Schmuck Alert: Sight of the Gun

TV News: the only profession where you place yourself in volatile situations, then wheeze like a banshee when trouble erupts. That said, there is ABSOLUTELY no excuse for pulling a gun you don't plan to use, let alone menacing a news crew with it. But there's no denying that's exactly what happened in Joiner, Arkansas the other day, thanks to the magic of video...

"Excuse me, Cameraman? Yes, you - the one I'm threatening with bodily harm and a firearm... you're not recording this, are you? 'Cause if you're, I'd be be pretty thick to keep whipping out my piece like this. Maybe I'll just hold it by my side and walk away like I have to pee. You keep rolling while your lady friend goes all Isiah Carey up in this joint..."

Okay, so it's easy to poke fun, but if someone pulled a heater on ME, whatever audio that followed would be so draped in profanity, Ozzy Osbourne's kids would file a complaint with the FCC. Truth is, reporter April Thompson and photographer Ben Short did a lot of things correctly when an angry young man pulled up and broke out his best Boomhauer. Thompson remained chill and got out of the camera's way, Short kept rolling and centered his lens on their surprise guest. It was all rather textbook until Dude smacks the camera, then runs back to his pick-up for more than a little ordnance. At that point, mere hindrance turned criminal.

Critics can fault WREG for pimping the incident out of proportion and they may have a point, but the fact remains that jack-ass brandished a weapon in front of an innocent news crew and no matter the showboating that followed, that shit ain't cool. So ease up on the Monday morning quarterbacking, fellow media members! I've seen a few of you soil your action slacks whenever a bug flies into the car. Who knows what dialect you may affect once somebody pulls a hand-cannon on you! Me - I'd reach for a word understandable in any language...


SCHMUCK!  


(By the way, the subtitle of this particular Schmuck Alert is a lame attempt to salute David Carr's The Night of the Gun, quite possibly the finest junkie memoir you'd ever want to read. A Lenslinger Library Favorite!) 

Backdrop Not Included

When young Stephen Clapper left El Ocho for his beloved Texas, we just knew he would do well. But from the looks of it, he's rippin' the lid off the joint! Okay, so that was lame and not the least bit funny. But neither is Mother Nature when she decides to put her foot down on an innocent village. That appears to be what happened here as Clapper explains:

We had a couple tornadoes touch down in a couple small towns just south of San Antonio. This was probably the worst damaged home. We did a bunch of live shots from where I'm standing. The Weather Channel was on the other side of the house.

Ahh, The Weather Channel. Ya know, your mother-in-law's favorite station is a beast on the scene of a natural disaster. I know it's their bread and butter, but a little less self-importance would go a l-o-o-o-n-g way when dealing with people who can put their home in a wheelbarrow. But since I didn't log in to talk about that, I'll move on... Just keep Cantore away from me, would ya? HE knows why...

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Stephen Clapper, the prodigal photog. Dude left us many months back and I for one miss him. Not only was he professional beyond his years and totally chill, he's a talented musician! More importantly, he was a grown-ass man. Wish I could say the same for every young photog I know. They'd be wise to emulate Stephen, though with a last name like 'Clapper', we never, ever, ever called him Stephen.

Now, back to the debris field. Of all the twisted vistas we third responders show up at, nothing sticks with you like a broken home. Then again, if you can traipse through a pile of scrap that used to be someone's home and NOT come away with permanent mental images that will never leave you, you are one stone cold news shooter with an eroded soul. Most of us can cite chapter and verse the times we've shown up to find some neighborhood missing in action. Me, I could write whole books on just the demolished trailer parks I've toured.

But as Amanda Emily points out, I probably never will.

Riveters to the Spot

Ever have that dream where you explore some murky world? Maybe it starts out at the office all normal-like, then suddenly you're alone and driving, confused as to where you're going but determined to beat The Others there... That's when colors swirl and time takes five as what should be a simple devolves into a punishing conundrum of scanner hiss and easily missed alleyways. It's only then your eyelids twitch and you begin to think you've been sleeping all along, not lurching headlong into the void at the whim of some fickle, unseen master... Or are you? Suddenly it seems you're where you were trying to get to all along, yet the tempest is spent and all that remains are the fluttering yellow strips of futility. A part of your submerged mind thinks to look around and you're not at all surprised to see there are now three of you staring into the abyss....

