Snatching Glass

In what sounds like a scene from RoboCop, a cowardly band of marauders snatched a California news crew's fancycam before wheeling away in a couple of luxury sedans. In broad daylight, no less. KPIX photographer Gregg Welk and reporter Anne Makovec were wrapping up a noon live shot outside Oakland Technical High School Wednesday when five, count 'em five, no good hoodlums bum-rushed the duo. Details are sketchy at best, but apparently the furious five grabbed the station's six thousand dollar camera, yanking it sideways in such a fashion that even viewers at home could tell it was just another chaotic day in O Town. To add injury to insult, one of the punks even popped Welk in the mouth before the five of them made off in a Mercedes AND a Lexus.

UNCOOL, on more levels than we here at The Lenslinger Institute can list. But even clowns like us have to shake our heads in disgust at the brazen nature of this latest attack on members of the media non elite. What has this heartless orb come to when a first world news crew can't sleepwalk their way through a nooner without getting assaulted and robbed on live television? I know, I know: it's late 2012 in Alameda County. That don't make it right. Is it a gang initiation? A simple crime of opportunity? Or one more sign that social mores are crumbling under the weight of a generation raised on violence and smitten with instant gratification?

How should I know? I'm just a cameraman. And while it's easy for a proud Carolinian like me to chalk it all up to West Coast excess, I'll be keeping my head (and lens) on a swivel here in the Piedmont. I suggest YOU do the same, whether you sling a lens in Detroit, Durham or Duluth. A societal shift is upon us and it's coarsening our offspring. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, you ain't got to be in Oakland to get your ass camera-jacked. As for the good folk of KPIX, they'll continue to cover their beat, but not, some sources say, without their very own security guards.

Where's Peter Weller in a tin can when you need him?

Election's Hex

Twisted spinsters, noon live shots, dangling chads! There's A LOT to fear on Election Day! That's why I've cocooned myself in several hazy layers of soft news: pithy distillations of pothole operas and fawning profiles of forlorn clown fish. It's just the kind of well-lit drivel that should keep me the hell away from the polling place. Then again, I could be ripped from the studio's womb before the first precinct chief overdoses on doughnut glaze. If so, I'll try to keep my wits about me as I jostle for oxygen in Democracy's mosh-pit. If I'm lucky, I'll surface before the crush of supplicants makes escape impossible. Loiter too long in the wrong campaign headquarters and you could find yourself running the cameraman equivalent of the Mogadishu Mile. Okay, those creepy people in cardboard hats aren't gonna chase you on foot, but get caught withdrawing cheese straws from a shattered candidates' buffet table and you may be sleeping with the fishes before the first concession speech is lip-synched.

And that's assuming you make it past the geriatric terrorists who keep our nation's polling places safe from any spotlights. Forget the angry gang-banger or unhinged drifter. You're most likely to perish at the hands of a 78 year old woman hopped up on the Magna Carta. That's her in the corner, clockin' your every move through at least two cataracts. She's missing her soaps, her support hose are killing her and somewhere in those pockets is a rusty spoon her beloved Horace carried over the beaches of Normandy. Get too close to that voting booths and she'll gladly use it to carve your heart out. Don't believe me? You won't be the first photog to vanish in the clamor of Election Day - or the last. It's why the closest I get to campaign headquarters is some dusty field behind a Harley-Davidson shop. That's where I found some friends of mine gettin' medieval in  name of prognostication. I don't know accurate it'll turn out to be, but dodging airborne gourds felt safer that eye-gouging some granny from across a crowded cafegymnatorium floor.       


Now go vote for somebody.

Phlegm at Eleven

If viewers could see the Herculean hustle, madcap scramble and damn near panic behind your average local TV newscast, they’d watch in greater numbers. I’m convinced of it. What’s more compelling - that static parking lot live shot or the cross-county death race that made it possible in the first place? What would you rather see - a reporter mouthing sixteen words they’d just memorized or tendrils of smoke coming out of an assignment editor’s ears as they realize no one’s around to cover the flipped-over school bus? What would make you drop the remote - a smoothly executed anchor toss or the sound of an assistant news director speaking in tonguest? I’LL take the meltdown every time and so, I believe, will Sally Joe Housecoat.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think my friends and I are so fascinating that the world will hang on our every loss of bladder control. But I assure you, the little girl noises emitted by a grown man editing under deadline is far more intriguing than any thing the sports goob has to say. And the physical grace of a weatherman gloating over a low pressure system has nothing on a portly photog running desperate circles around a live truck as he searches for the handheld microphone hanging off his belt. Seriously, I’ve watched whole mini-series with less story arc than a pretty reporter arguing with the voices in her earpiece. Then there’s the jittery floor director performing kabuki theater just out of camera range. That shit would be a hit on pay-per-view!

