It’s the story of my life.
Sorta. Kinda.
The ink-stained wretches on screen were working for a New York tabloid, covering murder and mayhem, while I was not.
But back in ’94, when this flick hit, I was the youngest Sports Editor in the history of the Whidbey News-Times, working without a college degree, and I felt a kinship with Michael Keaton and Co.
A fair amount of time has passed, and I made wide detours to work on mussel rafts and in video stores, but, somehow, I still remain tethered — sorta, kinda — to journalism.
And I still love this film.
