Welcome to the Chunder Dome...

Okay, so no one threw peanuts at me, but a certain deity DID hurl thunderbolts, rain pellets and brain-baking heat rays my way. Frankly, I would have preferred a few Planters upside the head. But when you're slogging through the ass-hat factory that is any political projectile. Or your next meal, for that matter. Want proof? Eighteen hours ago, I ate a cold burrito delivered by armpit. Washed it down with eleven ounces of rainwater I collected in an old Fanta can I found in the live truck. Yup, life gets pretty raw on the campaign trail ... What's that? You've SEEN convention coverage? The bright lights? The swelling soundtracks? The polished pundits? All looked pretty posh, eh? WRONG! Covering a convention is like surviving a plane crash in the Andes. You'll come out of it okay, but only after trekking overland, infiltrating a village and noshing on a few colleagues along the way. I'm sure the network vet sipping lattes in some distant skybox might disagree, but here at the local level, it's every cameraman for himself. Just ask the yak who kept yelling my name at the exact moment Secret Service agents were waving wands over me. Good to see ya, Ken Devanney, but there's a beefy guy in a windbreaker trying to radiate my junk! Perhaps we could chat later....

Speaking of which, you ever loiter under a street light in a sketchy part of town while an exhausted coworker flags down a cab, all so the two of you can meet another tapped-out TV geek for a few overpriced Jack and Cokes? Me neither, as far as YOU know. What little downtime I had was spent in quiet reflection; sparse moments in which I pondered the cosmos and my place in it. After some time, I've come to realize a few truths:

Political conventions are hollow as hell. Yes, the Time Warner arena is stuffed to the gills with supplicants, but the rhetoric is so freeze-dried only the true believers get hot and bothered. I been to Mary Kay parties that had more soul. And before you go thinking I'm a Republican spy, know this: I'm a photog - a journalist, too. I've stared deep into the eyes of both parties' faithful, smelled the rubber chicken they just had for lunch and held my breath as they extolled the virtues of their chosen one, while intimating the opponent keeps dead baby livers in their glove box. I'm all for watching Democracy in action, but you people in the Barbershop quarter hats scare the crap out of me - no matter what buttons your cardboard fedora sports. Got it? Good. Now that we have that out of the way, we can get to important matters, like how the streets of Charlotte look like the last fifteen minutes of The Blues Brothers. Or how the protestors followed the Occupy model, each and every one of them raging against their own individual machine. I SWEAR, I saw a guy protesting potted meat at the corner of 7th and College yesterday, though from the smell of it, the only thing he truly boycotts is a working shower stall.

Cheap shot? Perhaps, but when you're suffering from sleep deprivation, a compacted skeleton and one righteous case of post-burrito turmoil, you take them when you see them. Next time, we'll explain how I ended up in the Charlotte Observer, popped up on Laura Ingraham's Facebook page and fist-bumped a stranger who told me either he 'loved the blog' or to 'get out of the shot'.

I couldn't really hear him.

Go Ahead ... Make My Day!

Much has been made about the RNC attendees who threw peanuts at a CNN camerawoman and rightly so. Hurling legume fruits at any photog is wrong and worthy of a nationwide Schmuck Alert -- were it not so effing stupid. But I didn't log in to get political. That ain't my bag. However, as one of a half million lenslingers headed for Charlotte next week, I feel a warning is due: Toss a single nut my way and I will...

Zoom in on said projectile and follow focus so tightly that NFL Films will demand I overnight them my resumé tape.

Feign horrible pain upon impact, dropping to my knees and shrieking so theatrically that even that stoner running the C-SPAN camera will pan over my way.

Caterwaul so completely that every bomb-sniffing dog on the premises will cover their ears and join me in mid howl. I'm serious: I'll make Nancy Kerrigan sound like a lumberjack.

Shake off any assistance, limp away and then collapse until my fellow photogs throw a cloak over me and drag my crumpled form out of sight. Then I'll do it again, until the corpse of James Brown rolls what's left of his eyes.

