I started out as a child. My family will remember this from a Bill Cosby album years ago. Funny! But what were you after that? Then I was a teenager. After that a twenty-something and then an adult (although there are those who will dispute that). My era did not have a name such as Gen-X or anything like it for the pre-adult phase. I was at the very end of the baby boom but have never considered myself part of that population.
I have discovered that as you age you take on differing roles. Wow, how enlightening you say. RT you are such a big thinker. The advancing years become more than just labels. It is a responsibility of where you are in life. A teenager is a teenager with no particular responsibility other than a propensity to annoy those around them. Twenty-somethings have no role other than to begin contributing to society, finding jobs, paying taxes and such. I guess with little life experience on their side, that is how a liberal is born and hopefully they grow out of it and into true conservative principles, but that is a separate blog to be explored.
My next roles are what I have become and will be for the rest of my days. I am a husband and father. My Beloved is the driving passion for me each day. When we married I became the proud papa of a rambunctious twelve-year old (Product of MT and RT). She is my daughter in every way, shape and form. True to that fact is she probably owes me money from something. Through her came a son-in-law who in every way has become my only son. As the decades pass your labels become who you are and it is your responsibility to live up to the best of those qualities. Sainted Mother is a perfect example of how we strive to live up to those values.
A new moniker has recently been thrust upon me. I have become a grandfather with as much trepidation as my son has in becoming a father. I see it in his eyes as he was asked to hold his son for the first time. The 'what if I break him look' came roaring across his face. I did not have that look as I have masterfully held infants for years. But now what? What does a grandpa do? My grandparents were already older when I was born and as such I do not have a long string of memories concerning them. Bertha was as well sainted and grandpa was scary. The first time I held my grandson that thought left me forever. My job is to sweep into whatever room the little whipper is in and demand he be given to me so I can hold him. Only My Beloved has a say in this matter.
My next burning question is, what shall be my true label, gramps, grandpa or the solemn Grandfather? I'm leaning toward grandfather as it sounds stately and demanding of respect, but I guess I'll answer to whatever an infant can utter.
Ramblings of a 60 Year Old Man - My thoughts on just about anything, in no particular order; Robert Thomas - author.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
I read, therefore I am
Not quite how Descartes was quoted, but it will suffice.
Beloved Father was always considered a "hands on" and "practical" man; he was not much of a book reader, rather he read news magazines and the local papers, whilst Sainted Mother was a reader, and carried the "very intelligent" tag gracefully but reluctantly. It was not something that was ever said to her, it was more understood as a fact of life.
She was a product of the generation that thought a wife should not earn more than her husband, so she gave up a promising career to take a lower paying job before taking many years away from the work force to stay at home and raise the brood, as did most back then. Wonderful Daughter is currently pursuing that same career path, to her eternal credit (and doing an outstanding job bearing that load); it is as much a labor of love as it is work, for all that.
Back to topic.
Once the magic of letters making words, then making sense, clicked in my brain, and I understood exactly what it was she was trying to teach me, I became a lifelong lover of words and books, and have read, quite literally, thousands of books. At one point I even maintained a list of books I had read, starting in high school, and continuing until a few years ago when I transferred the hand-written list to computer, and lost the list when the system crashed shortly thereafter. Naturally, I had pitched the list.
Today my list is shorter, and only contains an ever-changing list of (currently) about 160 books that I plan to read. This one is on computer, also, but is stored at WorldCat's website using one of their tools. This time I have kept the printed copy of what is on it.
Side note: I currently have cards to six library systems to aid my procurement efforts.
In the past I have had up to three books going at once, but nowadays I confine myself to one, unless the other is an audiobook. I also read while walking to and from the office, something I have done for about 20 years, and have noticed a few other venturesome souls doing the same recently.
I'm a trendsetter!
I draw the line at reading while driving, though.
All five of us children were readers, though RT was the least fond of it back in the day; now, he writes for others to read, although he is making his way through Sainted Mother's collection of Great Works (read: BORING!), most of which will likely put me to sleep.
Baby Sis read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series each year while working as a lifeguard; I always wondered if that was while on duty or on break, but she never said.
"Lifeguard! Johnny's in trouble!"
"All right, wait a sec until I can find a dry spot for my book!"
