Comments: 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 galleryngs, 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'sbar 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.