The next miracle (v11.1): Owen Youngman

Knight Professor of Digital Media Strategy, Medill / Northwestern

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Don and Lou, and Lou and me

Lou Grant meets the future of newspaper technology, 1977

Lou Grant meets the future of newspaper technology, 1977

My former Tribune colleague Don Terry, who is reporting these days for the Chicago News Cooperative, has written a feature for the Columbia Journalism Review in which he views the current state of the newspaper business partly through the prism of a 32-year-old television show. As you will have surmised from the headline and image above, that show is “Lou Grant,” which for five years gave viewers a whiff of both The Front Page and the front page.

“Lou Grant” is pretty much the last TV series I ever watched, other than the Steven Spielberg-produced cartoon “Animaniacs.” That I watched it at all was an accident of scheduling: it began airing on Tuesday nights, and I was off from my job in the sports slot on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. That I stayed with it was probably due to the fact that its depiction the fictional Los Angeles Tribune newsroom seemed to get a lot of things right, as I was reminded first by Don’s piece, then by going to Hulu to watch the premiere episode last night.

If you’re interested, it would be far more effective to get the flavor of “Lou” from Don’s piece than to have me recreate a sliver of it, so go there (and you certainly should go there before going to Hulu. Of course, you’d expect me to say that; after all, I downloaded a Hulu player in December of 2007 but had never even fired it up).  From the remove of 32-plus years, though, I was particularly struck by the image above.

Lou is waiting to interview with an old pal for a job that he doesn’t understand will be city editor of the Tribune. Asked to wait, he turns around and comes face to screen with one of those CRT’s that, before too long, would replace the clattering typewriters in the newsroom, but for then was sitting, blank and mute, on a table outside the managing editor’s office.  He pauses.  He bends over.  He reaches to tap its keyboard. (I can’t seem to tell if it’s a Harris or an Atex or an Ontel or some other animal entirely.  He can’t seem to tell if touching it will singe his fingertips.) He looks up at the ME’s secretary, grins sheepishly, and walks away from this “machine,” as he refers to it shortly thereafter.

Before long, in the tradition of large metro newspapers everywhere, he is ensconced at the city desk without the benefit of a moment’s further training beyond that which he brought in the door minutes earlier.  He doesn’t need to be schooled in using that ungainly box, because the skills of his trade are working the phone, smelling the news, and flipping an underreported, overwritten story back at a hotshot reporter.

The good news is, those skills are still important; they are not going to come and go like the ungainly, literally dumb terminal Lou was inspecting above. (Of course, you don’t need quite as supple a wrist for the flipping part as you used to, if you’re quick on the double-click.) I’m thinking I’ll be reminded of other skills not to forget when I fire up the Hulu desktop for Episode 2, perhaps even before another couple years have passed.

The year’s miracles in review

If you need to fill the time between now and Monday morning (or whenever you resume your normal routine), here’s your chance to make sure you didn’t miss any of last year’s most popular ruminations here at owenyoungman.com.

(Hmmm; four of the top 10 are from October, and two more are from November. I must be promoting better of late.)

Happy new year.

How America was 2-1-3′d (Oct. 6): In which we are reminded what made the LA Times the LA Times, and how the LA Times made Los Angeles, and how the LA Times sometimes made me crazy. Past tense in all cases.

There were giants . . . no, there are giants (Oct. 16): In which I hang with a variety of legends at a Tribune reunion in Greektown. As at most such events, you remember some of what you want to say, but hear mostly what others want to tell you. As at few such events, you also get to observe David Axelrod’s Secret Service detail.

The future, not the pasture (May 29): In which a gathering of Tribune alumni leads to discussions of philanthropy, public policy, health care, higher education, and journalism, more or less but not precisely in that order.

Co-operative-etition, Chicago style (Nov. 24): In which we do not look behind the scenes at the Chicago News Cooperative. Rather, we look at the choices readers had on Friday and Sunday, its debut days in the NYT.

Adventures in paid content, with actual payment (May 21): In which we begin our second foray into the world of Internet paid content, on a personal level, and display a trophy of the early Web economy.

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It was 40 years ago today

stub

My first pay stub came with a motto: "Support those who support the Star-Beacon." Still true today.

There used to be lots of jobs, good jobs, in the newspaper business.

I had one. It paid me $1.60 an hour, which meant if I stayed really busy on the weekends and in the evenings, I might make $60 before taxes. Pretty good for a high school kid.

How good? In 2009 dollars, the government’s CPI calculator tells me, that would be about $353.  More than gas money.  More than a paper route.

newsboyIt was the Ashtabula Star-Beacon, a 6-day-a-week P.M. paper.  And, in fact, earlier in the fall, I had indeed been delivering it. I even wound up on the cover of its annual “salute to carriers” special section (right). I actually hadn’t been a paperboy all that long, as it took me far too long to learn to ride a bicycle.  But my route, fairly close to my house and the high school, was a decent way to get me out of the library and into the out-of-doors, and like I said, the Star-Beacon was a P.M., so even at the age of 16, I was still doing it. (The kids who delivered the Cleveland Plain Dealer had to get up waaaay too early in the morning.)

In November, though, the sports editor of the Star-Beacon called Tony Chiacchiero, football coach and head guidance counselor at Ashtabula High School, looking for someone to work part-time covering games and taking photos.  I had spent the previous two football seasons as statistician for the Panther football team, traipsing up and down the sidelines with a clipboard – a job that Coach Chiacchiero had given me because, in his completely accurate guidance-counselor estimation, I could use a little socialization.

“I have just the kid,” the coach said.  Or words to that effect.

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