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It’s a wonder that 70-year-old George Plimpton waited so long in his quirky career to bearhug Truman Capote. Subtitled In Which Various Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances, and Detractors Recall His Turbulent Career, the new biography, although primarily a collage of endless interviews, is very much a love letter from Plimpton himself. The editor/author obviously sees a kindred spirit when he views the stormy life of the socialite/scribe. Plimpton, the originator of “participatory journalism,” could suit up and knock heads with angry NFLers (Paper Lion) one day, then edit the snottiest of literary journals (the Paris Review) the next; Capote, when he wasn’t boozing, carousing, or gossiping, wrote the fanciest of fluff novellas (Breakfast at Tiffany’s), then journeyed to Kansas to pen the most haunting masterpiece of literary nonfiction (In Cold Blood). And both Plimpton and Capote love/loved to act: Plimpton in a mixed bag of flicks (Nixon, Pumping Iron II: The Women, Reds), and Capote, most memorably, in Neil Simon’s Murder by Death. (While Plimpton acts simply for the thrill, Capote believed it to be his true calling, saying, “What Billie Holiday is to jazz, what Mae West is to tits…what Seconal is to sleeping pills, what King Kong is to penises, Truman Capote is to the great god of Thespis.” King Kong?) Hear Plimpton wax poetic about Capote (and maybe, just maybe, answer a few Sidd Finch questions, too) at 7 p.m. Thursday at Chapters, 1512 K St. NW. FREE. (202) 554-5070. (Sean Daly)