This past weekend I didn't buy a Sunday copy of the New York Times as I usually do from either ex-Tesco or Starbuck's. There is such acreage I never read, and I mean that in the plundered forest sense let alone the bundle, and with every print item I have I feel the value has been justified, if not augmented, by giving. No, not buying is amusing because the paper of June 1 gave me such adventure.

Over the weekend I deposited the major stack of gloss from said edition known as their style magazine on a shelf at the Van Nuys train station. In this particular case here was Beyonce on the cover, and even a little old lady from Pasadena (or Panorama) hadn't opened it. Well, we share a calendar birthday.

Year, ha ha? My excuse, the decades have gotten away with me. There still is that childhood sense of losing something when it is left by purpose or accident, and after the train had left I looked into the station and the shelf was bare as before. Fine with me, with the frisson a bonus.