As much as I stand behind the previous two paragraphs, I realize it’s tantamount to treason. Since the very first test pattern appeared in an engineer’s dream, those of us behind the glass have done our damnedest to hide the ugly truth from viewers. Broadcast news is a collaborative effort (and an excellent movie!), a team sport played by unsavory characters with specialized skills and filthy language. Yet what we show viewers is sterilized, contrived and, quite often downright dull. It’s why you can travel this fruity plain and see the same type of glass-eyed mannequins adhering to the same tired tropes - be it Eugene, Oregon or Mobile, Alabama. Originality, it would seem, is simply beyond us. How about we at least practice the kind of transparency we demand from our elected officials.

What’s that? Exposing the great unwashed to the machinations of our craft will destroy television news’ credibility?

THAT live truck has left the lot.

Try This at Home...

Just because I’m nowhere near the coast this weekend doesn’t mean Hurricane Sandy ain’t on my brain. Twice now I’ve caught myself fondling granola bars in the pantry. When it gets dark, I’m gonna go in the garage and blind-roll my poncho. If that goes okay, I’ll probably drive around for awhile with the radio blasting static. Just when I’m about to rip my eyelids off and stuff them in my ears, I’ll stop by that car wash and find an empty bay. My fancycam’s in pretty good shape now, but once I’m done with a certain turbo-hose setting, it’ll spit and whistle like Katrina herself gave it the clap. When the quarters run out, I’ll lash myself to the windshield, bribe a transient to pelt me with rock salt as I attempt a spoken word performance of the Traveling Wilburys’ first album. I figure I can get through ’Tweeter and the Monkey Man’ before any security weasels show up. That’s when I plan to initiate a low-speed chase across three counties - a meandering pursuit in which I’ll scrub up against every available guardrail while calling into local radio shows with fake flash-flooding updates. Chances are that’ll never get old, but if it does, I’m gonna duck into a laundromat and demand they let me sit around in my underwear back by the dirty clothes heap. I don’t want to hurt anybody, but if I’m gonna wind down from simulated hurricane smotherage, I’ll need to knock back a half dozen PBJ’s and three tall boys of the kind of lukewarm beer you find in abandoned gas stations. By then I’ll be pretty tapped, so look for me to wrap things up by man-hauling my provisions to the closest Port-A-Pottie, where I plan to crawl inside and finally get some shut-eye.

Then I’m gonna get up and do it all over again, until that bookie I know calls my cell phone and berates me for not dumpster surfing LIVE(!) the way some putz on his Netflix stream just did.

Maybe then I'll stop feeling so guilty.

So That Others May Vedge...

Knowing what all the knobs do will get you started in this business, but if you're really going to last behind the lens, you must know how to GET BENT! Just ask Jimmy Hall, the self-described 'camera mang' we first met chillin' outside the John Edwards trial. Better yet, leave the man alone 'til he's done up there. Whatever bucket list he's working on, it looks like he's about to check off another box. Why, it's enough to make his Momma nervous, leaning back like that. Not me, though. If I know Jimmy, he's got two green sneakers wrapped around his speaker's spleen. My only concern is how I might have to catch that fancy-cam in the unlikely case he drop it. Then again, if said rig suddenly loses altitude, dude's comin' with it - Wile E. Coyote style. I can only hope to break his fall with a nice soft anvil I ordered from ACME. But enough of my thought bubbles, let's get to our feature!

You now, a smart guy like Jimmy could find a much easier way to make a living. But legal tender isn't ALL this admitted cinephile is  after. It's the lifestyle. Yes, it's tough making the S-word (style) stick when you're aiming it at a  news shooter, but put all thoughts of my cargo jorts aside for a minute and consider where even an entry-level lenslinger might find his (or her) self: Holed up in a cabin with some mountain drifter turned reality show darling, high-stepping backwards with both eyes crossed as the man America loves to hate tries to step on your shoes, living in a van down by the river as police in scuba suits scrape the bottom for hints of where the limo went ... and that's all before lunch! Yup, it's not my tax bracket that lulls me to sleep at night. It's the quiet knowledge that the best views don't always make the news. Instead they roll around in my head for damn near decades.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get some sleep. My chiropractor's kids needs braces and I told him I'd hook him up by riding along with a bunch of bike cops as they crack a stolen moped ring.

