The Farcically Stupid Lengths it Takes to Find a Print Newspaper in 2019
Recently, I was interviewed for a story that ran in the Washington Post. It’s not important what it was about, but it was the front page of the Opinion section in the Sunday edition.
Despite the fact that we’re decades into the slow decay of print media, some age-old rules still apply: When you’re in the newspaper, you buy a copy — especially if it’s a national paper, and your picture’s in it.
When the Sunday of the story’s release arrived, it took me until about mid-afternoon until I finally had free time to go pick up a copy.
I drove by the 7-Eleven a half mile from my house. They didn’t carry The Washington Post.
I called Walgreens and CVS. Nothing. I called Kroger and Albertsons. Nothing. I drove to the TCU campus bookstore. They didn’t carry it. I got home and called the nearest Barnes and Noble bookstore. They didn’t carry it.
I called another Barnes and Noble. They didn’t carry it. I called FIVE more. They didn’t carry it.
I figured, “AHA! Starbucks usually has copies of the major papers just sitting around.” I called the Starbucks next to my office. They didn’t have it. I called another Starbucks… and another … and another … and another … and another … and another … No luck.
“The Washington Post is owned by Amazon,” I thought. “I’ll just order it from Amazon. OF COURSE!”
Wrong. Apparently, you can buy a subscription to the Washington Post on Amazon, but for some reason this trillion-dollar company doesn’t sell individual copies of its wholly owned newspaper.
“Amazon also owns Whole Foods! Obviously they’d sell the paper at Whole Foods! OF COURSE!” I thought, apparently like a total idiot.
“Oh no. We DEFINITELY don’t have that,” said the Whole Foods customer service guy, as if it were just laughably obvious that a place that sells $25 bags of grapes wouldn’t perhaps also sell a newspaper.
Here’s where things started to go slightly off the rails. By then, I had spent about 45 minutes either on the phone or driving by gas stations and book stores, and I was getting a little frustrated. . . which, let’s say, broadened the array of tactics I was willing to try.
So I did what any hellbent, product-seeking American would do. I called the fanciest hotel in town and pretended to be a super rich person.
[Dialing fancy hotel]
“Yes, may I speak to the concierge please,” I said, richly and impatiently.
“Yes, sir. How can I help?”
“Hi. I’m about 20 minutes from the hotel. You don’t happen to know if the hotel has a copy of today’s Washington Post?”
“Let me check… Oh I’m sorry, sir, we have the Wall Street Journal. Would that work for y — .”
[Click.]
[Googles number for second fanciest hotel in the city.]
[Dialing]
“Hi. Yes, I’m a mega-rich important guest and I’m already frustrated. May I speak to the concierge please [audible sigh].”
NO. LUCK. Four hotels later, that idea was scrapped. But the basic concept was still appealing.
Next up: Country clubs.
“Hi. I’m heavily implying while talking to you that I’m a member here, even though I’m not. Do you happen to have copies of the Washington Post in the club house. Oh the bartender might know? Send me to him. Hey I’m just down the street, and I figured I check if y’all had today’s Washington Post. . . .”
Zilch.
I know it sounds stupid, but by then I was too invested to give up. So I started exploiting personal connections.
I called my friend who is a librarian. “Hey! Librarians know lots of stuff about print media, the Dewey Decimal system, and other archaic literary things. Do you get the print edition of the Washington Post?!”
Nope.
I messaged a high school friend I hadn’t seen in decades. “Hey, you’re a contributor to the Chicago Tribune. I know that’s a different paper in a different city thousands of miles away, but you don’t happen to get the print edition of the Post do you!”
Nope.
“Why don’t you just ask the journalist who interviewed you if she knows where to get a copy,” my wife suggested.
“She’s a Pulitzer-nominated journalist from a major publication.” I said. “I’m not calling her to ask where I can buy a newspaper— that’s like meeting Steven Spielberg and then calling him to ask if he knows where I can buy a copy of E.T. There’s no way I’m doing that,” I said, only realizing how jerkish I was sounding as the words were coming out of my mouth.
“Anyway. Thanks,” I said, “I have a few more ideas, though.”
Twenty minutes later I was driving around downtown Fort Worth, looking out the window for newspaper bins. (Apparently, if you grew up in the 90s, your memories of there being newspaper bins on every corner have probably lodged themselves in your mind way more than they should — because newspaper bins apparently don’t exist anymore.)
I drove around some more and saw the Greyhound station. “Surely you can still buy a newspaper if you’re about to get on a cross-country bus! OF COURSE!”
The bus station yielded mixed resulted. While I did find several people I’m pretty sure would have sold me some weed, none of them knew much about the Washington Post or it’s opinion columnists.
After heading back to my car from the bus station, I called my wife who was wondering where I was. “I finally found a place that carries the paper, but it’ll take me 30 minutes to get there,” I said.”
In the internet age, what’s the one place on the planet where newsstands not only still exist but are open seven days a week? It was the last resort.
As I jogged between the airport terminals, I was somewhat comforted by the fact that everyone around me probably figured I was another traveler rushing to make a flight — instead of just an idiot who drove to DFW Airport to go newspaper shopping.
“You want what?” said the third salty newsstand attendant I talked to. “The Washington Post? Let’s see, we got the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Dallas Morning News, and… it looks like that’s it.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.
“But you know,” said the attendant, “There’s a big book store with a lot of newspapers just on the other side of those doors. But you have to go through security to get there, and you can’t get through security without a ticket.”
Since I wasn’t giving up and wasn’t buying a ticket, I had a decision to make.
Minutes after being apprehended by security, I found myself in a room facing three Homeland Security agents, spouting a ridiculously unconvincing story about driving to the airport and slipping through security to shop at a newsstand. Handcuffed, with no I.D. on me, I realized I had no way of even verifying who I was, much less proving my non-terrorism-related reason for being there.
“Wait! I can prove who I am and that I’m telling the truth!” I exclaimed. “There’s a picture of me in today’s Washington Post! It’ll back up who I am and everything I’m saying! Please!”
The officer keyed up his radio, “Lieutenant, have someone find today’s Washington Post and bring it down here. This scumbag apparently thinks he can play games with the United States federal government.”
Then he drew his weapon.
Actually, none of that last part happened.
The real end of the story just seemed way too mundane.
After the last newsstand let me down, that was it. I gave up. I called my wife and said I was coming home.
Empty handed.
