I think I know what I sound like when writing about the broken state of journalism in Chicago and nationally:

I sound broken.

And cynical, exhausted, depressed, and battered from having seen too much. Like some old Robert Mitchum channeling Raymond Chandler in a private-eye monologue from a cheap hotel room at three o’clock in the morning.

Downtown police sirens blaring in the hours before dawn. Drunks laughing maniacally. A woman shouting in some hallway.

And I’m using a voice sweetened by Camels and whiskey and one broken heart, because I loved journalism so very much and thought it was so important to all of us.

Then came my decision to liken journos to starving hyenas and boss whores.

I was angry.