Safe Return Doubtful...

Hey Moms and Dads, got a kid who's interested in broadcasting? WE CAN HELP! Just send him (or her) to The Lenslinger Institute's first ever field seminar - currently being held outside John Edwards' federal trial! Drop your (clearly troubled) teens off with us and we'll teach 'em how to read light, measure sound and fold time. For a limited time, we'll even school your adolescent in the fine art of asshole avoidance! HOW do we do it? Simple! We strap them to a wobbly stepladder, pummel 'em with elbows and browbeat them nearly senseless! But wait, there's more! Get 'em here before the defense rests and we'll make sure they'll never again express an interest in Communications. It starts with a pre-dawn cable course, transitions into a midday endurance test and culminates with the kind of late afternoon panic attack that'll send your little layabout running straight for the nearest Coast Guard recruiter! It's cheaper than reform school, better than water-boarding and nearly as senseless as those team-building workshops corporations spend your bonus on...

But just WHO can turn your TV News wannabe into a useful member of society? Our crack staff of highly jaded journalists, that's who! This rough but loving crew of camera operators, sound recordists and assorted engineers are committed (or should be) to preventing future generations from making the same mistakes we did. We'll treat your once precious youngster like they owe us money, douse them in fast food grease, even show them never before seen footage of the Tanning Mom. Don't ask where we got them! Just know that your child's future is as important to us as our next deadline. In fact, we won't rest until they're broken mentally, physically unsound and unwilling to even turn on the TV, let alone aspire to work inside one! But our instructors won't stop there. We'll relieve them of their pocket change and share with them the kind of real life road stories that would make a TMZ shooter blush.   

WHY do we do it? Because underneath our scruff and gruff, we really care! At least as much as a member of the media can. Truth is, our staff is pretty emotionally damaged, if not outright estranged from most of their family. We didn't plan to become like this, but decades of deadlines and  the rub of a thousand newscasts have rendered us virtually empty inside! It's a condition we wouldn't wish on many, which is why we won't let your teenager so much as sleep until he (or she) renounces all interest in mass communications of any kind. It's not always a pretty process, but once we're through with that little bastard, he (or she) won't so much as plug in an iPod without suffering post traumatic stress disorder. It sounds harsh, but when a kid fixates on the Fourth Estate, a future math teacher dies. That's bad for America and while most of us are banned from campuses, the further decline of western civilization is something we simply can't abide. So don't delay, for the very quality of your retirement home lies in the balance. Act now and receive a souvenir photo of your kid grimacing behind a philandering millionaire! Otherwise, we'll soon see you outside your family therapist's office. We'll be in the bushes, snapping towels and taking over/under bets on which of your kids lives with you forever! Just don't say we didn't warn ya!

Disclaimer: Four out of five participants return home so sufficiently shell-shocked they can't even spell T-V. However, certain personality types cannot be helped. Their precognitive conditions are so deeply ingrained they could become even more inflamed with the idea of multimedia fame and fortune. The Lenslinger Institute cannot be held responsible for these hopeless headcases, though we're more than willing to help place them as tradesmen (or women) in Panama City's fledgling porno production industry, or, worse yet, we can put them to work making infomercials. (Cost of restraining order not included.)

Photogs Anonymous

Meanwhile, back outside the John Edwards trial, an unforgiving sun is melting brains along tripod row. Or maybe it's just me. All I know is that some time this afternoon delirium took over and for a second TV News felt like a viable career choice. Then suddenly I snapped out of it and realized I was A.) perched on a step stool, B.) dressed like a third grader and C.) perspiring at an alarming rate. About that time someone shouted "Lawyers UP!" and, like Pavlov's sweatiest dog, I swiveled at the hips as three sharply-dressed strangers filled my lens. As they passed my position, I zoomed in after them until they disappeared inside the federal courthouse. Rinse and repeat. For more days than I can count, I've weathered the elements on the stoops of justice, only my fellow castaways there to mock, er comfort me. Okay, so there ain't a lot of comfort available when you're clocking some philanderer's shame at three thousand feet.

Me, I'm just trying to pace myself. Prosecutors have yet to rest their case and the temperatures are already in the 80's. By the time John Edwards gives us the collective finger and runs back to Rielle, it'll damn near be a hundred. I'll be passed out on the pavement by then, but don't be surprised if my inert form is sporting a grin, for I have (almost) enjoyed my time at Camp Edwards. Can't explain why, really. The hours are long and the work is tedious, but the company can't be beat. Sure, there's an ass-hat (or three) in every crowd, but as whole, the motley collection of freelancers, locals and network news crews have been delightful. That's high praise coming a from a guy who doesn't particularly like people. It helps of course that we're all tasked with the same silly mission: Document Edwards' every step between his chauffeured Suburban and this hall of justice. Oh yeah, get everyone else who walks in or out, too. We'll figure out something to say about them later...

