Just So I'm Clear...

Sooo, you want me to take my aging news hoopty up some burning mountain pass in smoked-out pitch black conditions? Dodge wombats and flatbeds as I push that junker up hairpin turns while my reporter checks her Instagram standings? Barrel my way past a fleet of parked fire trucks perched on what should be called Suicide Ridge until I find a flat patch of grass to park on? Break out my gear and plant my tripod on some crumbling road shoulder in the name of news? Employ my sniper-like ability to knock off shot after iconic shot of smoke plumes, hot spots and cop cars while my reporter waves her heavily logos microphone at the only person around NOT wearing a firefighter helmet?

Be there ready and rolling to catch any soundbites that may pour forth, fingers hovering over zoom button should any real emotion emerge? Scrounge even more sound from whatever official we can find, then get back in the car and force it up five more miles of dark, twisty switchbacks? Steer that bucket of bolts past Lovers’ Leap and Losers' Landing before settling on a suitable view of the burning orange smear on the cliff-face above us? Unpack lights, camera and action as my reporter steps in front of the camera while mumbling to herself? Crank open the iris and tweak the backlight until my reporter is flanked by distant orange smear and a passing sense of urgency? Hit ‘Record’ and ride audio levels as she stylizes a diatribe that will be used to open and close a report we’re still not done shooting?

Pack up my gear, get back in the car and break out a laptop? Dump my fresh footage into a digital timeline before passing laptop to reporter without knocking over the Big Gulps we’ll have bought an hour earlier? Buckle up and try not to drive off a cliff as I navigate one crazy curve after another back down the mountain? Try not to fall into a trance-like state as the reporter beside me zips back and forth through my footage, the sound-bites stopping and starting like some pre-edit hip-hop? Pull over halfway back and switch seats so that I can finish the edit and upload our piece (hopefully) before we get back to the station? Hunch over a jostling laptop and finger-pad my way through a catacomb of click and drag decisions while my reporter drives us into what I can only pray won’t be a herd of news-crew-hating deer?

Yeah, I can do that...again.

Prattle and Scrum

In his latest musical release, Lenslinger mines the plight of the lonesome data-gatherer against the angry jangle of the American dream. "Pixel Hood" tells the washed up story of a TV stevedore, a limping journeyman whose stilted visuals have left the landscape badly out of focus. Forced to schlep the earth with a broken Sony, the blogger turned troubadour finds damnation, scams and calamity in the guitar-laden gnarl of the photog songbook. But for all the pith and vinegar he pours forth, this only marginally skilled musician struggles with tone throughout what could have otherwise been a minor masterpiece.

The album's opener, 'Over and Under' opens with an angry scat about tangled TV cables, then shifts into what can only be described as 'Screamo-Zydeco' before settling into a whispery chant about fast food wrappers left in the live truck.

By far, the strongest track is 'Trailer Park Fire', a rollicking stomp through a thousand late night news scenes. With potent imagery and a plaintive wail, 'Slinger paints a searing portrait of what losers look like when they look at losers. Too bad he had to drench the whole thing in mid-80's synthesizers.

From there, 'Slinger careens from one genre to the next, often abandoning a particular style, form or even instrument before the song in question is halfway through. While the source material is strong, his insistence on open-mouthed throat drumming wears thin. Were it not for the versatility and verve of his backing band - a ragtag group of news shooters turned musicians known as 'The Hurricane Head-Nods' - their leader may have mangled the muse in the process.

The album ends with it's title track, 'Pixel Hood', an ambitious if unwise epic dirge about a delusional news shooter bent on revenge and too many Red Bulls. Before the nine minute song crescendos with enough rock-star bombast and rearview mirror moves to make Corey Feldman slink away in shame, it touches on such important topics as hunger, injustice and why Spandex is no longer an acceptable fashion choice for middle-aged men. 

The whole thing's pretty much an ear-bleed, but compared to his debut CD, the pretentious, protracted and universally panned double live album "Wretch-A-Sketch", anything is an improvement. (Two Stars)

Framing Chaos

As grown men go, I'm just not that brave. My brother Richard, a retired firefighter, is. He's the guy you want by your side in times of danger. I'm the guy that can get you through that first round of Jeopardy.

