Author Archives: Scott Bowles

All The News That’s Fit to Miss


http://echem-eg.com/?utm_source=Adestra This is what the death of journalism looks like.

http://garrygolden.com/xt/ I used to work at USA Today. Seventeen years in that building, watching reporters hustle for scoops, editors argue over a single word in a headline, and the pride that came with a byline printed on real paper, waiting in hotel lobbies and airports across the country. We cared then. We really did.

Now, it’s all Prime Day.

Scroll through those headlines — “Spoil yourself with splurge-worthy Prime Day finds,” “Amazon has a 2025 MacBook Air for $150 off this Prime Day,” “Prime Day has 20% off Coop adjustable pillows.” It’s not a newspaper anymore. It’s an affiliate link in human form. An SEO sacrifice at the altar of cheap consumer dopamine.

Forget democracy. Forget watchdog journalism. Forget reporting that holds power accountable. Today, the only power USA Today holds to account is whether your mattress is properly supported by a Coop pillow and if your dog’s carpet cleaner is on sale for $85.

I don’t mean to sound nostalgic for the “good old days.” Plenty was broken back then, too. But there was a baseline respect for news. There was a belief that journalism meant accountability, not peddling the latest Anker headphones.

It’s easy to blame social media. Or Amazon. Or our collective inability to resist a deal. But the real villain is the willingness to trade credibility for a few extra affiliate dollars.

I’m not against commerce. Journalists need to be paid. Newsrooms need to stay afloat.

But when every headline reads like a walking infomercial, you can’t call it journalism anymore. You can’t even call it service journalism. It’s just service — to Amazon, to advertisers, to anyone waving a check.

The lone “real” story on that page — “Big Tech will survive Trump tariffs” — is a billionaire CEO reassuring us that his trillion-dollar company will be just fine. That’s the journalism we get when the newsroom becomes a marketing department. Power flattering power, no hard questions, no uncomfortable truths.

We used to call ourselves the “Nation’s Newspaper.” You’d see USA Today tucked into hotel doors across the country, a snapshot of America in bright, crisp colors.

It wasn’t perfect, but it tried. It tried to be more than a shopping catalog.

That spirit is gone. In its place stands a hollow shell, hawking deals like a carnival barker. You can almost hear the shout: “Step right up! Don’t miss your chance to splurge on a Prime Day pillow! Limited time only!”

If we want to understand why trust in media is in freefall, we don’t have to look far. It’s right there, in bold headlines and lazy copy, reminding us that for some publications, the only truth left is the checkout total.

I don’t know what’s sadder — that this is happening, or that it’s working. Could a suit ask for better “headlines?”

When the front page is for sale, I guess the soul goes cheap.

Open Letter to A Puppy: Lulu

Open Letter to a Puppy: Lulu

My punctuation,

As you may have noticed, there’s an 8-pound visitor in our home. Say hello to Lulu.

She puts the toy in Toy Yorkshire Terrier. Jadie, I think she’s as heavy as your left paw. And twice as fragile.

Actually, make that at least seven times as fragile as that paw. And that was the revelation.

See, before taking her on, I thought: What’s another mouth to feed? Mochi’s spent the night plenty of times.

But when my dear friend told me what Lulu’s needs included — eye drops, special kibble, special treats — I realized I wasn’t just taking on a third mouth to feed. I was entrusted with guarding a life.

I guess I always knew that, but this time, I did the math: She wasn’t a 12-year-old Yorky. In our years, she was an 84-year-old lady. A little blind, a little deaf. I should be that spry when I’m 60.

Which I am.

Which got me thinking about math. Lulu is exactly one-fifth my age, yet nearly a quarter-century older. When I viewed her through that lens, everything changed.

She wasn’t sleeping over. She was checking in for a couple weeks — 2 ½ months for her — and deserved the over-protective care I’d give my mother, who is around her age and would demonstrate her spryness should I utter another number.

Every day, it seems, I discover I am drawn to dogs (to all living organisms, actually) as I was once draw to writing. It never was work: I’d clearly do this for free.

So it seems with pups. Long ago I lost any pretense about my house looking or smelling like dog. If it doesn’t, call the cops, delivery heroes.

It’s a funny obsession. You know how small a matter it is on the list of Earth’s concerns.

But you build that world regardless, and they with you, and you see how seismic the concern. If a life is measured by how one affects life, what the hell was I doing for forty years?

Which brings me to Lulu. I promise you: It’s not a permanent change, and is no reflection of your goodness, which has only grown in her sudden presence. I should be so accommodating with the prospect of newness.

I’d tell you scooch over a half-inch for a few days, but I don’t think she’d take up that much space. So let’s make this home as fit for royalty as dogness permits.

The math of love.