No "blog" worth its salt would exist without at least a couple inane anecdotes about which nobody gives a damn but the author. Suzy always says that blogging is the height of narcissism, akin to leaving your diary on the street corner and hiding behind the lampost to see who will read it. So, in honor of Suzy's analysis, and with no news other than "she drank a Frappuccino today," here goes.

When this whole mess began three weeks ago, I knew there would be lots of long hours waiting and sitting. So I picked up the paperback version of Atlas Shrugged that had been gathering dust on my bedstand for a couple years, due to its imposing length and miniscule type. I promptly lost that copy, and dropped nine bucks on a replacement.

Since then, I have been working through it as best I can, but the density of both the prose and plot, coupled with the frequent interruptions, have made it very slow going. I am now on page 150 of 1050.

Today, Suzy asked for some books, and while I was rooting around in her stash, voila! I rediscovered a hardcover, full size version with normal print that I had bought last year at a thrift store (but forgotten). Maybe now, with some normally sized type, I can make some headway in this tome.