Twenty Nine Clips

Bag enough happenstance and you quickly forget to care. It's not a conscious decision, mind you, but a defensive reflex: a way TV news photogs and other such third responders cope with the constant barrage of froth and atrocity. Most of us aren't as callous as we pretend to be. But we do lose count as the video clips pile up and before we know it, the victors and the vanquished all look the same. That's when the universe tilts and you catch a glace of humanity you've all but sworn to ignore. Just ask Dustin Etheridge. The young Charlotte photog had all but perfected his thousand yard stare when a chance encounter with a doomed crew made him reconsider that far-flung focus. An Air National Guard group was preparing to leave for the Colorado wildfires when a hurried news shooter blew through, his mind already on the next assignment.

I was told to shoot enough of it that we could potentially use it for a long form story known in the news world, as a package, for the 6 o'clock news. I arrived, set up my tripod, put a mic on my interview subjects, gathered some b roll, and came away with 29 clips of video. 

 Twenty nine clips he didn't think much about, until he learned one of the three C-130 Hercules planes his new friends flew off on won't ever be coming back.

When I learned some of these airmen had died; specifically Lt Col. Paul Mikeal, a man I'd interviewed less than 48 hours ago... I genuinely had tears in my eyes. I cried... and I keep asking myself "why?". 

It's a normal enough question , but one that young Dustin can't believe he's asking himself. After all, doesn't constant exposure to calamity and claptrap eventually numb the senses? Not when you know the players - even if you just met them...

I shook his hand. I looked him in the eye and told him my name. I saw the confidence and genuine patriotism that he carried himself with. All before he died. 

A brief introduction. A kind word or two. A tenuous connection at best, but it's enough to give any old talking head the benefit of body and soul. It's something I last learned on a Randolph County highway as a group of college students I'd just interviewed held the crumpled form of a dying friend. I wish I could say the memory fades, but in truth it's one day on the job I don't ever plan to forget. It's the least I can do, and in the long run I think it will make me a better journalist and, perhaps, a better person.

Just like Dustin.

Lenslinger's Library: The One

It would be criminal for a rhythm-free creature like me to believe he could fathom the funk of the late, great James Brown. Yet I do, thanks to an aging CD collection and a new Brown biography, The One. Heavily researched and richly drawn, RJ Smith’s book details Brown’s rocky path from shoe shine boy to Soul Brother Number One. Born to poverty and abuse, young James Brown led the thug life in the segregated South before stomping onstage and hammering out a vamp. From there it was nothing but struggle as the often loutish performer mesmerizes audiences with his energy and sound. James Brown didn’t just make music. He perpetrated it. Famous for the fines he imposed on his hired musicians, it’s said that when he was spinning around onstage, he was just checking up on the band behind him. The One is chock full of such tidbits, (Brown’s puzzlement at a young zonked-out bassist by the name of Bootsie Collins is worth the price of a download alone.) And they didn’t call him "Mr. Dynamite" for nothing. Like the music he forged, Brown was explosive. He ran his band with a dictator’s hiss and, sadly, slapped around his many women. But under a spotlight, the man could summon hellfire and holy soul, hold rowdy crowds enraptured and read the rhythm and a room like a master magician. My favorite scene is one in which Brown and entourage roll away from a concert in a stretch limo. A cluster of fans chases the car on foot and when one kid outlasts all others, Brown orders the chauffeur to pull over and pick up the panting fan. For the next few miles, "The Godfather of Soul" lectured the boy on staying in school, before slipping him a few hundred dollar bills and kicking him out of his car. A moment of grace from a man who, in his later years, grew fond of smoking PCP (“GO-rilla”, he called it). Oh well, since when are pioneers perfect? They’re not and though James Brown was not a model citizen, he did enrich this planet with his highly communicable funk and oh so tortured soul.

Not bad for a kid who grew up in a brothel.