THAT should be worth a couple of visits.

Deep Space Whine

...When last we saw Lenslinger, the methodical 'tog was leading a dangerous mission through a week long dimension of overnight shifts... 

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0420 -- After taking random exit, wedged vessel in parking lot Alpha-113. No lifeforms noted. Partner emerging from hibernation. Generator engaged... Mast deployed. Exiting capsule alone…

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0430 -- Surface mixture of gravel and  curbing. Smells of urine. Atmosphere otherwise safe... Dull orange glow on quadrant's edge.  Com Link established. Exploring perimeter on foot... 
 
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0445  -- Origin of glow determined. Pinstriped Eatery - partially darkened. Granny's Biscuit Shack. Outer hatches locked. Will return to collect samples. Back in capsule. Partner applying facial putty...   

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0450 -- Sensor package deployed. Tractor beam set. Bars flying. Partner upright. Engaging spotlight. Star Command contacted. Standing by ... Partner Alert -- CUE! Drone ... activated. 

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0500 -- First Contact! Stumbled over inert life form behind waste containment pod. Biped, possibly stunned. Upon waking, requested nicotine delivery device. Goes by Lenny... Source of urine smell determined...

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 00525 --  Com Link activity temporarily delayed. A strange malaise has overtaken the capsule... Partner mood darkening... lamenting career choices. Ominous shadow now falling over craft... Lenny?  

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0540 -- WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! THE NINE VOLTS ARE MISSING! AIR RUNNING OUT! LIGHT BULBS BROKEN! SEND HELP NOW! CABLES FRAYED! JETTISON POD! LENNY IS GOD!

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0545 -- A-hem... Crew no longer in peril. Nine Volts located, Air Supply Fine. Light bulb only loosened. No help needed. Cables taped. Cancel pod jettison. Disregard deification of life form. Over.

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 04550 -- Order restored aboard craft after unplugging Carbon Monoxide detector. Possible feeling effects of Gamma Ray exposure. Partner on phone with agent. No sign of sunrise. Leaving capsule to buy Lenny cigarettes...

CAPTAIN'S LOG: Stardate 10.11.12 / L-3 Landing Party. 0750 -- Returned to craft. Equipment stripped. Partner missing. Only fragrant aerosol cloud remaining. Signs of struggle. Relocating to Biscuit Shack. Pack of bedraggled travelers who live there now my people. Tell wife love her. Abandoning hope... Taking microphone flag. Over... OU---

Detachment Forming

They may look harmless, but this motley clot of operatives can bathe the airwaves with toxins or truth, poison water cooler talk with drops of honesty and spread a great malaise across the land. Not bad for some former camcorder dorks! I can say that, 'cause I'm one of 'em. And while my shoulder roll is well within specs, my powers of perception are off the chart. It's what allows my type to plop down and chill, shut out the world and just go numb, all while sweeping the perimeter with a jet pilot's eye. At least that's what we tell ourselves as we hover over timelines. Truth is, we're no more qualified to fly than your average pizza delivery guy, but watching life zoom by on a tiny screen does  leaves us diving for the horizon. You'd scurry, too - if both bailiffs and waitresses yelled "Hey Mom" your way.

As any TV stevedore who's schlepped for more than a fortnight will tell you, it's an eye-opening experience. Grimacing Senator, Star Command Drop-Out, Self-Proclaimed Mermaid: at one time or another they've all clamored for my camera's affection. Fend off the gang at Occupy: Waffle House a few times. You're sense of security (not to mention smell) will be left scattered, capped and shattered. So if you happen upon a huddle as such, approach with extreme caution. Their corporal form and aptitude for lassitude belies a pack animal's paranoia. Yes, these students of insouciance are trained to frame and poised to pounce. They are the foot soldiers of the Fourth Estate and upsetting their scrum would be no more advisable than stepping in a bucket of rattlesnake. Isn't that right, fellas? ... Fellas?

You know, if I'm gonna talk you up like this, you could at least put your phones down.