Note to Self: The next time a certain William Bottomley is hovering over you and giggling, get OUT of the wheelchair. To be fair, it was the only place to sit and since my story was forming at a glacial pace, sitting was more than called for. Speaking of calls, can anyone remember what we did before our every waking moment was spent fixated on a handheld screen? I have vague memories of driving around looking for phone booths, but from there it gets a little fuzzy. I do know that my first station-owned cellular device had a gasoline engine and giant, glowing green letters. Since then, I've sported an assortment of comm-links, from a briefcase size device bolted to the live truck floorboard to a late model Merlin hanging off my hip. Back then if you told me I'd be saddled with access to all the world's knowledge twenty four hours a day, I'd have asked you just what you smoked once Mork and Mindy went off.
Chances are you wouldn't have told me.
These days, of course, I'm equipped with a 3G device I neither pay for or could ever fathom living without. How could I? At any moment, I could be jettisoned into the void, hurled tripod over tea kettle at some cop car convention at the end of an unmarked road. What am I supposed to do, read a map? Yeah, right. I'd just as soon swing by the library and crack open a World Book. Maybe then I could figure out what mankind did before cyber-life... I'm pretty sure it has something to do with that Bill and Ted movie, though I don't trust any film featuring Keanu Reeves without an equal dose of ass-kickin Patrick Swayze. You heard me, nobody puts baby in a corner, headlock, wheelchair. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, waiting for today's story to end. I just hope it doesn't move too fast when it does...
If the thought of fawning over grown men in flame-retardant onesies fills you with the same kind of indigestion it does me, know this: some folks eat that stuff up. Take Weaver. He was so stoked to go to racin', he offered to cover the entire Daytona 500 with nothing more than an Etch-A-Sketch and half a box of Twizzlers. Then he stabbed a guy in the throat for suggesting open-wheel racing was a superior form of motorsport. Since none of his fellow photogs would cough up the cash for an intervention, we did what anyone does with a troubled relative: we hit him with a lawn dart dipped in barbecue sauce and shipped his carcass to Florida. Now he's embedded with the rest of the Nascaratti as they search for subtext amid the roundy-rounds. It's a twisted, overly lit world where they dress in logos and use weird terms like 'drafting' 'restrictor plates' and 'Clint Bowyer'. Don't ask me to explain it; I fall asleep after Lap 3. (EARNHARDT!) As for Weaver, we figure after two weeks of hobnobbing with stock car royalty, he'll be ready to drop a few names back here at home. Until then, know that he's content to crank out twenty seven hours of race track analysis a day, provided he's got a clear shot of the straightaway the day the flag finally drops. So don't feel sorry for him, after all...
Rarely is an era captured in a single frame. But that's exactly what TV News photog Jake VanDonge managed to do the other night in Clay County, Texas. That he did it with a Droid X is equally astounding, but I didn't log in to yap about apps. No, I'm here for the silhouettes. The one on the left is Sheriff Kenny Lemons, an elected position which more than explains the hat. The guy on the right? Why, that's none other than Paul Harrop: multimedia journalist, ham radio jock and tireless promoter of this very blog. Seriously, besides my Mom (and perhaps Joel Leonard), nobody's turned more people on to Viewfinder BLUES than this broadcast dynamo way down in the Lone Star State.
Too bad he's about to bail.
See, Paul's got more upstairs than your average microphone holder. He's already done time in a couple of newsrooms and for the past two years, he's damn near done it all. Now, he's taking his talents to South Beach Washington, D.C., where he'll be a Producer/Videojournalist for a national General Aviation association. So why would a promising young man leave the exciting industry of TV news? Have you WORKED in the exciting industry of TV news? Obviously not. Otherwise, you'd understand perfectly how someone so adept at broadcasting would eagerly seek a life outside their local affiliate. Besides, Paul's got game:
'I'll trade live trucks for Cessnas and shallow graves for tarmacs. I will miss local news, but I am a storyteller at heart and have aviation in my blood. My father, grandfather and uncle were all pilots. This is a dream job and will hopefully keep me from standing at the side of an icy freeway for endless live shots on it being an icy freeway."
Good luck with that, Paul. Should your General Aviation association develop a need for an overly wordy camera nerd, lemme know and and I'll head straight toward Capital City. Better yet, just tell your new friends about my blog and I promise to keep the hell off the Beltway. But before you shake all that Texas dust from your loafers, know this: you've helped me more than you know and a copy of that righteous photo up there will forever hang in a place of honor here in the uppermost reaches of The Lenslinger Institute.
Or at least until the wife makes me straighten up the playroom.
Ever get caught between the glass and good intentions? Ever get suckered into shooting something destined for the dustbin? Ever held a stranger's ego hostage while warning lights flashed in the corner of your mind's eye? Every get roped into recording a college A cappella group's six best minutes as your own lunch break melted in the midday sun? Ever get the funny feeling what you're capturing with your camera will never see the inside of a TV screen? Ever feel bad when, despite your best efforts, said medley gets erased before a single show stacker feigns the least bit of interest? Ever hear Bohemian Rhapsody sung in eleven part harmony by a group of dudes whose only memory of the song comes from their parents' VHS copy of 'Wayne's World'? Ever pin down the exact moment falsetto, show-tunes and free range scatting became the kind of thing a full grown boy would want to be seen taking part in? Every wonder when you got so damn old?
