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!
 

Fracking the Lackey

I was foraging for Cheesy Poofs when the scrum began to stir. Sensing the disturbance, I set aside my appetite and leaned out of the live truck. There, across the street, a clutch of rogues and pirates were once again assembling outside Greensboro's federal courthouse. Squinting into the distance, I searched for hoisted lenses. Twenty minutes earlier, I'd helped form a corridor of glass as John Edwards, his daughter, parents, lawyers and (for all I know) personal hairspray caddy filed past. I'd scoured their every glower as they entered the courthouse, a musty building where my kind and camera weren't allowed. Fine by me. Back in my station's live truck, a small cooler packed to near hurricane status held the highlights of my day. Now, with said snacks nearly in my grasp, I had to grab my fancycam and hustle back across the street. Dodging traffic, I couldn't help but wonder what my high school valedictorian was doing this drizzly Monday.

Chances are he (she?) wasn't playing Frogger with the planet's most unpopular millionaire. Once across the street, I slowed my roll. Hey, one doesn't bum-rush a federal courthouse - not unless one enjoys the taste of pavement with a side of highly shined boot. Me, I'm a lover (not a fighter), so I slipped in all quiet-like among the freelancers and network crews loitering by the entrance. At the top of the stairs, a man I'd come to know as Lord of the Feds was eyeballing his kingdom. At the curb, a few uniformed officers were standing around as only cops can. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a sound guy's boom pole was growing erect, its swarthy operator stroking the shaft. Now, I'm no network jet-setter with a list of fixer's phone numbers in my vest pocket, but I've taken in enough life through a tube to know when shit is fixin' to go down. Besides, a certain someone was fondling his own microphones nearby, a sure sign something recordable was about to happen. But what? All the expected players were already inside. Opening statements were on the day's agenda but for now, lawyers were still badgering possible jurors. Who could be rolling up now? Gloria Steinem? Nancy Grace? Carrot Top? (Ever seen 'em all three together? Hmmm? Have you?)

Don't answer. Just know that I was wracked with doubt as the camera crews drew close. Moments later our preternatural knack for self-preservation paid off when the Marshalls stiffened at the sight of an approaching sedan. The car slowed to a stop in front of the courthouse and though no one could really see inside, two dozen calloused thumbs twitched as tiny tally lights began to glow. My stomach rumbled as I pulled the vehicle into focus. That's when a driver the size of a Zamboni popped out and double-timed it around the parked car. Wondering just what I might say to Oprah, I loosened my grip and made sure I was rolling. Suddenly Andrew Young appeared, looking thick in the chest and pissed off everywhere else. John Edwards' opportunistic confidant returned the cameras' unblinking gaze with a prison yard stare of his own. I fought the urge to blow him a kiss and in an instant he was gone. But with photogs flanking the way, his six second journey to justice was well documented. In fact, it would bounce to outer space and back before he ever took the stand. I myself could not get back to my stash of snacks before receiving texts that I'd just made a cameo on Headline News. In the coming days, that fleeting footage would seep up and down the dial and flood the far reaches of the internet. Friends I rarely talk to would call and congratulate me, for what exactly, I do not know. 
I'm just glad it happened when it did. Five more minutes and my furry mug would have been covered in smuggled cheese dust.



Then again, might have gone viral...

View to a Skill

The jury for the John Edwards trial has yet to even be seated and I AM OVER IT! The waiting, the walk-downs, the existential angst of choosing where to wolf down lunch ... quite frankly, I could do without it. But even an alleged loner like myself recognizes the benefits of all this pack journalism: forced socialization. See, with cameras of any kind banned in federal court, we photogs have nothing much to do all day but trade lies, snap towels and constantly eyeball that courthouse door. It can make for a long day, but those very same hours would come to a standstill were it not for the calloused community of cameramen (and women). Yeah, we're a little sweaty around the edges and few of us are burdened with any real fashion sense, but I wouldn't trade this rugged class of individuals for all the hipsters on Elm Street.

Why? They're pragmatic, blunt and perhaps a little tortured. But unlike the skinny jean crowd, TV News photographers base their assertions on reality - not some ingrained disdain for the Hoi polloi. Me - most of what I know about life was learned under heavy deadline. That makes me an expert on absolutely nothing, but at least my opinions weren't formed by some scribbled mantra I read on a  coffee shop bulletin board. No, my worldview first flickered to life on a tiny black and white screen at the shallow end of an eyepiece. For years it held me mesmerized, until I became a parent and realized some things could only be figured out at the business end of a dirty diaper. But enough about me, let's meet the players!

You ever meet someone who could walk backwards over a stack of mattresses and never get the shakes? Who could string together a minute and a half of coherent television in the time it takes most folks to find the remote? Who could stroll into a crowded ballroom dressed like a stoned pool cleaner and feel pretty damn good about themselves? Who keeps the region's movers and shakers on speed dial but is most proud of his ability to burp all the words to 'Freebird'? I know tons of guys like that and a few ladies too. Together they make up the most tolerable tier of the chattering class. Sure, anchors drive nicer cars and producers' socks match more often, but if I wake up one day and see a bunch of monkeys on horseback coming at me with a giant net, I'm high-tailing it to the nearest photog lounge, where I and a bunch of new buddies will figure out how to go cinematic on their ass.

