Here's a nice story. When the swine flu story was really starting to escalate, Texas authorities suspended all high school sports playoffs leading to state championship meets. After May 11, the edict expired and was not renewed because the threat had diminished.
Playoffs resumed, but the schedule had been totally messed up. State championship meets, in track and field, for example, had to be pushed back. The state meet, for all classifications, is always in Austin, on the University of Texas campus. I have been to several of these state meets, as a Texas sportswriter, and it is a very big deal for these high school kids.
Enter P.J. Martinez and Emily Yates, seniors at Clyde High School. Clyde is a small community on Interstate 20 about 12 miles east of Abilene, my home town. I picked up this story in today's online edition of The Abilene Reporter-News. P.J. is a member of the Bulldogs' 800-meter relay team that qualified for the state meet, which was rescheduled for June 5. Emily is on the girls' 800-meter relay team that also qualified for Austin with the best time (1:44.99) in the state.
Then, a conflict. The state meet was rescheduled to June 5, the same day as Clyde High School's graduation ceremony. But there was an even bigger wrinkle. Emily Yates is the class valedictorian. P.J. Martinez is the salutatorian. Both were to make speeches at the graduation ceremony, an experience for a lifetime.
In their positions, what would you do? To learn what Emily and P.J. did, go here.
May 26, 2009
May 25, 2009
Media Literacy: the "American Idol" winner
Webster's defines "literacy," in its most general sense, as "having knowledge or competence," as in "computer literate," or "politically literate." Thus "media literate" means having knowledge or competence in understanding media.
Without media literacy, you can only know what others tell you about "American Idol," such as this story in Monday's New York Times.
.
With media literacy, you have knowledge and competence for looking at "Idol" in a way that gives you information to make your own judgments and decisions. The difference? Without media literacy, you may think that the talk about "conspiracy theories" is all about who won. With media literacy, you will realize that, if there were a conspiracy theory, it was partly about the winner, but mostly the show. You will understand why the Fox TV and the show's producers gave deep, satisfied sighs of relief when Kris Allen won.
The main media literacy tools in play here are timeliness, novelty, prominence, the threat to the status quo, emotional proximity and sensationalism.
"Timeliness," in media, means that everything gets old. News starts to get old as soon as it is published. That is why, in mass media, there has always been a race to be first with the news. But it also applies to entertainment and advertising. It's a longer shelf life than news, but on television (since we're talking about television), sooner or later entertainment gets old. Even "Seinfeld." Even "American Idol." Audiences never tire of conflict, or of the threat to the status quo, which are the core values of "American Idol." But they weary of this particular conflict, or that kind of threat.
After four to six years, the producers start worrying about the show getting old, and the audience losing interest. That was the big story about "American Idol" before the present season began. "Changes" were made, a judge added, auditions modified. "Reinvention" is a media buzzword; Madonna is the ranking expert in "reinventing" herself. Always, timeliness is the enemy, and it is as relentless in the media field as entropy is in physics. The remedy is novelty. How do we make it new again?
This season, the changes didn't work. Ratings were down. Producers got defensive. "It's ridiculous how big this show is," one told The Times. Something needed to happen. Then something did. Nothing like a sudden star, a fresh sensation, startling prominence, to bring the audience back to a show. In Britain, it was Susan Boyle. In America, it was Adam Lambert, whose impact was compared to Elvis Presley. The audience started to fall helplessly in love with him, a phenomenon called emotional proximity.
Trouble is, Lambert became too much of a sure thing. He moved to the front early and stayed there. If there's no horse race, no conflict, no "who's gonna win" threat, people lose interest. People started looking back in the pack, looking for someone to restore the threat, even hoping for someone to make it a race. They were looking for an underdog, which is the "David and Goliath" form of emotional proximity that is even stronger than Elvis worship, because more people identify with it. The economy crisis has turned America into a nation of Davids. Two hundred million adult American backs can hold up a lot of weight, but this is ridiculous.
And now "American Idol" has provided a David. Kris Allen. How lucky can Fox TV get? The threat lives! Millions more Americans, who will take their Davids where they can find them, even ones named Mine That Bird, are aware of "American Idol" than if Adam Lambert had won. Lambert will still get rich, Kris Allen will get rich, and, most of all, the guy that Fox needed to win, did. Next season Fox can play the threat card for all it is worth, framing "American Idol" as the all-American show where anything can happen, and probably will.
