Interesting article about Detroit's newspaper woes. Maybe the answer is to try to sell it to Canada- I mean the city not the paper.
A far more interesting article about Detroit from Harper's. Any article that can combine an article about Detroit with Ozymandius is impressive.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The crumbling temple
They say it's a recession when your neighbor loses his job, but a depression when you lose yours. What about if the job was that of a friend and colleague- someone not close but well-respected? It hit home today that we are literally watching the Temple crumble around us. The edifice is really crashing down as the semester drags on.
I realize I had previously been somewhat glib, but I got a wake up call about what scary shape the news industry is in. I found out that my friend "Sam" of the "Relation" was let go in some massive restructuring. He was the international editor when I was press officer for the Israeli Consulate. We sparred but always with respect and admiration. He was supposed to be an interview for our international reporting project- we'll see if he still wants to participate. I feel like a vulture circling a still-warm body as I am trying to contact him. Yet more importantly, I want to contact him to offer my support.
I realize I had previously been somewhat glib, but I got a wake up call about what scary shape the news industry is in. I found out that my friend "Sam" of the "Relation" was let go in some massive restructuring. He was the international editor when I was press officer for the Israeli Consulate. We sparred but always with respect and admiration. He was supposed to be an interview for our international reporting project- we'll see if he still wants to participate. I feel like a vulture circling a still-warm body as I am trying to contact him. Yet more importantly, I want to contact him to offer my support.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
NY Times Global edition
I just saw the link pop up to view the NY Times' global edition. Fascinating. Also fascinating is an article by Michael Hirschorn of the Atlantic on whether the NY Times can survive, called "End Times."
Meanwhile, an interesting piece on the three people who killed the newspaper industry.
Yes, I realize this blog has become more aggregating than pontificating, but my rationale is that I figure we need less voices and more direction to good content.
Meanwhile, an interesting piece on the three people who killed the newspaper industry.
Yes, I realize this blog has become more aggregating than pontificating, but my rationale is that I figure we need less voices and more direction to good content.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The last of an era
This came to me from a friend Jocelyn, who spent time in Bombay. We caught up there during my travels. It came to her from a fellow named Scott Steinberg. I don't know him or his story. All I know is that there are things that are disappearing that I care far more about than the newspaper industry. I spent time in Calcutta, and saw the letter writers, the picture is mine, but the memory is from Scott:
Hardly anyone anymore comes to see Saresh Mahato, one of the last letter writers of Calcutta.
"No more letters," he said after I asked him to write me one. "Stamps ... and insurance."
Then he pretended to ignore me, staring at items on his makeshift table set up in front of the General Post Office, a chalk-white architectural curiosity on the western side of Dalhousie Square.
About a year and a half ago, I had read an article in the New York Times about the professional scribes outside the main Mumbai post office who pen letters for illiterates: prostitutes, migrants, coolies, and other hardscrabble types in need of a skilled hand to send a dispatch home -- or worse, official correspondence to civil servants or bill collectors.
It's just one of several business being swept aside in the name of progress and convenience. In India, there are almost 400 million cell phone users. If you don't have a phone, your friend does. No need to take the time to dictate your worldly problems to a letter writer, and then shell out 20 rupees for the service. If an official letter is required, the whiz kids at the Internet cafes will whip one up for a good price.
I didn't have the chance to look for the letter writers in Mumbai four and a half months ago. When Jennifer and I arrived in Calcutta, I made a point to attend to unfinished business.
"You write better," said Saresh, a handsome man in his late 40s who grew up in the much-maligned state of Bihar.
"But I can't write this letter," I said.
Saresh and I went back and forth. Please. No. Please. No. And then something broke, the way it can only India -- the feeling of a billion people against, suddenly for.
"One page?" he asked, reluctantly offering up a blank sheet.
"One page."
"To?"
"My step-father, Fred."
"What is step? Father is father."
We were getting somewhere.
I told Saresh what I wanted: a letter to Fred explaining that I think about him often as slips deeper into Parkinson's Disease. I wanted more than a postcard -- something with rough edges, gleaming with truth.
