I gave my money to the Los Angeles Times today.
When I was growing up, my parents read the newspaper religiously.
The Daily Breeze when we lived in the South Bay.
The Press-Telegram when we lived in Long Beach.
My mother had told me: “Read the newspaper. You’ll be smarter.”
And so I did, and so becoming, I fell in love with words, sentences, bold type, small type, bylines, and stories.
So when I first moved out of my parents’ house, the summer after I graduated high school, one of the few bills I paid every month was my subscription to “The Press Telegram.”
I remember how proud I felt writing that monthly check and mailing it to the subscription department, adulting like a motherfucker.
Then every morning I’d see that folded up paper on the front door of my $350 per month studio apartment right next to the Green Leaf Motel in downtown Long Beach, and I’d take out the sports section and check the boxscores.
Eventually, my love for the medium drifted away and my need to get informed was satiated by many other outlets.
And up until this day, I had subscribed to nothing.
I don’t want to forget — ever again — why words matter to me so much.