More New Yorker Festival coverage, you say? Certainly not! You've had enough bloggy gruel to last you the night and I don't want to hear any more complaining! You're pleading that you've been reading Beatrice all weekend long and got a big helping of Donald Antrim and Jonathan Franzen, Lorrie Moore and Chang-Rae Lee, David Remnick and Steve Martin, Misha the Magnificent and Zadie Smith, Ricky Gervais and John Updike, Paul Rudnick and Anthony Lane, cartoonists galore and bluegrass banjos, and now you're famished again? No way no how, orphan ingrates! But you liked those posts, did you? You wouldn't mind hearing a little more detail, maybe some actual literary-historical analysis, a few more writerly quips, what everyone was wearing, what the crowds were like (preview: ballet enthusiasts are jittery)? Fine, brats. Go back to Beatrice and there'll be another bowl waiting for you. But after Tuesday, I'm cutting you off. You've gotten stout on all these posts and we need our orphans slim for the visitors. Get your battered tin spoons ready, because supplies are extremely limited.