This week the Fiction Issue of The New Yorker arrives, and in it are new short stories from Nabokov and Tobias Wolff and George Saunders, among others. I look forward to getting my print copy, which, now that I live in LA, never seems to arrive as quickly as I'd like. In NYC you receive it on Monday, but in LA it usually comes on Wednesday.
And yes, the issue contains Anthony Lane's review of Sex and the City, a review written in the blood he seemed to have coughed up during the screening he attended. I'm not always in the mood for Lane's reviews, which can seem more like vehicles for him to tune his own voice than to delve into the merits of the film, but this one is a keeper. Yes, the movie will make its millions regardless of its critical skewering, but the movie Lane describes (and which I have not seen) sounds like a feminist disaster, which one would not have said of the TV show, at least the episodes from earlier seasons which I've seen.