Shööting for Brüno

Sure, that dude Brüno's got grapes, but so too does his crew. Of course, I've wondered about the hearty souls who follow Sacha Baron Cohen into those cringe-worthy incidents since before he was Borat. Maybe it's because I've escorted hundreds of reporters (and a couple of real clowns) into many an expert's offices over the past two decades. Most often I'm permitted to daydream - as long as I keep it in focus - but there have been a few times where I've wondered whether or not I was being Punk'd. Alas, Ashton Kutcher never once lept from the curtains to envelop me in a bear hug of insincerity, so I have to assume the stupid questions, awkward pauses and moronic non-answers I've recorded over the years were straight. Still, it doesn't make me want to vanish any less when the toothy news-reader I've so carefully lit mangles the college professor's name because she was too busy penciling in her eyebrows on the way over to do A LITTLE FREAKIN' RESEARCH!

But I digress. What I logged in to talk about was the near genius of Sasha Baron Cohen, the reckless satirist who's been cracking me up since he first bumrushed the scene as Ali G. His toilet humor I'd happily flush, but Sasha's habit of saying unthinkable things to gladhanding tight-asses often makes me expel food matter of the plasma. What can I say? I enjoy watching authority figures shift in their seat. I just wouldn't want to be in the same zip code when Cohen shows up for the interview in butt-floss and a bad accent. Does that make me weak? Perhaps. Southern, certainly. No, the photogs who drag glass behind Bruno must have pokerfaces onn their chins, running shoes on their feet and not a lot on their bladders. How else could they capture the kind of tape being played in the latest trailer? Don't ask me. It'll be nine months or so before I catch it on pay-cable...

(Oh, please know that the moon-eyed shooter pictured above has ZILCH to do with Bruno, Borat, Ali G. or any other future Cohen creation. He' s actually a journeyman lenslinger some call 'Spike', who - according to Senator Robert Hollins - is a nat sound master craftsman. Here's hoping he's got a sense of humor. Sure looks like it...)

Walkin' on the Sun

June is history, Independence Day has come and gone and it's about to get wicked HOT. Longtime blog visitors will tell you these ain't my finest hours, as I'll no doubt be heaping scorn on the elements well into September. What can I tell ya? Despite being a Southeastern biped covered in fur, I have the core temperature of a tuxedo penguin. Thus I suffer mightily when the summer sun begins to slur, when the mercury shoots past ninety by breakfast time, when a photog's underwear gains mass and volume before that first frantic phone call of the day hurls them into the humid void. Soooo, to reinforce just how much I detest the heat, I give the Top 5 ways I'd rather spend my lack of summer vacation...

I'd like to try my hand at Consultancy. You know, rock a black turtleneck and blazer combo, jet out of town on some poor legacy broadcaster's dime, hole up in a swanky hotel conference room and tell a captive audience of desperate executives how their livelihoods will be saved only if they destroy all video cameras weighing over five pounds and hire that pimply kid in the film fest t-shirt... I don't see how anyone could possibly break a sweat doing that...

Or perhaps I'll be an Ice Cream Man. Sure, I'm probably not pervy enough to be considered, but if I had the keys to one of those white box vans, I'd lock the door and crawl in the biggest freezer. First though, I'd unplug that damn polka music, for if there's one thing I don't need when I'm hibernating on ice is some snot-nosed crumb-snatcher demanding I pony up a couple of Klondike bars all because he found a wrinkled five spot in the family sofa! You know, come to think of it, I'm probably not cut out to peddle Push-ups..

I could always score a job as a Bailiff. No, two-tone brown polyester ain't exactly the look I'm going for, but have you seen how much rest those guys get in the heat of the afternoon? I once watched one dude sleep through opening arguments only to snap awake and yell at some skate punk for smackin' his gum! All I'd have to do is get a flat-top haircut, master the laser pointer and develop a deep seeded hatred of men wearing hats inside. I already despise cell phones! What? I'd have to tackle the occasional jump-suited jackal? Man, I'm a lover, not a fighter...

Maybe Marriage Counselor is the way to go. Granted, I've never stepped foot in any kind of post-wedding therapy, but I have been hitched for damn near twenty years. Throw in teh fact that I have two teenage daughters and I should be qualified to help husbands everywhere. I could teach them my favorites like "Yes, Dear!", "Of course you're right!" and the ever popular "I'd like to go to my room and think about what I said!"... Yes, with genuine lines like that, there's no telling what good I could do, whether I was in private practice or trying to ply my wisdom on the evening new-- Wait! THAT'S IT!

I'll be a Newscast Producer! From what the ones I know tell me, it's a pretty tough gig, but I dunno... I like to write, don't mind watching Ellen and am more than willing to scour YouTube for something to amuse my cubical mates. Then, later in the day, I could pound out a rundown, weave my stories together with spoken word cliches and douse the whole thing in promos, anchor blather and overwrought weather updates! Not only that, I could help shape young news minds, read tea leaves - I mean overnight ratings each morning and work hand in soft supple hand with returning news crew----

On second thought, I'll be lying under the live trucks should anyone need news story shot....

