The Happiest Hour


yesterday was a dream.

that’s all i can say about that.

no, just kidding, here comes my estrogenheavy-SCHPIEL.

it put all visions of twentysomething all-american genericko jocks to shame.

it quieted my doubts about where my alliances lie when it comes to sentimental sighs and mindwrenching daydreams (mindwrenching in a positive way).

thus was the “date” with the misanthropic writer, intern chris and i. another new intern joined us as well that the misanthrope invited. what can we say? the misanthropic writer likes his ladies. (sorry intern chris)

here’s the rundown. i’ll try to zoom in on the extra AWESOME parts because all of it was enough to make a girl srsly have an orspasm.

intern chris and i got to this pub. the writer said he’d arrive an hour early to, you know, situate himself. he was sitting in a booth all by himself reading VONNEGUT drinking a tanqueray and tonic. you say cliched. i say SHUT THE HELL UP. we walked right by him, did a double take, and then we all embraced like old friends. actually it was more like chris and i made confused faces, and then he did, and then we did, and then the writer snorted, his way of expressing humor. and then we sat down. intern chris inquired as to what the misanthropic writer got his wife for her birthday on the previous evening, and he said “crabs.” HAHAHAHAHAAH. sometimes i forget the misanthropic writer is an adult because my first reaction was to say, “the good kind, i hope.”

after some chitchat, the last intern showed up. and we began the proceedings for the evening. talk ran the gamut. alcohol flowed freely. march madness was played on screens above us. food was had. our waiter looked like a young jackie chan. the misanthropic writer is a funny eater. he’s certainly not dainty. i had to point out a piece of chicken that was sticking to his elbow.

the misanthropic writer snorted many times. we discussed creationism, jupiter (the misanthropic writer is incidentally pro-jupiter), how to meet ladies, his levelheaded teenage daughter who once held an intervention for her 13-year-old friend who once came over after drinking an entire bottle of vodka, the south, gambling on horses, gambling at casinos, writing about gambling, podcasting, sex and the city and coach k. we were all irreverent, each one trying to outdo the other. then we started watching the duke v. lsu game and the misanthropic writer could not read the screen so he would tug on my hair every time he wanted to know the score. the misanthropic writer called a couple of people morons. we were all tipsy as those blowup boxing clowns by the time duke lost.

so i think i impressed him because after an evening that couldn’t possibly have been any better, i received the following email in my inbox this morning:

From: Misanthropic Writer
To: Aparna Nancherla
Date: 3/24/06, 9:45 a.m.

we should do it again with just us !

misanthropic writer

[fin]

yeah. that one’s being framed and put on my wall. goosebumps.

on another note, i think coffee makes me act out.

HOLY SHIT. I FORGOT THE BEST PART. THE MISANTHROPIC WRITER SANG “RING OF FIRE”. HE SERENADED US. THIS WAS 5 DRINKS DEEP SO YOU BETCHA BUTT IT WAS AMAZING.

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