I went to the library after work tonight. The book I wanted was checked out. But, I found on the shelf a new novel by one of my favorite contemporary authors. I hadn't even known he had a new book. Not knowing about this book is, to my knowledge, my most personally felt side effect of the newspaper industry meltdown. The Washington Post stopped publishing the Sunday Book World section months ago. Now they print random reviews on random weekdays in the Styles section. But who has time to read an orphan book review over coffee before work? And, I don't want a week's worth of Styles sections cluttering my small apartment until I can get to them on a Sunday. They go in the recycling bag before I leave for the office.
But, I digress. While in the library, a friend called to tell me she had just auditioned for, and been accepted to, some kind of choir. I wanted to yell how excited I was, but I was in the library. So I hung up, checked out my book, and went outside to call her back. And light a cigarette.
I got sidetracked from calling my friend back when a girl asked me for a light. I handed her my purple lighter and she said she loved purple. She showed me her tattoo which said "Purple" in a fancy script. Synchronicity-lite. She let me take a picture:
The lighter stuck to her arm for the picture because the humidity was at 100%. I called back my friend, who gave me the details of her audition at the Capitol Hill Chorale. The thunderstorm started moments later. I ducked under a bus stop shelter to avoid the rain.
I opened the book. The very first sentence compares "this" to war. The last sentence of that first paragraph reveals "this" to be a chorale group waiting to go onstage. Synchronicity.
Anyway, if you're interested in the book, apparently it was written for Playboy as a serial. Here's a review from the NYT. Damn the Post and it's serial reviews.
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