Well, it’s four in the morning and I’ve just closed out the place with Victoria Roberts (startlingly pretty, incidentally, and smart as a whip), so I’d say yes, they can indeed. Overheard on the genuinely pulsing (d.j. Michael Mayer was enjoying himself, visibly), smoke-machine-enchanced dance floor: “You’re too old for me, I gotta go” (twiggy twentysomething to beanstalkish thirtysomething); a festival helper told me the crowd earlier on had been “21 to 80.” I didn’t see any 80-year-olds dancing, but there were a lot of jubilant people of uncertain provanance jumping up on things and shaking whatever would shake, as well as New Yorker staffers aplenty, some seeking quieter corners to talk in. These people know how to have a good time, that’s clear. Sasha Frere-Jones was a generous host with an admirable amount of stamina, and he should do this every year.
Also, Donald Antrim was an even better reader than I expected, and I always have high expectations of him. Shivers.