Spatial journalism

          Good evening, 919 Gang. There is a world of things I don’t understand – a long list. It just got longer.

          REX SALMON wonders:

          I am stumped by a journalism class coming out at SDSU. Please, if you spatial intellectuals among us would explain to me about spatial journalism. Dr. Amy Schmitz Weiss, the instructor, calls it “a new form of storytelling.” Dr. Joyce M. Gattas, dean of the College of Professional Studies and Fine Arts as SDSU, presented this class in today’s email. Probably all graduates received this.

          “Spatial Journalism: A New Frontier

          “Dr. Amy Schmitz Weiss conducts research on spatial journalism at SDSU on a grant from University Grants Program (UGP).

          “She says spatial journalism is a practice on the forefront of journalistic ingenuity.

          “Spatial journalism incorporates space, place and/or location (physical, augmented, and virtual) into the process and practice of journalism. In the spring of 2012, Schmitz Weiss introduced spatial journalism to SDSU with the inception of the AztecCast application for mobile devices. (The well-designed email spells AztecCast also as AzteCast – your choice in spatial journalism? Rex asks.)

          “’AzteCast allowed students to find out about events and information pertinent to any given building (on campus),’ said Schmitz Weiss. ‘If they were in front of the music or science building, for example, they would have access to a list of events and other information on any given day.’

          “Schmitz Weiss’ research currently focuses on how to understand the media of physical, augmented, and virtual locations and decipher how each unique entity may develop in the future. (Head still spinning?)     “The shifting focus from physical location to more abstract forms is a progression that is especially of interest. The UGP funding allows Schmitz Weiss to study how social media and news around the country can integrate and implement spatial journalism and the challenges inherent in doing so.

          “Schmitz Weiss has learned first-hand of the power of spatial journalism. “This is the beginning of a new way to reach audiences; thus far, it has proven to be a great way for locals to be intellectually engaged with the happenings of their communities, and that has great benefits for them,” she said.

          “Schmitz Weiss’ research is at the forefront of the development of spatial journalism, and is relevant to local media organizations such as the San Diego Union-Tribune and San Diego’s NBC affiliate, both outlets have shown interest in acquiring geo-location technology.

          “Schmitz Weiss will teach a class on spatial journalism in spring of 2018. Its focus will be on thinking critically and building a skill set while combining journalistic mobile locative media with social network theory. Ultimately, she said, ‘the goal is to develop a different idea and understanding of a new form of storytelling, but also of journalism and how we as a society consume information.’”

          REBER: I hope someone can tell us what this is all about.

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          KENT FREELAND writes:

          A quick update on our recent thread about major networks omitting specific locations in news stories: The three major networks were still following in Monday night news the fatal shooting and suspected hate crime in Olathe, Kansas.

          CBS finally mentioned the city for the first time, making it the second mention in nine or ten stories in three days on all three networks. The others are still saying just "in Kansas." (I record the evening news on all three every day, so I see them all.)

          One other mention on another network yesterday said the killing was in Kansas City. Though a map indicates that Olathe appears to be 20-25 miles from Kansas City, Wikipedia says it is now considered part of the greater KC metropolitan area. It also says Olathe has a population of 127,000. So it may be a suburb, but not exactly a whistle stop unworthy of ID.

          REBER: It’s a county seat, so it’s more than your bedroom suburb.

          PRESTON TUREGANO writes:

          I suspect one reason why TV news channels are so vague about geographical details is due to anchors’ news writers. In most cases, the on-air talent doesn’t write their own words that make it to a teleprompter that’s rolling the news script. On a local level, TV news writers are usually young up-and-coming scribes, some of whom aren’t terribly savvy. Some stories are pulled off the internet and re-written, while others are fed to a station that is an affiliate of, or owned by, a TV news network. In any case, location details should be important. “Today in Texas…today in California…today in Europe, etc.” just don’t do. I suggest anyone annoyed by the omission of “Where” call or email the offending station. I’ve done it occasionally since retiring and in some cases a report (in an endless regurgitation of news) is updated. If you’re using a phone, ask for the newsroom, or push the option button indicating you want to report a breaking story. In other words, don’t give the station a pass. Nationally, the NBC, MSNBC, CBS, ABC, CNN or Fox News “Contact Us” person will never respond.

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          DON BAUDER writes:

          Has any 919er spent some vacation time in Borrego Springs in the last year or so? I got a report that the water tastes terrible and the restaurant food is mediocre at best, as it has been in the past. Can anyone send along their experience, good or bad? I am particularly interested in the water, which I have written about in some columns several years ago. My email is don.bauder@mac.com.

          Those reporting on Borrego can do it on background, no name, or be quoted by name

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          JANET LOWE writes:

          The best way to support our still-working free press is to subscribe to a newspaper. No matter what our political beliefs, I suspect we all believe in trustworthy journalism. If you aren't already there, subscribe. Spread the word.

