Early this morning “Steve Brody” remarked about my umpteenth posting of “A Little Residual Ingmar,” a story about a momentary attraction to Harriet Andersson and a subsequent humiliation from the wicked tongue of Erland Josephson.

“I always admired Josephson as a performer,” Brody said, “[but] this anecdote made me revere him as a human being as well.”

HE response: “Your last line isn’t 100% sincere, but your trademark toxicity is showing. I’ve been around enough actors at parties to know that when some get drunk they become silly or gleeful or morose (i.e., like anyone else). And some turn bloodthirsty. Sober Josephson may have been one thing, but you can always spot a prick when they pick on someone of a lesser status, especially when the victim doesn’t speak the prick’s language.

“Josephson with a buzz-on wasn’t mean — he was sadistic. But then you relate to that, don’t you?”

Full disclosure: During my peak drinking days (early to mid ’90s plus my longish wine-sipping period in the aughts) I was not a happy or silly type after I’d downed two or three — I became snappy and acrid. (Which is precisely what my alcoholic dad used to do.) I didn’t lay into people with a will and a whip, but I would throw stingers. Thank God that part of my life is over and done with.

HE to community, whether you drink or not: What happens when you’ve bent the elbow a bit — do you turn goofy, sentimental, snippy and ascerbic, or wicked and withering?