Entrepreneurial Jounalism in the Facebook Age
Saul Hansell, New York Times, 6 décembre 2007
Commencer dans le métier du journalisme n'est pas évident. Pour les journalistes débutants, les ouvertures dans la presse traditionnelle sont de moins en moins nombreuses. Avec l’explosion de divers sites d’information, l’Internet à créé un besoin de journalistes, mais pas toujours avec une garantie de rémunération. « Je ne crois pas qu’un compte sur Blogger puisse payer le loyer » plaisante Hansell .
Il explique comment les élèves de journalisme à la City University de New York proposent et montent leur propre sites d’info afin de suivre les tendances technologiques tout en gagnant de l’argent. Un magazine pour des femmes musulmanes ou des services proposer sur Facebook, leurs idées vont main en gant avec l’esprit du temps…
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jeudi 17 janvier 2008
mercredi 16 janvier 2008
A Long Tail
Imagine a world where consumer choice is no longer a question of taking the product that more or less fits one’s needs, having to make do with the ‘least-worse option’. A world where your most obscure desires for this, that or the other can be met. A world where products, information and services seem to be aimed at you as a person and not you as a vague social or demographic group.
Stop imagining. This is not science fiction, it's a world that's fast becoming a reality. Welcome to the universe of the Long Tail....
Into the Darkness
Thirty metres under the Parisian streets the Christmas Tree beams like a lighthouse in the damp miners’ shelter. As the fairy lights flash away, and the partygoers mingle, my guide, Marc points out the architectural peculiarities of The Faco Shelter – the buttressed ceiling, and the grand staircase. It’s really quite something.
Not at all what I’d imagined as I lowered myself into the manhole some four hours earlier. I remembered the two things Marc had told me in our earlier telephone conversation. Don’t be late and don’t go down without me. Well, I wasn’t late but I did going without him. Not alone however. I was accompanied by a dozen other enthusiasts, with lamps and rucksacks full of supplies. They nicknamed me ‘The Tourist’ and assured me I’d nothing to worry about.
Philipe, a young corporal in a French tank batallion dressed in army issue overalls, was confident that my guide would be waiting for me at the bottom of the twenty-metre access well. He looked honest enough, as he explained in regimental tones he was the organiser of the Christmas party that evening.
The first thing I noticed as descending the cold iron rungs wass the heat and humidity that wafts out of the bowels of the city. The air was stale then, and even staler at the party. People had told me stories of drowning, getting lost and toxic gasses. I couldn’t seem to get the ‘worst case scenarios’ out of my thoughts. I should at least have a canary with me, I thought.
After what seemed like an eternity on the ladder. I finally arrived at the bottom of the well. As promised Marc was there to greet me with a sturdy handshake and a friendly smile. He told me to follow him. He had the somewhat illicit task of supplying the electricity to the party site. The Christmas tree had been wriggled down a mile or so of tunnel and the fairy lights were waiting to light up the shelter in spectacular fashion.
As the two of us set off down the damp, stone walled corridors unwinding extention cords, Marc took pride in explaining facts and figures about the quarries and catacombs where we found ourselves. The two hundred miles or so of network were created when stone was excavated to construct many of the 19th Century Parisian buildings. He explained what the codes chiselled into the stone walls meant; date of excavation, site foreman’s name, and reference number of the corridor. Even the corresponding street names are neatly hewn into the chalkstone.
Having connected our extension cables to the ‘juice’ thanks to the electricity provided by a lamppost on the surface. We trudge back through the mud towards the festivities. In is four year career, Marc continues, he’s done many things, but never a Christmas party. He can’t tell me haw many forays he has made into this murky underworld in his time as a cataphile. But he keeps coming back because he likes the feeling of being so close, yet so far away from bustle of the city.
