On a recent Friday evening, we headed all the way west on 37th Street to hear New Yorker writers recount stories about being that most exciting of things—a New Yorker writer. The event was the opening night of the blitz of panels, conversations and chances to see what writers look like that is the annual New Yorker Festival.
The hangar-like space was converted into a lounge with the addition of cafe tables and chairs. A cash bar offered wine, beer and snacks in serving bowls fashioned to look like martini glasses. Snippets of conversation—overheard while we looked for a seat—sounded like, dare we say it, the premise of many a New Yorker cartoon. Read More