Now if you'll excuse me, Edwards just walked into the courthouse and I gotta get some sleep. Knock on my live truck at your own peril.

Duties May Include...

ATTENTION ALL! Swing by John Edwards' criminal trial and we may very well put you to work. Mostly, we need you to loiter out front, then pounce on the former presidential candidate every time he strolls into or out of justice. There's no real skill involved so you should do just fine, but remember: we do other stuff too. In fact, your duties may include:

Convincing a steady succession of meter maids that you're simply not qualified to move that live truck away from those fire hydrants, even if its logos do match the one on your less than heaving bosom.

Pretending the very alignment of our solar system depends on you getting a fresh fourteen second sequence of Edwards walking to and from the courthouse. (You know, in case he suddenly confesses or breaks into song.)

Bouncing the day's last rays off a co-worker's bald spot, all while trying not to cave in the roof of your - ahem - mobile newsroom. Sunscreen not included.

Pulling eight hundred feet of live truck cable from beneath the tires of a minivan your competition convinced a soccer mom to abandon.  (They must have promised her a coffee mug or something.)

Falsely assuring your reporter that the live shot in which she unwisely referred to John Edwards as 'Richie Rich with a stiffie" might not be her last.   

Informing curious pedestrians as to why there's two dozen satellite trucks double-parked along Market Street. (Try to work in the supernatural.)

Extracting network crews from favorite booth at nearby eatery with claims that 'Rielle Hunter just rolled up in a tube top slathered in Go-Daddy logos.' (Hey, it could happen.)

Pining for the good ole days of simple videotape as you and three other photogs hold a seance over a freshly-filled SD card someone thought to soak in Dr. Pepper.

Trying to convince that courtroom sketch artist that A) you ARE part of the station group paying for her chalk masterpieces and B) she should probably let you hold onto her debit card just to make it all legal-like.  

Fighting the urge to hand your reporter a notepad (or napkin) as she repeatedly interrupts your nap by screaming at the antiquated laptop that - surprise - won't let her log on. 

Other than that, it's all point and shoot.

The Man Who Fell to Earth

 If harassing a super-villain is on your bucket list, grab a press-pass and get thee to Greensboro. That's where you'll find white hot pariah John Edwards, a man whose million dollar grin is conspicuously missing now that his trial for campaign fund violations has finally begun. I was outside the federal courthouse when jury selection kicked off and I can tell you many of the lenslingers behind our golden boy up there feel like they're the ones on trial. You would too, if you were facing six weeks of long commutes, meter maid negotiation and the strangely unsatisfying sensation of televising a federal trial. See, the big boys allow no cameras inside their courtroom, turning the sidewalks outside into a loose confederation of lenses that hardens into a knot every time Johnny sashays to or from his date with justice. If the possible witness list is any indication, it's gonna be a regrettable, skank-filled affair.

Just like in real life!

But who am I to judge? If the man who came thisclose to the Presidency wants to keep denying he fell into bed with a flake at the height of his campaign, then monkeyed with the funds to cover up  love child, well, that's his decision to ignore some very expensive legal advice. Throw in a dying wife and you got more than enough reasons to consider this ambitious attorney the lowest of his seedy breed. Me, I'm just a cameraman - one who's backpedaled before this asshole when he was sporting thousand dollar haircuts while spouting off about two Americas. Back then, any news crew that traveled to his hometown of Robbins found only one America and it was filled with folks who had nothing but bile to spew when you asked about 'John Edwards'. "How bad could he be?" I used to wonder.

Turns out, pretty bad...    

But I'm not here to vilify this feathery worm (not much, anyway). I'm here to shoot him! Now, before you call security, know the cross-hairs in question are attached to my camera. The only ill will I wish upon John is the Trump-like disintegration of his celebrated hairline. Screw with that 'do and he might very well implode, for one gets the feeling his day begins and ends with more than a little mirror time. Which begs the question: Does Edwards realize his boyish good looks and fat wallet might not keep him out of the Pokey? For as long as I can remember covering him, he's waltzed from limo to photo op to hidden floozie's chambers with that same arrogant air. Sure, his trademark grim is gone, but I can't help but get the feeling that this dandy still believes he can charm his way out of this white hot mess of his own creation...

What do you expect from a dude who sleeps with a, (GULP) videographer?

Grimace Imminent...

Forget that More You Know crap, I need a PSA Campaign that'll hit touch TV news shooters in a way they won't forget... Enter Lenslinger Emeritus Ron Johnson, who (almost) went out of his way to get an important message out. You know, Roid-Raging Rent-A Cops and untethered weatherman fans aren't the only dangers we photogs face. Speed bumps, mop buckets, third graders ... each can unmake your day if for only an instant you forget that TV show you're watching so intently isn't shooting itself. Remember, only rookies get lost in the 'cup. You'd be better off wearing one. So look up and live, for one day you may wanna procreate. Protect your gear. Gird your loins. Otherwise, you'll be laid up with a bag of frozen peas on your junk while your girlfriend post rolling scrotum updates from her new Instagram account. Not even Mark Zuckerberg wants that.