BIG PROBLEMS IN LITTLE CHINA

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Written By:  Deborah Starr Seibel



Here's a message the Los Angeles Convention and Visitor's Bureau never wanted to read in a fortune cookie:  Chinatown is in trouble.


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Talk to its residents, and it quickly becomes apparent that Chinatown's problems run much deeper than the recent economic downturn, which has depressed all of California tourism. This colorful but tattered historic neighborhood, established in 1938, is suffering from a lack of affordable single family housing, an unwillingness on the part of the younger generation to take over Chinese storefronts and restaurants, and a profound dissatisfaction with the Los Angeles public schools.  


"Ultimately, what is important to the Chinese culture is education," says George Yu, executive director of the Chinatown Business Improvement District.  "Are these people supposed to send their middle school children to a school that I would never send my kids to?  Are they supposed to spend two hours every day on a bus?  The average kid in Chinatown is leaving for school in the dark, and coming home in the dark.  That's how I grew up in Taiwan.  That's not a way to live the United States." 


That widespread attitude has resulted in a 30-year-long exodus of Chinese residents from Chinatown to the San Gabriel Valley seven miles east, with a heavy concentration in Monterey Park.  What remains is an aging population of Chinese business owners who don't expect to leave their shops to their children. "The young people have got to go somewhere else to make a living," says Teruko Fong, an elderly Japanese saleswoman who works at the old-world F. See On Company, a musty, crammed 59-year-old corner shop on Chung King Road specializing in oriental arts, antiques and interior design. "The children cannot take over because they can't make it."


This is a surprising statement, given the fact that Fong's shop is across the way from a number of modern art galleries that have moved into the vacant storefronts.  The influx started over ten years ago, in 1998, with the arrival of Steve Hanson's China Art Objects Galleries.  At the time, Chinatown was perceived as a bargain in the midst of wildly escalating real estate prices in Santa Monica and Culver City, the two more established gallery enclaves.  "You had cheap rent," says the Chinatown Business Improvement District's Yu, who cited a first floor storefront and basement renting in 1998 for well under $1000 a month. (The same space today would go for around $2000.) "You had a very safe neighborhood.  And you had a pedestrian-oriented community, which is attractive for business."  


Unfortunately, most of the people doing the walking were residents, not shoppers or tourists. "One of the shop owners here flatly told me not to come," says Hanson, indicting an old Chinese grocery store across the road, whose owner is about to retire.  "He said there wasn't enough foot traffic."


Eleven years later, there still isn't. On a recent Friday afternoon, when you might expect the Happy Hour crowd to be heading for a nice dinner of lemongrass soup and Chinese noodles, there are no more than a handful of pedestrians in the Central Plaza on Gin Ling Way, home to such businesses as the Via Café, Wonder Bakery and Hop Louie.  Hanson says his gallery isn't tourist dependent, which is the only reason he's survived.      


Still, it was the area's relative affordability that was attractive to gallery owner Robert Apodaca. Four years ago, young artist Apodaca bought the building that he has turned into the Fifth Floor Gallery.  The gallery is located across the alley from Teruko Fong's shop on Chung King Road.  "This was kind of a unique area in terms of having a live-and-work situation," says Apodaca, who has renovated all three floors of his 2400-square-foot space.  The first two floors are gallery showrooms.  The third floor, complete with outdoor courtyard, is his 700 square-foot apartment. "The previous owners were Chinese and their children really didn't have any interest in maintaining a building in Chinatown," says Apodaca. "So they were happy to pass it on to someone else who was interested, and who would take good care of the building."


It's been a year and a half since Apodaca opened his gallery, and he has survived, although a number of other galleries have recently gone under. The total number of galleries has remained relatively steady over the past eleven years, falling somewhere between twenty and thirty, but there has been little growth.  According to Yu, these new businesses have brought media attention to the area, with its free advertising, but they have yet to have a strong economic impact on the neighborhood.  "People still don't think of Chinatown as a place to look at art," he says.  


Were the locals suspicious of these predominantly white, avant-garde artists, or did they welcome having new businesses to fill the empty storefronts?  "I definitely did feel welcome," says Apodaca.  "I never sensed any animosity.  But I did sense a little bit of bewilderment about what we were doing down here, which was different from what they were used to."


One gallery, in fact, was so different that it created a bit of a neighborhood uproar. The Peres Projects gallery, which shuttered its doors in December of 2008, once displayed an eleven-by-seventeen-inch photograph of a naked man in its storefront window.  "This was a photograph of a nude male, full frontal nudity, standing there with an erection," says Yu.  "And residents had to walk by the gallery to access their residences.  That photo could have been in Chinatown or South Pasadena, and even more people would have been up in arms.  It's not a matter of the Chinese being particularly sensitive."  


Yu spoke quietly to the gallery owner, who moved the photograph to the inside of the shop. "The Chinese in general adopt a live and let live attitude," he says.  "We don't protest.  We don't picket.  But certain things would be bothersome to any community."