Beloved Father was always considered a "hands on" and "practical" man; he was not much of a book reader, rather he read news magazines and the local papers, whilst Sainted Mother was a reader, and carried the "very intelligent" tag gracefully but reluctantly. It was not something that was ever said to her, it was more understood as a fact of life.
She was a product of the generation that thought a wife should not earn more than her husband, so she gave up a promising career to take a lower paying job before taking many years away from the work force to stay at home and raise the brood, as did most back then. Wonderful Daughter is currently pursuing that same career path, to her eternal credit (and doing an outstanding job bearing that load); it is as much a labor of love as it is work, for all that.
Back to topic.
Once the magic of letters making words, then making sense, clicked in my brain, and I understood exactly what it was she was trying to teach me, I became a lifelong lover of words and books, and have read, quite literally, thousands of books. At one point I even maintained a list of books I had read, starting in high school, and continuing until a few years ago when I transferred the hand-written list to computer, and lost the list when the system crashed shortly thereafter. Naturally, I had pitched the list.
Today my list is shorter, and only contains an ever-changing list of (currently) about 160 books that I plan to read. This one is on computer, also, but is stored at WorldCat's website using one of their tools. This time I have kept the printed copy of what is on it.
Side note: I currently have cards to six library systems to aid my procurement efforts.
In the past I have had up to three books going at once, but nowadays I confine myself to one, unless the other is an audiobook. I also read while walking to and from the office, something I have done for about 20 years, and have noticed a few other venturesome souls doing the same recently.
I'm a trendsetter!
I draw the line at reading while driving, though.
All five of us children were readers, though RT was the least fond of it back in the day; now, he writes for others to read, although he is making his way through Sainted Mother's collection of Great Works (read: BORING!), most of which will likely put me to sleep.
Baby Sis read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series each year while working as a lifeguard; I always wondered if that was while on duty or on break, but she never said.
"Lifeguard! Johnny's in trouble!"
"All right, wait a sec until I can find a dry spot for my book!"
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Sunday, 1960s
Rose-tinged memories, imperfectly recalled through the fog and haze of the ever-circling years, tell me that the following took place at our home on most Sundays during the bulk of the decade of the 60s:
There was no need for an alarm clock, as Beloved Father would return from the 8:00 Mass to stir us from our peaceful slumbers with "Are you up yet?" hollered up the stairway and down the hall, long as it was. He was an usher at the 8:00 a.m. Mass; why there was a need for ushers is beyond me, as every week the same people sat in the same pews, and knew perfectly well where those same seats were! I suspect he was more of a collection-plate-passer, but usher sounds better.
I am certain Sainted Mother also awoke us from time to time, but I mainly recall Beloved Father doing so. Then it was down the stairs in our pajamas (pyjamas to our British cousins) to read the funny pages as we called them, and then back upstairs to dress for church, complete with the clip-on tie that was worn all week at school, unless you were able to make off with one of two bolo ties we had. Never a drop of liquid other than water nor any morsel of food was allowed to pass your lips until after you returned from Mass and performed the requisite taking of Holy Communion. I always suspected Beloved Father went to 8:00 a.m. Mass because he got hungry; there was an occasional 6:30 a.m. service which he and the designated paperboy would attend from time to time. I subbed a few times for Graybeard on his route, and the early Mass was great; you came home, ate breakfast, and went back to sleep!
Normally, at the apointed time, anyone who was still in need of joining the Mass-es would pile into the car (a one car family!) with Sainted Mother driving the roughly four blocks to church for the 10:00 Latin High Mass. I can still recall the sights and sounds of that idyllic time, it was in Latin which made it mysterious to me, even though I could pronounce the words to the responses. The power, majesty, and awe of a Latin High Mass was wonderful to behold. I miss it still.
Returning home after Mass uneventfully (except for once), we would change to regular clothes and do whatever kids did then, watch tv, do homework, play inside so as not to disturb the heathen Protestants who were attending their own church services at the first Lutheran then Baptist church that was literally (in spots) 4 feet from the north side of our half-double, now called a duplex, the type in which Handsome Son currently resides, as a matter of fact.
The most enduring memory of those Sundays was Beloved Father cooking the Sunday meal, and Mitch Miller or the Four Roses Society record albums (giant vinyl cds to you whippersnappers) on the stereo. There was also his favorite Big Bands from the Reader's Digest Big Band Collection.
