Jonesing For My Paper.

horst p. horst 1943

Only three weeks into the renewal of my Sunday New York Times home delivery subscription, and there’s no paper outside. I cancelled the NYT and Chicago Tribune Sunday home deliveries back around the holidays, frustrated with only getting the paper three out of four weeks…if that. Visitors and followers here have all seen their share of old B&W movies where folks plunked down some coins for a paper. Home delivery of the Sunday NYT goes for ten buck a week now. Mind you, I’m not blaming either paper. God bless ‘em both for persevering through calamitous times for print media while combatting the crafty onslaught of ‘fake news’ accusations by those who’d love to see a free press crumble and fade.

No, it’s not the newspapers’ fault, just some schmoe driving around with bundles of papers in the back of their SUV that’s the problem. Customer service operators for both papers conceded as much about this particular area when I cancelled, and assured me it had been rectified when I renewed.

Now that I’m officially hunkered down at home, I need that damn paper. Sure, the Trib’s a pale shadow of what it once had been, with entire sections gone and others reduced in size. But the Sunday NYT is like a big fat book’s worth of reading, and both are doubly valuable in times like these. Yeah, yeah, I know: Go online. And I do, during the week. But Sunday routines demand a fresh pot of coffee, suitable morning edibles and newspapers. I don’t care if news is transmitted via implanted bio-chips by the time I’m being spoon-fed gruel in a nursing home, I’ll still want to sniff the tell-tale ink-on-newsprint aroma.

I’ll keep checking (though it’s late afternoon as I write this) but methinks I’ll have to do without my Sunday NYT this week…and the ten bucks.

Photo: Horst P. Horst, 1943

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