I Don’t Know Exactly What Happiness Is/ NYTBR May 13, 2007

The Warriors are playing in Salt Lake City, must send good vibes to Baron Davis.

Last Sunday’s Survivor finale: Yau Man did not win, of course, but self found herself unexpectedly admiring his grace.

I don’t know exactly what happiness is, but it must feel something like this:

    It’s blustery outside but self is ensconced on sofa, awaiting start of Warriors/Jazz game. Self can see branches being whipped around in high breeze, but is warm and cozy, with laptop by her side. Perhaps this is happiness?
    Do not need to prepare dinner yet; hubby will be home late. Self can read to heart’s content for another hour at least. Perhaps this is happiness?
    Self reads about Mtislav Rostropovich in Economist. Here he is in 1991, standing next to Boris Yeltsin in besieged Russian parliament building, which hardline revisionists are preparing to storm: He would have been happy to die there, he said, on the “most important, dangerous and emotional day of my life.” He was 64 years old. To read about such a man at the end of a long, puzzling, and confusing day: perhaps this is happiness?
    To be able to scan the New York Times Book Review (special children’s book issue), and to find there a book about John Donne: perhaps this is happiness?

* * * * * *

Without further ado, book self is interested in reading (after perusing the May 13, 2007 issue of The New York Times Book Review):

After reading Thomas Mallon‘s review of John Stubbs’ John Donne: The Reformed Soul : John Stubbs’ John Donne: The Reformed Soul

* * * * * * * * *

Oh, and did self mention that she also got to see Vacancy? In between hopping out of the theatre to take phone calls from Brava and Daly City Library? Missed crucial chase scene but arrived back in theatre to see Luke Wilson stabbed in stomach — euuuw! There is a reason people are staying away from this movie: who wants to see two of our cutest actors pounded in the face and stabbed? Economist rave review notwithstanding. Was grateful to stumble out of theatre after 90 minutes. Self was the only one in the theatre (could have chatted away on cell phone but dreadful screams emanating from screen might have given away self’s location) and that is no fun at all.

Self does like Luke Wilson very, very much, though — has a kind of rumpled charm. And Kate, dear Kate, even in peril she just looks gorgeous, her English skin dewy as a rose. Had to change light bulb by balancing on tall ladder an hour ago, wobbled and feared for self’s life, but then visualized dear Kate pounding creepy motel owner in the face, and suddenly was able to stand on tippy-toes, reach hiiiigh up and change bulb in five minutes flat. Such is the value of watching movies like Vacancy. In which spunky woman triumphs over all: creepy perverts, rats, snuff videos, cockroaches in motel carpet, brown water spurting from bathroom faucet, you name it. Now, bring it on, dearest students, solicitors, annoying relatives, etc. etc. Bring it aaaaalll on.

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