The world's best baked chicken was a staple, the skin so thin and crackly but tasty, and the meat tender enough to almost fall off the bone. Mashed potatoes with gravy, a meatloaf perhaps, with the secret (to me) red sauce on the top, which turned out to be merely ketchup, and was the only time I ever ate the otherwise nasty red stuff; spaghetti was never, excuse me, NEVER! made for Sunday meals at our house. "It is NOT a Sunday dish!" A treat was "wine" for the kids on a special day. The wine was grape juice and 7-Up mixed together. We might even have frozen salad, that combination of fruit cocktail and cream cheese, blended and frozen (naturally) in metal ice cube trays with the handles that separated the squares. Yummy!
Outside play was permitted after the heathens went home, so I played many games of one-man baseball by tossing a rubber baseball against the steps of the house, or even against the steps of the next door church, pitching, fielding, and announcing the lineups to myself, and doing the play-by-play as well. Must have been early training for my current day side gig as a soccer p.a. man.
Even though we had winter, rain, and even snow when I was a kid (you know, we walked uphill both ways in the snow, etc.) I ever think of those days as always being sunny and warm. Must be the rose tinge I mentioned earlier.
Sunday evenings we gathered as a family to watch The Wonderful World of Disney, also called Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color, or The FBI, or Bonanza, among others. Beloved Father cared naught for Ed Sullivan, so we did not watch his show, although I do recall seeing it exactly once, somehow.
Whatever we had for the evening meal was smaller, but almost nothing comes to mind; in winter oatmeal with raisins was often the fare. That remains one of my favorites to this day.
I am certain Graybeard, The Stache, RT and Baby Sis have recollections that are similar but different, which calls to mind that RT detests the old phrase "same difference", but that is what memories are made of, or, as the song says, "Memories Are Made of This".
There was no need for an alarm clock, as Beloved Father would return from the 8:00 Mass to stir us from our peaceful slumbers with "Are you up yet?" hollered up the stairway and down the hall, long as it was. He was an usher at the 8:00 a.m. Mass; why there was a need for ushers is beyond me, as every week the same people sat in the same pews, and knew perfectly well where those same seats were! I suspect he was more of a collection-plate-passer, but usher sounds better.
I am certain Sainted Mother also awoke us from time to time, but I mainly recall Beloved Father doing so. Then it was down the stairs in our pajamas (pyjamas to our British cousins) to read the funny pages as we called them, and then back upstairs to dress for church, complete with the clip-on tie that was worn all week at school, unless you were able to make off with one of two bolo ties we had. Never a drop of liquid other than water nor any morsel of food was allowed to pass your lips until after you returned from Mass and performed the requisite taking of Holy Communion. I always suspected Beloved Father went to 8:00 a.m. Mass because he got hungry; there was an occasional 6:30 a.m. service which he and the designated paperboy would attend from time to time. I subbed a few times for Graybeard on his route, and the early Mass was great; you came home, ate breakfast, and went back to sleep!
Normally, at the apointed time, anyone who was still in need of joining the Mass-es would pile into the car (a one car family!) with Sainted Mother driving the roughly four blocks to church for the 10:00 Latin High Mass. I can still recall the sights and sounds of that idyllic time, it was in Latin which made it mysterious to me, even though I could pronounce the words to the responses. The power, majesty, and awe of a Latin High Mass was wonderful to behold. I miss it still.
Returning home after Mass uneventfully (except for once), we would change to regular clothes and do whatever kids did then, watch tv, do homework, play inside so as not to disturb the heathen Protestants who were attending their own church services at the first Lutheran then Baptist church that was literally (in spots) 4 feet from the north side of our half-double, now called a duplex, the type in which Handsome Son currently resides, as a matter of fact.
The most enduring memory of those Sundays was Beloved Father cooking the Sunday meal, and Mitch Miller or the Four Roses Society record albums (giant vinyl cds to you whippersnappers) on the stereo. There was also his favorite Big Bands from the Reader's Digest Big Band Collection.
The world's best baked chicken was a staple, the skin so thin and crackly but tasty, and the meat tender enough to almost fall off the bone. Mashed potatoes with gravy, a meatloaf perhaps, with the secret (to me) red sauce on the top, which turned out to be merely ketchup, and was the only time I ever ate the otherwise nasty red stuff; spaghetti was never, excuse me, NEVER! made for Sunday meals at our house. "It is NOT a Sunday dish!" A treat was "wine" for the kids on a special day. The wine was grape juice and 7-Up mixed together. We might even have frozen salad, that combination of fruit cocktail and cream cheese, blended and frozen (naturally) in metal ice cube trays with the handles that separated the squares. Yummy!
