Some people have suspected this all along, but science is now providing evidence to support the notion that children who grow up in messy households tend to have better immune systems. The converse of that, of course, is that children born to germaphobes don’t fare very well. As a researcher quoted in this piece from the New York Times says, “Children raised in an ultraclean environment are not being exposed to organisms that help them develop appropriate immune regulatory circuits.” (I’ll have to say, though, that I could have lived a long and happy life without knowing intestinal worms can be good for you.)

It was published early last month, and is already dated in one regard (more on that below), but this article from the online magazine The American surely had Charlotte civic leaders babbling their appreciation. It’s articles like this for which the phrase “tongue bath” was coined. In describing Charlotte’s many virtues, a battalion of adjectives were pressed into service, among them “sophisticated,” “dramatic,” “attractive,” “largest” and “major.” I also got a chuckle out of this line, referring to Bank of America’s acquisition of investment firm Merrill Lynch: “[BofA] is likely to emerge from the tumult as one of the most important financial firms in the world.” That, or broke and busted. What seemed like a good thing in December looks much different in the cold light of January.

Credit must be given to the Romenesko blog on Poynter Online for ferreting out this gem from the early 1980s. It’s a TV news report about people who anticipate the day when home computers could be used to get daily news reports. “It’s not as far-fetched as it may seem,” the announcer says at the start — but by the end of the two-minute segment, a sidewalk newspaper vendor is shown hawking his wares as the reporter’s voice-over tells us, “So for the moment at least, this fellow isn’t worried about being out of a job.” True enough: Back then, it took two hours to get the full text of the paper on a computer.

After three decades in the newspaper business, I realized there is a certain bipolarity within the industry: When times are good, newspapers are a business. When times are bad, they’re a public trust.

For most of my tenure, times were good and newspapers were flush. They charged as much for advertising as the market could bear, most of them had monopolies in their towns, and the money rolled in. If there was any concern that economic circumstance might someday threaten the business, it was never exhibited. Everyone proceeded on the belief that the good times would last forever. I never once heard a news executive suggest that if newspapers were so important to public life, then maybe some profits should be tucked away to sustain the industry in periods of adversity.

Now, the good times are over and newspapers are threatened. Guess what? The industry is now a public trust, and too important to fade away. Here’s how a recent opinion piece in the New York Times put it:

“The basis of our governments being the opinion of the people, the very first object should be to keep that right,” Thomas Jefferson wrote in January 1787. “And were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate to prefer the latter.”

Today, we are dangerously close to having a government without newspapers.

Putting aside the fact that Jefferson — who had neither television nor radio nor Internet — would today have said “media” rather than “newspapers,” the basic sentiment is still well-founded. Rigorous reporting on government is a valuable thing and worth preserving. But that’s just one thing newspapers do. They also provide comic strips, television listings, betting lines for sporting events, movie reviews, recipes, advice to the lovelorn, and lifestyle articles celebrating the glories of feng shui and such. Are those things likewise uniquely valuable to the nation?

Of course not. But newspapers provide all those extras in the belief that it helps the industry keep its audience — although that audience long ago figured out those features are available elsewhere. The one thing people can’t get anywhere else is tough-nosed reporting on how their government functions.

So why can’t the newspaper industry seem to figure out how to build a business model around that one thing, which is both a public trust and desirable consumer product?

In the current issue of People magazine, Patti Davis recalls her traumatic 1981 inauguration experience in an essay headlined, “A Night to Forget.” (Sorry, but no link. The magazine doesn’t post current articles online right away.) Here it is in full:

My father, Ronald Reagan, had just been sworn in as President, and as First Daughter I was “assigned” an Inaugural Ball for the evening. If only someone had auditioned me beforehand, they might have discovered what a bad idea this was.

After all, I may have been nearly 30 years old at the time, but I still had the petulant attitude of a young teenager.

Among the many problems with my new role was the uncomfortable (for the party planners) fact that I had no suitable wardrobe. I was a 28-year-old Topanga Canyon hippie.

I was still rebelling against my parents. They were, like, so plastic, man.

So it was arranged that designers would loan me clothes, including an evening dress. I tried to protest the long red ruffled loaner to no avail. I was convinced it made me look like a cross between a salsa dancer and a wind-up toy you’d find in a tourist shop.

Can you believe it? They treated me just like a child.

I’d also been loaned a man for the evening — the son of my parents’ friends. My parents swore I’d met him once when we were toddlers.

Oh, who am I kidding. I had a blind date for the inauguration. How pitiful is that?

I could have taken a guy I’d dated who worked at the Topanga gas station. He would have looked nice in a tux — as long as he didn’t smile. He was missing a front tooth. I guess the blond stranger was a better choice.

Actually, I’m not sure the gap-toothed gas dude even knew my name. I was sleeping with him only because it turned out that being a hippie wasn’t enough to horrify my parents. I had to kick it up a notch.

With my hair pinned up (apparently long hair was illegal in Washington), my date and I were led onto a stage in a huge ballroom, seated in metal chairs and told to stay there until my parents arrived. The crowd pressed forward. The women had big hair and taffeta ball gowns; the men gulped liquor from plastic cups. We sat. They stared. I ruminated on the merits of hara-kari.

It was awful. All those people were treating the inauguration like it was some kind of big deal, and didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to my pain and humiliation. What about me? What about my feelings? Why did everything have to be about Daddy?

But that was then. It’s a new era, and change has come.

When you run out of things to say, throw in a few cliches. That’s my advice.

The Obama girls are too young to be sent off on their own, so I trust they’ll have a fun night. I also have faith that the tribal leaders who once designed these ritualistic affairs have now been replaced by normal people.

You know, normal like me. Me me me.

And I checked on the local laws. Long hair is now permitted in the nation’s capital.

By the way, I got even with Mommy and Daddy for making me go to that inauguration. A few years later, I showed my boobies to everyone.