ROGER EBERT LOOKS BACK on the early days of a career as a good ol’ fashioned newspaperman, and it’s right out of All the President’s Men or the Daily Planet — except with a bit more booze and a little heavy petting.
Here, he’s a wide-eyed kid in the company of a Pulitzer Prize-winner:
I sipped the brandy, and a warm place began to glow in my stomach. I had been in Chicago four months and I was sitting under the L tracks with Mike Royko in an eye-opener place. A Blackhawks game was playing on WGN radio. The team scored, and again, and again. This at last was life.
“The Blackhawks are really hot tonight,” I observed to Royko.
He studied me. “Where you from, kid? Downstate?”
“Urbana,” I said.
“Ever seen a hockey game?”
“That’s what I thought, you asshole. “Those are the game highlights.”
Another anecdote ends with free blow jobs. On the eve of the death of newspapers as we know it, the full, romanticized blog post is worth the read.