James Lileks channels his inner Hunsecker:

It’s a blogger’s life. You spend the night on the town in your accustomed style, beginning at the club where the maitre d’ waves you to the table from which you can behold the gaudy parade of humanity – and there you sit, entertaining well-wishers, tipsters, publicity agents, starlets, producers, guys on the make with two-buck gossip dressed up as a sawbuck expose. When one o’clock rolls around you collect your hat and walking stick and head over to the after-hours blogger’s club: brandy and Cubans until three. Your chauffeur motors you home as the city sleeps; you draw a bath, put a board over the edge of the tub for your laptop, and type your next post. It has that brisk insouciant patter that makes Winchell look like Henry James with a mouthful of syrup, but really, don’t they all. This is why they read you. This is why they fear you.

(And as James adds, "Alas, you wake..." For an actual look at a modern-day equivalent to Winchell and the nowhere near as Runyonesque life he leads, click here.)