When the returning soldier pops out of a kindergarten closet, everyone stays on sticks.

Four minutes into the press conference, no one is rolling.

Enough collective battery power to fuel the International Space Station for at least a few parsecs.

Not a microphone flag in sight.

Three of the men present would look quite at home with an eye-patch and shoulder parrot. 

Little to no fidgeting,

Free food never consumed on sight. What you smuggle out in cargo pockets is between you and the Lord. 

“Black eyes, lifeless. Like a doll’s eyes. When he looks at ya, he don’t even seem to be livin’. Then he hits that litle button and those black eyes roll over white…”

And the number one sign you’re in a room full of veteran photogs?

That oversized folder the PR chick just handed you is suddenly missing.