        

Apodaca hasn't had any protests over his fine art and furniture exhibits.  His biggest problems have been the lack of tourism and the economy, which he describes as "a double whammy" for his new business.  But he says he's willing to give it time to develop.  His gallery's presence on the internet has also helped him stay afloat.  But his Chinese neighbors, for the most part, have not become clients.  The best thing he can say is that they feel comfortable enough to come into his shop and look around, and he admires the way they help him to be environmentally responsible.  "There's a sort of symbiotic relationship in that when we have our openings - and we have bottles of beer and wine - they'll come in and take them and recycle them."


Yu continues to try to put a good face on Chinatown's struggle.  "It's hard to beat Chinatown," he says, "because of how safe it is, how walkable is it, how much of a real community it is, with real restaurants, business and services."


And if its Chinese residents continue to flee?  "Somebody else will purchase the shops and life will go on," he says, sounding resigned. "These are market forces at work."                  


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MY YOUTUBE ADDICTION

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    It has become a major problem: How to start the day without the I-V of pure adrenaline supplied by a seriously talented figure skater, three-time U.S. national champion, Johnny Weir.     

    I became aware of Weir last year, watching the World Championships. After the main body of competition - the short and long programs - the skaters celebrate or sob as they wait for their scores in the "Kiss and Cry." They maintain an air of formality as they collect their medals. But then the real fun starts when they are allowed to let their hair down and perform a no-holds-barred exhibition. Weir skated to "Ave Maria" and left me slack-jawed with his grace and artistry. As the music built to a climax, he flung himself down on one knee and slid across three-quarters of the rink, his head thrown back and almost touching the ice. I said to myself: WHO is THAT???  



    The question was answered more than a year later by the Sundance Channel, which sent me a preview copy of an extraordinary documentary: "Johnny Weir: Pop Star On Ice." The channel will air the doc at the end of December as a ramp-up to a multi-part reality series on Weir as he makes his second bid for the Olympics. 

    Now I was all in. I scoured YouTube and discovered that breathtaking "Ave Maria" performance, quickly removed for copyright violations of the music performed by Josh Groban.  But then I found the real life-changer: Weir skating to Lady Gaga's raucous "Poker Face." OHMYGOD. Fun, sexy, loud and dance heavy, I was hooked from the first viewing. Happy in my addiction, I plug in Weir every morning as I stretch my tired bones, do my forty sit-ups, and try to wake up. 

    But it is only a matter of time before the music police discover my addiction. They could care less about Weir. But my enjoyment of "Poker Face" must cease and desist. I'm not paying for it. And neither is anyone else who shares my obscure lovefest with a relatively unknown figure skater. I console myself by choosing to believe that Weir will become the next Olympic champion and that a collection of his "Greatest Hits" will one day become available to die-hard fans like me. Until then, I will watch him every morning, almost but not quite guilt-free, blessing the Internet gods for not discovering my illegal thrill. ###

Blog #3: Outside The Comfort Zone

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As I wrestle with the new technologies challenging my sanity as a journalism graduate student - and try to talk myself out of hating the tech wizards sent to our classrooms to torture and amaze us - I am comforted by one very important idea:  This steep new learning curve has a purpose.  I am supposed to become a wizard myself in order to survive - and thrive - in the brave new reporting world.  


It's terrible to suddenly feel so out of touch when you have worked for some of the most prestigious legacy news outlets on the planet.  As a newspaper and magazine print reporter, I was expected to excel in one thing:  writing. When I was in television news, I wore one hat at a time, whether it be producer, executive producer, field reporter or newswriter.  We were specialists and depended on others to perform their specialties to get the job done.  We were also highly protected by our powerful unions, who fought tooth and nail against the avalanche of changing technology threatening the status quo.  


I have vivid memories of chewing the fat with colleagues at WBBM-TV in Chicago, the CBS owned-and-operated station, wondering when the unions would finally cave and the station would turn everyone into one-man bands who would shoot, write, edit and produce their own stories.  It was still a long way off, we told ourselves, convincing each other that - apart from anything else - in a market as large as Chicago, it would be unsafe to send people out to gather news by themselves. 


That was 1987.  Fast forward to now - August, 2009 - and much of that long-dreaded day has arrived.  The Chicago Sun-Times is reporting that the NBC owned-and-operated station, WMAQ-TV, has upended its newsroom by consolidating many job duties and dumping two-thirds of its full-time staff.  The station fills in the blanks with day hires.  According to media columnist Lewis Lazare:


"At the top of WMAQ's reworked newsroom structure are day-part managers, who have wide-ranging responsibility for the overall daily news operations.  Below them are platform managers who, as the title suggests, are concerned with how the news goes out on specific platforms, such as the TV newscast  or WMAQ's Web site."


"But a NEW entity known as a content producer really shoulders a lot of the hands-on responsibility for developing news content under the new arrangement.  The content editor does jobs previously handled by at least three staffers:  producer, writer and video editor."  


"The content producers assign the story to a reporter and work with that reporter as the story is gathered in the field.  Then the content producer must take the raw digital footage, edit it and write the copy appropriate for whatever the platform on which the finished new package will appear - be that the Web, a traditional newscast or somewhere else."


