Jaws of Life

Here's something I picked up on the side of the road: perspective. For years I didn't notice it, lying there among the bits of windshield and broken chrome. Too lost in youthful stupor, I never appreciated how the shadow I cast on that glittering asphalt had all its limbs attached. It just didn't seem important then. I'd bebop up to a jack-knifed semi, crack wise to anyone who would listen and grow impatient if the trooper didn't make a beeline to my microphone. But an unfunny thing happened on the way to jerkdom. I grew up, one ghastly accident at a time. The sound of a second grader wailing in pain will do that to a fella. So will watching a soccer mom take a helicopter ride moments after she made the last wrong turn of her life. All that chopper-wash won't just chip your lens. It'll ding your soul if you're not paying attention. Next thing you know, you're skulking through your shift with a pockmarked conscious, an unseemly beast who's happiest tapping his foot in the breakdown lane. Don't be that guy (or even that girl). Let the house-cats back in the newsroom high-five over the head-on collision. Your job is to gather the facts, harvest the verve and be a decent human being. Anything less is just bad customer service.   

And we need all the customers we can get.

It's Not Over...

Should ever you get the chance, I highly recommend securing a neighborhood rock star. We here in the Piedmont have been blessed with the presence of one Chris Daughtry, who turned a celebrated stint on a certain reality show into a viable career as the modern day Bon Jovi. In fact, I'm thinking of naming him the Official Recording Artist of Viewfinder BLUES. (Hey, no OTHER globally known vocalist stops his sound-check to ask me about my blog. I'm looking at you Jack White!) Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yeah, the bald guy with the blistering pipes. Shannon Smith and I first met Chris shortly before American Idol made him into a household name. Suddenly, the dude who used to write up service orders at the local Honda dealership was silencing his own idols with weapons-grade swagger and propulsive vocals. Not bad work if you can get it.

These days, Chris doesn't need a news crew to get him some press, but he still throws us locals a bone whenever he can. Such was the case yesterday, when Shannon and I met the band at the Greensboro Coliseum, where rehearsals for a new tour were winding down. That's where we pulled up a couple of equipment cases and got down to the business of interviewing the local boy done very, very good. Shannon did most of the heavy lifting; I just huddled behind the camera and tried not to yell "Freebird!" That became even tougher a few minutes later, when I joined Chris and his crew onstage for a bracing round of 'Let's deafen the cameraman'! That they nearly did, though I'm always up for a little hearing loss whenever the Daughtry gang wants to bring the thunder.

THUN-DA!

Sorry, my frontal lobe's been spewing out classic rawk standards ever since Daughtry singed my eyebrows with his blowtorch of a throat. And that was before he showed me his six page spread in this month's Muscle and Fitness Magazine. (Dude, put a shirt on!) And while you're at it, Chris, remember what I said about recording a cover of 'Tie Your Mother Down.' Not only would you do Freddy Mercury proud, but you'd turn a new generation onto the early Queen canon...

I even know a guy who'd shoot the video... Cheap!

Suddenly Stew

It's not you. It's me. I'm the one who left you here, wondering why the web's wordiest camera nerd suddenly went so silent. Okay, so maybe you weren't wondering, but the fact is my dedication to this once sacred space has withered beyond words. Why? Well, I fell on black days. The details of such don't belong on a blog best known for 'Schmuck Alerts', but I feel strangely compelled to let my few remaining readers in on why I went away. Several months ago, the Missus and I began to experience 'Technical Difficulties' and as a result, I nearly came unplugged. I'm a little better now, but we are far from well. In fact, we no longer share the same address. The rest is, how do you say, none of your business.

Just know that your friendly neighborhood lenslinger has been shaken to the core and, after months of introspection, has decided to stop referring to himself in the third person. So bear with me as I pull myself out of this thickening morass and get back to kicking ass. Once upon a time, sharing my thoughts here felt like a blessing. In the past year, it's turned into a curse. I'm reminded of a moment I shared with best-selling author Jerry Bledsoe many years ago. A local celebrity of sorts, the highly successful crime writer read Greensboro's many blogs and hated most of them. To me, he was more generous. "You're a pretty good writer, Stewart." he said. "Expect it to bring you years of misery." I chuckled nervously at the remark, not really understanding what the old man meant. Truth is, I still don't. But as my life zigs where I thought it would zag, I can't help but remember that day. Whether it brought me misery or bliss, I don't think Jerry would have wanted me to stop writing.