Grant extensive interviews to any and all news crews, offering (between sobs) to recount the cruel act using finger-puppets, that is until the first network completes their computerized reenactment.

 Fly overnight to New York and tell my stories to the stars. I'll hug up on Savannah Guthrie, trade man-scaping plans with Anderson Cooper and, if given the chance, bitch-slap Wolf Blitzer (Hey, why NOT?)

Score a reality show detailing my long recovery. I'm not sure how much control I'll have over it but I envision a mix of 'Intervention', and 'Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo Child'. At long last I'll get to show the world my tiara collection.

Pen a six hundred page tome detailing my slow rise to obscurity, brush with airborne peanut infamy and inevitable descent into 'Nutella' induced stupor.

Turn that book into a passable screenplay, sell it to the highest-bidding studio, campaign to play myself, then begrudgingly agree to let Bradley Cooper take over the starring role.

          I just hope he can capture the real me.

Schmuck Alert: Run, Jesse, Run!

If the top schmuckologists at The Lenslinger Institute woofed down a bag of magic mushrooms and locked themselves in a dimly lit room, they couldn't come up with such a delicious scenario:

A wedding videographer cheats his customers (allegedly!), draws the attention of local TV stations (predictably!) and bloodies an innocent fancycam while making his less than great escape (cowardly!).

His name is Jesse Clark and he runs like a little girl. Actually, that's unfair to little girls, for the female 'tweens in my life don't drop everything and bolt every time a camera crew comes around. But that's what this 28 year old grown-ass man tends to whenever an indignant microphone is shoved in his face - which lately is a lot! It all started when scores of newlyweds told two Connecticut television stations about the shoddy work they paid for at SureShot Portraits. According to them, Jesse Clark showed up and shot their wedding as promised, but failed to deliver a finished product of their special day. (Hey, what can we say? Editing's a bitch - especially when people expect you to finish in a reasonable amount of time.) The TV stations smell blood and before you know it, Jesse Clark and his band of grumpy customers are gracing small screens in and around Worcester.

If all that bad pub weren't troubling enough, Jesse and his father made it infinitely worse when news crews approached them  at the Milbury Police Department back in June. Clark and his proud pop were turning over hard drives to investigators when the journalists closed in. Recognizing the opportunity to explain himself (and perhaps offer customers a fig leaf with his hard drives full of beaming brides) Jesse instead bends at the waist and plows straight through the Fourth Estate! It's a bitch move through and through - especially when the wedding 'tog in question shoulder-checks one of the news shooters - sending an up and running fancycam scattering across the blacktop. As the camera comes to a rest, you can see Jesse Clark himself wince - understandably aghast at the juvenile maneuver he'd just employed. But he doesn't pause for long. Rather, he picks up speed, launching a hard-target search his credibility, if not his missing testicles.

Recently, Jumpin' Jesse actually showed up in court to face arraignment. The charge: Asssault and battery on a fellow photog! Released on his own recognizance, Jesse Clark will return to court on October 18th, whereupon he'll no probably lose control of his bladder at the first sight of a news crew, then head for the hills, where he apparently keeps an emergency supply of adult diapers. Way to go, Jess! With your marginal talent, you've managed to upset blushing brides, provide two TV stations with endless fodder and actually lower the reputation of wedding shooters everywhere. We here at TLI didn't think that was even possible - and not just because the mushroom buzz is starting to wear off.

Schmuck!

View more videos at: http://nbcconnecticut.com.

WHDH-TV -

Twisted Symptoms

If you've ever wanted to delay an emergency medical airlift until the light is j-u-s-t right, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever sat in the corner of a late-day committee meeting and prayed for a pistol-grip and/or the apocalypse, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever bitched about how long a lake dredging takes, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever fractured the time-space continuum so video of a lone road sign could grace the screens of a million living rooms, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever cursed the darkness of a crashing laptop while helicopter spotlights danced over a nearby debris field, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever turned a jumble of screenshots into something safe for consumption all while choking on the taste of hairspray, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever watched handheld footage of a unicorn being born and thought "I could do better', you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever grimaced at the sight of a fat shaft of daylight flooding through a conference room window, you may very well be a photog.

