Mercifully, I was en route by car with the radio off (if you have children you understand the occasional desire for peace and quiet when you can get it) to West Virginia Friday afternoon when news broke of Tim Russert's sudden and premature death.
My father-in-law told me about it when we arrived at his home about 9 p.m. Anxious, however, to catch what had happened that day in the U.S. Open, I paid Russert's death little immediate mind, searching wildly instead for the location of the Golf Channel on their satellite TV system. It was 605, by the way, and I found it only by clicking channels one at a time from about 240.
I used the term "mercifully" to begin this piece because those few hours in the car Friday were about the only time since when I've been awake that I haven't been pounded by coverage of the Russert family tragedy on television, radio, online and in print.
Don't get me wrong, I did not dislike Tim Russert, nor despite protestations of my wife to the contrary, am I totally without empathy for the feelings and grief of others.