I'm writing this on a sunny March Saturday afternoon. Saturday afternoons as a kid sometimes meant a trip to my grandparent's house -- Dad's side of the family -- for often theoretical relaxation and socializing. I remember Pringles and Canada Dry ginger ale for snacking, golf and Lawrence Welk and Hee Haw on the television, and a house that was always a bit too hot, no matter the season. I also recall newspapers and magazines scattered about the living room floor, like shrapnel from the intellectual explosions I imagined from the locus of my grandfather's weathered khaki recliner. It was my first exposure to the classics of 20th Century magazines, with Time and Newsweek and Sports Illustrated as the creme of the crop. We were not a New Yorker family. Raised as I was at the physical nexus of nothing, I was curious about the greater world around me, and those magazines provided messages from the front lines of culture and politics and athletic accomplishment, whic