Last but not least, the "Idol" David comes with minimal cost to American culture. Critics fret that entertainments like "American Idol" threaten to drag the culture into a mindless, unprincipled wasteland. But the critics overlook another media tool, a law, actually, which states that the mass media is an exercise in the power of small numbers. Nielsen Media says 28.8 million viewers out of a population of 304 million watched the "Idol" finale, meaning 275.2 million of us were doing something else. Remember that, when critics try to call mass media the end of civilization.
Without media literacy, you can only know what others tell you about "American Idol," such as this story in Monday's New York Times.
.
With media literacy, you have knowledge and competence for looking at "Idol" in a way that gives you information to make your own judgments and decisions. The difference? Without media literacy, you may think that the talk about "conspiracy theories" is all about who won. With media literacy, you will realize that, if there were a conspiracy theory, it was partly about the winner, but mostly the show. You will understand why the Fox TV and the show's producers gave deep, satisfied sighs of relief when Kris Allen won.
The main media literacy tools in play here are timeliness, novelty, prominence, the threat to the status quo, emotional proximity and sensationalism.
"Timeliness," in media, means that everything gets old. News starts to get old as soon as it is published. That is why, in mass media, there has always been a race to be first with the news. But it also applies to entertainment and advertising. It's a longer shelf life than news, but on television (since we're talking about television), sooner or later entertainment gets old. Even "Seinfeld." Even "American Idol." Audiences never tire of conflict, or of the threat to the status quo, which are the core values of "American Idol." But they weary of this particular conflict, or that kind of threat.
After four to six years, the producers start worrying about the show getting old, and the audience losing interest. That was the big story about "American Idol" before the present season began. "Changes" were made, a judge added, auditions modified. "Reinvention" is a media buzzword; Madonna is the ranking expert in "reinventing" herself. Always, timeliness is the enemy, and it is as relentless in the media field as entropy is in physics. The remedy is novelty. How do we make it new again?
This season, the changes didn't work. Ratings were down. Producers got defensive. "It's ridiculous how big this show is," one told The Times. Something needed to happen. Then something did. Nothing like a sudden star, a fresh sensation, startling prominence, to bring the audience back to a show. In Britain, it was Susan Boyle. In America, it was Adam Lambert, whose impact was compared to Elvis Presley. The audience started to fall helplessly in love with him, a phenomenon called emotional proximity.
Trouble is, Lambert became too much of a sure thing. He moved to the front early and stayed there. If there's no horse race, no conflict, no "who's gonna win" threat, people lose interest. People started looking back in the pack, looking for someone to restore the threat, even hoping for someone to make it a race. They were looking for an underdog, which is the "David and Goliath" form of emotional proximity that is even stronger than Elvis worship, because more people identify with it. The economy crisis has turned America into a nation of Davids. Two hundred million adult American backs can hold up a lot of weight, but this is ridiculous.
And now "American Idol" has provided a David. Kris Allen. How lucky can Fox TV get? The threat lives! Millions more Americans, who will take their Davids where they can find them, even ones named Mine That Bird, are aware of "American Idol" than if Adam Lambert had won. Lambert will still get rich, Kris Allen will get rich, and, most of all, the guy that Fox needed to win, did. Next season Fox can play the threat card for all it is worth, framing "American Idol" as the all-American show where anything can happen, and probably will.
Last but not least, the "Idol" David comes with minimal cost to American culture. Critics fret that entertainments like "American Idol" threaten to drag the culture into a mindless, unprincipled wasteland. But the critics overlook another media tool, a law, actually, which states that the mass media is an exercise in the power of small numbers. Nielsen Media says 28.8 million viewers out of a population of 304 million watched the "Idol" finale, meaning 275.2 million of us were doing something else. Remember that, when critics try to call mass media the end of civilization.
May 22, 2009
Archives: May 17, 1983 - A Day to Remember
The archive below was published on May 17, 1983, when Tyler was six years old. Tomorrow, May 23, he will be 33. Still too young . . .
We had the house together, he and I. For lunch he had a hotdog. I had cold pizza. On his hotdog he had ketchup and pickle relish. You start to wonder from where these tastes arise.
The ketchup was Heinz, which he believes is too runny. "I'll be glad when we get some Del Monte ketchup," he said. I had put on two hotdogs, thinking he would be hungry after his game. His team won, 28-27, its first victory of the season. This is "tee-ball," where the hitters hit the ball off a rubber tee and the defenses are, well, forgetful.
