If you’ve landed on this post expecting a recap of the winners, speakers and honorees of the 50th Annual Southern California Journalism Awards Gala, then you’ve come to the wrong place. That information can be easily accessed through their website. I was all set to recap the evening when a series of unfortunate events prevented me from doing so.

Instead, I am here to tell you that for an organization whose main purpose is to honor ‘working journalists,’ the Los Angeles Press Club (LAPC) has quite a horrible way of treating them.

This might be a sweeping generalization of the whole of the club, so let’s focus in on the culprit: a Miss Diana Ljungaeus, the executive director of the LAPC and self-proclaimed “international journalist” with a chip on her shoulder and “rude” as her middle name.

The night began simply enough. LA.CityZine was invited as press to cover the So Cal Journalism Awards Gala at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Downtown Los Angeles. I should have known the night was going to be a bust when right before I began to get ready, the electricity spontaneously combusted for about 2 hours. Stuck in 105 degree weather, and forced to dress up, all the while driving in traffic to Downtown was not an ideal way to spend a Saturday, however I mustered up the energy to attend an event that honored everything I had a passion for: Southern California and Journalism.

When I arrived with my best friend, who is also a writer, we were lead inside the banquet hall only to be quickly ushered out by Ljungaeus, who stated we were not allowed inside because the event started at 7 p.m., even though the invitation said numerous times that the it started at 6 p.m. Thanks for the misinformation.

We waited outside the banquet hall, sipped on some much needed ice cold Coke and tried to navigate around what seemed like over a 100 guests. The highlight of the night was seeing guest of honor Bob Woodruff, Ana Garcia and Pat Harvey mingling with guests in the lobby.

When the doors were opened and everyone was let in, we were seated at an ostracized press table, about 10 feet away from the congregation of tables where guests were seated. Dinner was served, to everyone except us. We were told earlier in the evening that we would not be receiving dinner and so we understood, complied and waited, while everyone around us had what seemed like a 3-course meal.

Let me point out again that the invitation stated 6 p.m., yet at 7:45, the ceremony hadn’t even started. Diana Ljungaeus was running around like a headless chicken trying to make sure her event was running smoothly. When Chris Woodyward, the president of the Los Angeles Press Club, presented her with roses, she barely had anything to say to the onlooking crowd.

About 45 minutes after dinner had started, a server came and presented us with two plates of food.

At this point, I figured that the food being provided to two journalists, seated at a table alone in the corner of the whole gala, was food orchestrated by the Press Club. Any rational person would have thought that they probably had left overs or instructed servers to bring us food, as is customary if you’ve been invited to a Gala, especially one honoring working journalists.

We were so very grateful, that we must have said thank you a dozen times. The dinner consisted of mashed potatoes, asparagus and carrots along with a big hunk of chicken.

I began with the mashed potatoes. As I ate away and waited for the ceremony to actually start, I contemplated eating that piece of chicken. Because of my gratitude, I was thinking of giving up my vegetarian principles for one night and one night only. As I cut one piece of chicken slowly, I saw a figure approaching me.

Like a swooping eagle coming in for a kill, Ljungaeus arrived at the empty press table, snotty attitude in tow.

“I hope you know you’ll be paying for that food you’re eating,” she told me quite matter-of-factly.

“Working press were strictly instructed that they would not be receiving dinner, so you’re going to have to pay for that, you’re not allowed to have that,” she continued.

I was dumbfounded. It seemed like class, dignity, courtesy and respect had flown out the window along with her sense of fashion. A pale salmon colored chiffon smock lay lifeless on her body.

I offered to return the meal, but “I had already eaten it,” she quipped at me.

What followed were a series of awkward silences that left me stunned. She kept going on and on about payment for the food. I did not know what to say at this point. As if it wasn’t enough that she had demanded money for two plates of food, she began to question my credentials as a journalist and kept alluding to the fact that I wasn’t at the event legitimately. Correct me if I’m wrong, but a good memory is essential to being a good journalist and an “international” one at that, but Ljungaeus had forgotten all together that CityZine was invited to cover the event. I can’t say for sure, but it looked like we were the only ‘working press’ there, or at least, the only press that were treated horribly.

This vegetarian had almost taken a bite of chicken in an act of thanks, only to be treated like a second-class citizen.

I got up and told Ljungaeus that I was leaving. She apologized and said she had over reacted, but the damage had been done. I didn’t stay to watch any of the winners. Her horrible attitude, coupled by the distasteful jokes speaker Harry Shearer kept making about the late Tim Russert, put me completely over the edge.

Listen, I understand that this isn’t the Los Angeles Times or even LA Weekly, but LA.CityZine consists of a hard working group of writers who contribute content and knowledge for one reason: because they love to write. No matter how big or small a publication is, you treat each and everyone with the same respect, especially if you’re an organization that touts itself as being non-profit entity designed to bring hard working journalists together to celebrate their craft.

I find it so ironic that I was stepped all over at an event which was there to honor hard working journalists in Southern California. It is attitudes like Ljungaeus’ that discourage young reporters from ever making anything of themselves in this harsh business. Let’s face it, we’re not in the business of writing and reporting to make money. That’s obvious. That alone is enough to keep a student who loves journalism away from a career in media. We don’t need judgment and holier than thou attitudes from people like Ljungaeus to do more damage.

As a journalist, I would love to be part of the Los Angeles Press Club, except for one problem. Having to ever interact with Ljungaeus again would be enough to drive me away. Some time has passed since Saturday and although the events of that night don’t sting as much anymore, I know one thing for sure, Ljungaeus perhaps did the worst possible thing she could have done to the wrong person: a member of the press that was invited to cover an event. A person that would hopefully not only write a good review, but also get younger people interested in journalism and the press club. Along with everything else, she forgot that although journalists don’t have a lot of money and aren’t looked upon as the most coveted members of a society, they have power. The power to express their opinions and report information to hundreds of thousands of readers. Ljungaeus might have more or less ruined the evening for me and almost caused me to eat meat, but she couldn’t stop me from writing about it, and therein lies her biggest mistake. Oh, how I love the power of the press.

*Los Angeles CityZine contacted the Los Angeles Press Club for comment, however never received a response.

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