If you've ever watched red blotches form on a lunch lady's neck as she told your tube how tasty Tater-Tots are, you may very well be a photog.

If you've made it to the end of this insipid list without glancing at the stack of head-shots you keep on hand for passing fans, you may very well be a photog.

Don't worry, though. Modern medical science is improving all the time.

(Many thanks to Jake VanDonge for the inspiring Instagram!) 

There Are Worse Things I Could Do…

Unlicensed gynecologist Todd Akin may be an expert on ‘legitimate’ rape, but me, all I know is television. Local television, to be exact, the kind your parents used to plan their meals around. These days, the newscast that once mesmerized millions is losing viewers, shedding relevancy and circling the drain of mainstream media. Why, it’s enough to make a wordy camera nerd look around for other ways to spend his days! But what on God’s half-paved Earth could a guy who’s dedicated his life to late-breaking updates do in a world without live shots? I can think of but a few…

TSA AGENT - I’m not much for rifling through suitcases, but I can profile me some peoples! Twenty years of panhandling for soundbites in Wal-Mart parking lots can do that to a fellow. Hell, I’ll even wear the goofy uniform! As long as I get to hang by the metal detector and groove on the crush. THERE - that chick with the dreadlocks, overcoat and crippling twitch…let her through. But HIM - with the shiny suit and flag pin on his lapel. Looks like a County Commissioner or somethin’. You know what that means… Cavity Search!

PRO BOWLER - Sure, the last time I hit the lanes, a guy named Whitey was leaving town, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pummel the pins from a respectable distance. Okay I got as much business bowling as a leper selling Avon, but Dammit, I’m willing to learn! Already I got bad taste in shoes, an affinity for air conditioning, an endless thirst for bottomless nacho platters and more tacky, polyester shirts than Charlie Sheen’s old dressing room. Don’t believe me? BAM!

DIPLOMAT - Okay, so geography ain’t my strong suit, but two decades of abiding nonsense in the name of news has dulled my tongue and sharpened my senses. Why, within the course of a single workday I can corner a Coroner, salute a captain of industry and bum-rush a junkie - without ever letting either of them know I think they're complete douche-bags. Just don’t ask me to consort with consultants. A (camera)man’s got to know his limitations.

RESTAURANT CRITIC - With a deep vocabulary and shallow gag-reflex, I’m a shoo-in for a ‘mystery diner’ gig. Already I can identify seventy-six restaurant chains by their building silhouettes alone. I’m also well-versed in greasy spoon etiquette, metaphor mangling and the fine art of drinking straw spitballs. Give me a few weeks and I’ll even brush up on higher end dining. Why, just the other day, I hoarked down an entire Taco Supreme value meal while camped out in the back of a satellite truck. Some dill-weed photog mistook my Big Gulp for a spit cup so I washed down my South of the border order with a nice Chianti. FFFTTT-FFFTTT-FFFTTT!

SECURITY GUARD - Some might call it poetic justice that a TV News cameraman end up working as a rent-a-cop. But look past the irony! With my insider knowledge, lackadaisical gait and thousand yard glare, I’d be THE perfect person to guard your food court. (Kind of like when the CIA hires a master safecracker to pull a bank job. Or is that just in those silly Oceans 11 movies?) I’m even willing to go deep undercover, dive through dumpsters and subsist on nothing but old granola, cold coffee and No-Doze. How do you think we news crews get through hurricanes?

Soo, there you have it…just a handful of career paths I’ll consider should the wheels come off my favorite affiliate. But would any other job be as fulfilling as propping up correspondents? Baby-sitting train wrecks? Interviewing degenerates?

 Let me get back to you on that.

