Your average journalist usually begins his career with a pop, like a big bottle of champagne. He effervesces about his profession, intoxicating all who encounter him. The party goes on for years as the young journalist conquers deadlines, corrupt politicians, and hidebound editors. But by the time a journalist hits his mid-30s, the music begins to dim and the dancing stops. He starts complaining about falling standards, muttering about the decline of the business, and griping about his place in the journalistic pecking order. Once a happy drunk, he’s now a sad drunk—or worse, a mean one. It’s not that the future has been canceled; he just can’t see it rising over the horizon anymore. The flat and warm champagne at the bottom of his bottle has turned to vinegar.