Dinosaur blues

I am learning to let go of the compact disc, but I could never part with newspapers. Two dinosaurs in the 21st century. OK, make that three dinosaurs because I am dysfunctionally attached to both.

I suppose my CD collection is like a body full of tattoos. Each one tells a story and represents a point in time. My music collection (and instruments) are the only material possessions that matter to me. But these streaming services like Spotify are quite satisfying with quality speakers and/or headphones.

The newspaper has always been a part of my life. My first job was delivering newspapers - on a bike, no less. My family always had a pile around the house. I liked reading the sports, comics and department store ads. As a teen, I'd roll and rubber-band about 40 newspapers seven days a week and deliver them around the neighborhood. That was back in the early '90s. Most if not all of these routes today are run by adults who pack their cars with hundreds of papers at 3 a.m.

I would like to apologize to the handful of customers including Mr. Palmer who had hoped to read their news at 5 a.m., but were forced to wait on a teenager to get his ass out of bed. That was before the internet put its foot on the newspaper's throat. That was back when newspapers were the gatekeepers - when readers were at the mercy of the paperboy who overslept on Sunday morning.