For most of my life I have read the New York Times. It is more than merely a habit. It is a way of life. For years, I truly believed it was the paper of record and offered all the news that was fit to print. Some of its stories and pictures are irrevocably implanted in my mind.

Among those that continue to resonate was the story written by the late Meyer Berger of the senseless serial killing perpetrated by Howard Unruh. I was so absorbed in that brilliant journalist’s tour de force that I missed my subway stop and would not rise from my seat until I had come to its end. It took my breath away. Berger received a well deserved Pulitzer Prize for his superlative minute by minute account of Unruh’s rampage.

I continue to revel in the Times’ masterful feature stories, its coverage of the arts and its occasional in-depth exposes of business corruption. In its coverage of the Madoff ponzi scheme it has been superb. Although its theater, movies and book reviews are still of interest, they seem to have less and less influence than in by-gone days when a bad stage review made for a sure fire flop and a smash book review assured a best seller.

Growing up in New York City, newspapers were once in abundance, a cornucopia for the curious, the literate and the passionate. I had eleven newspapers to choose from and as near as I can remember I read many of them. It was ritual to read the News and the Mirror bulldog editions that hit the streets early in the night before their dated publication.

My father invariably read the Times when he went off to work in the city, which for us Brooklynites meant Manhattan. Upon returning to our apartment, he invariably brought home the Journal-American and occasionally The Sun or The World-Telegram and quite often The Post whose coupon giveaways provided me with my first complete set of Charles Dickens.

On occasion I would read the New York Herald Tribune, PM, the Journal American and others. But for me, the Times was my newspaper of habit. And still is.

Despite all the economic hardships of the depression, I believed that everybody read the newspapers. They were affordable on newsstands everywhere. It was our principal source of information along with the radio which spawned other rituals of information sources like Gabriel Heatter, H.V. Kaltenborn, Edward R. Murrow on radio and on Sundays Walter Winchell. In Brooklyn in those days we were sports nuts and getting the baseball results from Stan Lomax on radio and the box scores in the papers were an essential part of our existence, especially in the days when we teenagers were fanatical Brooklyn Dodger fans.

I wasn’t very politically aware as a teenager and probably missed most of the political implications of the Times editorials, although I was well aware that the Times, the News, the Mirror and the Journal-American were dubbed conservative, the Herald Tribute somewhere in the middle. PM was certified left wing and, of course, the Daily Worker was communist. Frankly, the communists scared me growing up with their fearful neighborhood demonstrations and angry fiery speeches and mad faces.

Our politics were simple. In our social and family circles we were all Roosevelt Democrats. During those crucial teenage years, Roosevelt was the only President I knew and loved. Even when Truman succeeded Roosevelt and I was a soldier in the Korean War assigned to the Pentagon as Washington Correspondent for Armed Forces Press Service, I really believed that most people, the good people, the compassionate and right thinking people, were Democrats.

It appalled me to suddenly discover that many of those I associated with in Washington hated Truman. Indeed, it took me awhile to discover that there was a passionate sentiment in others that believed in a contrary political view. I know it sounds naïve and testifies to the limits of my awareness, perhaps ignorance, but, as I get older and less inclined to ingratiation, everything I write begins to sound more and more like a confessional. Truth to tell, the present cast of characters among the Democrats no longer appear to represent my interests.

Which brings me back to the New York Times. From my long and habitual readership, I am both conflicted and amused at what has happened to the New York Times over the years. Its editorials and the way it presents the news have evolved into a hydra headed and confused potpourri of mixed emotions and leftist allegiances that seem in direct conflict with the demographics of their readership. Like me.

While their editorials and most of their letters to the editors rage and rant against the so-called wealthy, implying that anyone who has amassed an economic cushion of some significance is a quasi-enemy, their ads suggest that their principal readers are the very people they rage against. Like me. In fact it is laughable. A recent editorial called for the country’s high income earners and wealthy corporations to “carry more of the burden.” More of the burden in a country where more than 40% of the people pay no income taxes at all and the tax on corporations is one of the highest, if not the highest, in the world?

How can the Times’ editorialists ignore the fact that the first two pages of the newspaper carry ads for Tiffany, Ferragamo, Chanel, Cartier, Gucci, Mikimoto and Prada, all companies that are looking for the eyeballs of the very people the Times excoriates, meaning the people who can afford to buy their very expensive upscale wares?

It gets worse when one reads the columns on the op-ed page. There, the regular columnist, Bob Herbert, beats the politically correct drum for a demographic that probably is the tiniest fraction of the Times’ readership. Even the letters to the editors are so skewed in lock step with the editorial policy that while I read them with mild interest, their predictability never fails to amuse. I do read their other op-ed columnists, the harridan Maureen Dowd whose deliberately vinegar anti-everything columns suggest that she is a prime target for aggressive therapy, but worth the time as a cautionary tale of what happens when the inmates take over the nut house.

And yes, I read Tom Friedman who has dubious solutions for everything, especially for his book writing factory and Nick Kristof, whose forays into the terrible events occurring on the dark continent make one cringe at the evil and hopelessness of that unfortunate snake pit of horror. For those with modest right of center views, the philosophical columns of David Brooks offer what the Times editors see as counter balance to their very left wing manipulations.

As a former newspaperman, I understand all this. The Times’ honchos are proudly militant and arrogantly self-righteous and obviously must reflect the views of their owners and editors. Unfortunately, falling circulation and the rise of cyberspace, has whittled away their once powerful influence. I suppose their editorial policies have some effect on their decline, but their coverage of the arts, the quality of their writing, their excellent features and coverage of the social scene of New York’s richest citizens keep them afloat despite their attempt to provide their version of tough love to their mostly well off subscribers.

Every morning when I pick up the Times outside my apartment door, I note that I am the only subscriber on the corridor that contains ten apartments. If this is replicated on all 33 floors of my Manhattan apartment house, I am both saddened and appalled.

Indeed, after spending an inordinate amount of time reading the Times, I am off to my computer to make a news junkie’s pass at the Wall Street Journal and ten other newspaper and internet sources like The Huffington Post and The Daily Beast, both largely a cacophony of forgettable and self-important snippets of gosspip and opinion but worth a minute or two exploration just in case something original pops up. It rarely does. Except for the Journal, I find the Internet websites merely aggregators and repetitive spin-offs of other sources, many originating in the Times, and a swamp of opinions that often make my eyes glaze over.

Yes, warts and all, my newspaper of choice is still and will always be the old grey lady, however disabled and, at times clueless, but when occasional reason and eloquence shines through, surprisingly lucid and satisfying.