But place a TV camera on my shoulder and my very DNA changes. It isn't courage that consumes me when I'm within the lens. It's curiosity. There's no valor involved behind that glass. It's a quest for access. I've no flair for daring in any other situation. But a face full of viewfinder is a suitable mask for a guy like me. I can don that disguise and weigh into any fray as if I'm a treasured guest. It's the fortitude born of a million deadlines met, an aberrant behavior caused more by boredom with the norm than any notion of nobility. Don't get me wrong: I could never be one of those far-flung war correspondents. But when shit goes sideways in my little 'burg, you can better believe I want to be there, if for no other reason than to see it for myself. Those of us with tripods in our trunks steer into the weird with only one agenda: get a better shot than the other guy or girl...

It's been a solid week since the city of Charlotte damn near came undone. It began when local cops shot and killed a black man, Keith Scott. As accusations of institutional racism and police overreach swirled around the Queen City, a couple dozen protestors grew into hundreds of unhinged citizens. Roving bands of demonstrators flooded uptown and disorder ruled the day. It went well on into the night and I was there with a TV camera in tow. Seven days later, I'm still unpacking impressions and trying to figure out how to write about it. The best I can do for now are these scattered thoughts:
 

Think what you will of the protestors, but don't lump them all into one category. Like the media itself, they cannot be categorized into any one genus or phylum. In my time among them, I witnessed everything from rancor to grace, apoplexy to aplomb. While many were intent on anarchy, others pleaded for peace and understanding. Some wanted the eyes of the world to see what was happening. Others wanted to wipe the streets with this Caucasian cameraman. In one night alone, I was threatened, blamed, pushed, high-fived and even hugged by demonstrators of every denomination.

Despite the incident that led to the unrest, the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department showed unbridled restraint in the face of chaos. Suited up in riot gear, they formed a line and stood silently as protestors screamed in their faces, challenging their convictions, character and courage. Sure, they threw tear gas and flash bangs when they felt overwhelmed, but had they used their batons rather than their shields, this city that I've come to know and love would likely have burned. Ask yourself: Could I have kept my cool while a mob of angry faces screamed 'murderer', 'bigot' and 'demon' at me?

Tear gas is no trifle. When police began lobbing canisters last Wednesday night, I was too close for any hope of comfort. Fueled by adrenaline and competition with the other news crews, I stayed put for far too long and sucked a couple lungs full of the noxious fumes. I coughed for a half an hour, my eyes welled up with acrid tears and I wore a large snot-stain on my shirt for the rest of the evening. At one point, I hunkered down with my camera at my feet and wretched. A man who looked to be homeless appeared out of the mist and poured some of his bottled water on my face. Then he vanished into the crowd.

Somewhere amid the threats, tear gas and fatigue, I found myself re-examining my career path. Less than two months ago, I held the title of manager and as such, spent all of my time inside, far from the vagaries of the chase. 'Was I not better off playing the part of house cat?', I wondered as I zigzagged through a throng of SWAT cops and demonstrators. Was I not safer navigating the shoals of office politics, rather than dodging wide-eyed marauders and burning trash cans? Would I not have been wiser to stick with managing millennials instead of this thankless life of sweat and peril?

'Naaah', I thought, wiping my eyes with my shirt collar. I'm safer out here than holing up inside any newsroom.

After all, I'm just not that brave.

(The viewpoints and opinions posted here do not reflect those of my employer. They are my thoughts alone.)

Roughing the Glasser

Some fellas would sell their souls to idle on the sidelines as padded gladiators try to shove an over-inflated football down their opponent's throat. I, however, am not one of those fellas. What can I tell you: sports was never my game. A day-dreamy lad more at home in the stacks of my local library than on any field of play, I passed through adolescence without ever learning how to root, root, root for the home team. Okay, there's more to it than that. Let's just say I was born without the chromosome that enables one to give a rip about things like scoreboards, time-outs and color-coordinated uniforms. 