Knowns and Unknowns

Through the magic of television, I have no idea what I’ll be doing tomorrow. That’s because I sling a lens for a living, a feature-laden fancycam that serves as both protector and weapon. Twist the right knob and see the felons flee, flip a filter wheel to make the secretaries blush. Leave the damn thing turned of and you can still incapacitate a gymnasium full of eighth-graders. I know, for I have dragged my glass through the shadow of Death, given this day our daily deadline and forgive us our press-passes. Still, I don’t wanna get all biblical. I just want to impart upon you the glory and the curse of working G.A. — General Assignment, that broad swath of story ideas that can send your average news shooter hurtling over the brink of sound judgement well before that box of newsroom donuts is reduced to glaze and rubble. Call it the Cameraman’s Creed, or better yet, don’t call it anything at all. In fact, lose my number until the first piece of morning meeting fodder is proven possible, would ya? And don’t even think of touching my lens. You know where it’s been! Some days I’ll schlep it to the edge of alleged deception. Other times I climb into a cockpit and hug it ’til I’m high. Once I turned its battery pack to an angry ocean. It went, swimmingly. Most times though I keep my power button dry, though I’m not above sweeping the debris field with it, stealing glances at a riot as we’re huddled by a dumpster or brazenly sticking it in some stranger’s face. Don’t get me wrong, I want to do work that matters, I want to use this wondrous instrument to teach, illuminate and yes, even inspire. But so help me Nielsen, I’ll shove this thing straight up Bigfoot’s ass if THAT’S what it takes to get me home at night. So before you come up with the way I’ll spend my day, before you decide which unwieldy notion you’d like to see televised, before you ask me how fast I can get to the nearest mountain top and back, know this:

Your in-house phone system baffles me.

The Pause That Refreshes

In case you haven’t noticed, this blog has lost its luster as of late. Normally, a dearth of missives like this is due to my own malaise, a self-induced state of mind in which I grow so mopey I can’t summon an update to save my life. This time, however, I got a better excuse… I’ve been on vacation! That’s right, me and the sheilas fled to the shore, laid in provisions and swore off shoes for more than a fortnight. It. Was. Awesome. Now that I’m back, though, that voice in my head tells me it’s time to re-light this candle, for other than long walks on the beach, dictating pith and vinegar is one of my favorite things to do. Trouble is, I get stuck. Chalk it up to the fact that I been stone-cold postin’ since 2004 and on regular occasion even a gas-bag like me runs out of wind to spend. Aren’t you glad you didn’t pay for this? I’m not! But that’s a subject for another post, something I’d like to think I have a multitude of in my future. See, this temple of insolence I call The Lenslinger Institute is just a fun-house filled with mirrors, a rambling, abandoned manse I like to traipse through whenever I’m in the mood to reflect. Historically, that’s been quite often, but the older I get the less compelled I feel to write. It’s an affliction I miss, though members of my family tell me I’m easier to live with when I better regulate my dreck. Perhaps the cape and scowl were too much.

Anyway, if you’re still reading this, chances are Twitter is down and Facebook is full of photos showing how hot it is in your friends’ automobiles. Either way, I appreciate it, for while I’m not gonna show you a feline-themed inspirational poster, I’m not above trolling for house-cats in the search for suitable satire. But wait - there’s more! We got crippling heat, maniacal live trucks and a scheduled affair with a certain Miss Britney Spears. After that, there’s a Democratic National Convention just down the road and you can bet I’ll do my best to avoid it. Yes, there is much to look forward to in the coming months. I may even weasel my way to the lip of another hurricane, where I can safely lull you into a stupor with meandering dissertations on the nature of Granola and the soul. Look for it! Meanwhile, I promise to stop staring at the horizon so much, lest I sink into the shifting sands of my own ambitions and once again have to start digging out one loathsome post at a time.

Whadaya want for nuthin?

Blank Sanctum

Few words fill a photog's heart with more dread than "This way to the conference room". Sure, that cradle of organization may seem like sacred ground to your CEO, but it makes for a lousy backdrop. White walls, low ceiling, that forklift safety award - it just doesn't work. Throw in one big-ass table plus a dozen leatherette rollaway thrones and you got thirteen oversized reasons why I don't even want to see your executive think-tank. Take me instead to the factory floor, your company kiln, even the old boneyard out back. There we'll surely find a corner where we can communicate unencumbered, provided the boiler doesn't begin oozing that goo you don't want me to know about. Chances are I'd ignore it anyway, as no amount of hazardous waste can erase that deadline looming over me.