"From the heart," he said. "You should have done one thing -- come in the evening when there's no traffic. Then I can think."
There is always traffic in Calcutta.
But he started. In the first paragraph his cursive loops were tight and the line slants were sharp, belying his nervousness. He was out of practice. He took long pauses between sentences; when he wrote, he didn't stray from my dictation.
We pushed on. Customers came up wanting to buy and sell stamps. Saresh ignored them. A naked man, with the skeleton of a small dinosaur, was fifty feet behind us dying a slow death -- his penis hanging in his beggar's cup. The heat pressed on the pollution, which pressed on our lungs.
In the letter, Saresh introduced himself to Fred, explaining that his industry was at least as old as the post office itself -- 140 years and counting. He said he was writing the letter, probably one of the last he would ever draft, for fifty rupees, or one dollar.
Half-way through the letter we crossed the street for a break. Three rupees each got us milky, smoky masala tea served in clay cups. He paid. When we finished the tea, we smashed the cups on the ground, as we should.
"You are my most interesting customer in twenty years," he said.
I took the hyperbolic compliment as his way of saying, "I like you." He already knew I liked him.
My letter was now our letter. Saresh picked up his pen and told the story of the journey that Jennifer and I were completing. He spoke of India -- the speed of some things, the inertia of others. He described the fine line between good health and bad. He wrote with more confidence, taking the liberty to stray from what I told him, as he should.
We came to the end of the page.
"Do you want me to write more?" he asked.
Of course I did. All day, through the night, into the summer. I hated to leave, to let go of this, to have to cap four and a half months. But it was time, the moment for the sincerest of sincerelys.
Despite some poor grammar, his last letter -- unlike this one -- was perfect. But it contained one lie: I didn't pay him 50 rupees. Though he has three kids at home and an ailing mother in Bihar, Saresh refused to take my money. I pushed, but not too hard.
When a man hangs up his pen, he should be able to do so with dignity.
 |
| From Calcutta |
Hardly anyone anymore comes to see Saresh Mahato, one of the last letter writers of Calcutta.
"No more letters," he said after I asked him to write me one. "Stamps ... and insurance."
Then he pretended to ignore me, staring at items on his makeshift table set up in front of the General Post Office, a chalk-white architectural curiosity on the western side of Dalhousie Square.
About a year and a half ago, I had read an article in the New York Times about the professional scribes outside the main Mumbai post office who pen letters for illiterates: prostitutes, migrants, coolies, and other hardscrabble types in need of a skilled hand to send a dispatch home -- or worse, official correspondence to civil servants or bill collectors.
It's just one of several business being swept aside in the name of progress and convenience. In India, there are almost 400 million cell phone users. If you don't have a phone, your friend does. No need to take the time to dictate your worldly problems to a letter writer, and then shell out 20 rupees for the service. If an official letter is required, the whiz kids at the Internet cafes will whip one up for a good price.
I didn't have the chance to look for the letter writers in Mumbai four and a half months ago. When Jennifer and I arrived in Calcutta, I made a point to attend to unfinished business.
"You write better," said Saresh, a handsome man in his late 40s who grew up in the much-maligned state of Bihar.
"But I can't write this letter," I said.
Saresh and I went back and forth. Please. No. Please. No. And then something broke, the way it can only India -- the feeling of a billion people against, suddenly for.
"One page?" he asked, reluctantly offering up a blank sheet.
"One page."
"To?"
"My step-father, Fred."
"What is step? Father is father."
We were getting somewhere.
I told Saresh what I wanted: a letter to Fred explaining that I think about him often as slips deeper into Parkinson's Disease. I wanted more than a postcard -- something with rough edges, gleaming with truth.
"From the heart," he said. "You should have done one thing -- come in the evening when there's no traffic. Then I can think."
There is always traffic in Calcutta.
But he started. In the first paragraph his cursive loops were tight and the line slants were sharp, belying his nervousness. He was out of practice. He took long pauses between sentences; when he wrote, he didn't stray from my dictation.
