In which Bwog lecture hopper Pierce Stanley throws up his hands at the New Yorker Festival.  For decades a bastion of intellectual arrogance, The New Yorker magazine reaches the pinnacle of sycophancy once a year during the first weekend of October when it hosts its Festival, during which journalists, artists, and intellectuals with deep or […]

Our source sez: The New Yorker poetry department receives over 1,000 submissions every week. Each of these is destined to be lovingly rejected by an intern, usually a Columbia grad student, with a carefully handwritten note. It’s understandable then that sometimes things get backed up. Really backed up. According to one of the interns, there […]

Ah, Columbia freshmen: still vulnerable to the classic street scam. This one, written up in The New Yorker, involved a broken bottle, “pink stuff,” and babies. Lesson learned: If you break something, just keep on walking.