All the news that's fit to hide.

I come by my love of newspapers in a very organic way. As a young boy, I delivered the newspapers. And, in time, had not one route, but two.

I remember my father coming to me, shortly after we had moved into the not-so-welcoming suburbs and the somewhat backward town of Suffern, NY, and saying the local kid who had been delivering the Rockland Journal News was giving up his route.

"You should apply for the job and get yourself some extra spending money."

"But then you won't have me to mow the lawn, pick up the leaves, take out the trash, and clean out the garage," I countered.

"Pfffft, that's funny. You're funny Richie."

I came from a family of moonlighters. My father waited tables at several restaurants, grabbing shifts at different times of the day so he could go to night school. My grandfather drove a cab, one with a medallion and one without, just to make ends meet. When I came to advertising and entered the freelance world, I learned the art of double-dipping. Even triple-dipping.

Not long after I gave up my two newspaper delivery routes, I went to work in the city with my father at his office in South Chelsea, which is now the toney High Line area of southwest Manhattan. On my walk from the heroin shooting gallery also known as the Port Authority building on 42nd street, to the not-so-glitzy office/industrial cable spool warehouse on 15th, I must have passed 17 news stands.

If I didn't pick up a newspaper in the morning, I had my choice of all the NYC rags (Post, Daily News and the old Grey Lady) on the Shortline bus back to Suffern. They were scattered about every seat. It was best not to think of the travails each paper had gone through and just pick the one that appeared to have been less man-handled.

In college, I had two roommates who were working journalists, Len B. and the late John Bonfatti. Both always came home from work with hot off the press edition of the Syracuse Post Standard, including tales of how the Syracuse Men's basketball team dismembered less-talented squads like St. Bonaventure or Sienna or Le Moyne. 

I've walked you down this long road to emphasize the ubiquity newspapers have played in my life. But that road has reached a Dead End.

In 2024, if you're not willing to shell out $100 a week -- or some other ungodly number that rivals the skyrocketing price of bacon --for home delivery, you simply CANNOT purchase a newspaper.

They can't be found.

Not at a Starbucks.

Not at a liquor store.

Not at a 7-11.  ("No newspapers, sir, but we still have hot dogs on the rollers from last Wednesday.") 

While my knowledge of current events is quite (immodestly) robust, my take on ancient history is lacking at best. If it comes as a category on Jeopardy, I usually take that as a cue to relieve my bladder. 

Suffice it to say that while promiscuity, corruption and maybe even the introduction of hummus may have contributed to the fall of the Roman Empire, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest the decline in the availability of the newspaper and the inverse rise of an uninformed populace, will be the downfall of the American Experiment.

That and Elon Musk.