Jack J. Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

2reberjack@gmail.com

Other riff-raff

          Good evening, 919 Gang. Anyone planning to visit the Rebers is advised to bring your own anchor. Do not plan on tying your boat to one of our trees. Too many trees have gone over already.

          I’m reading Walter Isaacson’s excellent biography “Einstein,” and he tells about Einstein’s trip to the U.S. in 1921. He was at the peak of his popularity, and he toured the eastern half of the U.S. to raise money for Jewish charities.

          He was mobbed every place he went. The auditoriums overflowed, with people turned away. There were parades with marching bands. He was swamped.

          Einstein reportedly said he was surrounded by “journalists and other riff-raff.” Well, that’s okay, Al, we love you anyway.

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          CARL LARSEN writes:
          A big shout-out to Kent Freeland for confirming what my wife and I have noticed on the network newscasts for several months. It's the deliberate minimizing or ignoring of place names in stories that emanate from beyond the media centers of New York, Washington, L.A. and perhaps Chicago and Atlanta.
          I'm at a loss to explain why this is -- but tune in yourself and you'll notice it very quickly. I think the biggest transgressor is David Muir, the ABC anchor, who sets up his stories this way: "And now to a child killed in an apparent act of road rage in Texas." He then shifts to an on-site reporter, who also either ignores or downplays the location. As I remember it, I had to look at the police cars to see it was in Houston.
          It's also very apparent on weather stories: "And now about the powerhouse storm affecting 30 million people in the Northeast." Then you see a bunch of fender benders and snowplows from who knows where, or "along Interstate 80."
          I'm calling this "flyover states" reporting.
          It's not only a shame -- it gives more ammunition to those who think the mainstream media treats the heartland of this country as forgotten or foreign territory.

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          BONNIE ROGERS writes:

THROWBACK THURSDAY:

          Life is full of moments. Those flashes that highlight something important that we didn't quite know before. Like why I was so crazy about my husband Gene. Of course I loved him. But why? It took a moment with a chicken for me to understand.

          We had married in 1968 and moved to Los Angeles for work from our beloved San Diego. After renting for a year we bought our Hollywood Hacienda in the hills above the freeway in Cahuenga Pass, roughly halfway between the Hollywood Bowl and Universal Studios.

          We weren't the only new residents in Cahuenga Pass that year although we didn't know the other newcomers. A large poultry truck making its way to the slaughterhouse had overturned on the freeway and more than 200 chickens had escaped recapture. They lived in the parking strip along the heavily trafficked freeway. An elderly widow named Minnie took pity on them and provided water and daily chick feed.

 News photo of freeway chickens.

          This went on for eight years to the entertainment of freeway drivers until Minnie, now 90, worried about how they would survive if she wasn't there to care for them. The Los Angeles Times reported that Minnie had given her blessing to what came to be called The Great Cahuenga Pass Chicken Roundup. It was conducted by Animal Regulation officers and volunteers, who chased and tried to catch the chickens after they shut down the freeway.

          Gene and I laughed about it. "You don't chase chickens," we said, "you lure them."

          Nonetheless, the chickens were caught and shipped to a farm in Sylmar. But not all of them. Two, a cock and a hen, ended up in our enclosed patio, more than half a mile from the Great Roundup. We tried to shoo them on but they had found a safe and happy place to live. There was water in the cat bowl and kitty kibbles to munch on, not to mention the nice grubs and things in the plantings. They settled in.

          "Damn chickens," Gene grumbled. "Shitting all over my deck!" "Just turn the hose on it," I suggested. The chickens bonded with each other and soon the little hen had made a nest under the oleander bush by the patio gate. The cock disappeared, probably a victim of the coyotes which patrol the Hollywood hills.

          One night I awakened about 3 a.m. and realized my spouse was not in bed beside me. Then I heard noises through the window from the patio below. I got up in the dark and peered through the screen. There, below me, backside gleaming in the bright moonlight, was my naked, chubby husband searching through the tropical plantings with his air pistol in hand. I never loved him so much.

          "Hurt my chicken, will you!" he shouted. Pop! Pop! The terrified possum which had decimated the nest of eggs, scurried from beneath one bush to another. Pop! "Here, take that," Gene snarled. Pop! Pop! No matter about Gene's griping about the chickens, nobody and nothing was going to threaten HIS chicken. He was the protector, the guardian of his home and all within it.

 Lest you think of the sweet comic character Pogo, this is what an angry possum looks like.

          That is the instant I knew why I loved that man. He was my protector as well as my lover and my friend. I hadn't known I needed a protector (any more than the chicken did) since I had never had one before Gene. Married to Gene, for the first time in my life, I felt completely safe. I had a champion.

