Tavern Time Running Out...

Don't miss the Midnight Deadline for The Tar Heel Tavern, a floating compendium of blog offerings from around North Carolina. Simply comb through your freshest postings and e-mail me (lenslinger at northstate dot net) the link to your favorite. I'll rise early, get all jacked up on the wife's good coffee and publish early Sunday. Help your neighborhood Lenslinger extend the fine work of this burgeoning blog carnival by submitting some of your on-line brilliance. Otherwise don't complain if I stack the Tavern with excerpts from my vast collection of multi-lingual mattress tag warnings. Don't say I didn't warn you...

The Big Link

This week on The Big Link, a blogger whose undying passion makes me question my own crusty cynicism.

Bass-Zapping at Salem Lake

From the fatal fire to the kindergarten classroom, I never know where I’ll spend the next news shift. So it was no surprise yesterday when I found myself along the banks of Salem Lake as state biologists zapped a good portion of the Wide-Mouth Bass population with electrical current. You heard me - they’re shocking fish with electricity. Sure it sounds like fun but these Wildlife Resource Officers actually had a good reason for doing so. By stunning the Bass until they float to the surface, these scientists get a better idea of the size, weight and health of the many floating trophies who call Salem Lake home.

All was going well aboard our small craft as the Wildlife guys dropped the zapper into the drink and fired up the generator. For about three minutes, dazed fish with X’s in their eyes popped up all around us. As they scooped the Bass into our boat, I followed the action in my viewfinder, trying my best to stay out of the way and avoid dropping my high-dollar fancy-cam into the water (been there).

Three minutes into what was to be an hour on the lake, an acrid odor filled the air and my two on-board hosts began scrambling wildly toward the generator. By the time one of them reached the kill button, blue sparks were flying from the roaring machine. Now, I’m no scientist, but even I know blue sparks and a burning smell on a metal boat in the middle of a lake ain’t good. After a few mumbled curses, the Wildlife guys sheepishly explained their generator had just gone to that great electric field in the sky. Suddenly, the show was over.

As we turned back toward shore, I reviewed the footage in my head. Though I had most of the shots I needed for my story, it wasn’t the collection of pristine images I would have obtained given more time. But news is news, so I resigned myself to working with what I had on disc. As the boat sped back toward the Marina, I sat back and enjoyed the view of a lake I’ve biked around many times.

Overall, not a lousy way to spend a Thursday morning. Wonder what I’ll do today?

The Tavern Beckons...

With only twenty four hours until the submission deadline, the entries for the ninth edition of The Tar Heel Tavern ARE POURING IN! Okay, maybe that’s a but hyperbolic. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say entries are trickling in. No - that’s still a bit of an overstatement. Truth is, I’ve yet to receive a single story for the floating compendium of blog-offerings from around our State.

But why? Has the whole blogosphere dried up? Have the angry politicos packed up their on-line screeds to concentrate on their collection of bipartisan cookbooks? Have all the pet lovers destroyed their photo spreads of Fido and Fluffy and chosen to focus on their investment portfolios? Have all the would-be media darlings set fire to their seething epistles and decided their bosses truly do a better job of speaking for them? Will I become known as the guy who shut down The Tar Heel Tavern? You know - the same way people blame George Clooney for bringing the Batman film franchise to a screeching halt...IS THIS THING ON?!?

Ahem. You alone have the power to ease my strife and help breathe new life into this burgeoning blog carnival, simply by submitting your favorite post of the week to your friendly neighborhood lenslinger (lenslinger at northstate dot net). Do so and I’ll add your brilliance to the on-line repertoire that comprises the Tar Heel Tavern - a publication destined to be read by at least a half dozen North Carolinians. It’s easy, just e-mail me your post, blog title and any other information you deem pertinent. For more info on the Tavern itself just click here to read the fine print. You could even sign up to host a future Tavern! Then you too could savor joy of checking your inbox hourly for submissions only to find reams of unwanted spam.

Speaking of which, it says right here for only three payments of $19.95 I can increase the size and stamina of my… well, never mind that - just do me a favor and shoot a submission my way. Otherwise I’ll be forced to fill this week’s Tavern with twisted episode of my life behind the lens. You know, like that time I chased a young Bigfoot through the woods with my Mom’s camcorder. It was a brilliant summer evening back in 1980, I was just a boy with a viewfinder and a thirst for adventure...

Remember, last Call for The Tar Heel Tavern is Midnight on Saturday…

My Life with Motley Crue

Motley Crue is playing the Greensboro Coliseum tonight and I’m not going. No surprise there, as my musical tastes run a tad deeper than their populist metal fare. These days I’d much rather sit back and groove to some acoustic Blues than pound my fist in the air at all that simulated bombast. But I must admit I’m still intrigued by this rogue foursome with the hair-metal history. Sitting here now, I think I know why.

In my senior year of high school I took part in one of those embarrassing rituals unique to pep rallies and adolescence: The Air Band Competition. Flattered at being chosen yet worried about making a complete ass of myself, I took to the gymnasium floor and played my best air guitar to the Crue’s remake of ‘Smokin’ in the Boys Room’. Luckily I wasn’t down there alone. Instead I was flanked by two righteous buddies who’s just joined me in a little boys room smoking’ of our own. We may not have been cool as we shook our mullets in head-banging unison, but we were damn sure rock and roll.

As with many landmark events in my life, it was captured on videotape, thanks to the steady-handed efforts of a well-off buddy and his early camcorder. We used to cue that puppy up and watch it all the time, but as the years wore on we thought better of sharong the tape’s contents with others. That musty beta-tape now lives happily in the Embarrassment Relocation Program.

