If it's Thursday it must be the NYT Home section, I think, seeking a reason not to go back to sleep.
If it's Saturday there's no paper blue-bagged on the porch because I can't face all the weekend extras that, obsessive as I am, I would feel obliged to scan. Or is it the Scottish side? I keep the Friday Arts section for Saturday morning, my get-out-of-bed bait, this morning a review of the Metropolitan Museum's expansion of its paintings into the Blockbuster Show Rooms (no more blockbusters, is this a new paradigm?) with a whole wall of Rembrandt self portraits.
Last week I offered back copies of the TLS to a friend in Comp Lit and watched him flinch. I could almost see his neurons gathering into a polite excuse. Had I had him in an MRI I could have watched the emergency lights flash in the brain regions devoted to print media.
(The Psychology Department keeps sending me emails asking whether I want to participate in an experiment involving MRIs. But I'm wise to them.)
I took my old TLSs to the reading racks at the gym whence they vanished before I'd finished my laboratory rat trick on the treadmill. I myself come home with dog-eared copies of Sunset Magazine and The Economist.
Enough already. I have half a dozen books half read.