We pushed on. Customers came up wanting to buy and sell stamps. Saresh ignored them. A naked man, with the skeleton of a small dinosaur, was fifty feet behind us dying a slow death -- his penis hanging in his beggar's cup. The heat pressed on the pollution, which pressed on our lungs.
In the letter, Saresh introduced himself to Fred, explaining that his industry was at least as old as the post office itself -- 140 years and counting. He said he was writing the letter, probably one of the last he would ever draft, for fifty rupees, or one dollar.
Half-way through the letter we crossed the street for a break. Three rupees each got us milky, smoky masala tea served in clay cups. He paid. When we finished the tea, we smashed the cups on the ground, as we should.
"You are my most interesting customer in twenty years," he said.
I took the hyperbolic compliment as his way of saying, "I like you." He already knew I liked him.
My letter was now our letter. Saresh picked up his pen and told the story of the journey that Jennifer and I were completing. He spoke of India -- the speed of some things, the inertia of others. He described the fine line between good health and bad. He wrote with more confidence, taking the liberty to stray from what I told him, as he should.
We came to the end of the page.
"Do you want me to write more?" he asked.
Of course I did. All day, through the night, into the summer. I hated to leave, to let go of this, to have to cap four and a half months. But it was time, the moment for the sincerest of sincerelys.
Despite some poor grammar, his last letter -- unlike this one -- was perfect. But it contained one lie: I didn't pay him 50 rupees. Though he has three kids at home and an ailing mother in Bihar, Saresh refused to take my money. I pushed, but not too hard.
When a man hangs up his pen, he should be able to do so with dignity.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
After the Fall
A fascinating piece in the LALA Times about what happens in a community after the paper fails. Check out this piece on the Sopris Sun, a volunteer paper that just sprung up in Colorado after the small town paper died.
Iche bin ein Marylander
Kudos to my Senator Ben Cardin for proposing a bill to allow newspapers to restructure as nonprofits.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Life without
This interesting graphic comes from my friend Julep. She lives in St. Louis, and states, "the paper here is so bad I can't even look at it. I can't even look at it online. we'd probably be better off without it."
Monday, March 16, 2009
Raggedy Rags
"I come not to praise Cesar but to bury him."
-Marc Antony
I was privy to another fair rag, the San Diego Union-Tribune. I'm not sure if it is worse than the San Fran Chron, but it was close. The paper was free of any news or substance; it serves better purpose as cage liner. Perhaps, alluding to our second week's guest, we might have to destroy the newspaper industry in order to save it.
-Marc Antony
I was privy to another fair rag, the San Diego Union-Tribune. I'm not sure if it is worse than the San Fran Chron, but it was close. The paper was free of any news or substance; it serves better purpose as cage liner. Perhaps, alluding to our second week's guest, we might have to destroy the newspaper industry in order to save it.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Star's eclipse
I was wandering around downtown, when I found this plaque for the defunct Los Angeles Star- Lala land's first rag.
"Site of Los Angeles Star. State Historic Landmark 789. 300 Block of North Main
On May 17, 1851, newspaper publishing began in Los Angeles when the first issue of the La Estrella de Los Angeles was printed in a small two-story frame house fronting Los Angeles Street. The bilingual weekly paper had four 18" x 24" pages, two of which were in Spanish and two were in English. The newspaper moved the following year to the site on Main Street memorialized by the State of California plaque.
In 1852, the Star published a series of 22 articles written by Hugo Reid, a Scottish immigrant living in present day Baldwin Park. These articles, which are the most comprehensive and thorough ethnographic portrait of the Native Americans of Los Angeles County, exposed their plight at the twilight of their existence.
During the Civil War, the newspaper espoused succession and the Southern cause and finally in October, 1864, it ceased publishing. (Ed note: italics inserted because that last point is too weird) The printing press was sold to Phineas Banning, who used it to publish the Wilmington Journal. Later, the press was used to publish Orange County's first newspaper, the Anaheim Gazette.
In 1868, the Star began publishing again. During the 1870s, the Star went through a series of owners until 1879, when it went bankrupt and ceased publishing for good."
How bizarre, an LA paper calling for Confederate succession. I was planning on using this for my Then and Now presentation, but I have something else cooking over Greek fire.