Got it? Good. Just show up here around seven with your favorite fancycam. Pack some snacks, too. Court breaks for lunch, but you'll probably spend that time hunched over an steaming laptop editor while your reporter checks her tweets from the front seat of your smelly live truck. Afterwards you'll wanna boot-scoot back over to the courthouse steps - just in case Edwards face-plants, confesses or breaks into song. Scoff if you will: the ONE time you bail on a federal defendant's walk-down is the day North Carolina's sexiest lawyer goes all Jim Bakker and you're the only news crew without fresh footage of a quivering millionaire being frog-marched in front of the judge. Okay, I'm projecting a bit but can you blame me? Watching our once celebrated Senator waltz in and out of court, one gets the feelings he like his odds. That's cool by me, I guess, but I didn't give up six weeks of profiling dogs in funny hats just to watch Edwards melt back into his wealth. I want drama! Intrigue! Indemnity, even!

And some lemonade. Some really COLD lemonade. Perhaps with a little vodka in it. You know, for the medicinal value...  
 

Schmuck Alert: May Lay!

Despite a strict diet of energy drinks and Boba Fett PEZ dust, most members of The Lenslinger Institute's selection committee lost consciousness around three a.m. Their mission: locate any mention of a spring ritual that calls for the assault of a senior photog. We couldn't find one. Yet there must be some reason behind the senseless attack of a Northwest-based news shooter. It happened Monday, when veteran KING 5 photographer Richard Departee began covering a May Day march in downtown Seattle...

“I found myself in with a group (dressed in) black, kinda Gestapo-looking thugs – face masks and dark glasses – I think as soon as they saw me it was like ‘Hey get out of here, you know, scum,’ and started pushing me,” he said.

Yup, no better way to spread your message than by taking a crack at the one person best equipped to share it with the masses.

“Then one guy took his one-inch dowel, a wooden pole with the red flag … he just took it back and popped me in the face,” said Departee.

What the hell? Down South, we celebrate the beginning of May with a fresh round of Mint Juleps. It just never occurred to us to dress up like Ninjas and beat the shit out of anyone who comes near! But that's how they do it Seattle. Perhaps the disaffected youth there should lay off the Starbucks and, oh, I dunno, GET A JOB! You know, something honorable like taxidermy or advertising. They could even set aside their rancor and pick up a news camera, maybe change the world one frame at a time, instead of bringing shame to their city with thuggish behavior in the name of, the name of, the name of... Freedom? (Didn't they see what that Braveheart film did to Mel Gibson? Dude's a lunatic!) Anyway, we here at TLI need our sleep so we're just gonna wish thirty year KING TV veteran Richard Departee a quick recovery and hope he someday gets a chance to shoot the perp walk of his assailant. In the meantime, come to Carolina, Mr. Departee! We won't take a pole to the side of your head but once we smother you with Southern hospitality and Sweet Tea, you may wish we did. As for those cowards in black...

Schmucks!

Songs of the Doomed

Just when you thought I couldn't find a more surreal landscape to explore than the John Edwards trial, something called 'The X-Factor' rolled into town. It's no surprise, really. Back in 2006, that prickly Brit known as Simon Cowell brought American Idol to Greensboro and in doing do helped launch the career of Kellie Pickler, Bucky Covington and other artists whose music you don't buy. Now the man with a gazillion bucks but no properly fitting shirts is back! Sort of. Actually, Simon was nowhere to be seen today as no less than eight thousand delusional hopeful vocalists invaded the coliseum grounds and took Whitney Houston's musical legacy hostage. They also stabbed Etta James' memory square in the throat, but hey, what's a dead legend worth when you covered head to toe in body glitter? Don't answer that - just know that your not so humble lenslinger thought he'd seen it all. Remember, I've covered more Idol auditions than Paula Abdul even remembers attending and while we both may need therapy as a result, I've chosen to just bury the pain. Which is why I scoffed at the idea of an X-Factor audition in my fair city. What could possibly compare to the scads of nut-bags that turned out to shout in Ryan Seacrest's highly man-scaped ears? Isn't X-Factor just a retread of the same old song and dance academy that is American Idol?

Yes and no.

Looking out over the crowd today, I only had one question: "Who pulled the fire alarm at Wal-Mart?" It's the kind of thing I asked myself at every single American Idol stop, but as my eyes adjusted to all that blind ambition, I noticed a distinct difference... Over there, that guy working on his moonwalk - is that my mailman? And the lady spitting out Kesha lyrics - didn't I see her on a retirement village billboard? That's when it hit me: there's no age limit! It seems like a small thing, but it's huge. Whereas Idol kept laser-focused on crushing twenty somethings' dreams, The X Factor is out to humiliate Americans from every age group. Plus, every single crew member seemed to have a thick British accent! Why it's enough to make the likes of Toby Keith write another song about boots up asses. Nobody wants that! Nor does anyone really wanna witness what I did today. I mean, it's one thing to watch a pack of thirteen year old girls ape Lady Ga-Ga. It's quite another to see a man who looks as if he might have been an investment banker before retirement shake his pudgy butt through a gravely rendition of 'Poker Face'. Some things can't be unseen. Which is why I'll be taking a toothbrush to my eyelids for the better part of the evening, in hopes that I'll be ready next week when Rielle Hunter pops out of her limo in a sequined t-shirt and begins singing the chorus to 'Fame".

