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...