Outside play was permitted after the heathens went home, so I played many games of one-man baseball by tossing a rubber baseball against the steps of the house, or even against the steps of the next door church, pitching, fielding, and announcing the lineups to myself, and doing the play-by-play as well. Must have been early training for my current day side gig as a soccer p.a. man.
Even though we had winter, rain, and even snow when I was a kid (you know, we walked uphill both ways in the snow, etc.) I ever think of those days as always being sunny and warm. Must be the rose tinge I mentioned earlier.
Sunday evenings we gathered as a family to watch The Wonderful World of Disney, also called Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color, or The FBI, or Bonanza, among others. Beloved Father cared naught for Ed Sullivan, so we did not watch his show, although I do recall seeing it exactly once, somehow.
Whatever we had for the evening meal was smaller, but almost nothing comes to mind; in winter oatmeal with raisins was often the fare. That remains one of my favorites to this day.
I am certain Graybeard, The Stache, RT and Baby Sis have recollections that are similar but different, which calls to mind that RT detests the old phrase "same difference", but that is what memories are made of, or, as the song says, "Memories Are Made of This".
Things I don't care about...nothing personal
As I have undertaken this endeavor my mind at times floods with things to write about. At other instances I can't think of a thing. Since I don't have a Facebook account (and most likely will never), I thought I would drop in my 'Playboy magazine' square. Come on, you know, that little box by the 'model' that says 'my turn-ons are', etc. That way you can claim you read the articles. This is just the part that says what I don't care about.
Twitter. ( I thought it was a vitamin deficiency)
Facebook.
Pro basketball.
Any sports preseason.
Soccer (sorry N of 50, just doesn't happen for me).
Monster car/truck anything.
Tractor pulls.
American Idol after the stupid people.
The Price is Right.
French films.
The Beatles
The British invasion (early 60's music; sorry lads across the pond)
Hallmark holidays
NPR
Public television
Community access channels
That's about all I can think of at the moment. I'm sure other things will come to mind.
Twitter. ( I thought it was a vitamin deficiency)
Facebook.
Pro basketball.
Any sports preseason.
Soccer (sorry N of 50, just doesn't happen for me).
Monster car/truck anything.
Tractor pulls.
American Idol after the stupid people.
The Price is Right.
French films.
The Beatles
The British invasion (early 60's music; sorry lads across the pond)
Hallmark holidays
NPR
Public television
Community access channels
That's about all I can think of at the moment. I'm sure other things will come to mind.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Buckets and rims
Each year I enjoy the NCAA tournament and follow my bracket. If all goes well our beloved Buckeyes will advance up the ladder. We know it didn't happen this year, but I for one never expected it. They just aren't ready yet. Perhaps next year.
I do however wish I could watch good basketball. From the phrase those who can't do teach (for I am the poster child of white men can't jump) I am perplexed at the lack of ball knowledge displayed on the court. The games themselves are fun to watch but the skill level is abominable.
I blame the advent of the 3-pointer as the slippery slope that caused basketball to become nothing more than five guys playing one-on-one. 'Back in the day' there were things such as pressing, two point shots, three seconds, double-dribble (palming) and traveling. I can't remember the last time I saw a palming call or the like. Perhaps they changed the rules and I wasn't watching. I wish I had the athletic ability of those I watch but that is not the point.
There is currently a dead zone from the rim to the three point arc. You see either someone slamming the ball through or popping a shot from thirty. The art of the midrange jumper is lost. It's almost like players think a three second call is if you are inside the arc and not the lane. Pathetic. The 3-pointer is a low percentage shot and the best usually hit 35-40 percent. Unfortunately everyone thinks they can shoot it. They can't. I think scores would be higher if teams shot more deuces and less threes. I love an occasional three but every shot is now a three.
Big men have lost their art as well. I watch game after game where the only consistent shot made is a dunk. The techniques of the inside game are gone. There is no finesse or touch around the basket by today's centers. Most would rather go outside and shoot treys. Anyone who shoots either inside or out then just stands there watching the ball sail toward the goal. Everyone thinks they look great with their arm outstretched like MJ until the ball 'clunks' and the play is heading the other way. And that is in the middle of the first half. You don't get style points for missing a shot in the first half. Follow the shot, get the rebound and put it up or kick it out.
