Half the staff at the Los Angeles Times would quit their jobs if the politically motivated Koch brothers bought the paper, the Huffington Post reports.
Today in fat-cat consolidation news comes a report that Sinclair Broadcast Group is on the verge of owning more TV stations in the U.S. than any other company.
Where else but at the National Conference for Media Reform can you hear panelists in one room discussing drone warfare in Afghanistan and in another debating the relative merits of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?
Those who've visited the Conference Commons might have noticed a potted fern meandering around. And this fern doesn’t just walk — no, it also talks (about Net Neutrality, among other matters) as it senses people approaching.
The Commons is, indeed, a place where anything can happen.
With tons of panel discussions on the conference slate, the National Conference for Media Reform is the place to be if you’re in the mood for riveting conversation.
But sometimes it’s fun to can the talk and get right down to the nuts and bolts of doing.
If you’re like me, you stayed up until the wee hours at our rocking Shake Your Media Maker Dance Party. (New definition for awesome: Hank Shocklee.) So maybe you’re feeling a little bleary-eyed this morning — but don’t even think about laying low. Grab a cup of joe, do 100 jumping jacks, shower in arctic water … do what it takes to perk yourself up for the many cool offerings we have lined up for you!
Where can you get Sundance-worthy films without having to wade through the celebrities and celebrity entourages who take over that once-humble film festival every January?
At the National Conference for Media Reform Film Festival, of course!
In fact, our film festival includes two Sundance winners — Middle of Nowhere and Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry — and you won’t have to elbow aside Harvey Weinstein to get into the screenings.
Remember how much you looked forward to your birthday when you were a kid? You’d dream about it months in advance, planning your party, thinking about the friends you’d invite, anticipating how much more grownup you’d feel when you could announce yourself as four or seven or — the Rolls Royce of birthdays — 10.
