Why I love the paper

Today among the many things that gave me tremendous happiness in The New York Times were:

Reading Bono's take on why Frank Sinatra is the greatest.

Reading the obit of one of the commanders at the Battle of the Bulge. Not happy that the guy died, of course, but happy that the history is being recounted. My dad was there, in the snow, with thousands of other soldiers, and their commanders refused the Nazis' demand to surrender despite the terrible odds. They prevailed, and their bravery and endurance was remarkable.

Reading the deconstruction of the phony letter to the editor from the not-mayor of Paris.

Reading the (presumably true) letter to the editor from the lawyer for Watergate's Deep Throat.

Why do I love these things? Let me count the ways.

Because they are obscure, but meaningful to me in very personal and strange ways. It confirms my sense that so many tiny things in our experiences are connected to other things - the two degrees of separation theory.

Because they are interesting and unusual and tell me things about the world that I didn't know.

Because they are amusing or sad or profound or touching or enlightening.

Because they take me out of myself.

I am so glad that when I wake up every morning, I can take three steps and find the paper on my door. I don't mind paying for it; it's worth every penny. How sad that mine is a 20th century attachment. Read the paper, people! And be willing to pay for it.