A book review, actually.

The good thing about an occasional bout of mandatory bed rest due to illness, or depression over joblessness, or some other malady/catastrophe that forces me to sit freaking still for a few seconds... is that I get a little culture. Left to my own devices I barely read; let alone attend gallery openings, concerts, parties, plays, or art films. And when I do attend such events it's only because one of the participants is a good friend. The one exception is poetry readings, in which case I don't care who you are--my mother, my lover, my kidney donor, AND there's open bar AND we're all sent home with a hundred bucks and a fabulous gift basket from Mario Badescu--I'm still not going. (Look, I love you, and I appreciate your knack for iambic pentameter, but I'd rather spend the evening helping my creepy neighbor--the one whose wardrobe consists solely of tiger striped neon sweat pants and wife-beaters--pick out a linebacker for his fantasy football team.) And the sad truth is, I don't know if I'd read at all if it weren't for the subway. Or having to sit here in this bedroom for three days.

So, despite it's prosaic tone and hackneyed first few chapters, I enjoyed The Da Vinci Code.