Even in my frenzied, web-skipping hyper-consumption of news, I'm still occasionally struck by the kind of story that bears out Whitman's praise that "the true poem is the daily paper," and induces pangs of mourning for the decline of the medium.
The LA Times has that sort of story today, a profile of an East Harlem bodega run by a Dominican George Bailey and crushed - like its owner, customers, and neighborhood - by the weight of rising rent and food prices. It's a heartbreaking, exceptionally well-written piece, and even the "Julio must make $3,300 today - can he do it?" throughline, which sounds kind of gimmicky, actually proves to be a captivating narrative.
What really caught me are the consumer goods haikus of throughout the story ("toilet paper, masking tape, plastic toy dolls, paintbrushes and barbecue lighters..." "Advil PM, flashlights, cigars, Fixodent, Midol.."). In other words, the stirring details that are the casualty of a brave new media world where everyone and no one is a journalist. Present company, of course, included.
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