I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the timeline's gone... All my scenes pass before my eyes, a curiosity... Cuts in the Bin All they are is cuts in the bin Same old bug, just a spinning beach-ball in an endless wave... All we slice crumbles into dust though we refuse to save... Cuts in the Bin All we are is cuts in the bin Oh, ho, ho Now, don't reboot, nothing lasts forever but the next deadline... It slips away, and all your tantrums won't another newscast buy... Cuts in the Bin All we are is cuts in the bin All we are is cuts in the bin...
With loss comes introspection, an affliction from which I've suffered all my life. What can I say: I muse in Hi-Def. That doesn't mean I'm smarter than you; it just means that if I ever got tossed in a car trunk and driven across state lines, I could entertain myself well into cattle country. Interior monologues will do that to a fella. Not that I hear voices. That you know of, anyway... Now, where was I?
Oh yeah, my mastery of distraction and it's many travel hazards. I'm already so reflective I can't back out of the driveway without a few birds flying into my car. I can't glance at my GPS without getting lost in thought. In the time it takes the yellow light to turn red, I can leave my body and fly around the block. Should a traffic jam ever block my progress, I usually go all Michael Stipe: crawling out on the top of some stranger's Buick and cradling myself while the jangly guitars no one else can hear drown out all those annoying car horns... You can imagine how unpopular this makes me during rush hour. Yes, if life were a side-view mirror, I'd be double-parked in the middle distance.
Which is why you'll have to forgive me if I've lost focus as of late. An enchanted being I've come to rely on has vacated this realm and he left no forwarding address. I guess deep down inside I know where he is, but that doesn't mean I'll stop searching the horizons for him any time soon.
They don't call them 'asshole magnets' just because it sounds cool. A fully exposed fanycam can attract morons from a five mile radius. Factor in a governmental center or packed sports bar and you have one more reason why you should keep one eye open and your head on a swivel. Just ask Ole Olson. The veteran KOIN photog was minding his own deadline outside a Portland courthouse the other day when inanity struck. Luckily for us, Olson struck back.
But let's back up a bit...
Apparently the taste of freedom didn't agree with Gary Kemple, for not long after dude was sprung from the pokey, he made a beeline for the gaggle of news crews backpedaling outside. They were there for someone else, but Kemple didn't let that stop him from insinuating himself in the rolling scrum. Before any of the reporters and photogs even noticed him, the pint-sized jailbird accused a KGW shooter of punching him. This led to a few moments of confusion as the group of journalists wondered to themselves why a body-double from Joe Dirt was suddenly getting his mullet in an uproar. Then, as quickly as he appeared, the man vanished.
But he came back.
Not to apologize, mind you, but to hock a greasy lob of pork-rind flavored chromosomes at yet another photog. Dude - get your delusions straight! How am I supposed to know what you're mad at when you spray the place with such abandon? Focus, man, focus! As it turned out, Kemple never got a chance to fully explain his rage, for in his rush to express his displeasure with the Fourth Estate, the little guy spat on the wrong cameraman.
That much is certain.
Unhappy at the felonious saliva running down his lens, KOIN photographer Ole Olson broke away from the pack, fished out his phone and began calling 911. This seemed to further enrage Kemple, for he began pushing the much taller photog. "Back off, buddy!" yelled Olson, using a much nicer nickname than I would chosen. But the strangely angry man did not back off. Instead he ratcheted up the action considerably by lifting his foot and stomping on Olson's camera.
With the sangfroid of a seasoned lenslinger, Olson broke out a whole barrel of whup-ass. Grabbing Kemple by the collar, he walked his would-be attacker into the chest of a roadie from Foghat. What the legendary British rock band was doing in Portland I have no idea, but their sizable stagehand soon took umbrage at the melee in his face and pushed the scuffling couple away. That's when Olson, in a series of maneuvers that would elicit cheers from photog lounges far and wide, put the crazy little man on his ass.
Pardon while I soak that in for a moment.
Ahhhhhhh.... the sweet smell of street justice. Or is that former inmate urine? I can never tell. Anyway, what followed was your standard issue schoolyard wrestling match. You know, the kind where the bigger kid rubs some younger punk's face in the pavement. Yes, we'd all like to catch it when it comes out on Imax, but here at The Lenslinger Institute we take no pleasure from others' misfortune - even if we did watch the clip in question about 74 times over chips and soda. Our verdict? Olson was more than justified in defending his camera's honor. Sure, he could have 'called the law' but what fun is that, when you can plant your knee in an opponent's throat?
In the end, Olson escaped the fray with only a minor eye injury and it's believed his camera will live to see another perp walk As for Kemple, cops ushered him to a nice, warm holding cell where he no doubt requested the guards turn on the local news to see how a real man celebrates his release from incarceration. Oh well, some folks will do anything to get on tee-vee.
