Beautiful post-Halloween Sunday! Hubby and self had dimsum at China Village in Belmont (Nice, unassuming place: Self has taken Barbara Reyes and Luisa Igloria for dimsum there!) and walked around downtown Redwood City afterwards. John Cleese is performing Nov. 8 at the Fox Theatre! Self was excited enough to check out ticket prices: They start at $50. Oh. But – John Cleese! Self will have to think about it.
Walked to Century 20 and glanced at the movies showing. Briefly wavered at “Couples Retreat.” A young girl standing directly in front of us was waving around one sequined glove. But hubby did not want to see “This Is It.” (Self is gonna have to see it by herself; maybe tomorrow . . . )
We went home. Self checked the expiration date on her Economist subscription: Dec. 5, 2009. Brother-in-law gave a subscription to her as a Christmas present, 15 years ago, and has paid for the subscription every year since then. Self checks the price of a year’s subscription: $109. Oh.
Then she began to read the “Books and Arts” section and saw a review of two new books on Ayn Rand. Self rather used to think this woman was a crackpot, but son came home from his first year at college toting two of her books: The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. (Lately, whenever self is madly typing away on her blog, hubby suddenly erupts in explosive sneezing. They are so loud, the window shades start to vibrate. And he does so now, five explosions: HAAAA-CHOOOO! HAAAA-CHOOOO! HAAAA-CHOOOO! HAAAA-CHOOOO! HAAAA-CHOOOO! It’s a miracle: self’s eardrums are still intact). Here’s a paragraph from the Economist review:
. . . her most important attribute was her talent for myth-making. Rand perfected her literary art as a screenwriter in Hollywood. And she dealt in Hollywood-style dichotomies between good and evil, between white-hatted capitalists and black-hatted collectivists. Greys don’t interest me, she once said. Atlas Shrugged conjured up a world in which all creative businessmen had gone on strike, retreating to Galt’s Gulch in Colorado, and culminated in a dramatic court scene in which Galt detailed the evils of collectivism.
Meanwhile, self is still lost in the world of Irene Nemirovsky’s simply ravishing Suite Francaise.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
