Chariots of Ire

Ever get the feeling you're being followed? Like there's a whole group of people pivoting on your every glance? Half of them a terrified of that growth on your shoulder. The rest want to make sweet love to it. You'd do well to KEEP MOVING. I surely do. In fact, if I had to give one piece of advice to a broadcast student or intern or just a drifter with a really cool handycam, it would be...

"Are you HIGH? Don't you know this wretched business is hemorrhaging relevance? You wanna end up like me? I COULDABEENACONTENDA! AAARRRGGGHHHH!"

Yeah, I'd go on for about an hour or however long it took for the gung-ho youngster to go find another photog to follow. But if said news enthusiast could not be dissuaded from such a predictable career path, I would look him or her straight in their soon to be thousand yard stare and tell them to above all else wear sensible shoes. That way, they'll be able to outpace any angry mob, double back without twisting an ankle or run like hell when the room goes weird. Best of all, they'll be able to forget about their feet and focus on that deadline in the distance. THAT is where the mojo can still be found, between the first shot you capture and that last clip you send. I couldn't give one limp shit about office politics. It don't care what Ivy League School the traffic girl attended for free. And those overnight numbers? Nothing more than tea leaves. But drop an improbable timetable on me, cover my assignment in red hot road rash and just hint at something intrinsically visual and you have my ENTIRE limited span of attention. 

For a little while, anyway.

Barbarians at the Gate

Cindy Farmer and I didn't go to the White House just to get frisked by Secret Service agents. (Well, I didn't.) We went to tackle the tough issues. So we headed to the Rose Garden. There we found a few other news crews: selected anchor women from around the country invited to lob softballs at Michelle Obama. Each had a photog with them and as we sized each other up, I couldn't help but notice mine was the smallest camera present. A portly sports shooter type seemed to notice too and I didn't like his look. Inhaling sharply, I puffed up my chest and unsnapped the black leather microphone holster hanging. I was all about to go acoustic on a father of four from Phoenix when our twenty-something tour guide spoke up. "You guys came on a good day," she said "the boss is out of town." If by 'out of town' she mean Korea, then our guide was precise. Later that day, President Obama would garner headlines when he was heard whispering sweet nothings to Russian leaders. Yes, as the former community organizer navigated the shoals of nuclear brinkmanship, I was about to 'bow up' in his backyard. That's when the silhouette of snipers on the White House roof caught my eye and I remembered where I was. All around me, handlers dashed this way and that, Park Service employees watered  plants and unsmiling men in nondescript suits glared at anything that moved. Every few minutes, some guy in black fatigues cradling an assault rifle would pop out of a bush before disappearing again. It was enough to make any cameraman jumpy, let alone one with two pots of hotel coffee coursing through his veins.

So I focused. It helped that the command appearance was so well organized. Mrs. Obama would show her face later, when a group of school kids from around the country would need the First Lady's help in the White House garden. For now, our tour guide introduced us to the official beekeeper of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as well as the White House Chef. Apparently the Presidential plumber was indisposed, (no doubt busy removing old fishnet stocking from a drain pipe once favored by J. Edgar Hoover). No matter. Both the beekeeper and the bald guy were camera ready and gregarious to boot. Cindy too hit all her marks, as only someone who's spent a lifetime in front of a TV camera can.  Within minutes, we had all the interviews we needed and as I walked my tripod around in search of close-ups, I thought I caught sight of Cindy doing cartwheels on the White House lawn. It was a spectacular Spring day.

By two o clock it was still spectacular, though a blight had arrived in the form of the Fourth Estate. What had been a casual walking tour devolved into a stagnant photo op and as handlers shooed cute children into place, a phalanx of photographers formed on the prearranged spot. Suddenly all creativity vanished as dozens of different lenses captured the same image over and over again. Once that was done, small talk broke out as we waited for the First Lady to appear. When Michelle Obama finally did emerge in the distance, she ambled toward us like a monied housewife coming outside to entertain the neighbor kids. The sound of camera shutters erupted as Mrs. Obama drew near and I found myself fighting the urge to curtsy. As media swarms go, it was substantial, though the lifers that make up the Washington press community got nothin' on the Hollywood paparazzi.  Why, no one even screamed or genuflected like they do when Ryan Seacrest pops out of his box. Perhaps it's the presence of all those snipers. Certainly kept me in line.

Speaking of lines, Michelle Obama worked the crowd of school children like a pro.  When I turned to tell Cindy Farmer this though, my lovely anchor was nowhere to be seen. Then I caught a glimpse of her being escorted into the White House and I knew that the mission was at hand. A few minutes later some White House wonk snapped this photo of the one-on-one interview we'd been promised. I managed to worm my way near the blessed event and though I watched the whole thing I was out of earshot. Guess I'll hear what they said when I sit down to edit it, though I'm hoping they at least took a little time to chat about something more interesting than gardening and parenting skills, like, say,  Area 51 or Nicholas Cage shouldn't be allowed to shoot any more of those National Treasure movies. Whatever they discussed, I was for once grateful to my bosses for sending me here, I just hope the exit process involves fewer cavity searches than what it took to get in this joint...