When we first arrived at the ‘Faco shelter’ as it’s marked on the map, we got a hero’s welcome from the assembled cataphiles. Marc plugged in the fairy lights and reds, greens and blues filled the damp black air. I was overcome by the sheer number of subterranean partygoers. About sixty or seventy youths drinking beer and wine and munching through nibbles brought down in their rucksacks. In a corner two or three mosh away to heavy metal blasting from a portable stereo. They’re all surprisingly friendly. Not the hard core secret society that I’d believed they were. They even bestow me with the honour of slicing the enormous ham that they have brought with them.
We dance and talk till the early hours of the morning. When one by one they leave their parallel life for the surface and the painful daylight of a December morning in Paris.
Matthew Kay
Not at all what I’d imagined as I lowered myself into the manhole some four hours earlier. I remembered the two things Marc had told me in our earlier telephone conversation. Don’t be late and don’t go down without me. Well, I wasn’t late but I did going without him. Not alone however. I was accompanied by a dozen other enthusiasts, with lamps and rucksacks full of supplies. They nicknamed me ‘The Tourist’ and assured me I’d nothing to worry about.
Philipe, a young corporal in a French tank batallion dressed in army issue overalls, was confident that my guide would be waiting for me at the bottom of the twenty-metre access well. He looked honest enough, as he explained in regimental tones he was the organiser of the Christmas party that evening.
The first thing I noticed as descending the cold iron rungs wass the heat and humidity that wafts out of the bowels of the city. The air was stale then, and even staler at the party. People had told me stories of drowning, getting lost and toxic gasses. I couldn’t seem to get the ‘worst case scenarios’ out of my thoughts. I should at least have a canary with me, I thought.
After what seemed like an eternity on the ladder. I finally arrived at the bottom of the well. As promised Marc was there to greet me with a sturdy handshake and a friendly smile. He told me to follow him. He had the somewhat illicit task of supplying the electricity to the party site. The Christmas tree had been wriggled down a mile or so of tunnel and the fairy lights were waiting to light up the shelter in spectacular fashion.
As the two of us set off down the damp, stone walled corridors unwinding extention cords, Marc took pride in explaining facts and figures about the quarries and catacombs where we found ourselves. The two hundred miles or so of network were created when stone was excavated to construct many of the 19th Century Parisian buildings. He explained what the codes chiselled into the stone walls meant; date of excavation, site foreman’s name, and reference number of the corridor. Even the corresponding street names are neatly hewn into the chalkstone.
Having connected our extension cables to the ‘juice’ thanks to the electricity provided by a lamppost on the surface. We trudge back through the mud towards the festivities. In is four year career, Marc continues, he’s done many things, but never a Christmas party. He can’t tell me haw many forays he has made into this murky underworld in his time as a cataphile. But he keeps coming back because he likes the feeling of being so close, yet so far away from bustle of the city.
When we first arrived at the ‘Faco shelter’ as it’s marked on the map, we got a hero’s welcome from the assembled cataphiles. Marc plugged in the fairy lights and reds, greens and blues filled the damp black air. I was overcome by the sheer number of subterranean partygoers. About sixty or seventy youths drinking beer and wine and munching through nibbles brought down in their rucksacks. In a corner two or three mosh away to heavy metal blasting from a portable stereo. They’re all surprisingly friendly. Not the hard core secret society that I’d believed they were. They even bestow me with the honour of slicing the enormous ham that they have brought with them.
We dance and talk till the early hours of the morning. When one by one they leave their parallel life for the surface and the painful daylight of a December morning in Paris.
Matthew Kay
The anti-smoking tobacconist
In the “1930”, a small tobacconist-cum-bar in eastern Paris, things have changed since January 1st. Marcel, the old regular who used to prop up the counter, chaining cigarettes and playing Rapido (a French bingo-lottery hybrid) still comes, but he doesn’t stay like before. The anti-smoking law that came into force with the New Year has changed thousands of bar-tabacs like the “1930” across France.