The coaches in my formative years would bench you if you threw half the bad passes I see during games. A cross-court pass was a death throw and with the athleticism of today's players it is sure to get picked off. Stupid pass by stupid players. Go help out and get to the ball.
There are bright spots in today's game. Players are more athletic and overall the potential skills are higher than in the past but many are premadonnas; they want to do it their way.
Learn the game; stay one more year to get better before moving on. You'll get your money then and probably a lot more. I don't begrudge anyone who is able to sign a great contract and take care of themselves and their families for the rest of their lives. But, don't strut around in front of the rest of us who are short and can't jump, it's just genetics, it's not my fault.
I do however wish I could watch good basketball. From the phrase those who can't do teach (for I am the poster child of white men can't jump) I am perplexed at the lack of ball knowledge displayed on the court. The games themselves are fun to watch but the skill level is abominable.
I blame the advent of the 3-pointer as the slippery slope that caused basketball to become nothing more than five guys playing one-on-one. 'Back in the day' there were things such as pressing, two point shots, three seconds, double-dribble (palming) and traveling. I can't remember the last time I saw a palming call or the like. Perhaps they changed the rules and I wasn't watching. I wish I had the athletic ability of those I watch but that is not the point.
There is currently a dead zone from the rim to the three point arc. You see either someone slamming the ball through or popping a shot from thirty. The art of the midrange jumper is lost. It's almost like players think a three second call is if you are inside the arc and not the lane. Pathetic. The 3-pointer is a low percentage shot and the best usually hit 35-40 percent. Unfortunately everyone thinks they can shoot it. They can't. I think scores would be higher if teams shot more deuces and less threes. I love an occasional three but every shot is now a three.
Big men have lost their art as well. I watch game after game where the only consistent shot made is a dunk. The techniques of the inside game are gone. There is no finesse or touch around the basket by today's centers. Most would rather go outside and shoot treys. Anyone who shoots either inside or out then just stands there watching the ball sail toward the goal. Everyone thinks they look great with their arm outstretched like MJ until the ball 'clunks' and the play is heading the other way. And that is in the middle of the first half. You don't get style points for missing a shot in the first half. Follow the shot, get the rebound and put it up or kick it out.
The coaches in my formative years would bench you if you threw half the bad passes I see during games. A cross-court pass was a death throw and with the athleticism of today's players it is sure to get picked off. Stupid pass by stupid players. Go help out and get to the ball.
There are bright spots in today's game. Players are more athletic and overall the potential skills are higher than in the past but many are premadonnas; they want to do it their way.
Learn the game; stay one more year to get better before moving on. You'll get your money then and probably a lot more. I don't begrudge anyone who is able to sign a great contract and take care of themselves and their families for the rest of their lives. But, don't strut around in front of the rest of us who are short and can't jump, it's just genetics, it's not my fault.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Madness of March
The Madness of March can take many forms. If you are involved in a basketball pick-em pool, you may find yourself chasing the jack, as you root for a team to win their game so they can advance and perhaps earn you that vital point that means you win the pool; conversely, you may also find yourself rooting for your favorite team to win (OSU, perhaps), knowing full well you picked against them in the pool. So, it is a wash; whomever wins you can get some satisfaction.
On the other hand, you must contemplate the unthinkable: picking a team to win that you really despise since you have seen how good they can be; oft times it is a consolation that their upset loss cost you big points in the pool, but you love the fact that they flat-out choked.
The Madness of March also invades other parts of our lives. The month of March, the coming of spring after a cold winter, and strange thought patterns all converged at various times in my younger life to produce mental meanderings that caused to me wonder: Why are we here? How can you go through life not wanting to be famous? Or rich? What is it I want to do? How will I look when I am old? How old is "old"?
I always had the questions running through my mind, and never gave a thought to how to answer said questions.
I am only certain, in my mind, of two of those: we are here to do the best we possibly can, to live and love and try to leave this world a better place, and I believe "old" begins at 85.
If you stop learning and living, "old" can begin a lot earlier than that. I hope to be able to tell you, when I get to 85, that "old" starts somewhere after that. I am planning on having my mid-life crisis at age 100, so maybe it starts then.