The West Sling

If ever you needed proof that a fancycam can open any door, consider this: I wormed my way into the White House yesterday. Technically, we were even invited! Well, Cindy Farmer was. The Piedmont's perennial sweetheart, er, anchor lady was allegedly minding her own business last week when she received a phone call from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. "Michelle Obama would like to meet with you. Can you come to the White House?" Somewhat suspecting she was being punked, Cindy said yes and before long it was determined she would need a photog to document the event. Enter ME. No, really: I walked by the Chief at the right time and he asked me if I wanted to go. 'Sounds labor intensive', I thought, the kind of thing I usually avoid. "Of course!" I said. Hey, some things you don't pass up. 

All of which explains why I showed up at the White House security gate yesterday with camera gear, credentials and one perky morning anchor. The oak tree in a uniform took a look at Cindy's beaming face and waived her through. Then he stared at my press pass for a good sixty seconds before pressing an unseen button, at which point two gun-wielding ninjas popped out from behind a bush and dragged me away to an underground bunker. Okay, it didn't go down exactly like that, but I was poked, prodded, almost tased and damn near engaged before being finally ushered inside. My gear suffered a similar fate. Guards removed all 74 items I had jammed into my backpack  and when they were done I had about 15 seconds to put it all back in. I finished in time and the guards seemed pleased. Wonder what their over/under was?

First stop: the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room. You know, that vaulted space where the Press Secretary of the moment faces cameras and deflects questions. It all looks so grand on C-Span but in reality it's about the size of a stout double-wide trailer (with all the charm). We residents of the Fourth Estate are used to this phenomenon, as all studios look smaller in person. But this deception is so striking it belongs right up there with Area 51, which, I suspect, has alien examination rooms bigger than this rinky-dink theater where the official spokesperson for the current administration quite literally faces the nation. Speaking of which ... it's next to impossible to hang out in a room with that kind of Presidential podium and not eventually take the floor. Why, during MY time at the lectern, I called for an end to the War on Drugs, declared Stevie Ray Vaughan's birthday (October 3rd) a national holiday and proudly named The Hillary Step as our 51st State. Of course my exhortations barely raised an eyebrow and as I looked out over the hardened press corps, I realized I wasn't the first rookie they'd watched go rogue...

NEXT TIME: Lifers, Snipers and Bo, OH MY! 

Schmuck Alert: Sight of the Gun

TV News: the only profession where you place yourself in volatile situations, then wheeze like a banshee when trouble erupts. That said, there is ABSOLUTELY no excuse for pulling a gun you don't plan to use, let alone menacing a news crew with it. But there's no denying that's exactly what happened in Joiner, Arkansas the other day, thanks to the magic of video...

"Excuse me, Cameraman? Yes, you - the one I'm threatening with bodily harm and a firearm... you're not recording this, are you? 'Cause if you're, I'd be be pretty thick to keep whipping out my piece like this. Maybe I'll just hold it by my side and walk away like I have to pee. You keep rolling while your lady friend goes all Isiah Carey up in this joint..."

Okay, so it's easy to poke fun, but if someone pulled a heater on ME, whatever audio that followed would be so draped in profanity, Ozzy Osbourne's kids would file a complaint with the FCC. Truth is, reporter April Thompson and photographer Ben Short did a lot of things correctly when an angry young man pulled up and broke out his best Boomhauer. Thompson remained chill and got out of the camera's way, Short kept rolling and centered his lens on their surprise guest. It was all rather textbook until Dude smacks the camera, then runs back to his pick-up for more than a little ordnance. At that point, mere hindrance turned criminal.

Critics can fault WREG for pimping the incident out of proportion and they may have a point, but the fact remains that jack-ass brandished a weapon in front of an innocent news crew and no matter the showboating that followed, that shit ain't cool. So ease up on the Monday morning quarterbacking, fellow media members! I've seen a few of you soil your action slacks whenever a bug flies into the car. Who knows what dialect you may affect once somebody pulls a hand-cannon on you! Me - I'd reach for a word understandable in any language...


SCHMUCK!  


(By the way, the subtitle of this particular Schmuck Alert is a lame attempt to salute David Carr's The Night of the Gun, quite possibly the finest junkie memoir you'd ever want to read. A Lenslinger Library Favorite!) 

Backdrop Not Included

When young Stephen Clapper left El Ocho for his beloved Texas, we just knew he would do well. But from the looks of it, he's rippin' the lid off the joint! Okay, so that was lame and not the least bit funny. But neither is Mother Nature when she decides to put her foot down on an innocent village. That appears to be what happened here as Clapper explains:

We had a couple tornadoes touch down in a couple small towns just south of San Antonio. This was probably the worst damaged home. We did a bunch of live shots from where I'm standing. The Weather Channel was on the other side of the house.

