I see pervs. Packs of them, roaming the streets with teeth bared and cheap overcoats flung open to reveal nothing but black socks, wife-beaters stained with Beefaroni, and knotty, horrible genitalia darting out every which way in search of a victim (presumably a cute child). I see legions of state employees, hoisting dozens of their cretinous second cousins into the cubicles next to theirs, the whole gang later marching—slowly—on Beacon Hill to convince water-headed reps to bring back the MDC and push through legislation allowing workers to retire after six months on the job with full health benefits for the rest of time. I see city streets running with blood (belonging largely to cute children), and the skies darkening with the slugs that punks and thugs fire at each other to satisfy their inscrutable beefs. I see activist judges applauding the violence (and the pervs) with impunity. I see a mayor speaking extemporaneously without fear of being ridiculed, and city councilors proffering harebrained ideas without fear of being ridiculed. I hear the words "I, William Bulger, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of president of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

When people scoff at the Herald, suggesting it's a rag suited only for fascists and morons, and deserves to die for its sins and excesses, I say: Folks, these are the stakes.

Aught-eight promises to be a turning point in the history of our local tabloid. Circulation dropped by 9 percent between September 2006 and September 2007, to about 186,000, and last November the paper ignominiously fell behind the commuter-pacifying Metro, which, when it launched in 2001, was putting out 100,000 copies to the Herald's 260,000. While the back room at J. J. Foley's on East Berkeley, once the epicenter of Herald-related debauchery, is no longer playing host to an unending series of boozy going-away parties, the news staff is down to a skeleton crew of eight reporters, and they haven't gotten a raise in two years. The fabled headquarters at Herald Square have been sold off to a company that specializes in shopping malls and chain hotels, which plans to erect more odious luxury condos in the tab's once unabashedly sordid footprint. Management is scouring for new digs, maybe in Allston or Roxbury, or anywhere cheaper than downtown, to complete the marginalization metaphor.

But the factors at play here aren't only economic. Newspapers everywhere are down, after all: People are turning to the Web for their news (or, I suspect, just saying they're turning to the Web, so they feel less guilty about not following the news), and traditional wellsprings of ad revenue—classifieds and department stores—are drying up. No, there's a more troubling trend discernible in the Herald's recent fortunes. It's almost as if Boston doesn't have a place for its second daily anymore. And frankly, a Boston that can't support the Herald is a city that's not really worth living in.

In 1982, the cash-strapped, layoff-rocked Herald was saved from the big recycling bin in the sky when it was acquired by Rupert Murdoch. Last December 3, on the 25th anniversary of that deal, owner and publisher Pat Purcell wrote a front-page column commemorating the occasion. In it, he invoked the headline with which the paper had reported its earlier salvation: "The paper that declared, ‘YOU BET WE'RE ALIVE!'" Purcell crowed, "is more alive than ever."

Of course, when you use the front page of your paper to remind people, vehemently and without prompting, that you're still alive, it can only be taken to mean one thing: You're done for. The day after Purcell's column ran, the news broke (on this magazine's blog…plug plug plug) that Herald police bureau chief/columnist Michele McPhee was leaving to take a full-time radio gig. That kicked off a week of rumors about how she left in protest, how she was fired, and how the Herald is doomed. The first two were false, the third more plausible, but in any case, that rocky stretch had the effect of reminding me of the fragility of existence. It was like seeing an aging relative take a spill, or start talking gibberish for a few seconds. It made me appreciate what I have.