Projectile Dysfunction

A mere three months ago, when summer was all a-bloomin’ and fall was only a pleasant memory and not the Coming Attractions, my newspaper would wait for me right at my doorstep; a blue plastic mystery of a bundle, thick and heavy and filled with things to read. I simply had to open the front door, pick up the newspaper, toss out the unwanted pages into the trash (or “more or less near the trash”, as the wife has pointed out on occasion) and read the stuff I wanted to. I liked that arrangement a lot.

Now it seems an 80-lb weakling of a man (or a woman - I don’t know) with the dexterity of a rusted robot without any lubricant in its shoulder joints is delivering my newspaper.

In the last four weeks, the newspaper has landed farther and farther away from the front door. Last Sunday, it made it to my neighbor’s** driveway, who I suspect helped himself to the newspaper thinking the New York Times sent him a free weekend trial copy.

First I had to walk a few steps, then a few feet and now it appears I may have to take the train to NYC to get my copy. Where will this madness end? Will the Times' editors ship me to Iraq or Iran to experience the news first-hand? (Hey, there's a business idea - journo-tourism.)

**Dear neighbor: you have *no* idea how dreary it was to sit on the porcelain throne without the Travel section. I could have done Barcelona in 36 hours. Instead, I had to make do with a three month-old edition of Times’ “Style” magazine. There’s reading deprivation and then there’s the Times’ Style magazine. Oh dear God. The toilet paper makes for better reading.