I was in transit for most of this past weekend and as a result, I had to spend the majority of my trip suffering through the absence of my current, nearly debilitating addiction - a wireless connection. Still, I had to get my news fix somehow. To allay the tremors and flop-sweat caused by my inability to get my news from the web, I found myself resorting to one of the remaining, though crippled and dying, tangible dinosaurs that still exists within this digital age. I had to buy…that’s right… newspapers. And in buying said newspapers, I immediately realized two things.

It has probably been a few years since I last purchased a New York Times. I am so used to perusing it from the warm glow of a computer monitor that the idea of going to a newsstand and actually buying a paper seemed altogether foreign to me. So imagine my surprise when I grabbed a paper at the nearest newspaper stand and saw a price of $2.00 staring back at me. Even worse, imagine my surprise when upon grabbing a Sunday copy of the Times I had to shell out $6.00. $6.00?? Seriously? The internet has so decimated the printed page that the price of a Sunday newspaper now exceeds the price of a value meal at the local artery clogging establishment of your choosing. Words are priceless, but a $6.00 newspaper…well, to be honest, a $6.00 newspaper tells me that the days of getting your daily news for a pocket full of loose change are long gone. It also tells me that this faltering dinosaur can not survive. And the thought of that made me quite sad and nostalgic.

My second realization came with the acceptance of the demise of the printed page. I love turning the pages of a newspaper, flipping and folding them, feeling the crinkle of the paper between my fingers. I love that I can lift the paper to my face and be hidden from the world. I’m ensconced in my own little information bubble. It offers a small den of solitude in a crowded airport terminal or on a train or in a hotel lobby. Hundreds of people may be milling about, bustling and chattering amongst themselves, but I am, with my arms slightly extended and two long pages dotted with black and white before me, alone. My mind is suddenly filled with images of corrupt politicians, box scores, weather patterns, and obituaries of people I don’t know but am fascinated by nevertheless. It’s the tangible, simple pleasure that I will miss when the days of its usefulness finally come to an end. And it will come. It has to. It’s called progress, I guess. And just like the tons of metal, rabbit-ear TV antennas that now glitter insignificantly in landfills across the country, newspapers will soon be considered the relic that our parents used to read every morning with their coffee or every evening after the toil and tumult of another long day. It’s a romantic image that will inspire the curiosity of those who can not recall the early days and the sorrow of those who can.

I’m back to the digital age and reading the news from the glow of my computer screen. And I can honestly say that I doubt I will ever spend $6.00 on a newspaper again. I also doubt that reading the news will ever bring me as much pleasure as that six dollar copy of the Sunday Times did. It’s called progress. I guess.

that this guy is teaching a baby wolf how to howl, but I have a hard time believing that. Seems to me that this would come naturally. I could be wrong. I usually am. Actually, if you look closely, I think this baby wolf is praying to God to make this weird, hairy man stop howling in his baby wolf ears. But that’s just me.

And someone asks me a question, I am making this face.

Over the last few weeks or so I have been repeatedly listening to Hank Mobley’s version of “There’s a Lull in My Life” from the A Slice of the Top cd. I’ve heard this song many times before, but for some reason, recently, I’ve really been listening to it. Beautiful. Nevermind the fact that this tune could also be the title of my autobiography (actually, life ain’t too bad right now). Not sure why, but it took me up until now to recognize the real beauty of the tune, the melody and Mobley’s tone. Truly knocks me out.

I could meet the most hideous woman with the most odious personality and disposition, and if we met while this song was playing, I’m sure I’d almost want to take her Broom Hildaish face in my hands and place a loving peck right on her hairy warted face.

I’ve placed the song on the Evening Melancholy MySpace page for all who doubt my veracity. You may completely disagree with me, but at least I got you to listen. :o)

I haven’t posted much lately, mainly out of laziness and other summer fun distractions. But I saw a news piece this morning that I decided to share with my baby handful of blog readers. The Valley Swim Club in Philadelphia (the city of brotherly love) turned away 65 African American summer campers when they arrived for their weekly swim. The swim-club president said that there was concern about the kids changing the complexion and atmosphere of the club.

I would like to change the complexion of the club, or more specifically, the club pool by peeing in it — repeatedly. And maybe by letting my cat poop in it. Scattershot poop at that. That’s how classy I am!