The point to reinforce about the KGB incident of four years ago is that the established lit world is a fake. A cardboard creation. There remains outrage about the ULA's brief intrusion that night, because it was an unwanted invasion of reality. An understandable feeling of protectiveness rose up for the feeble reader against the "bullies" of the ULA-- the protectors couldn't and can't face the reality that the person shouldn't have been up there in the first place! A hapless dilettante, of no skill or talent, as vulnerable as Ophelia; a French-sounding name at a glossy fashion magazine, ready to collapse at the first mild unwanted breeze-- and in the door walks the ULA. What that sham of a reading represented that evening wasn't literature, but the pretty painted cardboard imitation of it. Of course the audience was protective! Writers at these fake events pretend they're literary stars and the audience pretends along with them; a display of make-believe.
The Establishment Void is further illustrated by the Paris Review's inability to find a live personality to replace George Plimpton. There is no replacement available in their world. All that exists at that journal with Plimpton gone is empty space.