Wait a minute! That's no dream! It's just the Night Shift! I know because I've worked about a dozen of them in nearly twenty years. And those who have endured even more evening shifts tell me there's more to it than just beefing up your light kit. There are tighter deadlines, fewer managers around and a steady stream of crime scenes to brighten up your day night. Just a few of the reasons I keep my sunny ass off the clock come dusk. Better to leave it the younger set, like these three fine specimens pictured above (Jared Rose of KMSP, Jeff Ganahl of KSTP and Nate Anderson of KARE)! Together I'm sure those three will get to the bottom of it, whatever it is. Me, I'll be at home not watching my set and feeling bad about that camera battery I scarfed from the night guy..

Or was THAT a dream?

Schmuck Alert: Attack of the Hardhat!

If the list of reporters honored by The Lenslinger Institute was any shorter, we might get around to writing it down. At the moment though, only one name echoes down these hallowed halls: Stormin' Bob Norman. He's the Miami reporter who didn't let a dude in a plastic hat get away with manhandling his partner Mario Alonso. The back-story is a bit dense; something about garbage company contracts. But what's important here is that the journalists were well within their rights when they set up on a public street to shoot video of a recycling plant in Pompano Beach. Enter one furious foreman. "You can't take pictures of the plant!" he barked as Mario trained the camera on him instead. That's when the foreman got all grabby with the glass, prompting reporter Bob Norman to give the smaller man a friendly SHOVE! A tussle ensued, until the apoplectic hardhat scooped up the crew's wireless microphone and stormed off with it, (presumably to launch his own TV network centered around short, angry men in safety gear). This doesn't sit well with our new buddy Bob, who demanded the microphone be returned, then waited calmly while the foreman called 9-1-1.

"Hello, Police? I just attacked an innocent news crew and stole their microphone. Can you come out here and remind me what a bitch move that was?"

Okay so the foreman probably worded it differently but it doesn't really matter because once authorities did arrive, they listened to both sides, watched the video and suggested Mr. Ass-hat return what was never his to begin with. In the end, the foreman even shook hands with the WPLG crew and at last check all seemed rosy in the Sunshine State. Normally, this is where we step in and issue an official Schmuck Alert for crimes against the camera. That we're happy to do (Schmuck!), but it's what Bob Norman did during and after the episode that has this esteemed panel awkwardly trying to high-five itself. Norman didn't have to push the man away, but he did. The investigative reporter explained why in a wry slide show that appeared on his station's website shortly after the incident.


"Mario is completely vulnerable at this moment and the camera itself, which is ridiculously expensive, is also in jeopardy."


"In defense of man and property, I push him back. As you can see his hand is still on the camera."


"I'm thinking, he's short, but he's pretty strong ... and it looks like we're going to go at it. Space is my friend with this little bull."


Norman's station could have saturated the airwaves with looped footage of the whole goofy affair, but for a while they held their fire. The slide show and its more than apt captions drew a few eyeballs without mangling the mission at hand. Norman's eventual piece wisely centered on all that he uncovered and treated the attack of the hardhat as the mere curiosity it was. Well played, Bob Norman. Well played. As for that other guy...

SCHMUCK!

Jurassic Lark

Okay, so it's no radioactive spleen, but there ARE occupational hazards to long term lenslinging. I'm not talking ham hocks and eyeballs either. You can throw out your shoulder or screw up your vision earning all kinds of paychecks. No, I'm more interested in what unfettered access to the good, the bad and the ludicrous does to your noodle. Take your sense of wonder. While you're at it, look for mine. I haven't been bowled over in the line of duty since a sinister semi tried to flatten us. (Not that I'm complaining.) But every once in a while, I do worry about my deep-seeded aversion to being in awe. It's not that I've seen it ALL. But having processed an awful lot of broadcast operas, I fear it's ruined my ear. These days, I wander from shoot to shoot with a certain insouciance, an urgent apathy borne of a million deadlines met. It's not my prettiest feature.

