When someone learns where I work, they sometimes will fix me a sympathetic look and coo, “How is the paper doing?” Nodding with anticipation, they clearly expect me to share some tale of woe. Ready, it seems, to pat my hand sympathetically if not give me a supportive hug after I burst out weeping.
And not without reason. We are still in the age of the Great Newspaper Die-Off, where journalistic brachiosauruses regularly roll up their eyes and collapse to the ground with a thundering crash.
