Not that this is a noteworthy post of any sort, but it’s as much as I’m going to get done today before heading off to yet another Tribeca Film Festival production.
Apparently, there’s an ongoing movement to replace Russia’s consumerism and love of alcohol (Slate) with Russia’s literary might and love of alcohol (The New Yorker). Both noteworthy combinations, one perhaps more wholesome and rooted deeper in history than the other. (Guess which is which.)
In the meantime, at The Paris Review literary heavy-hitters ponder where in Manhattan one may read, write, and drink in peace (aside from one’s own tiny apartment).
Again I must note that alcoholism and writing go hand-in-hand. I’m waiting until I have more deep thoughts on the subject before I make a posting about the connection.
Tomorrow — some ramblings on Love During Wartime, which I’ll be viewing tonight in the East Village.