It could happen...

The Indelibles

Fire up enough satellite trucks in a row and you're bound to bend a few moonbeams. I can't explain the science behind it, but then again, high school algebra eluded me too. What I do know is that after only a few hours of continuing team smotherage, a certain sector of the citizenry begins making mountains out of mashed potatoes. Before you know it, your once placid media compound is invaded by caped crusaders. It happened Friday at Camp Edwards, when into the scrum undone came ... The Circumsizer.
  
At least that's what fellow photog Dustin Etheridge calls him. For all I know, his business cards really do read 'Un-Castrated Man' (I wasn't going to ask).  Whatever the case, he materialized mid-morning and while he wasn't exactly embraced by the camera community, we made sure his moped didn't get towed. For awhile he waved his sign and though he didn't appear on an ounce of television, he sure did pop up on a lot of photog's Facebook pages. Someone wondered aloud what his superpowers might be and from my thirteen seconds with him I can tell you stringing together three related sentences ain't one of 'em. But who needs a clear message when you got such moxie? I admire that ... from a distance.

Eventually, the masked man waddled off. Though we never quite knew what he wanted, we kind of missed him when he was gone. Took him awhile though. Dude moved like he'd been killin' villains all night. That, or with great power comes intense chafing ... I could never decide.

Rag and Bones

If you're anything like me, you've already wasted several hours of your life watching carefully-crafted whack-jobs gobble up other people's property. You know, the show with the beguiling Brandy, that dithering hipster and the angry dwarf that yells "YUUUUPPPPP!" all the time. Surely you've seen it. If you haven't, know this: it's changed the face of the storage locker industry. Now, when lot owners go to sell the residue left behind by deadbeat tenants, more than just your weird Uncle Murray shows up to bid on that box of broken toasters: soccer moms, drunken sailors, girl scout troops ... news crews. It's gotten so bad, yours truly was recently spotted loitering by these cathedrals of crap. But I wasn't alone! A certain reporter was along for the lurk, holding a GoPro and giggling like a schoolgirl.

Who can blame him? Re-enacting your favorite low-budget TV show can be a lot of fun, especially when you're surrounded by the southen fried hucksters we knew we'd find sizing up all that detritus. Speaking of terms you had to look up, you know this one? joie de vivre. It's a French term for 'joy of living' and at the risk of losing my curmudgeon card I must admit, I grinned like an idiot the entire time I shot this piece. See, 2012 has been a bitch and while I'm still mourning the loss of my prodigal father, and I found a dip into this celebrated dustbin served as a musty form of therapy. And you thought we were just padding newscasts! No way - everything we do is dripping with intent, whether we're hijacking the zeitgeist or simply fawning over bent sheet-metal.

But don't take my word for it. Watch the clip and see how reality stacks up to the best non-fiction story-boarding modern television has to offer. Or better yet, shit-can the Tv Guide and get outside. While you're at it, clean out that garage, would ya? I'm pretty sure that stack of coronet valves will bring big bucks on the open market, not to mention what it will score after it's aged for awhile in some cinder-block temple. Am I reading too much into this? Probably, but since this isn't my first TV show tie-in, I'm allowed to riff on the differences between cable casting calls and the true nature of man. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a box of vintage peanut brittle I think even I can unload on eBay. Watch my purse, would ya...

 

Schmuck Alert: Insult to ... Injury?

Make no mistake, we here at The Lenslinger Institute take the study of schmucks very seriously. But not every crime against the camera qualifies for full alert status. Some are just so stupid, they're better left unexamined. Such was the case with that unfortunate business in Myrtle Beach. You've seen the clip: a young reporter is in the middle of a live shot when an intruder stops her mid-drone. Grabbing the microphone from her hand, 20 year old Justin Moore takes center-screen and proceeds to best Kanye West...

 "I AM THAT HIGHLY DIVISIVE INVECTIVE!" he did not quite yell. 

 Upon review, TLI's top schmuckologists found the interlude wanting. Though unwelcome if not vile, young Mr. Moore's outburst lacked the gravitas of a certified assault. The chosen pejorative was troubling, too. As we felt any undue attention might encourage others to take up this heckler's cause, we promptly tabled the matter and got back to watching Gunsmoke. But then the affected affiliate overreached and suddenly Moore seemed like the smartest guy in the parking lot

"I knew instantly something was about to go terribly wrong..." The emphasis is mine but the words come straight from the reporter's mouth some twenty four hours after the - ahem - attack. Unsure how to advance the story, she not only plays the victim's card, she slams it on the table and dances around the room. She then goes on to extoll the virtues of the victims' advocate, who called her to let her know A) Moore as out on bond and B) her fifteen minutes of fame were nearly over.  It's a tough call, certainly: You and your station are sitting on something viral and you're not sure how to capitalize on it. In this case, a simple mug shot would have sufficed, but by going with a breathless, stiffly delivered dispatch on how one woman is recovering from a harrowing night in the spotlight not only does a disservice to real victims, it makes us TV geeks look intrinsically silly. Just what Justin Moore wanted to accomplish in the first place.

Schmucks!