He played catcher and had four hits. He has a nice stroke, he's a good thrower, and he catches all right, but he does not yet appreciate the concept of turning the glove over for low throws and ground balls.
He didn't want the other hotdog. "For lunch," he reminded me, "I always have only one hotdog, or sometimes one and a half." So I ate the other hotdog, with mustard.
"You have a big appetite," he said. "Let's go sit in the swing," I said. "That's a good idea," he said. "You can read me two stories."
He went by his room and picked out two books. I hoped they were not "Fish is Fish," or "How Engines Talk." He met me at the swing, and Terry the Pup jumped up also. The afternoon was warm, almost hot. But the canopy took the bright edge off, and at the back a little breeze wandered in. It was every bit of all right.
"Read this one first," he said and handed me "The Pumpkin Smasher." "And read this one second." This one – "Mouse and Tim" – he showed to me, but did not hand over. "The Pumpkin Smasher" is preschooler stuff. Every Hallowe'en Eve, someone smashes all the pumpkins in town. It gets so bad that the mayor is thinking about calling off Hallowe'en.
But a couple of kids have a plan. They paint a boulder to look like a pumpkin. Sure enough, the pumpkin-smasher – it turns out to be a witch – tries to smash this pumpkin. Then she gives up and flies away, saying she will never come back to this town again.
This book I handed back, and he handed me "Mouse and Tim," which is better. In fact it is terrific, if you have never read it. The trick is, both boy and mouse give points of view, the mouse in italics. Reading it aloud, toward the end, when Tim is going to let Mouse go, you have to stop every little while to let your sob reflex relax. More is going on than boy frees mouse.
"That's a great story," I said at the end. He didn't say anything. We rocked in the heat and watched the summer bugs dip and dart. I tried to see the afternoon through his eyes, and I almost could, having been there once. The view, I think, doesn't change. Sharing it with him was special.
We could have spent the afternoon, but I had things to do in the kitchen. Company was coming. "Well," I said. "I have things to do."
"No," he said. He rolled onto my lap and wiggled his cheek into my chest and pinned me with his arms.
I would not have had to move a muscle to get to heaven. Someday I will have to let him go, but now I clung to him, clung to the day, and the hour, and the minute, and the pressure of it squeezed free a drop that rolled down my cheek and plopped on the brown bill of his baseball cap.
I was not at this point just going to get up without a good excuse. After awhile I said, "Want to listen to the little records?"
"Yeah!" he said. The little records are 45s of mine, nearly all 1950s rock and roll, that he and I have been listening to for years. He likes it, and I tell him it is better stuff than hits the charts today. Some of these I am taping for a friend. I figured I could do that and other stuff too. He sat on the couch, and I loped between stereo and kitchen.
I was at the stereo when he said, "Dad, do you think I will die in the 20th . . . the 20th . . ."
"The 20th century?" I said. "Naw. I sure hope not." I told him that the 21st century would start in the year 2001, 18 years from now. "You will be 25," I said. "You'll just be getting started. And I will be, uh, 58. I think it will be exciting, living at the turn of a century."
He was not distracted. "I hope I die before you do," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"If you died before I did, I would be sad," he said. Psychologists say such statements are normal because the kid at that age sees the parent as hero. I trust it is also normal for the parent, hearing it, to feel mighty heroic.
"Now wait a minute," I said, and went over and leaned down in his face. "What about me? If you died before me, I would be sad. Ever think about that?"
"Well," he said, "we could just die on the same day."
"No," I said. "You will always be too young." And he always will.
We had the house together, he and I. For lunch he had a hotdog. I had cold pizza. On his hotdog he had ketchup and pickle relish. You start to wonder from where these tastes arise.
The ketchup was Heinz, which he believes is too runny. "I'll be glad when we get some Del Monte ketchup," he said. I had put on two hotdogs, thinking he would be hungry after his game. His team won, 28-27, its first victory of the season. This is "tee-ball," where the hitters hit the ball off a rubber tee and the defenses are, well, forgetful.
He played catcher and had four hits. He has a nice stroke, he's a good thrower, and he catches all right, but he does not yet appreciate the concept of turning the glove over for low throws and ground balls.
He didn't want the other hotdog. "For lunch," he reminded me, "I always have only one hotdog, or sometimes one and a half." So I ate the other hotdog, with mustard.