"Site of Los Angeles Star. State Historic Landmark 789. 300 Block of North Main
On May 17, 1851, newspaper publishing began in Los Angeles when the first issue of the La Estrella de Los Angeles was printed in a small two-story frame house fronting Los Angeles Street. The bilingual weekly paper had four 18" x 24" pages, two of which were in Spanish and two were in English. The newspaper moved the following year to the site on Main Street memorialized by the State of California plaque.
In 1852, the Star published a series of 22 articles written by Hugo Reid, a Scottish immigrant living in present day Baldwin Park. These articles, which are the most comprehensive and thorough ethnographic portrait of the Native Americans of Los Angeles County, exposed their plight at the twilight of their existence.
During the Civil War, the newspaper espoused succession and the Southern cause and finally in October, 1864, it ceased publishing. (Ed note: italics inserted because that last point is too weird) The printing press was sold to Phineas Banning, who used it to publish the Wilmington Journal. Later, the press was used to publish Orange County's first newspaper, the Anaheim Gazette.
In 1868, the Star began publishing again. During the 1870s, the Star went through a series of owners until 1879, when it went bankrupt and ceased publishing for good."
How bizarre, an LA paper calling for Confederate succession. I was planning on using this for my Then and Now presentation, but I have something else cooking over Greek fire.
O Lazarus of California
"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."
-Mark Twain
Did the California section get revived? There seemed to be a whole California section in my sunday newspaper. Did the LA Times get so much flack that the change didn't last a week?
-Mark Twain
Did the California section get revived? There seemed to be a whole California section in my sunday newspaper. Did the LA Times get so much flack that the change didn't last a week?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Newseum Front Page Flash
Check out this really cool graphic from the Newseum: Today's Front Page. It shows the newspaper front page for newspapers all over the globe.
Color-blind only
Watching the Metamorphosis presentation, and realizing that it discriminates against a not-very-vocal minority: the colorblind. I am colorblind and I can't see a difference in a bunch of the slide's graphs.
On such a winter's day
"all the leaves are brown
and the sky is grey"
-Mamas and Papas, "California Dreaming"
So long California section of the LA Times. I don't know if it disappeared today, or today was the just the first day I noticed it. It came to my attention when I noticed the obituaries in the front page section. Somehow that seems too apropos. I know many were furious about the end of the California section, but honestly I don't see the big deal. The California section was a few local stories and the dead pages. Not such a big thing to tuck that into the more widely read front section. I actually think it makes sense to have the state and local news combined in with the national and international stuff. Granted, I am not a Californian and have only been here for a few months, so that skews my perspective on the local news. But so not a big deal like the critics were contending.
and the sky is grey"
-Mamas and Papas, "California Dreaming"
So long California section of the LA Times. I don't know if it disappeared today, or today was the just the first day I noticed it. It came to my attention when I noticed the obituaries in the front page section. Somehow that seems too apropos. I know many were furious about the end of the California section, but honestly I don't see the big deal. The California section was a few local stories and the dead pages. Not such a big thing to tuck that into the more widely read front section. I actually think it makes sense to have the state and local news combined in with the national and international stuff. Granted, I am not a Californian and have only been here for a few months, so that skews my perspective on the local news. But so not a big deal like the critics were contending.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday news roundup
Nothing like sitting in the hammock, basking in the warm LA sun on a lazy sunday morning and reading about the demise of journalism. Can't do that with my laptop, the sun would cause too much glare on the screen. O simple pleasures. A good piece by James Rainey about how the quirky SF Chron fit the quirky city. Also a good cartoon below:
Meanwhile, I heard Prof. Westphal on Marketplace last week and asked if he tweeted to promote the story. Full disclosure, I may scoff at twitter, but I ran to that application and to update my facebook status to shamelessly promote my own Marketplace piece.
Meanwhile, I heard Prof. Westphal on Marketplace last week and asked if he tweeted to promote the story. Full disclosure, I may scoff at twitter, but I ran to that application and to update my facebook status to shamelessly promote my own Marketplace piece.
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