Dear NPR

You and I go way back. I can remember listening to you as my Dad drove me to orthodontic appointments in middle school. At the time, I didn't understand your incessant droning on about the Soviet Union and some dictator in Latin America. I would beg my Father to change the channel so I could groove to Madonna or beat it with Michael. He did not, so I would take naps while a deep voice filtered in and out of my consciousness.

As an adult, you and I became reacquainted. Even though I have XM, I find myself tuning in on long car rides. I listen even when Diane Rehm is having a bad day and slowly pronounces her words like a drunk granny. I listen even when Neal Conan opens the discussion on steroids in baseball, again. If I am out running errands on the weekend, you can be sure I am dialed into Ira Glass. I have NPR.com saved on my list of home pages that appear every time I turn on my computer. I call in with donations during the fundraisers. Small ones, but dollars just the same. You make me feel in touch. Your stories are smart. You go against the grain of popular culture choosing to be intellectual instead of sensational.

Which is why I am horrified that you have recently begun picking up celebrity gossip. Today, I browse my home page to find a reference to Chris Brown, the rapper who allegedly assaulted his girlfriend just before the Grammys. If I want to read about Chris Brown, I will tune in to perezhilton.com. NPR, I want you to stay a little stuffy and above the fray. It's what makes you, well, you.

How will I ever torture my children if you start reporting on rappers and riff raff? Look, if it's about money, then just say so. I'll donate double during the next fundraiser. Think of what you can do with two hundred dollars!

Respectfully,
Mental Momma