Ahh, The Weather Channel. Ya know, your mother-in-law's favorite station is a beast on the scene of a natural disaster. I know it's their bread and butter, but a little less self-importance would go a l-o-o-o-n-g way when dealing with people who can put their home in a wheelbarrow. But since I didn't log in to talk about that, I'll move on... Just keep Cantore away from me, would ya? HE knows why...

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, Stephen Clapper, the prodigal photog. Dude left us many months back and I for one miss him. Not only was he professional beyond his years and totally chill, he's a talented musician! More importantly, he was a grown-ass man. Wish I could say the same for every young photog I know. They'd be wise to emulate Stephen, though with a last name like 'Clapper', we never, ever, ever called him Stephen.

Now, back to the debris field. Of all the twisted vistas we third responders show up at, nothing sticks with you like a broken home. Then again, if you can traipse through a pile of scrap that used to be someone's home and NOT come away with permanent mental images that will never leave you, you are one stone cold news shooter with an eroded soul. Most of us can cite chapter and verse the times we've shown up to find some neighborhood missing in action. Me, I could write whole books on just the demolished trailer parks I've toured.

But as Amanda Emily points out, I probably never will.

Riveters to the Spot

Ever have that dream where you explore some murky world? Maybe it starts out at the office all normal-like, then suddenly you're alone and driving, confused as to where you're going but determined to beat The Others there... That's when colors swirl and time takes five as what should be a simple devolves into a punishing conundrum of scanner hiss and easily missed alleyways. It's only then your eyelids twitch and you begin to think you've been sleeping all along, not lurching headlong into the void at the whim of some fickle, unseen master... Or are you? Suddenly it seems you're where you were trying to get to all along, yet the tempest is spent and all that remains are the fluttering yellow strips of futility. A part of your submerged mind thinks to look around and you're not at all surprised to see there are now three of you staring into the abyss....

Wait a minute! That's no dream! It's just the Night Shift! I know because I've worked about a dozen of them in nearly twenty years. And those who have endured even more evening shifts tell me there's more to it than just beefing up your light kit. There are tighter deadlines, fewer managers around and a steady stream of crime scenes to brighten up your day night. Just a few of the reasons I keep my sunny ass off the clock come dusk. Better to leave it the younger set, like these three fine specimens pictured above (Jared Rose of KMSP, Jeff Ganahl of KSTP and Nate Anderson of KARE)! Together I'm sure those three will get to the bottom of it, whatever it is. Me, I'll be at home not watching my set and feeling bad about that camera battery I scarfed from the night guy..

Or was THAT a dream?

Schmuck Alert: Attack of the Hardhat!

If the list of reporters honored by The Lenslinger Institute was any shorter, we might get around to writing it down. At the moment though, only one name echoes down these hallowed halls: Stormin' Bob Norman. He's the Miami reporter who didn't let a dude in a plastic hat get away with manhandling his partner Mario Alonso. The back-story is a bit dense; something about garbage company contracts. But what's important here is that the journalists were well within their rights when they set up on a public street to shoot video of a recycling plant in Pompano Beach. Enter one furious foreman. "You can't take pictures of the plant!" he barked as Mario trained the camera on him instead. That's when the foreman got all grabby with the glass, prompting reporter Bob Norman to give the smaller man a friendly SHOVE! A tussle ensued, until the apoplectic hardhat scooped up the crew's wireless microphone and stormed off with it, (presumably to launch his own TV network centered around short, angry men in safety gear). This doesn't sit well with our new buddy Bob, who demanded the microphone be returned, then waited calmly while the foreman called 9-1-1.

"Hello, Police? I just attacked an innocent news crew and stole their microphone. Can you come out here and remind me what a bitch move that was?"

Okay so the foreman probably worded it differently but it doesn't really matter because once authorities did arrive, they listened to both sides, watched the video and suggested Mr. Ass-hat return what was never his to begin with. In the end, the foreman even shook hands with the WPLG crew and at last check all seemed rosy in the Sunshine State. Normally, this is where we step in and issue an official Schmuck Alert for crimes against the camera. That we're happy to do (Schmuck!), but it's what Bob Norman did during and after the episode that has this esteemed panel awkwardly trying to high-five itself. Norman didn't have to push the man away, but he did. The investigative reporter explained why in a wry slide show that appeared on his station's website shortly after the incident.


"Mario is completely vulnerable at this moment and the camera itself, which is ridiculously expensive, is also in jeopardy."


"In defense of man and property, I push him back. As you can see his hand is still on the camera."


"I'm thinking, he's short, but he's pretty strong ... and it looks like we're going to go at it. Space is my friend with this little bull."


Norman's station could have saturated the airwaves with looped footage of the whole goofy affair, but for a while they held their fire. The slide show and its more than apt captions drew a few eyeballs without mangling the mission at hand. Norman's eventual piece wisely centered on all that he uncovered and treated the attack of the hardhat as the mere curiosity it was. Well played, Bob Norman. Well played. As for that other guy...

SCHMUCK!