          Next morning I encountered our poor little chicken again. She was in a cardboard box in the bathroom, largely devoid of feathers with a broken beak. Gene came home from work every hour and a half to give her water with an eyedropper but she succumbed to the trauma. The possum had eaten all the eggs before he got away so that ended our participation in The Great Chicken Roundup of Cahuenga Pass.

          But not before giving me one of the most insightful moments of my life.

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

          David Gaddis Smith, I fear that you assume more erudition on the part of the 919 Gang than many of us possess. You referred to a press-back chair with no footnotes or parenthetical explanations. Here's a picture, and I'll get to what makes such a chair semi-special after I've gone into one of my usual flights of fancy:

          I'd heard of pressed-tin ceilings. You can still find them in Greenwich Village stores and cafes. I saw a lot when I lived in the Village. They also still exist in some small towns that have been around for a long time. I'm thinking of Orange, Calif.

          I'd heard of pressed sailors, though they probably disappeared when sailing ships did. There used to be specialized "press gangs" that kidnapped men off the streets to serve in ships' crews. I believe this happened primarily in Great Britain. If the practice had persisted, Gloria Allred would stand ready to represent the pressed persons. Though as far as I know, few pressees were female.

          I'd heard of pressed duck. I always thought it was a Chinese delicacy, but it turns out to be a French specialty too. (Hint: you don't want to know what happens to the duck, unless you are literally blood-thirsty.)

          I'd heard of pressed trousers, though I assumed that their only connection to a press-back chair occurred when the chair was sat upon by the trousers.

          I'd heard of pressed juice (there are lots of places here in Hollywood where you can buy the trendy liquid).

          And I'd heard of cold-pressed olive oil. It's considered to be better than warm-pressed for reasons that escape me.

          Okay, that's about enough paradoxes. I had to look this up, but a press-back or pressed-back chair is one with a design pressed into the head-rest portion. These designs had previously been hand-carved. But apparently automation was already forcing craftsmen (or craftswomen, or craftspeople) out of work in the late 1800s.

          Some of the chairs were made of oak, a dense wood that would have resisted pressing. The makers used steam power on them. Just so you know.

          You can find original press-back chairs on e-Bay for around $150. I hope I've provided enough information to allow you to distinguish a chair from a ceiling or a duck.

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          KENT FREELAND writes:

          Price-Waterhouse has accepted blame for the Oscar debacle, but it appears they need some help with English as well as with organizing envelopes. Their official explanation:

          "The presenters had mistakenly been given the wrong category envelope and when discovered was immediately corrected."

          Huh? Well, we know what you mean, guys...

          REBER: Don’t you just love how the PR people for these outfits try to weasel out of problems? So, the problem was “immediately corrected.” Yes, it was, after millions of people witnessed the fiasco. Reminds me of my newspaper days when I would point out an error in the paper and someone would say, “Oh, it’s okay. We fixed it in the next edition.” Well, good for you, but it’s not okay because it was wrong for all the people who got the earlier edition.

          CARL LARSEN writes:
          So, was it the biggest screw-up in the history of the Oscars?
          I think so, but when you are faced with a deadline minutes away, you're really out on a limb to write it that way. That requires you to have at your command 89 years of Oscar history.
          The L.A. Times held back a bit, while others jumped right in to call the best-picture snafu the awards' biggest flub ever.
          While the mix-up indeed may have been caused by "human error," the scope of the program -- watched by millions -- will demand that a head or two somewhere will roll. One correspondent expects the Oscars to end its storied history with PriceWaterhouse Coopers. If you can't get accountability from your accountant, then who can you depend on, the argument goes. And the CEO of the big accounting outfit was seated in the audience. I bet he or she didn't go to many of the after parties, especially with potential new clients.
          It'll be interesting to see if the Academy invites Jimmy Kimmel back to host next year's program. Being the emcee is the worst job in Hollywood, many have said. I've read glowing and not-so-glowing reviews of his role.
          Actually, I haven't followed the movies for a long time. Until yesterday, I thought "Manchester By The Sea" was the story of an ego-driven developer who wants to paste his name all over San Diego.

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          FRANK KLIMKO writes:

          I just got my renewal for the Washington Post 7-day a week subscription. It's a “special” deal for $93.08 for the year. It works out to $1.79 a week. Is that comparable to what the U-T is charging these days?

          REBER: I’m really interested in what members say about this, because I have a feeling the numbers will be all over the place. I pay $99.66 a year for seven papers a week. Am I still getting a retiree discount? I don’t know. The guy we hired to certify our backflow device raved about the digital edition of the paper, but he said he depends on the printed paper. He gets the digital edition plus five papers a week for $10 a month.

Jack J. Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

2reberjack@gmail.com