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[Viewfinder BLUES] The Man Who Fell to Earth

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  • [Viewfinder BLUES] 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 gotten underway. I was outside the federal courthouse the day 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, parking nightmares and the strangely unsatisfying sensation of televising a federal trial. See the big boys allow no recorders of any kind inside their courtroom, turning the sidewalks outside into a loose confederation of lenses that hardened into a crushing scrum every time a certain someone sashayed 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 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 funds to cover up the resulting love child, well, that's his choice to ignore some very expensive legal advice. Throw in the fact he did this while claiming to adore his 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 ******* back 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 learned quickly that no one there had any thing good to say about the telegenic candidate. '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 the Secret Service (who have some rather Edwards-esque problems on their hands right now), know the cross-hairs in question are attached to my camera and the only ill will I wish upon John is the Trump-like disintegration of his famous coif. You wanna screw with this dude? Mess with his looks and he might very well implode, for one gets the feeling his day begins and ends with extensive 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?