But please, don't take that lack of surprise in my eyes as a sign of cynicism. That I keep in another coat. What I bring with me every day is a heavily concealed appreciation of the absurd. I keep it buried in my run-bag, right next to the spare nine volts and Homer Simpson Pez dispenser. That way I'll have to dig for it the next time something insipid this way comes. I found doing so leads to the most unlikely exchanges...

"They're erecting animatronic dinosaurs all around the Zoo? Will there be refreshments?"

"The forest service is dropping flammable ping-pong balls onto bone-dry woodland? Do I get to wear a funny hat?"

"Bigfoot got caught in a prostitution sting and is asking for me? Those pills aren't mine, Officer."

Anyway, I'm not particularly proud of my prosaic state of mind. Twenty years ago, I'd get excited at the sight of color bars. These days, a space alien could appear hovering over my bed one night and what I'd wanna do the most is sit him down for a triple-lit interview, maybe get a few shots of him and the other grays as they prep whatever anal probe they brought along for me. Only after I woke up three days later with little memory and no underwear would I allow myself to be surprised. Even then I'd squelch my alarm until I got a good look at whatever footage I captured. If I got a lot, I'm bum-rushing the set with a carousel of color slides. But if I came away from a close encounter with no media  to speak of, I'd most likely keep my mashed potato sculpture to myself - for every good photog knows if you didn't capture at least part of it on video, it simply did not happen. But that's a story for another day. I'll tell you all about it sometime, but when I do, please ---

Don't act surprised.

Crouching Lifer, Hidden Hernia

Seen here in its natural environment, the Lenslingamus Maturicus is known for contorting its form to feed itself and others. Note that sensible hoof covering, the belted thorax, the dime store wristwatch ... all signs of a fully grown photogopod. But don't let the everyday markings fool you. This species is a cold blooded killer, no matter how feeble or bitter they may appear in advanced stages. The undomesticated news shooter can stun its enemy with a panoply of offensive maneuvers... the overhanded lens launch, the spinning microphone drop-kick and, most grotesquely, the Darth Vader duck walk (pictured above). Considered the most vile member of the broadcast stratum, the seasoned slinger can project a noxious bile from damn near thirty yards, stun its prey with rambling war stories and assemble cogent timeline even when fully hibernated. Most lose their distinctive markings as they mature, but just because a 'Freebird' t-shirt has been replaced by a bland, blue button-down doesn't mean you should approach this most ornery of scavengers unarmed. Known for their odorous hides high tolerance to pharmaceuticals and general disdain for meaningful human interaction, black-market tranquilizer darts have been sanctioned by governing bodies in all fifty states.

Approach with caution, if at all...

The Announcement

Doesn't matter what it is: draft pick, nervous jury verdict, new sherbert flavor. When camera crews collect in corridors waiting for something solid to be said, one can almost taste the inquietude. Hey, you'd get antsy too if the only thing standing between you and a late breaking live report is a constipated bailiff or weak-ass wi-fi or some other such obstacle about to derail your deadline. Why it's enough to make you punctuate your displeasure with microphone jabs or at the very least look up from your game of Angry Birds and ask when the hell we're gonna light this candle. Me, I stick to fidgeting, 'til my verbal tic surfaces and I begin using thirty dollar words when any old utterance would do.  

"These miscreants don't grasp the concernment of my dispatch!" I'll blurt out to no one in particular. 

That's usually when someone rolls their eyes or suggests I go wait by the urinals until word comes down from the town elders as to where they're gonna build that new moratorium. It's a mental rash no ointment can quell and one nicely crystallized by Lenslinger Institute graduate Geoffrey Levine. When I asked him what the hubbub was all about he mentioned something about UNC officials facing sanctions from the NCAA. I dunno, must be some kind of code talk. Guess that's how they do it in Capital City. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tie my competitor's shoelaces to his tripod. Otherwise he won't tuck and curl properly when I push him down that stairwell we're gonna pass in the mad dash to the satellite trucks. Hey, ALL'S FAIR in love and journalism, right?

Right?