(Thanks to Erin Winking for the use of his photo.)

...When People Stop Being Polite...

When word reached me that a cameraman from 'The Real World' clashed with a crew from WUSA, I asked the same question you probably did: They still tape 'The Real World'? Apparently, they do and this year producers of the groundbreaking reality show are following their cast of aspiring models, rappers and actors all over the nation's capitol as Washington becomes the backdrop for all that lusty teenage angst. Meanwhile, the denizens of D.C. are less than thrilled but more than curious about the 'reality' currently being contrived in their town. Enter Lindsey Mastis, a VJ from WUSA, who had the unsavory task of interviewing the crowd of bloggers and fans outside The Real World house. Soon enough she found an affable chap to chat with, but that's where MTV cameras tried to up the ante by sending their own cameras to interrupt the interview. What followed was a case of lens intimidation that has to be watched repeatedly to be believed...

Now I suppose the pasty guy in the Apple t-shirt was just following MTV's orders, but he so flagrantly blocked Mastis' shot, that he has to be classified a complete douche bag anyway. Sadly, Mastis didn't protest ( she did giggle) and even signed an MTV release so she her non altercation might pop up on the show. You know I guess there's no controversy here at all but at the risk of sounding sexist I have to ask ... Would Apple Boy have done the same with your garden variety news crew? In this case, all he had to do was crowd out a cute female with a baked potato-cam. What would have happened had he tried that with a 300 pound lifer with 20 years of experience and twenty-five pounds of camera? Hard to say, but I know some fellas who would have taken enormous offense and while I don't condone violence, it's not hard to imagine emergency medical technicians being called with great haste to remove a beefy photog elbow from Apple Boy's throat.

They wouldn't have signed releases either...

Millions of Peaches

I'd barely stepped foot in the newsroom when someone glanced at me and uttered the P-word. I didn't fight it. I just crawled back into my mobile cocoon, popped in a favorite CD and kicked it to Biscoe. Actually, I drove w-a-y past that highway hamlet, coming damn near Candor before finding the sort of emporium I was looking for. Johnson's: a roadside oasis boasting cold ice cream, sweet people and super fruit. It was there I gorged for a full forty minutes, filling my lens with plenty of Prunus persica before striking out for the orchard that bore those glorious orbs. That's where things got sticky. See, what used to be silent laminate wedged between the seats is now a smug touchscreen insisting I ignore the new by-pass and twelve miles of clogged logging road instead... Okay, I got a little lost, but I'm tellin' ya, that smarmy bitch inside my GPS don't know squat about Montgomery County! That - or I got distracted by that peach cobbler ice cream concoction I juggled over the wheel ... Turbulence or not, THAT thing was righteous!

Anyway, by the time I barrelled into the orchard I was fat, dumb and unhappy to be late so I sprayed the place while shouting questions the man who ran the place, a nice old chap with hearing aids in both ears. I tried to smile a lot to let him know I wasn't dangerous, but he had to wonder why the rumpled TV man with sherbet on his chin was in such a gol'durn' hurry. (Sorry, Pops, I'll take the whole tour later.) When finally I did roll up on El Ocho, I was saddle-sore and still swatting fruit flies, but I had to finish the task! Sooo, I locked myself in an edit bay, sliceed out a few soundbites and clumped a fee cliches around them. Soon after I popped out of my bay to find Bob Buckley wandering by. With little more than a "How do you do?", I jammed my new words into his hand and pushed him into an audio booth. The next fifty minutes I spent hunched over a candy-colored keyboard, watching a timeline form at the flick of a sticky fingertip. I'd hoped to go funky with the musical bit, but I barely had enough time to fill in the black...

Still, I sent it to the servers down the hall with no great degree of shame - a good minute and a half before it eventually aired. That's a lifetime in my business and - deadline aside - my finished piece was no great shakes. But as I headed for the door, I couldn't help but feel like a winner anyway. I even noticed a co-worker's raised eyebrow of respect as I brushed by her out the door.

Of course it could have been the chunks of waffle cone stuck in my beard.

Escape from Camp MJ

YOU may be hitting the road this long holiday weekend, but many of my West Coast brethren are spending Independence Day camped outside Neverland. That's right, a full week after the King of Pop assumed room temperature, the Fourth Estate is still feverishly storming his old castle. Lauer scouring the walk-in closets, Larry King hunched over the breakfast nook, Geraldo threatening to blow the dumb-waiter sky high for all the world to see ... is it any wonder the technical set stays outside? That's where you'll find second generation broadcaster and friend of the blog Sean Browning; apparently he's taken to splaying himself on the pavement, where high def histrionics and below the belt speculation appear almost logical at a certain worm-level. Me - I just wonder how many sat trucks are parked outside Karl Malden's old crib...