Must Flee TV

In a very special episode of Highway to Hellfire, an aging cameraman gets a second shot at happiness after a mysterious man in black shows him all the reasons for his discontent. The redemption begins when the portly escort shows the news veteran what a mess he's left in his wake. Dispirited interns,  greasy heaps of fast food wrappers, piles of poor career choices ... it's depressing stuff, even for a show known for its pioneering use of flying drone-cams during the inevitable intervention sequence. Yes, you haven't been truly entertained until you've watched a chain-smoking binge-eater get dived-bombed by a tiny helicopter while fishing around in a giant purse for cigarettes and Twinkies. But there are no such shenanigans in tonight's episode, for the TV tower the frazzled photog eventually climbs is just too darn high for remote control aircraft. In the end, the shaken news shooter gives up his perch, surrenders to authorities and is dragged away to a small padded cell - where the only stories he'll turn are the many parables he'll share with flock of imaginary grasshoppers. Deemed too graphic by the same focus group that green-lit 'Prison Gimp Diaries' and 'Restroom Confessions 6', producers shelved the entire series, black-balling any colleagues who believed a real life TV News photographer would make for a sympathetic character. In the end, the "That Damn Cameraman!" episode of H to H would be its last and is even credited with ending the whole 'Crappy Job/Mystery Boss/Tacky Payback genre.

Guess it wasn't such a bad show after all...

Schmuck Alert: Merchants of Menace

Chances are reporter Brian Thompson and his (oddly) anonymous photog weren't expecting a fruit basket when they arrived outside New Jersey's Wayne Diamond and Jewelry Center, but did they deserve a beat-down? We here at The Lenslinger Institute think NOT. But then again, we're a crack squad of top schmuckologists; well versed in the art of the grab and ever vigilant for signs of news crew abuse. Which brings us back to that parking lot in Jersey.

That's about as far as the journalists from NBC 4 New York got, before the staff of the aforementioned jewelry joint went all Sopranos on 'em. Maybe it was the brazen way the journalists pulled up in broad daylight that offended their sensibilities. Perhaps their trousers were just too tight. Could it be  they were back in the Old Country, where slapping around nosy newsies was a national past time? Whatever the case, these indignant gem pimps proved to be just a couple of thugs. Who knew? But enough of my blathering, let's go to the videotape!

There's a delightful moment at 0:18 when Jeweler #1 (we'll call him Penelope) tells Thompson he cannot enter the store. Thompson asks which store - a question so loaded it momentarily stymies Penelope, who then warns Thompson not to 'piss me off right now!" "When would be a GOOD time to come back and piss you off?" Thompson did not ask.

Around 0:32 Penelope tires of engaging Thompson and turns to the unnamed cameraman. "Do you want me to punch you in the face?" No doubt Penelope meant it to sound threatening, but it struck me as what it must feel like to be bullied by Borat. High Five!

At 0:44, shit gets real. Penelope moves in close to the lens, then sucker punches the (unidentified) news shooter. It's a cheap shot and poorly executed. Dude behind the lens was probably right to hold his fire, but I sooo wish he'd brought his foot up and kicked Penelope in the Hiddenites.

 At 1:02, Jeweler #2 (we'll call him Nancy) emerges for a tour de force performance. Raising his voice and feigning friendship, Nancy approaches our man behind the camera with deceptively good tidings, only to grab at the lens once he gets within reach. No doubt Nancy felt pretty cool, but I could only think of the Festrunk Brothers.

Finally, at 2:06, Nancy reappears for an encore performance. When asked by Thompson to identify himself, Nancy instead grabs the microphone. What follows is a grappling match that deserves to be included in the next Summer Olympics. Sure, it goes nowhere, but can it be any less mind-numbing than all that volleyball NBC is foisting upon an innocent nation?

So, did we miss anything? Probably, but while our disdain remains, the selection committee here at the Institute's elders have grown weary of the clip and would like to return to their rock-scissor-subpoena tournament. Schmucks!

View more videos at: http://nbcnewyork.com.