Stevie Nicks would like her forties back. "'It was eight completely wasted years of my life.' Here's the irony, she says: the 'powers that be' had sent her to the psychiatrist in order to keep her working, but the 'treatment' he gave her made work almost impossible. 'It's very Shakespearean. It's very much a tragedy.'"
Moises Kaufman has written 33 Variations, a play that explores Beethoven's obsession with Diabelli's inane little waltz. Sounds worth seeing—or you could buy this.
Euan Ferguson took the Tube last week. "Only three stops on the Piccadilly line between Knightsbridge and the centre of town, and I would have got there more quickly, pleasantly, and safely by crawling backwards through the linking sewers with a twitching rat in my mouth and open bleeding weals on my bare backside."
We're shipping our November issue today. Shipping gets me all excited and nervous. I don't sit, I shake. I don't walk, I dance. I don't talk, I sing. Like Willie Colon: Cua cua ra, cua cua!
Growing up in the shadow of Monticello, I was raised on tales of Jefferson's taste for wine—after all, the estate had its own vineyards, distillery, and acres of crocuses for saffron. What had us all buzzing were the acres of hemp—local heads maintained that TJ never missed a hemp harvest. Right.