7 December 2020
"Yes!" I squeal. "Exactly! Bukowski. That's good." We are milling under a weak spring sun outside a breakfast diner, postfeast. I've been enthralling Luca by telling her something weird about Tinder. All married friends like a good Tinder story. They find it hilarious and thrilling, the way single friends find the same story humiliating and terrible. On Calgary Tinder-amidst the rifle-shining and gleaming scales of fresh-caught fish, the deer carcasses and camouflage, the "partners in crime" flashing peace signs while proudly "living life to the fullest"-I've noticed an odd and surprisingly literary phenomenon. Nearly every second male profile lists Kurt Vonnegut as its favorite writer. I say odd, but I'm not yet sure.