"You have a big appetite," he said. "Let's go sit in the swing," I said. "That's a good idea," he said. "You can read me two stories."
He went by his room and picked out two books. I hoped they were not "Fish is Fish," or "How Engines Talk." He met me at the swing, and Terry the Pup jumped up also. The afternoon was warm, almost hot. But the canopy took the bright edge off, and at the back a little breeze wandered in. It was every bit of all right.
"Read this one first," he said and handed me "The Pumpkin Smasher." "And read this one second." This one – "Mouse and Tim" – he showed to me, but did not hand over. "The Pumpkin Smasher" is preschooler stuff. Every Hallowe'en Eve, someone smashes all the pumpkins in town. It gets so bad that the mayor is thinking about calling off Hallowe'en.
But a couple of kids have a plan. They paint a boulder to look like a pumpkin. Sure enough, the pumpkin-smasher – it turns out to be a witch – tries to smash this pumpkin. Then she gives up and flies away, saying she will never come back to this town again.
This book I handed back, and he handed me "Mouse and Tim," which is better. In fact it is terrific, if you have never read it. The trick is, both boy and mouse give points of view, the mouse in italics. Reading it aloud, toward the end, when Tim is going to let Mouse go, you have to stop every little while to let your sob reflex relax. More is going on than boy frees mouse.
"That's a great story," I said at the end. He didn't say anything. We rocked in the heat and watched the summer bugs dip and dart. I tried to see the afternoon through his eyes, and I almost could, having been there once. The view, I think, doesn't change. Sharing it with him was special.
We could have spent the afternoon, but I had things to do in the kitchen. Company was coming. "Well," I said. "I have things to do."
"No," he said. He rolled onto my lap and wiggled his cheek into my chest and pinned me with his arms.
I would not have had to move a muscle to get to heaven. Someday I will have to let him go, but now I clung to him, clung to the day, and the hour, and the minute, and the pressure of it squeezed free a drop that rolled down my cheek and plopped on the brown bill of his baseball cap.
I was not at this point just going to get up without a good excuse. After awhile I said, "Want to listen to the little records?"
"Yeah!" he said. The little records are 45s of mine, nearly all 1950s rock and roll, that he and I have been listening to for years. He likes it, and I tell him it is better stuff than hits the charts today. Some of these I am taping for a friend. I figured I could do that and other stuff too. He sat on the couch, and I loped between stereo and kitchen.
I was at the stereo when he said, "Dad, do you think I will die in the 20th . . . the 20th . . ."
"The 20th century?" I said. "Naw. I sure hope not." I told him that the 21st century would start in the year 2001, 18 years from now. "You will be 25," I said. "You'll just be getting started. And I will be, uh, 58. I think it will be exciting, living at the turn of a century."
He was not distracted. "I hope I die before you do," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"If you died before I did, I would be sad," he said. Psychologists say such statements are normal because the kid at that age sees the parent as hero. I trust it is also normal for the parent, hearing it, to feel mighty heroic.
"Now wait a minute," I said, and went over and leaned down in his face. "What about me? If you died before me, I would be sad. Ever think about that?"
"Well," he said, "we could just die on the same day."
"No," I said. "You will always be too young." And he always will.
May 21, 2009
Stretch Cooking: Braised Pork Shoulder
Braising is a great way to make a big, cheap hunk of meat go a long way. On Saturday, we are having friends over, and we are going to feed them braised pork shoulder, served carnitas-style, with tortillas and condiments. I love carnitas, which is also a classic stretch recipe, but hazardous. You need a big pot and boiling oil, which gets to be more trouble than it’s worth, especially for a man who recently positioned himself to be killed by a ceiling fan. Braising is easy, and the pork will be pull-apart tender.
I got the pork shoulder today, boneless, at CostCo, and a package of Porkyland flour tortillas. The pork was $1.39 a pound, and 12 and a half pounds (in one bag) cost $17.46. The tortillas are medium size, about eight inches across, just right for this particular feed.
The shoulder is very meaty, and flecked with fat, which provides flavor and tenderness during the long, slow cooking. When you’re finished, there won’t hardly be enough fat in the pot to skim off, but you can, of course, if you want to.
