Fool by the Pool

So the local water park blew some coin on a sick new ride and the suits in the room thought it might look good on television. Clearly, this is a job for Lenslinger. Actually, Weaver was scheduled to unveil Wet and Wild's new pitch-black plummet, but a whiff of aviation fuel lured him to the hills of Wilkes County - where, being Weaver, he conjured up a manhunt. All of which goes to explain why Nicole Ferguson I spent the morning of the Photog Equinox poolside, as two members of the park's management team hurled themselves into a watery void. It's a living.

Doctor Von Dark's Tunnel of Terror. THAT'S what they named the damn thing. Guess Captain Flatulence's Angry Intestine was taken, probably by some water park up in Flushings. Heh-heh, Flushings. Actually, Lawn GUY-land is the only other place you'll find a similar structure - a contorted stack of tubes featuring a forty foot drop in complete darkness. Think of it as Paul Bunyan's turlet tank! Or don't. It's not like I ain't gonna push you down a pipe just for being disagreeable.

Not when I have such willing victims as Kathy and Kerry. Officially, they're part of Wet and Wild's crack sales force, but a clause in their contracts allows them to act as turds in the punchbowl whenever a news crew comes a callin'. Around here that's pretty often, as W&W is known far and wide for its ample camera fodder. Don't believe me? Drag a fancycam past the Lazee River one summer day. You'll see more farmer's tans, open beer guts and leaky Speedos than can be found in a fortnight at Myrtle Beach. And that's saying something...

Today however, the Carolina's largest water park was damn near empty, mostly because it's yet to open for the season. Only plumbing ninjas and landscapers roamed about, punctuated by a small legion of teenage lifeguards twirling whistles this way and that. I suppose they're training for when little Pugslie gets stuck in the drain at the bottom of the wave pool. That, or the food court fry cook runs out of chicken nuggets and bands of adolescents stage an insurrection outside Pirate's Cove. Maybe they should give those lifeguards tasers, too.

Speaking of weapons, I rolled up with a few of my own. In addition to my fancyam, sidearm digital and rainbow collection of half-dead batteries, I brought the station's camcorder and underwater housing. It's not the kind of thing I normally eff with, but knowing Weaver would have arrived in full scuba gear, I opted to engorge my own McGyver. It's not exactly my wheelhouse, but rough waters call for extra vigilance. Besides, what's more comforting than twisting a ziplock bag around a handycam you don't own and handing it to a total stranger in a bikini. All I asked is she not pop out the other end of the tube withOUT my camera and its condom.

She didn't. In fact, we may have awakened the inner cinematographer in our waterpark mouthpiece, for Kathy and Kerry giggled a bit harder each time we sent them down the drink with contraption in hand. I only wish I'd thought to make sure the damn thing was zoomed OUT, for undefined frames of bubbles and swish do but so much for a finished piece. In the end, we got some decent footage, but considering the word DARK is in the ride's name, we didn't rewrite any new paradigms. Only Nicole distinguished herself with a lens, popping off these shots while managing not to drop the camera or her Crackberry in the Urination Station kiddie pool.

All that and looks too.

A Need to Know

There is no ONE PATH to becoming a TV News Photog; no series of checklists, no governing body, no filigreed sheepskin proclaiming you Doctor of Cameraman Thropology. Sure, you can study broadcasting in college or send your checks to NPPA, but you’re not truly a photog until you’ve worn a groove in your right shoulder, backpedaled before shackled madmen or sat through a month’s worth of fruitless city council meetings. Yes, as a field of discipline it’s wonderfully disciplined, one of the few remaining professions through on the job training. I myself only began mastering the craft after failing at other professional endeavor, a career path I wouldn’t suggest to those fond of paying their bills on time. But lucky as I was to find my special purpose, I know that, compared to some, I’m barely a cameraman at all.

That’s because I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the innards of my many gizmos. Yeah, I know which model of fancycam I drag across the Piedmont each day and I grasp the limitations of my wireless microphone, but I harbor no flowcharts in my pea sized brain and not once have I EVER referred to an audio cable as an X-L-R. There are those who do, of course, mostly freelancers who know more about their gear ’cause they’re the ones who bought it. Some station staffers can also be counted on to know every inch of their glass and plastic, but I think it’s safe to assume most photogs out there know a lot more about story execution than internal schematics. In my not so humble opinion, that’s as it should be, though there are legions of lenslingers who’d like to hang me by the tripod for peddling such heresy.