So I'm not. Gonna stop. Writing. To continue doing so would be to further deny my DNA. For better or worse, it's just the way my brain works. And frankly, I'm tired of apologizing for that fact. Thus, I hereby declare this once vibrant site newly open for business. With more than a little effort, I can work up the momentum to deliver on it's original promise: 'Pithy Epistles from the Thinking Man's Photog'. Of that, I'm quite capable - once I pry my head out of the proverbial oven. As for my sucking chest wound, let's just ignore it, shall we? Spare me the marital advice, the Bible verses and the elastic maxims. Do that for me and I'll try to keep the woeful bales to a minimum. After all, that's not what you come here for...

When you come here at all.

Days of Ray

Pay no attention to that dirty hippie making love to his microphone stand... THIS is about the man behind the keyboard.  His name is Ray Manzarek and he is freshly dead. Once upon a time, he co-founded a band by the name of The Doors - a frightening little combo with no bass player and a lead singer dripping with charisma, chaos and quite a few chemicals. “The Lizard King”, he called himself and it got a lot of press. But the musical landscape upon which Morrison trod was largely built by that cat hunched over the Vox Continental.

A contemplative gent with a degree in Economics, Ray Manzarek grew up playing piano before meeting Jim Morrison shortly after completing UCLA Film School. What followed was a collaboration of music and madness, a troubling amalgam of theatrical bedlam and psychedelic sensibilities. Did I mention the music kicked ass? It did, but only in the most unconventional ways. And while Jim with his tortured howl and angelic looks got all the camera time, all ears were tuned in to the kaleidoscope of sound Ray wrenched from those primitive, carnival-like keys.

But Ray did more than provide a musical underpinning for his friend to preen upon. He also kept his lead singer alive. For awhile, anyway. Onstage, Ray, along with Robbie and John, would fill in the gaps between Jim’s natural genius and his drug-fueled delusions. In fact, all three instrumentalists became adept at punctuating their leader’s musical missteps with just the perfect flourish. Credit Ray, whose precision, intellect and deep hippie street cred foiled Morrison’s grimmest proclivities. For far too short a time, they made music: brooding, spooky tunes that had more to do with setting worlds on fire than wanting to hold your hand.

Long after Jim Morrison left this realm, Ray found himself explaining their days away. Verbal, kinetic and usually smoking, Ray Manzarek gave the kind of interviews rock writers dream about. “I played Apollo to his Dionysus!” he’d tell any scribe who’d listen and they’d always nod, not always knowing who Dionysus was.  That’s okay, Ray did. For Manzarek made music with a fallen God and he seemed to know this long before Morrison ascended into legend. Now that Ray has joined him, there’s no telling what those two are up to. One thing’s for sure, though...

It sounds like nothing else you’ve ever heard.

Gnats on the Glass

You there - with the Etch-A-Sketch... Don Ho just rose from the dead and he wants his shirt back. While you’re at it, hand over your health insurance card. It’ll come in handy when they have to chopper you out. 

Nah, I’m kidding, no one’s gonna lay a hand on you. But don’t be surprised if you pop up on indignant photog blogs across the land. See, you’re being a tool. We’ll get to why in a moment, but let me ask you: Would you barge into a Major League dugout during a game and start swinging a Wiffle Bat? ‘Cause you kinda just did. It’s one thing to whip out your tablet-cam and block some granny’s view of the proceedings, but when you start crowding out the pros, you’re treading on dangerous ground. See that dude slumped over his tripod? He may look asleep but twice now he’s committed your image to his memory card (You know, in case you should go missing.) And his buddy with the fishing vest and look of indigestion? He’s already wondering if your intestines will fit in his live truck’s glove compartment. Careful, his elbows are considered lethal weapons in three states.

Me? I’m a lover, not a fighter. But block my shot and the sequined glove comes off. It’s a professional courtesy among those of us who squint for a living and one I’d gladly extend to you and that magic portal you’re clutching. And just so you know, we’re ALL Apple fans. But you’re trying to prepare a four course meal using nothing but a dinner plate and it offends our sensibilities. So keep that sidelines and we’ll get along just fine. Remember, the iPad is a wondrous thing, but so too is the human rectum. If I were you, I’d go with the smart phone instead. Might be easier for the paramedics to remove. Don’t worry though...

 I’ll be happy to call 911.

