At night I’ve been watching the crappiest of crappy crap crap. True Hollywood Stories of Rock Star Wives. Fifty Most Expensive Weddings, which should really be called Creative Math. A My Life on the D-List marathon, sadly cut short by the need to make Henry’s lunch for the next day. I read somewhere, although I can’t find where now, that Cynthia Ozick’s heaven would be to sit under a tree with a pile of books, reading a book and then picking up the next book, for, of course, eternity. Oops. I’m not going to valorize my choice. It’s worse than hers.