my five dollar art

The Sunday edition of the New York Times costs $5. Five dollars. I know this not because I ever attempted to buy one, but because I sold one to a doctor today at Starbucks. I am actually only assuming he was a doctor. He was wearing scrubs and shelling out almost my full hourly wage at the Bux for some newsprint, and these are the grounds upon which I base my assumption.

Now, I was at first appalled. The man could have bought a whole book. Or five whole songs on Itunes. Or a week’s worth of Houston Chronicles. But he didn’t. And after my initial impression had sunk in and I handed Dr. Nonfat Latte his receipt, I began to grow curious. What is it that makes the Sunday edition of the New York Times so fabulous? So…expensive?

Fortunately for me, as soon as we closed the store at 10:30 there were three extra $5 papers ready to hit the trash, tomorrow’s paper probably already hitting the press as I wiped down Frappuchino drenched furniture. So instead of throwing them all away, I took one home with me to investigate.

And investigate I did. I sat down in the living room floor, turned on all the lamps for optimal viewing, and delved into a thick, heavy stack of those thin, inky papers. All folded in perfection, I hated to mess them up, so I unfolded them neatly and mentally noted what order to arrange the sections back in when I was finished. After all, I couldn’t hoard my free paper. My plan is to show it off to the family tomorrow morning.

Before even reading a word, the whole five dollar thing became clearer…and clearer…and clearer with each section my eager hands pried from the bulk. With only a few glances, this thing is a work of art.

The photography is stunning.
The headlines are intriguing.
The ads are compelling.
There are two news magazines tucked inside the newspaper.
The amount and diversity of things to read are overwhelming.

Dazzled, the only thing left to do was begin reading. I should have known. The writing…is…awesome. I glanced through, read a few articles, and pondered my own ignorance of many topics and newsworthy materials. I pondered my personal insignificance both in the world of the New York Times and the geniuses who create it. How small a minnow I am in such a gigantic ocean.

I folded it up neatly as promised and I highly suggest that you come over tomorrow and gaze upon the beauty, complexity, and ingeniousness of my prized free copy of the Sunday edition of the New York Times. I love the thing. If it weren’t so fat I’d frame it.