This has been a rough summer for me.

Ann Curry was dumped by the “Today” show — primarily, if we are to believe the scandal sheets at the grocery checkout (and I do), because Matt Lauer is an egotistical pig — so I can’t watch that show anymore.

Not that it matters that much, because, since Charlie Rose came to the CBS morning news, I get my morning TV fix from the Big Eye network. (I gave up on ABC way back in the Diane Sawyer days because her over-emoting was way too creepy.)

Still, Ann Curry was my favorite one on the NBC program, and it isn’t only because she went to the University of Oregon, which does make her stock go up in these parts. I just liked her (OK?), and that was no way to treat such a classy lady.

My other morning routine has been ruined by the retirement of half of the Mark & Brian Show which originated in Los Angeles but was carried for many years by KGON, the classic rock station at 92.3 on the radio dial. Mark Thompson, the one who quit, was so enamored with “The Andy Griffith Show,” he moved to North Carolina, for cryin’ out loud, and apparently plans to live out his days in Mayberry, following his beloved Cam Newton-led Panthers.

This has also been the summer that we learned Click and Clack, the goofballs on public radio behind the “Car Talk” show are hanging up their microphones — and then, speaking of public radio, they banished Terry Gross, host of “Fresh Air,” to 7 at night only, which for me is the same as pulling the plug completely. All kinds of public radio shows have been moved lately to nighttime, including “Snap Judgment,” another show I’ll probably never hear again.

I hate change.

I didn’t like it one bit when, many years ago, Gary Larson decided to retire and stop drawing “The Far Side.” Come on, he was like in his early 40s or something. Who retires before they’re 45? He’s several years younger than me, and this was almost 20 years ago.

And I really didn’t like it when “Lassie” stopped starring Tommy Rettig (Jeff), who was replaced by the goody-goody Jon Provost (Timmy). Those kind of switcheroos almost never end well.

Speaking of change, I went to the Social Security office in Beaverton a couple weeks ago, because my 65th birthday is sneaking up on me and I keep getting these hysterical-sounding letters about Medicare and health insurance, trying to scare me into doing something. When I went to see the man, however, I learned that if I was not planning to retire soon (I’m not), and if I have full insurance benefits (I do), then I don’t need to do anything right away.

All that mail, by the way, is from insurance companies attempting to trick us into buying something from them, and in hopes of confusing us, their mailings always look like it came straight from the U.S. government — quite similar in appearance to the draft notice I got from Uncle Sam back in ’65.

I know what you’re going to say. I should get used to change. It isn’t my enemy.

Well, guess what? I already know that. I started a new job six months ago, doing entirely different things here at the newspaper company — using new computer programs, new procedures, new equipment and new everything — and it hasn’t killed me yet. I’m still here.

So what if I don’t have Ann Curry to watch first thing in the morning, or Mark & Brian to listen to on the way to work or any of the other things I used to like but which no longer exist?

I can’t even burn a CD at work because my new computer doesn’t have a CD player on it, but that won’t get the best of me either. And don’t you start yapping about how CDs are a thing of the past and pretty soon they won’t even be making them. I don’t want to hear it.

In the 1950s I began with 45 rpm records, and I had quite a collection of them (still do, in fact) when long-playing records took their place. I have quite a few of those left, too. What’s more, I collected a good number of cassette tapes in the ’70s and ’80s before that medium ran into the ditch. Fortunately, I didn’t bother to keep as many of those.

But, to put things in perspective, my parents had a whole record cabinet full of actual record albums — big, heavy books each containing a half-dozen 78’s (hence the name “album,” get it?) — and only real record-collecting nuts go down that road anymore.

I have to draw the line, though, at the point where you purchase something but don’t actually have any “thing” to show for it — you know, as in downloading music out of thin air? That’s just plain crazy.

Former managing editor of the Beaverton Valley Times, The Times as well as the Lake Oswego Review, Kelly is now chief of the central editing and design desk for Community Newspapers and the Portland Tribune, and he contributes a regular column.

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