You need a heavy pot, 6 to 8 quarts. I have an 8-quart Le Creuset enameled pot, which is great, and an old 6-quart Club Aluminum pot, which is great too. If there is enough fat on the shoulder, trim it off and render it, just enough to wet the bottom of the pot to get things going. If the shoulder is very lean, use olive oil. Put the pot on medium-high heat. Cut the shoulder into big chunks, the size of your hand. Season with salt and pepper and brown the chunks on all sides. Place the pot lid next to the range, upside-down, and place the browned chunks in it. That way you save all the juices and just pour them back in.
Chop a medium onion and sauté it in the pot, stirring, until it starts to brown. Rough-chop a second onion and add to the pot. Let a dark glaze form on the bottom of the pot. Don’t let it scorch, but it should be dark. This “almost-scorching” step is a favorite of mine and provides deep, savory flavor. Throw in 10 cloves of garlic, smashed (peel the garlic by smashing it under the side of a large knife; the peel lifts right off). Stir the garlic and onions just for a minute. Add a cup of leftover coffee and scrape the bottom to de-glaze the pot; it will make a beautiful, dark sauce. Stir in a teaspoon of ground cumin. Turn the heat to low.
Add the browned pork chunks back to the pot and pour in the juices from the lid. Scatter a large rough-chopped green pepper on top. Cover and simmer gently for 3 hours. Let the pork cool on a platter until it is cool enough to pull apart with your fingers. Warm 2 medium-sized flour tortillas per person in a hot skillet and keep them warm in foil packets in the oven. Serve with condiments on the side: chopped green onion and tomato; slices of avocado; cilantro sprigs; quartered limes; and salsa.
Freeze the leftover pork in pint containers. It can be used all sorts of ways. With blackeyes, say. Yum.
I got the pork shoulder today, boneless, at CostCo, and a package of Porkyland flour tortillas. The pork was $1.39 a pound, and 12 and a half pounds (in one bag) cost $17.46. The tortillas are medium size, about eight inches across, just right for this particular feed.
The shoulder is very meaty, and flecked with fat, which provides flavor and tenderness during the long, slow cooking. When you’re finished, there won’t hardly be enough fat in the pot to skim off, but you can, of course, if you want to.
You need a heavy pot, 6 to 8 quarts. I have an 8-quart Le Creuset enameled pot, which is great, and an old 6-quart Club Aluminum pot, which is great too. If there is enough fat on the shoulder, trim it off and render it, just enough to wet the bottom of the pot to get things going. If the shoulder is very lean, use olive oil. Put the pot on medium-high heat. Cut the shoulder into big chunks, the size of your hand. Season with salt and pepper and brown the chunks on all sides. Place the pot lid next to the range, upside-down, and place the browned chunks in it. That way you save all the juices and just pour them back in.
Chop a medium onion and sauté it in the pot, stirring, until it starts to brown. Rough-chop a second onion and add to the pot. Let a dark glaze form on the bottom of the pot. Don’t let it scorch, but it should be dark. This “almost-scorching” step is a favorite of mine and provides deep, savory flavor. Throw in 10 cloves of garlic, smashed (peel the garlic by smashing it under the side of a large knife; the peel lifts right off). Stir the garlic and onions just for a minute. Add a cup of leftover coffee and scrape the bottom to de-glaze the pot; it will make a beautiful, dark sauce. Stir in a teaspoon of ground cumin. Turn the heat to low.
Add the browned pork chunks back to the pot and pour in the juices from the lid. Scatter a large rough-chopped green pepper on top. Cover and simmer gently for 3 hours. Let the pork cool on a platter until it is cool enough to pull apart with your fingers. Warm 2 medium-sized flour tortillas per person in a hot skillet and keep them warm in foil packets in the oven. Serve with condiments on the side: chopped green onion and tomato; slices of avocado; cilantro sprigs; quartered limes; and salsa.
Freeze the leftover pork in pint containers. It can be used all sorts of ways. With blackeyes, say. Yum.
May 20, 2009
The television faces of tomorrow
We are in the campus television studio this week, taping our newscast projects. Three talents per team, two news and one sports or weather. I sit over in the shadows and feel warm and fuzzy, watching the 20-year-old faces in the bright lights trying so hard to do good on TV.
We began the semester way last January learning the tools that journalists use to write stories. They are the same tools used to create all media products: news, entertainment and advertising, which I also call manipulation. Then we learn to write stories for print, as if we were newspaper reporters. But I tell them from the first that print is also a totally online medium now, also. I don’t know of a newspaper that doesn’t operate a Website.