Pascal Rocher, 53, owns the “1930.” He’s been a smoker for nearly forty years and he thinks the law is a step in the right direction. Despite his support for the legislation his business is feeling the squeeze.
“I think the law is right. Before the smoke was unbearable for non-smokers who work ten-hour shifts in a bar like this one. Every one has been going on about the liberty of smokers, but what about the liberty of those who don’t want to inhale second-hand smoke?”
Monsieur Rocher explains that it’s difficult to calculate the bar’s losses since the beginning of the year. “If I had to guess I’d say we’re probably down twenty per cent. That’s just at the bar, though. Cigarette and newspaper sales haven’t changed. It’s the Rapido that’s been the hit the worst, between thirty and forty per cent. It’s a bar game, and the guys who play like a beer and a cigarette at the same time.”
The smoking regulars might come less frequently to the “1930,” but Pascal has noticed a new clientele emerging from the ashes. “There are some new clients in the bar who come because there is no smoke. There was even a little baby in a pram the other day, in the “1930”! I’d never seen that before. Of course the new customers don’t make up for those that I’ve lost, but they do help…”
Matthew KAY
Pascal Rocher, 53, owns the “1930.” He’s been a smoker for nearly forty years and he thinks the law is a step in the right direction. Despite his support for the legislation his business is feeling the squeeze.
“I think the law is right. Before the smoke was unbearable for non-smokers who work ten-hour shifts in a bar like this one. Every one has been going on about the liberty of smokers, but what about the liberty of those who don’t want to inhale second-hand smoke?”
Monsieur Rocher explains that it’s difficult to calculate the bar’s losses since the beginning of the year. “If I had to guess I’d say we’re probably down twenty per cent. That’s just at the bar, though. Cigarette and newspaper sales haven’t changed. It’s the Rapido that’s been the hit the worst, between thirty and forty per cent. It’s a bar game, and the guys who play like a beer and a cigarette at the same time.”
The smoking regulars might come less frequently to the “1930,” but Pascal has noticed a new clientele emerging from the ashes. “There are some new clients in the bar who come because there is no smoke. There was even a little baby in a pram the other day, in the “1930”! I’d never seen that before. Of course the new customers don’t make up for those that I’ve lost, but they do help…”
Matthew KAY
mardi 30 octobre 2007
I love Elvis too...
So, Sarko loves Elvis. Now there's a surprise. I wonder what he was thinking when he answered the question? 'I'll be on air to 15 million Americans so I'd better not say Claude François...' We know you want us to think you're rock and roll. It's obvious, the Ray Bans, the NYPD T-shirt, those oh-so-rock high heels... But honestly, Nicholas, Elvis Presley? Too obvious. Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash, now that'd have got you some credit...
I fully intend to do what I said I would and review the French media, but for some reason, I thought a good place to start the ball rolling was the '60 Minutes' dedicated to the President (of France), broadcast last Sunday (28.10.2007). I say 'some reason' but its actually a very precise one. '60 Minutes' is the bastion of US 'pop' journalism (Pop in the sense of mainstream, not rock and roll. Sorry Speedy). Every Sunday night more than 10 million viewers tune in. And it's a pretty solid barometer of middle-american opinion. So what did they have to say on Super Sarko?
Well, it's no suprise that we saw the pro-American, young, (over-)energetic reformer. Lesley Stahl even went as far as to paint him as a bit of an underdog - poor-old-Nicolas-son-of-an-immigrant-no-one-ever-thought-he'd-get-anywhere-in-France-with-a-name-like-Sarkozy....
To be honest, the now infamous 'walk-out' on THE interview was a little shameful. One of those 'from behind the cushion' moments. He's not... oh, he is... there he goes... No evasion of the 'Cécila' question, 'Remind us, why did you wife dump you, again?' Nope, he just spat the dummy.
Hang on, he didn't just call his press secretary an imbecile did he? Oh, he did...
I just wonder what the Americans thought of the a performance.
Check it out...
worm
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