to stay out of their way. I mean, we expect longshoremen to go ape-shit when the big words start to fly, but an EMT? Must be more to that story and we here at the Lenslinger Institute are anxious to hear it. Meanwhile we can only judge the evidence before us and lump Mr. Medic in with that flannel-clad oaf with the limited vocabulary.

SCHMUCKS! 



UPDATE! Proving there is some justice in this world, the bellicose longshoreman featured above has been arrested on four felony charges: burglary in the first degree, assault in the second degree, intimidating a witness, and sabotage. 'A witness had alerted police that he recognized (Ronald) Stavas after seeing video on KGW-TV of an angry man who confronted a news crew at the Longshoremen union hall.' We here at the Lenslinger Institute sincerely hope he encounters some form of unwanted sodomy during his time in the, ahem, pokey. Schmuck.

Friday Night...Delight

Sometimes you have to crawl up into the camera's eye-cup and forget everything else around you. Friday Night Football would NOT be one of those times. No, for something like that you need the speed of a cheetah, the thumb of a junkie and the situational awareness of a Navy Seal. I possess neither, but it didn't stop me from shocking sports fan across the land by showing up at my daughter's high school and shooting my first local football game in easily fifteen years. Those cats at NFL Films can relax. While I proudly stand behind all my highlights, a grasp of football's finer points would no doubt have clued me in as to where those jacked-up gladiators were gonna run to next. As it was, I followed the ball, threw up color bars at after every score and kept my balding head on a swivel.  But as the above photo illustrates, danger abounds before those guys in tights ever take the field. Witness:

1) I'm surrounded by cheerleaders. High school cheerleaders. Now, I'm certain they're all nice girls, but it's a known fact that anyone who dons a cheerleader uniform is opening themselves up to zombie demonification. Not the kind of creatures you wanna turn your back on, even if they haven't enterfed the seventh circle of Hell just yet. Be it a brain-eating bloodbath or some daffy flash mob, it all feels the same when that cute little thing in the pig tails comes at you with a flying drop-kick.

2) There's a teenage volunteer firefighter at my feet and he's fondling an extinguisher.  Normally I got mad respect for anyone who rocks the Neoprene for free, but this particular scenario makes be a bit itchy. After all, I was once a teenage volunteer firefighter and I did unspeakable things with far less intrusive station equipment. Therefore, I'm dedicating 45 percent of my peripheral vision to all the young dudes with chaw in their lips and pagers on their hips.     

3) Vikings, Marauders, Cupcake Queens...whatever you call them, a speeding column of testosterone and shoulder pads is about to burst through that paper and make a beeline for yours truly. Okay, so most of them will pass me by, but once the game begins all bets are off. I have seen grown men with mortgages and crab-grass damn near crippled by a sixteen year old running back who's drunk on Twizzlers and pep talk.  That might make for a decent Matthew McConaughey flick, but it ain't gonna be based on me.

In the end, I came away from my shift on the gridiron unscathed. There was even a bright among the stretches of tedium and moments of terror. After hearing "Hey Mr. Cameraman!" about two dozen times, I turned away from the game to see my own Freshman daughter among a group of girls. Amazingly, she waved me over and I followed with my fancycam, recording a wide swath of her whole group as they cheered for a game they really weren't watching. Hannah seemed pleased and before I returned to the sideline, she acknowledged to her posse that this slightly sweaty doofus before them was indeed her dear old Dad.

For THAT, I'll dodge a thousand flying drop-kicks.