What the students really need to understand, though, is that in the converging print and broadcast journalism world, they must know how to write the in-depth story, 1,000 words or so, and the quick 30-second story for broadcast. Already in television, reporters are required to write both. Right now, on television at the end of the 30-second story, the anchor will say, “For more on this story, log on to our Website, at knsd.com,” or wherever. There, you will find the 1,000-word version, written by the same reporter.
Very soon, however, the television will also be a computer, and the remote will also be a mouse, and if you want to know more about the 30-second story, you won’t have to go to no steenking Website; you’re already at it. You will only have to point your remote at the screen, click, and you will be taken to the in-depth “print” story. You can stay there, read as long as you like, then click Back to return to the newscast, which will be waiting exactly where you left it; it’s only a file in a server.
Amazing, what this convergence will do to watching television. If you are a sports nut, a baseball fan, say, it will take forever to watch a baseball game. Anywhere in the game, at any time, if you want a player’s complete statistics, click on the player and they will appear. Such stats are already available online at mlb.com. Then when you have settled the bet, click Back, and it will take you to the game exactly where you left it; it’s only a file in a computer, not an analog train at a crossing anymore, passing in front of you an inning at a time.
Back to my students. Writing for print is difficult for them, because they don’t read newspapers. They aren’t familiar with the rhythm of a story written for print. At mid-semester, when we shift into broadcast, you can see lightbulbs going on over their heads; this is the writing rhythm with which they are familiar, and they are much happier when their papers come back for rewrite without so much of my red scribbling on them.
I give them the raw information for the stories. The news stories are like “Parents Against Porn,” “Yacht Drug Bust,” “Fatal Auto Wreck,” etc. In sports and weather, the home team always wins (San Diego State NEVER loses to BYU), and the weather is always interesting (in our newscasts, it’s very stormy in San Diego). Finally, toward the end of the semester, the three-person teams produce the newscast script package, and we go into the studio where production students tape the show as if it were live. Today we started looking at the tapes in class. Most students are seeing themselves on the screen, at the anchor desk, for the first time. I never get tired of it.
We began the semester way last January learning the tools that journalists use to write stories. They are the same tools used to create all media products: news, entertainment and advertising, which I also call manipulation. Then we learn to write stories for print, as if we were newspaper reporters. But I tell them from the first that print is also a totally online medium now, also. I don’t know of a newspaper that doesn’t operate a Website.
What the students really need to understand, though, is that in the converging print and broadcast journalism world, they must know how to write the in-depth story, 1,000 words or so, and the quick 30-second story for broadcast. Already in television, reporters are required to write both. Right now, on television at the end of the 30-second story, the anchor will say, “For more on this story, log on to our Website, at knsd.com,” or wherever. There, you will find the 1,000-word version, written by the same reporter.
Very soon, however, the television will also be a computer, and the remote will also be a mouse, and if you want to know more about the 30-second story, you won’t have to go to no steenking Website; you’re already at it. You will only have to point your remote at the screen, click, and you will be taken to the in-depth “print” story. You can stay there, read as long as you like, then click Back to return to the newscast, which will be waiting exactly where you left it; it’s only a file in a server.
Amazing, what this convergence will do to watching television. If you are a sports nut, a baseball fan, say, it will take forever to watch a baseball game. Anywhere in the game, at any time, if you want a player’s complete statistics, click on the player and they will appear. Such stats are already available online at mlb.com. Then when you have settled the bet, click Back, and it will take you to the game exactly where you left it; it’s only a file in a computer, not an analog train at a crossing anymore, passing in front of you an inning at a time.
Back to my students. Writing for print is difficult for them, because they don’t read newspapers. They aren’t familiar with the rhythm of a story written for print. At mid-semester, when we shift into broadcast, you can see lightbulbs going on over their heads; this is the writing rhythm with which they are familiar, and they are much happier when their papers come back for rewrite without so much of my red scribbling on them.
I give them the raw information for the stories. The news stories are like “Parents Against Porn,” “Yacht Drug Bust,” “Fatal Auto Wreck,” etc. In sports and weather, the home team always wins (San Diego State NEVER loses to BYU), and the weather is always interesting (in our newscasts, it’s very stormy in San Diego). Finally, toward the end of the semester, the three-person teams produce the newscast script package, and we go into the studio where production students tape the show as if it were live. Today we started looking at the tapes in class. Most students are seeing themselves on the screen, at the anchor desk, for the first time. I never get tired of it.
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