LA Press Club Awards (Photo – Antonia Tanner)
Nominated for a number of awards, the “team” from Colorado Boulevard newspaper went down to the Biltmore in Los Angeles on Sunday, June 28, for the LA Press Club award ceremony.
By Garrett Rowlan
In tow with editor Wafic Khalil, writer Melissa Michelson, and accountant Antonia Tanner, I overdressed in a thick seersucker suit, too warm for the lingering summer heat, a fact I sensed soon after we parked under the Biltmore.
This was new terrain for me in more than one sense. I had passed the Biltmore several dozen times over the course of my life, usually on the way to the Central Library or waiting on the other side of Fifth for the 720 bus to the Westside, but I had never entered the premises. Now I was seeing the hotel’s interior, and as a possible journalism category winner.
I was doubly fascinated and intimidated by the novelty: the Biltmore’s architecture and the celebrity star power (at least in the world of Print and TV). I am an often-distracted watcher of the news, and as we drifted from the entrance hall and past a firing squad of photographers, I saw some faces I could put a name to, while others had the familiarity of onlookers in a dream, hovering at the edge of recognition.
In a side hall, a silent auction for charity was underway. I went for the low-hanging fruit, so to speak, and made a bid on a series of paperback books about Western films. After a few more turns around the room, I found myself weary and took a seat.
From a corner vantage, I watched well-heeled people coagulate into groups—hugging and handshaking clusters. There was a constant replenishment of faces. Shorn and powdered, these scions of journalism’s post-social-media fragmentation emitted a certain provisional sociability. They smiled, but sometimes stiffened when not actively engaging others.
To the ringing of bells, we were summoned to the dining hall. Through the vinaigrette salad and chicken dinner, I experienced what I can only call Minor Celebrity Displacement Syndrome: I knew the woman at the next table (black hair, thick glasses) from somewhere, but whether she was a real news personality or an actress playing one, I wasn’t sure. This happened a couple of times.
Maybe I had too much time to speculate. On the stage were rotating teams of presenters who rattled off the names of winners in categories and subcategories faster than auctioneers at an estate sale. This contrasted with the more stately presentation of the special awards, where introducers had their own introducers and, when winners came on stage, they—except for the moving address by Philippine journalist Maria Ressa—had a tendency to drone. I couldn’t have been the only one feeling this way. By the time Rob Fukuzaki accepted his award with a long-winded account of his first TV broadcast in Hawaii, much of the crowd had already left.
We would have too, but there was another award for us not to win. And once Wafic struck out on Print Journalist of the Year (under 50K circulation), we were out the door. My consolation was that my low opening bid on the film books wasn’t topped, so that was a sort of consolation prize.
In the hallway, I almost told the newscaster Laura Diaz (if she were Laura Diaz!) that she reminded me of a woman down my street, a person I liked, but decided that might not be a good idea.
Outside, my sensory overload and faint giddiness evaporated. I felt the shock of the real world as a full moon hovered over the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles. In the car, jazz played all the way back to Pasadena.
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