Deadlines. They're the reasons I'll nix any cinematic intentions and find a few ferns to molest if you insist we broach the subject in full view of your firm's mission statement. I can't help this box ain't got no soul. Speaking of no soul, that's me in the corner, humming an old REM tune as I try to decide which ceiling tile to bounce my light off. That one - with the pencil stub buried in it. I think I'll stare at THAT while you good people talk amongst yourselves. Chance are I'll still be conscious when the conversation dries up, but only because I can't think of a half decent status update to encapsulate just how it feels to work the curtains on someone else's very special episode....

Maybe I'll do it in a blog post.

Sling Like a Bee

MISSING: Habitual lenser, recently seen loitering outside Greensboro's federal courthouse. Answers to "RAD", "TV Tog" and "Dude, is that thing heavy?". Often seen schooling news crews at emergency scenes. Subject has profound attachment to his little yellow lunchbox. High intelligence,  low regard for rental authorities. Frequents Radio Shacks, kayak launches and picnic shelters with electrical outlets. Well versed in helicopter etiquette. Broad mastery of gadgets, doesn't always match his clothes properly. Chronic line-jumper. Expects full access to crime scenes, cockpits and pottery shows. Favors sunrises, avoids spin classes. Rarely spotted in juice bars. Believes himself to be part of 'a vast network'. Last seen elbowing senior citizens out of way at remote butterfly ranch in North Carolina. Approach with caution: Subject tweets with a single pinky and could snap at any moment. Use of tranquilizer darts authorized. Reward negotiable. On second thought, forget I mentioned it.

So That Others May Suck

Ah yes, American Idol. If ever there was a cure for my writing malaise, it's the backstage pass I hold to our nation's goofiest game show. Then again, I've slept-walked though so many of these auditions, I find more intrigue in my pimento cheese collection (Don't judge me!) Still, I did hang with a few household names this morning, not to mention five thousand of my screechiest friends in what can only be described as that downfall of Western Civilization (See also: Why the Terrorists Hate Us). Then again, maybe the wounded wildebeest that is my network's most stalwart cash cow is just that: a bleeding, preening creature that can lay a patty you won't no part of. That. or it's just some pseudo-musical confection meant to distract mankind from such metaphysical concerns as "What ever happened to Alf?" and 'Wait a minute, Rodney King had a POOL?" Either way, it feels like something I should share, so strap on that rhinestone encrusted muscle-t, spray some glitter where you used to have hair and forget what those doctor types say about tanning beds. We got work to do...

Now, I know what you're thinking: American Idol is still on? Apparently, so. In fact, I'm convinced it will never leave the airwaves. Not as long as producers come up with new ways to shuck the shell of a show that used to be a certifiable sensation. J-Lo bail? Paging Janet Jackson! (Miss Jackson if you're nasty.) Stephen Tyler fall off a concubine? I hear David Lee Roth's calendar just opened up. Randy Jackson holding out for better weed money? Three words: Bell-Biv-DeVoe. My point is this. Even in its diminished state, American Idol is bigger than anyone who sits in the judge's seats. In fact, you could scrap that over-payed panel altogether and replace them with three chimpanzees and a few smart-phone apps. No, all you need for Idol to last forever is a rising populace weened on Glee and outcome-based education. Oh, and there's one more show component you simply must have if you're gonna ride Idol into the sunset: Ryan 'Pimp Daddy Smoove' Seacrest-- arguably the nicest guy in television.

I should know. I've watched the coiffed one bear hug guys in monkey suits, high-five hobos and grit his teeth and smile as a family of six explains why an abiding disdain for underarm deodorant is no reason to disqualify their daughter Otis from the singing competition. Yes, Ryan Seacrest is a righteous dude and I say that knowing i could be drummed out of The Cameraman Curmudgeon Club, (of which I'm treasurer!) So see me for raffle tickets. Or better yet, just tune in a few months from now and watch Idol's audition episode from Charlotte. Look closely and you may see a wordy camera nerd sweating under the yoke of neutered fancy-cam while some chick dressed as a viking channels Whitney Houston through a set of truly jacked-up teeth. Is that too harsh? Sorry. I'm working on ninety minutes of sleep, I drove the interstate in an open coma earlier and if one more person anything about the broken road, some yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree or positively anything about how my heart will go on and so help me Mufasa, I will lay down this laptop and break into a show tune of my own - one involving call and response, free style White man scatting and just perhaps, a little gun-play.

Nobody wants that... I asked.