Take the crowd over at b-roll.net, the on-line watering hole for those of us with camera batteries on porta-bake. Smart folks, they are: from the newsroom neophyte to the terminal burnout to the sore shouldered sage - each group slathers passion and piss over a living compendium of issues and opinions. This latest conundrum should be a fun one, but already gifted lensers are getting their panties in a wad because someone or another told them the world was not as they see it. It’s kind of pathetic really, like watching buggy-whip makers argue over who sports the best leather while Henry Ford rolls new Model T’s off assembly lines in the background. But I didn’t log in to denigrate the b-roll army. I just wanted to move that latest mullet photo a little lower down the page. But while I’m at it…

I DO think it’s important for anyone with a lens in their life to understand all that it will do. That said, I’m not sure what good it does to spout serial numbers by heart- unless you‘re trying out for the role of C3-PO in your community theater. I’d much rather you know how to work a room full of pissed off officials, how to pretend you’re not shooting when you are, how to tell the suits your mast won’t stay up when thunder falls on your live truck. Master that and you’ll be in demand long after the techno-tog has fallen out of fashion, for the era of the specialist is coming to a close. I’m not saying it’s right, but fancycams are about to come with candy-colored buttons. If you thought the rise of video over film dumbed down the craft, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Now move out of the way, would ya? I want to point this shiny thing on my shoulder at that bent sheet metal over there...

Swagger to the Max

It was the end of the 80's and I was not known for my wise decisions. But even my heftiest of skeptic had to marvel at what I'd brought back from my military stint: a beautiful, brilliant, beaming girlfriend. 'What could SHE see in HIM?' they wondered. I knew better than to ask. Instead, I quietly thanked God for doing me a solid when he ushered this beguiling creature into my life. It was no less than a cosmic upgrade, for suddenly I found myself a civilian again, with a hot blonde on my arm. It's amazing what that will do for a young man's swagger. Yes, with her by my side, I wasn't even troubled bu the fact that my man-do would make Conway Twitty twinge. I credit the presence of this pretty woman with convincing me I had something to contribute to this globe; imagine her chagrin when I decided it would be (gulp!) local television. Still, that didn't scare her off. She pursued nursing, I learned to zoom with my feet and before you know it a wedding date was set. That was nineteen years ago today and even to my surprise, we're still going strong. Somewhere along the way, my lovely wife replicated herself; now I'm the father of two beautiful girls who I pray will hold off a bit before bringing home some lucky schlub like the one pictured above. When they do, I'll damn sure give him the business, for no one knows better than I the residual benefits of a good woman. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take out the trash. Life ain't ALL romance, ya know...

Turd at Rest

No bloated prose goes here; just a simple shout-out to my friend Rick Portier, that Louisiana lenslinger who keeps the mean streets of Baton Rouge safely awash in piss and vinegar. A potent scribe in his own right, the artist known as Turdpolisher doesn't blog as much as he used to; instead he toils away on an off-line project, a novel of sorts he once promised to let me read. It just goes to show ya: there's more going on inside your average photog's head than wondering when he last white-balanced. As for me, I'm looking forward to NAB 10, where I hope to join Rick and quite a few others for the kind of monastic reflection one can only get in Vegas. Party on, Turd...

In Other News...

Never fails: I get into a good blogging groove and everyday life slaps me back into reality. How real writers foster their muse I don't know, but I'm guessing it doesn't involve forty hours a week of overland recorder portage. No bother, I've been push-button publishing long enough to know when to force it, when to chill and when to turn the damn thing off lest the Missus turn my upper lair into a sewing room. Thus, my output will always fluctuate - or at least until I figure out a way to make a living off dispatches both snarky and maudlin. In the meantime, forgive me if I go missing now and then, for as much I love this time we share together, I live with three females and greatly enjoy sleeping inside. So while I attempt to make this space as nifty as it appears on the dirty windshield of my news unit every morning, take heart in the fact that I think of you dear reader far more often than you think of me. If that creeps you out a little, I understand. Just promise you won't sit there in awkward silence as I rid my lid of residual squibs...

Anyone who wants to know what it's like to be a TV news photographer in a faltering economy should immediately flee this place and read a most prescient post by the great John Dumontelle. Yes, the photog known as 'Lensmith' has a couple of years on me and none of the high-dollar word addiction - all of which makes his latest manifest sad, noble and needed. Newsrooms the world over should display his post where all can see it - at least until half of them go semi-dark.

'What the hell are they looking at?" I thought as an elderly couple gaped and grinned at me during a recent red light. That's when it hit me: the news unit I'd borrowed for the day was festooned in look-at-me logos. It's been less than two years since I joined the ranks of unmarked news-gatherers. In that short amount of time I've totally forgotten what it feels like to pick your nose in a rolling billboard. Can't say I really miss it.