As you might expect, staffers are freaking out.  "Putting a news package together from scratch for a TV newscast is a big challenge for me," says content producer Zach Christman.  "A lot of us here now find ourselves out of our comfort zone."


Zach, I feel your pain.  One of my fellow students, Lauren Whaley, took some gorgeous pictures of USC's Doheny Library and embedded them in her blog. You will find me there, swearing at my computer, digital recorder and Flip camera, trying with all my might to embrace the future.


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TWITTER THIS

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"I can't take it, to be frank," says Nigel Lythgoe, executive producer of Fox's summer reality hit, "So You Think You Can Dance," looking at his computer.  Lythgoe, one of television's most powerful producers, also helmed "American Idol" for its first seven seasons.  He was sitting in his ultra-modern high rise office on Sunset Boulevard, talking about his short-lived romance with Twitter.


It started innocently enough, he said, chatting with friends, rounding up the usual suspect choreographers for what he had hoped would be a Michael Jackson tribute.    Soon, fans were noticing that "Dizzyfeet" was chatting with famous names such as Paula Abdul and Debbie Allen.  They loved eavesdropping on the conversations.  They also loved sending the big shot their opinions of the show the night before.


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And that was fine, until Lythgoe booked one of the "it" girls of the moment, Katie Holmes.  The unremarkable "Dawson's Creek" actress had become a paparazzi magnet after marrying movie star Tom Cruise.  The Lythgoe connection began when Holmes joined forces with Allen, director/choreographer Adam Shankman and "Dancing With The Stars" judge Carrie Ann Inaba to create a nonprofit organization to get underprivileged kids into dance classes:  The Dizzyfeet Foundation.


Much buzz surrounded the leak that Holmes - to support the new organization - was going to appear on the show and was engaged in top-secret rehearsals and taping.  When word got out that she would actually sing and dance a tribute to Judy Garland on the 100th episode, celebrity fan sites went into overdrive.  


"So You Think You Can Dance" fans weren't so sure.  Was Holmes a great dancer?  No.  A great singer?  Hardlly.  But Lythgoe, with his vast production experience, is cagey enough to know that he is putting on a big-budget circus and that having Holmes as a headliner would lure people into the tent.  


On the night in question, ratings did, in fact, spikes, even though - much to the disappointment of those in the studio audience - Holmes' appearance wasn't live but on tape. But the message boards exploded.  Many fans thought she was terrible, had no reason to be there, couldn't hold a candle to the real dancers on the show, had no reason to live, etc.  


Messages along those lines were also Twittered back to Lythgoe, who went into orbit, taking the unusual step of scolding the naysayers.  "I'm going to ban all the Katie haters," wrote Lythgoe.  "You make me sick.  Your attitude stops stars doing charity work.  Understand why she did it, CHILDREN."


That same day, Lythgoe vowed never to Tweet again.  He has, but the romance is gone.  "That negativity, there's no  reason for it," he said, turning away from his computer. 




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A Photographer's Nightmare

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Looking down at his treasured Nikon, the photographer was standing off to the side, alone, waiting for the lighting crew to put the finishing touches on a stark white sound stage.  For the next four hours,  he would have the plum assignment of shooting Marie Osmond for the cover of a national celebrity magazine.  


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But he didn't look happy.  I walked over, wondering what was bothering him.  Did he loathe Marie Osmond?  Were his fashion sensibilities offended by her atrocious ruffled blouse and skirt?  Was he suffering a migraine from the glare coming off her jewelry?

  No.  He said he had just found out that the magazine he was shooting for was going to change its paper.  Other than the cover shot, he would not be producing work that would appear in a way that would make him proud and show off his considerable skill.  What good was having a magnificent camera and a high-profile assignment if the paper quality was so bad that his images would look like something straight out of the National Enquirer?   


  As a reporter who normally only focuses on words, this was startling news.  I had always taken for granted the beauty of the finished packages of the magazines I was writing for.  I had my own portfolio of gorgeously produced stories printed on thick, glossy paper, the kind that looks and feels like it will last forever.  


  That was two years ago.  And now, as some of us are dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century and onto the Internet, the magazine as we have come to know it is disappearing.  Digital images, crisp and clear, fill our computer screens.  We want high definition, showing every pore of a celebrity's face.  We want bold, vivid, Crayola colors to bounce off the screen.  A cinematographer once told me that high definition is so precise that the human eye is able to discern variations within the color black. 


  All of this filtered through my mind as the photographer mourned the passing of an era. I felt awful, too. There is something wonderfully tactile about holding and reading an expensively produced magazine.  I grew up with glossies.  I worshipped at the alter of Seventeen and Glamour. And as I was standing there, talking to this depressed photographer, it occurred to me that the publication we were working on was making exactly the wrong decision.  Yes, they might be able to stay in business a few more years by using thin paper.  But sooner rather than later, the reader would notice that he or she was spending too much money for a cheap thrill, even if they weren't sophisticated enough to know why the product didn't produce same satisfaction.  The publication would become, quite literally, lightweight. The thrill of seeing that shiny new magazine in the mailbox would be gone.  And those clear, crisp images on the Internet would beckon us to come inside.


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