I love me a good magazine.

I mean, I love getting my magazines in the mail (no, not snail mail, don't use that term!), having a good beverage and sitting back and reading them, cover to cover, page by page.

Ah, life is good. At least for now.

It seems that my magazines, one after the other, are on life support. The're inching toward the grim reaper. It appears they're on their death bad, hopelessly gasping for breath.

There then, is that dramatic enough?

I get several magazines. Time Magazine has essentially turned into something of a pamphlet. Oh, every now and then, they'll send what they call a 'double issue', which is about the size of what the weekly Time used to be. And 'double issue' means I'm not getting one next week, this one counts for two.

That weekly Time Magazine I used to get 52 times a year? That's a memory. Now I will say this, it's still a cheap read with their lower subscription price. But...

And I've always loved my Sports Illustrated. Every week, there it was, glistening in the mail box waiting for my oily fingers to flip those pages.

Then it would come only every-other-week. And now? It's pretty much a once-a-monther. Oh, it's some thicker than the weekly alright and the photography is still fantastic but...once a month. For decades and decades I've loved that weekly piece of reading gold.

There's others, but you get the idea.

And I know, I know, there's a ton more of info from those publications and others online. Just go to dot.com this and dot.com that and dot.com the other thing. It's all there, everything you want.

Except the physical magazine. Except the turning of the pages. Except the expectation when the mailman (or mail woman) comes by and the intimacy of reading an honest to goodness magazine. That's diminishing and ready to disappear.

To which you say 'Oh c'mon, you're getting old!'

To which I reply 'Yessir. Yessir I am.'


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