Several years later I found myself a reluctant member of the U.S. Navy. While stationed din Norfolk, some squid buddies and I scored tickets to the Motley Crue/Whitesnake show at The Scope. I wasn’t a huge fan of either band but looked forward to getting off the ship and maybe even seeing some girls in the process. All went well until the night of the show, when I somehow lost my ticket between the car and the Coliseum. To this day I don’t know how I lost that ticket but it may have had something to do with all the ‘losing juice’ I’d been drinking that afternoon. Whatever the case, I was absolutely crestfallen as my buddies left me in the parking lot to fend for myself as they went inside to soak up all those pyrotechnics and drum solos.

Suddenly, I wanted to attend that concert more than anything. As the first chords of Whitesnake’s opening act wafted outside, I trolled the grounds of the Coliseum’s complex, bummed out, broken and bereft. But my luck changed after I spotted a disheveled figure sitting on a park bench. For a homeless guy he sure was popular. After a few more minutes of watching the casual traffic around his bench, I approached the old guy and soon bought my first scalped concert ticket. My last too, come to think of it.

Thanks to the old man, and willingness to sell me a ticket at only double the face-value - I rawked with the Crue in all their cocksure swagger. More accurately, I hung back and watched individual audience members as they shimmied and genuflected to their own-stage gods. To this day I can still see a rotund fellow in a wife-beater t-shirt pumping his chubby fists in drum solo supplication. Perhaps therapy would help erase that.

Instead of erasing memories, let me hit the fast-forward button to, oh …about twelve years. No longer a high school poseur or drunken sailor, I paced the spaces of an underground parking garage and shifted my betacam from shoulder to shoulder. Two flights up, a bailiff readied a courtroom for the arrival of one Nikki Sixx, due in court to face charges related to an earlier concert turned near-riot. Loitering in the subterranean darkness, I no longer gave a flip about the misadventures of a spoiled millionaire. But since Nikki Sixx’s mug on tape was what my bosses demanded me of that day, I was once again following the Crue. I was trying to remember all the words to ’Dr. Feelgood’ when my cell phone rang.

“Eugene Street Side! Eugene Street!”

The slight panic in my co-worker’s voice told me Mr. Sixx was on the property. As I ran out of the garage and into the sunlight I caught a glimpse of my fellow photographer chased in man with long, impossibly black hair. I tried to join in the pursuit but by the time I leveled my own weapon, the tattooed pseudo-bass player had slipped into the courthouse and out of sight. Left with nothing but empty tape and rock star vapor, I huddled with my co-worker and exchanged notes. After a brief strategy session, I took position to await Nikki Sixx’s inevitable egress from the Guilford County justice system. As clerks and lawyers took their briefcases for morning walks all around me, I sat on a low wall and thought about my role in life and that of a globe-trotting eighties metal icon. Whatever lay ahead, I was glad to be nearing the end of my interaction with one Motley Crue.

And here I sit writing almost 900 words about them. Sheesh…

Hovering Over Contraband

What began as a simple seatbelt violation traffic stop led the Randolph County Sheriff’s department to well over one million dollars in drugs and cash. What better time to hold a press conference? Sheriff Litchard Hurley did just that on Wednesday, taking questions from the media as he stood before wrapped kilos of cocaine, bundled pounds of marijuana and enough cold hard cash to make Donald Trump feel at home.

“It’s a pretty good lick, allright” said Hurley, which is sheriff-ese for ‘I’m pleased with the outcome of this investigation‘.

He should be; his aggressive Drug Interdiction Task Force has consistently scored big hits along the bustling corridor of Highway 220, closing down many a drug dealer’s mobile office in the process. I’ve chatted with these seasoned deputies and found them to be fascinating creatures. At first glance they just seem to be good ole boys in uniform, but don’t let their laid-back demeanor fool you. Using their well-honed sniper’s eyes, bad-ass driving skills and a surprising grasp of human nature under stress, these are NOT the guys you won’t leaning through your car window - especially if you got enough dead presidents on board to make a rap video and a half dozen kilos of Peruvian Marching Powder in the trunk.

Back at the cop shop, I gathered shots of the 92 pounds of pot, 11 kilos of coke and countless bundles of ten thousand dollars. As far as shwag shoots go, it was pretty typical. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve hovered over such contraband in the police department conference rooms and sheriff’s department’s garages. It’s enough to make a couple of rookie cops exchange giddy high-fives while a weary cameramen shelves any future plans of life as a drug mule. Who would dare - when the open highway is riddled with lawmen who don’t mind standing in the rain for hours as they scour every crevice of your car for that elusive sunflower seed.

Amazingly, people continue to try and smuggle drugs up the 220 corridor, despite the unsavory odds of spending a good many years in the Pokey. Its this fact that keeps the Drug Interdiction Task Force so enthusiastic, for they know that the next shifty-eyed drifter with out-of-state plates they pull over may be their next million dollar hit. A pretty good lick, indeed.

My Own Mount Trashmore

Every time the International Home Furnishings Market hits High Point, city workers round up 300 tons of cardboard boxes, packing material and those damn Styrofoam popcorn balls. As one who’s about to drag his own recyclables to the curb, I really feel for the city workers who have to separate this mountain range of refuse by hand. Truth is, there are days when I’d gladly trade my camera and laundry list of assignments for a pair of rubber gloves and a chance to hear smooth R and B that has emanated from the Waste Materials Warehouse’s loudspeakers every time I visit.

Which brings me to this picture. I was merely trying to illustrate the size of the trash heap, but the image I came away with reminds of those Demotivation Posters I’ve seen on-line. But in the hustle and bustle of an incredibly busy week, I’m having trouble coming up with a caption. Any suggestions? The person with the best line wins a Viewfinder BLUES virtual t-shirt...