Why Newspapers Are Dying, Summed Up in One Article
The setup: two young female Washington Post reporters, frustrated with the bad dating odds in DC, fly to Alaska, where there are far more men than women, in order "to find romance." Allllll, the way to Alaska, they went, on the company dime. For romance. *Wink*
In one remote roadside bar, we meet a guy from Discovery's "Deadliest Catch,"... "Are you single?" he asks, when his girlfriend is out of earshot.
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
Then he curves his arm around my hips and pulls me close. It's spontaneous and natural, and Washington feels like a distant planet.
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
Eager to warm up, I find myself in a steamy cabin tub filled with nearly naked Coast Guard members.
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
I'm tentatively running a finger through the bushy red beard of Tommy Smith... it is soft.
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
I let him buy me a drink, and we dance to "Soul Man" underneath a canopy of rainbow balloons.
Later, we hug good night, and I head back to my hotel.
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
Caleb raises the possibility of an Eskimo kiss.
"Want to try it?" he asks.
"Sure," I say, and we rub noses
Don't worry—nothing dirty happens.
Georgy the gold hunter told me he wanted to fall asleep with his arms around me. I didn't take him up on that
The problem with newspapers: nothing dirty ever happens.