Debacalypse Now

Once upon a time, a photog's only concern was keeping the live truck between the ditches. Now these TV stevedores have to worry about spreading global viruses. Take the latest case of Charles Ramsey - that whimsical witness who's helped a nation heal snicker and snort at a sadistic rape and kidnapping. Sure, he kicked that cursing anchor kid out of the national consciousness. And for that he should rightfully be heralded a hero. But what about those underpaid souls pointing glass at this latest sensation? Will they be able to move past the part they played in this predictable passion play? Can they sleep at night knowing a passel of catchphrases can be directly linked to the twitch of their collective thumbs? Many can not and as their focus goes, so too does their sanity...

It's why we here at The Lenslinger Institute are proud to announce the opening of Camera Manor, a full service rehabilitation facility for those living with the fact they unleashed a lunatic across the land. Already, scores of wards are filling fast with photogs caught in the grip of P.H.S.D. (Post Hyperbole Stress Disorder). Spotlighting ass-hats may launch a million internet memes, but the scars left on the news shooter psyche don't fade as fast as Balloon Boy, Sweet Brown, Grumpy Cat...

Just ask Hobbs in Room 13. Once at a train wreck, he jammed a camera in a hobo's face. How was he supposed to know hobos yodeled? Well, they do, and before Hobbs could even find his tripod, the yodeling hobo went viral. Old dude eventually got a reality show, even banged a Kardashian. Meanwhile, Hobbs is blinded by remorse. Says he poisoned the planet, added to the inanity and brokered a hobo's third case of the clap. Hobbs took it hard. Eventually we found him in the photog's lounge, sewing his eyelids shut with tiny strips of gaffer's tape. Now he sits in the dark in Room 13, making shadow puppets only he can see. 

But YOU can help the residual victims of telecommunications abuse. Just send a blank check, valid Lotto ticket or complimentary keg to The Lenslinger Institute  and we'll see that the lost souls at Camera Manor hear just how much we enjoyed your generosity. Meanwhile, feel free to snicker at the very next hysterical neighbor who rockets to the top of your Twitter feed. But remember...

A guy with two credits of film school under his belt and three bucks in his billfold is a terrible thing to waste.

Blood on the Moon

In a world where ambush interviews often lead to fisticuffs, isn’t it refreshing when one goes goofy instead? That’s exactly what happened recently when WJLA reporter Kris Van Cleave and photojournalist Brandon Mowry took on a local carpet cleaning company suspected of sketchy bookkeeping and unscrupulous suckage. It could have ended there, with a terse denial and quick eviction of said camera crew. But the man being questioned, whom will call “Dumbass”, turns in a performance so textured. so nuanced, so completely ill-advised, that the resulting clip is playing all summer long at the Dollar Theater in my head. Now, if you’ll kindly stop kicking the back of my seat, we’ll get through this...

The first fifty seconds is pretty standard fare. Van Cleave questions the man about getting his floor covering cleaned as hidden cameras rolled. But shortly before the minute mark, the camera comes out of hiding and stupidity ensues. Flush with the realization that he’s about to make the news, the upbraided sensation dashes from his place of employ, forcing Van Cleave and Mowry to join in pursuit, lest the suddenly agile upholsterer runs completely out of camera range...

And then God blew milk out of his nose.

At least I did, for as soon as Dumbass split the scenery, he took a tumble, biting it hard on the pavement outside and emitting the kind of mortally wounded Girl Scout noise that causes News Directors to shout when the photogs gather around and guffaw at a particularly pleasing sequence. But the fun doesn’t stop there. With a dazzling flash of ass-crack, Dude gets up, breaks left, breaks right and breaks left again before circling a van and finally running off. Mowry and his camera follow, as Van Cleave does an admirable job of keeping the wisecracks to a minimum (my favorite: “Does this mean you’re not gonna clean my carpet?”).



All the while, the reluctant interviewee displays a brazen case of ass and elbows, at one point nearly running in front of a moving car, a risky move that could jettisoned his news debut to the very top of the next available broadcast. Luckily, no one got hurt, though I’ve put a definite kink in my spleen laughing at the raw footage. As it sputters to a close, dude is still running, no doubt to earn his fellow floor covering saboteurs that the jig is most definitely up. Wherever he went, this track-suited fugitive left a definite impression, raising the act of running away like a leetle girl to the level of performance of art. Bravo, Good Sir, Bravo. You deserve to go viral and possibly even score your own reality show development deal. Why this hasn’t been Songify’d already could be the subject of another investigation - one I’d be more than happy to assist with any reenactments. You bring the fancycam...

I’ll bring the ass-crack.