On the other hand, you must contemplate the unthinkable: picking a team to win that you really despise since you have seen how good they can be; oft times it is a consolation that their upset loss cost you big points in the pool, but you love the fact that they flat-out choked.
The Madness of March also invades other parts of our lives. The month of March, the coming of spring after a cold winter, and strange thought patterns all converged at various times in my younger life to produce mental meanderings that caused to me wonder: Why are we here? How can you go through life not wanting to be famous? Or rich? What is it I want to do? How will I look when I am old? How old is "old"?
I always had the questions running through my mind, and never gave a thought to how to answer said questions.
I am only certain, in my mind, of two of those: we are here to do the best we possibly can, to live and love and try to leave this world a better place, and I believe "old" begins at 85.
If you stop learning and living, "old" can begin a lot earlier than that. I hope to be able to tell you, when I get to 85, that "old" starts somewhere after that. I am planning on having my mid-life crisis at age 100, so maybe it starts then.
Ink and paper cuts
There is a near death on the horizon. It is sad as with any death that one must change their course and deal with it the best way one can. I speak of the impending demise of the newspaper. The newspaper you say? Too many of them you say? Old news you say? Perhaps.
America is deeply rooted in the fourth estate. Even the constitution provides for a free press unencumbered by the state. That of course is much broader than the current topic. I simply refer to the newspaper. It is ink on paper, smudgy and a little late. But it is how we have received our view of the world for the better part of my life (except for Walter Cronkite). My brothers and I all go back to having the first universal paying job of being a paperboy. We hopped on our bikes, jumped in the car, had our father drive us on Sunday before mass, all to deliver the paper.
I remember sitting in a shack after school, I think it was painted green, with North of 50 waiting on the paper truck to deliver our load. It would finally arrive and we would unload the truck, sort and count, pack up and go to our routes. Some had big satchels for carrying and walking from house to house, the canvass cutting into your shoulder. The only relief was as each paper was removed the load got lighter until you returned to your bike to load up again.
The internet and television are the two primary causes. The world now-a-days wants everything now, the news, emails, sports scores etc. Most can't wait for the paper tomorrow. I fully understand. The papers have been slow to embrace new technology or shed their old ways. I for one will miss them. Listening to the news on a breaking event is natural. You want to know what's going on.
I have tried periodically to have the web be my newspaper but it just isn't the same. It is hard to curl up with a good monitor in your chair. I prefer to spread the paper out on the counter or the dinner table and turn, page by page, scanning each sheet looking for something to catch my interest. A hot cup of joe only makes the moment more enjoyable. Whether it is an early summer day or winter's morning, a steaming brew just makes it. You can feel the rawness of the rag between your fingers. Often only the lick of a finger means the page can be turned. Not all of them will go away but many will and I will be there to say goodbye with a saddened tone.
America is deeply rooted in the fourth estate. Even the constitution provides for a free press unencumbered by the state. That of course is much broader than the current topic. I simply refer to the newspaper. It is ink on paper, smudgy and a little late. But it is how we have received our view of the world for the better part of my life (except for Walter Cronkite). My brothers and I all go back to having the first universal paying job of being a paperboy. We hopped on our bikes, jumped in the car, had our father drive us on Sunday before mass, all to deliver the paper.
I remember sitting in a shack after school, I think it was painted green, with North of 50 waiting on the paper truck to deliver our load. It would finally arrive and we would unload the truck, sort and count, pack up and go to our routes. Some had big satchels for carrying and walking from house to house, the canvass cutting into your shoulder. The only relief was as each paper was removed the load got lighter until you returned to your bike to load up again.
The internet and television are the two primary causes. The world now-a-days wants everything now, the news, emails, sports scores etc. Most can't wait for the paper tomorrow. I fully understand. The papers have been slow to embrace new technology or shed their old ways. I for one will miss them. Listening to the news on a breaking event is natural. You want to know what's going on.
I have tried periodically to have the web be my newspaper but it just isn't the same. It is hard to curl up with a good monitor in your chair. I prefer to spread the paper out on the counter or the dinner table and turn, page by page, scanning each sheet looking for something to catch my interest. A hot cup of joe only makes the moment more enjoyable. Whether it is an early summer day or winter's morning, a steaming brew just makes it. You can feel the rawness of the rag between your fingers. Often only the lick of a finger means the page can be turned. Not all of them will go away but many will and I will be there to say goodbye with a saddened tone.
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