On Sunday, I realized with a sick chill of horror that I had officially become old. Sunday, you see, is when my local newstand refreshes their stock of periodicals. Usually, I leap from bed on Sunday morning, throw open the curtains, brightly baritone a “Good Morning!” song of my own devising to the sleepy looking magpies cocking their eye at me out my window, and rush down, eager to to secure my weekly infusion of pornography.
