Me and the Grey Lady

 

In 2017, Grandpa Ramblemouth started using the phrase, "The failing New York Times." It was at that time I decided to cancel my subscription to the LA times and throw my hard earned dollars at the Old Grey Lady.

Because I'm on the West Coast, my insatiable hunger for news was going to triple in price. However, if it helped their subscription rates and furthered the cause of respectable journalism, I was all in.

Lately, however, I have been employed full time. And as any full time working from home employee knows that means being on-call from early in the morning to the early hours of the evening. Should that red light ping on my Slack I feel compelled to answer it immediately, lest my co-workers suspect I'm goofing off, writing blog posts, or worse.

Even after 44 years, it's incredibly hard to shake the Jewish Guilt complex.

As a result, many of the delivered newspapers never get out of their blue plastic wrapped and end up in the recycle bin. So this past Sunday, while my wife was enjoying her Mother's Day nap, I grabbed some leftover lox and bagels and whitefish salad and commandeered the dining room table to go through the Sunday NY Times. 

All of it.

I spent a good lazy hour with her and landed crumbs from my toasted Everything Bagel in every section, including the Book Review. I even treated myself to a Diet Coke, which I no longer drink on a regular basis, which will supposedly extend my longevity and makes my wife happy. I think.

I read the piece that George Tannenbaum has pointed out earlier this week, The Oldest Productivity Trick Around by Amitava Kumar. I gobbled up the opinion pieces, including two pieces about Liz Cheney. 

One by Frank Bruni and another by Maureen Dowd. I prefer Bruni's writing over Dowd's. She can be a little obtuse and too cool for the room, whereas Bruni is much more straightforward and lawyerly in his essay construction. 

And I'm not just saying that because Ms. Dowd poo-pooed our ABC campaign almost 25 years ago.

I saved my favorite section of The NY Times for last. Just as I timed my last bite of whitefish salad to coincide with my last sip of Diet Coke. Serenity Now.

Ironically, the section of The NY Times that I enjoy most, is not written by any of The NY Times staff. The Metro Diary comes from everyday New Yorkers, like my former self. They're not writers, not journalists, not influencers, they're just people telling Big Apple stories both ordinary and extraordinary.

The storyettes are funny, moving, profound and most of all authentic. They are New York.

I will leave you with the last one because it is so indicative of the material you will find in the Metro Diary. Every Sunday morning. Bagels or not.