All of which makes my access to the NFL nothing less than ludicrous. See, if you man a fancycam in this town, eventually you're going to find yourself at Bank of America stadium, that holy shrine of gridiron glory known as the home of the Carolina Panthers. To most, it is a Mecca. To me, it is a mystery: a place where oversized athletes zig and zag in a most convoluted manner, where full grown fan-boys in matching sweatshirts genuflect every time some chiseled millionaire passes gas, where sports reporters bandy about terms that leave a word-nerd like me reaching for a thesaurus that's forever out of reach. 

Just how clueless am I? I've been gleefully hating on the band Nickelback for damn near a decade without ever realizing their very name was a football term! I thought running a route referred to dashing to the bathroom during one of those incessant TV time-outs! I assumed a blitz was the state of mind all those tailgating fans were pursuing in the parking lot! I'm not even kidding! Well, maybe a little. What I can truthfully attest to is that I know I have no business skulking along the field's perimeter, dive bombing the press room food table or trying not to get too many cutaway shots of the cheerleading squad. 

Mostly, I keep to myself, be it in the the odorous bunker where the camera crews loiter during halftime or on the sideline, where even a fraction of distraction can land you in a body-cast. See, you don't have to grasp every play's ramifications to know that if even one of those players you've been struggling to keep on screen lands in your lap instead, you'll be drinking your next month of meals through what's left of your spleen. That's one game day sensation I can live without. So if you spot me on the sidelines sporting that thousand yard stare, know that I'm not just bored out of my skull, I'm forever afraid I'm gonna wake from said stupor with my beloved lens shoved down my gullet. 

Then who would get all those artsy shots of the cheerleaders?

In The Short Rows...

Traipse through your days with a lens aloft and people will naturally assume you care. More times than not, you don't, for after awhile the homicides, new brides and camel rides all blend together, until a choice parking spot outside your favorite diner thrills you far more than the meth-lab bloodbath just down the road. It's why I try to keep a low profile... head down, eyes up, deadline in the middle distance. It's a crucial insouciance, the kind you find in Waffle House waitresses, cab drivers and other hollow-eyed zombies. See, only the brain-dead know what a dozen-yard stare will do for your outlook. It also comes in damn handy when you're trying to blend into a crowd of strangers with a fancycam for a face.

That's where I found myself last week, navigating through stacks of tobacco, before briefly traveling back in time. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. But who can spot a rip in the time-space continuum with one eye shut and twenty men trying to step on your feet? I can't even find my car keys most mornings. So is it any wonder I backed right into a portal of sorts, a distorted corridor where the tobacco glowed, my own hair bristled with thickness and '1999' was still just a futuristic Prince jam. Back then, opening day at any self-respecting warehouse was a gala event. Growers, buyers, beauty queens and politicians, all soaking in the aroma of the selling floor. There would be speeches and ice cream and high noon live shots. That's where you'd find me, scanning the crowd for flashes of pageantry and the free Krispy-Kremes...

 I hovered there for awhile, watching my twenty-something self almost slip on the canvas corners of now obsolete tobacco sheets. It's there I first perfected my back-pedal, that languid lope you try to fall into as the prisoner/politician/pervert at the center of your screen tries to walk right through your pupils. I faltered at first, but after getting trampled a time or ten by men with tobacco spit on their chins, I learned to get the hell out of the way. These days, my biggest obstacles are flashbacks, time warps and the occasional urge to break-dance like no one's watching. Yes, middle age isn't pretty. Neither is the view that ensued I returned to my corporeal form... The crowd was smaller, the golden leaf moldy and I ... I, was still a freakin' cameraman...

This gig really should come with a Surgeon General's Warning.

Beak to Geek

Every once in a while, something unexpected wanders into frame and drains the moat around my soul. It usually happens at soldier homecomings, Special Olympics or certain City Council meetings. Okay, so I'm lying about that last one, but the fact is we TV stevedores ARE occasionally capable of human emotion (like those conflicted cyborgs of Science Fiction, who bring civilization to a grinding halt with their incessant meddling). Lately, I've strained in vain to keep my pathos under wraps. What can I tell ya - parts of my life continue to suck. But since I hold no patent on that predicament, I choose to lose myself within the lens. That I do, puttering around the eye-cup like some creepy lighthouse keeper.

Then along came Brenton.