They say a sailor can sleep anywhere and they're right. Back in the Nav I learned to sack out in the ship's empty spaces, during on-deck inspections and while pretending to stare at a glowing radar scope. For better or worse, this ability followed me into civilian life; today i can catch wide-open shut-eye at long stoplights, short press conferences and - most tragically - my oldest offspring's orchestra performances. At least the houselights were dimmed...

I must be slipping. Today I let a fresh-faced photojournalism intern shadow my every move and I enjoyed most every minute of it. That's a real switch; I'm as adept at losing newbies as any other lenslinging lifer. Don't believe me? Hold this empty tape box while I low-crawl to the parking lot. Better yet, believe me when I say that teaching comes easy when your source material is etched in what's left of your soul. The wife is right, though: I come off pretty bitter. It's really just sarcasm soaked in twenty years of met deadlines...

Whenever I grow too satisfied with something I've scribbled (damn seldom as of late), I go back and read a little Rick Bragg. The Alabama native doles out his sordid family tales with Southern aplomb, twisting haunting narratives from everyday skeletons. All Over But the Shoutin', Ava's Man, and Prince of Frogtown make my heart ache and head thrb. Mostly it reminds me of the kind of writer I want to become when I grow up. Now wonder he's got a Pulitzer Prize...

In Theaters Then...

Forget the new Star Trek, I wanna see THIS! Considered by some to be the best film ever made in Australia (Up YOURS, Mad Max!), Newsfront portrays political turmoil, the birth of workplace feminism and a whole bunch of dudes in suspenders and fedoras! What's more, producers made use of a then revolutionary technique: seamlessly editing old black and white newsreel footage into their 1978 feature fill-um. Your chocolate's in my peanut butter! Anyway, I've yet to find a real plot synopsis, but judging from the poster alone it involves a romance, some car chases and enough pleated slacks to fuel a Mens Wearhouse. Best of all, there's no CGI effects, no black-shirted hipsters dripping in sarcasm and not one cursed live truck in sight! Awwww, the good ole days...

UPDATE: Having secured her very own copy, archivist extraordinaire Amanda Emily posts her own review. Should the Lenslinger Institute ever truly materialize, I'm putting Amanda in charge of the library wing...

Nuthin' But Bungee

Leave it to my Surly Editor® to post photographic evidence of the apocalypse now upon us... Okay, so it's just a picture of a handycam hog-tied to a tripod from the Reagan Administration, what's so globe-splitting about THAT? Well, plenty if you happen to sling a lens for a living. Even if you don't, it's hard to excuse the incongruities of a camera the size of a baked potato resting on this launch pad of a pedestal. The yellow and red bungee... eh, it's like noticing that banged-up Hyundai with the spinning rims has duct tape on the door handle. It's a sign of the times, all right; one that troubles News Blues' own Mike James:

The jury-rigged contraption, we think, represents perfectly the current state of local TV news.

No argument there, but from my admittedly low spot on the totem-pole, things are actually looking up. Nooo, I didn't bang my head on my news unit's open tailgate lid. I'm well aware good people are losing their jobs, just as I recognize the drop in overall quality that downsized gear and untested newbies will bring... but as someone who's learned how to turn vague story ideas into ninety second epics without any of that pesky glory, I can tell you: more of the same is on the way. That's fine by me, as I'm convinced TV news would be a lot more watchable if we removed the thick layer of sheen we've let build up on our sets all these many transmissions...

Now I'm not saying we should all sell our tripods, don black turtlenecks and mumble into the microphone like some newspaper hack imitating his favorite NPR host. No one wants more of THAT. But in the name of all that's banal, have you watched a commercial newscast lately? Even the good ones, like those I toil for, follow the same tired architecture forged back when Mary Tyler Moore was on the air. What led to this industry-wide case of arrested development? Consultants? Monopolistic technology? Those fuzzy cheese crackers in the break-room vending machine? Sure, they all played a role - but with staffing down and story count UP, who has time to place blame?

I certainly don't. Neither does my fellow photog Chris Weaver. Together (yet separately) we're cranking out finished pieces without much help from anybody. Got a three o clock event you want to lead your 5:30 show with? Yeah, we can do that. Wanna send one of us to go check out mysterious lights over the worst hood in town? Race ya. Need me to babysit a live truck while someone takes notes on footage I've already committed to memory? Are you HIGH? Don't answer that; just know there's a certain underclass of employee watching all this newsroom upheaval out of the corner of their eye. Remember that scene in Planet of the Apes when Charleton Heston awakes to find the monkey ON TOP of the horse? I'm pretty sure those saddles were held in place with bungee cords....

Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!