A seabird of some distinction, Brenton met me at the back door of the Greensboro Science Center's new penguin exhibit. Unlike the rest of her colony, Brenton wasn't as interested in the bucket of fish as she was the cameraman who came with it. I was flattered, if not a little weirded out, at the creature's curiosity. Like a cat, she rubbed against my ankles, then stopped to stare up into my eyes like a homeless Basset Hound. So I returned the favor, twisting the macro ring on my lens until my new girlfriend snapped into focus. Brenton didn't flinch. Instead she met my gaze with deep black eyes that seemed to flicker with wisdom. Chances are she was checking her reflection, but as we stared across the great divide, the glacial malaise of these last six months melted away and for just a moment the present felt better than the past. That's when I heard someone laughing and realized it was me.

Don't worry, though. I'm sure the feeling will pass.

Dreck at Eleven

News crews have it rough. They're overworked, underpaid and labor under a false sense of relevance. All of which makes me very reluctant to ridicule them - even from afar. After all, I'M one of them and when it comes to putting dodgy content on the air, there is blood on my hands as well. But never in my rashest hour have I foisted the kind of foolishness willingly broadcast by certain employees of WJAR-10-NBC in Providence, Rhode Island. Perhaps you've seen it: A young reporter caps off her live shot on a bear attack with a few helpful attempts on how to stave off a similar incident. What followed was an abomination. The reporter (we'll call her Julie Tremmel) cavorts, overacts and generally displays behavior better suited for a game of stoner charades than an actual newscast. While not privy to the logic behind this ill-advised addendum, I do believe I recognize the the sordid core of this report. Sooo, at the risk of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy (I prefer 'curmudgeon') I'd like to offer some unsolicited advice, First, though, some background:

For as long as I have hoisted a lens, local TV stations have done their best to drive themselves out of existence. The sins of the fathers have many. Vacuous ass-hats and admitted degenerates have always gravitated toward our field. Long before early engineers knitted the first color patterns from stolen Indian blankets, folks who couldn't make it in the real world have found solace and acceptance underneath our heavily-logoed tent. This is nothing new. What is new(ish) is our industry's insistence on hearing the cheap, the young and the inexperienced. Major market shops that used to hand pick journeyman staffers now fill their newsrooms with folks barely out of college. Considering the salaries they offer, this only makes sense. But the corner-office crowd has thrown the baby out with the bathwater, replacing exiting veterans with a generation of journalists whose sum life experience comes from binge watching Jersey Shore.

Don't get me wrong. I work with plenty of young reporters who strive for nuance and intelligence in their work. But I know many more whose idea of a sound journalistic skill-set is a stack of glossy head-shots, some far flung agent and a wardrobe they really can't afford. It is these pretenders I'd like next to address...

ATTENTION YOUNG BROADCASTERS: You have dedicated your days to an industry in decline. What used to be considered a vibrant signal of society is now just so much noise. Loyal viewers are dying off by the hearse-load and they're not being replaced. Your Mother may be impressed at seeing little her baby on the tee-vee, but the rest of the nation considers your ilk somewhere between tax collector and pedophile. By no means is this your fault. Generations of buffoons before have long ago paved this road to irrelevance with ego, affectation and hard hitting reports on how this washcloth could kill you(!). But while you're not totally responsible for broadcasting's prolonged demise, you did willingly jump aboard this listing ship. If you have any hope of treading water, let alone lap your competition, you must remember this:

Credibility is key. People at home and on the street already assume you're a preening idiot. Most many of you are not. If you plan to stay employed, or at the very least parlay your regional fame into a sweet P.R. gig, you must bleed validity. You must project (and protect) personal integrity with the zealotry of an suicide bomber. Sure, acting foolish on the air may land you on Letterman's couch, but it probably won't land your insipid mug on any hometown billboards. Wanna go viral? Skip the condom next time you hook up with some drunken Millennial. Otherwise you're best hope of becoming a web sensation lies in the people you interview. Let some hapless sap or idling baby-mama turn soundbites into passing catch-phrases. Your job is to play the straight man (or woman). Wanna perpetrate something stupid to ping-pong around the internet?

Ain't nobody got time for that.