I meant to take pictures of this event -- I had my digicam with me and everything -- but I just plumb forgot. Sorry. I also learned that you shouldn't order my new favorite drink (Bombay Sapphire on the rocks) at Joy-Blue, because they charge nine fucking dollars for it. Anyway, I am now the proud owner of an autographed copy of Claire's first book, Girls! Girls! Girls!, which I intend to sell on eBay for millions.
I like having smart friends, even if it leads to uncomfortable pauses like one last night, where Claire was introducing one of her friends around, and a semi-circle of people had sort of coalesced, of which I was the far end. Claire mentioned, while making the introductions, that she felt like she was at the center of a potent intellectual gathering -- why, here's Dr. Hot Pants (a doctor!), Nathan Rabin (the entertainment editor for a beloved national magazine!), her friend Rick (a microbiologist or some fucking thing!), and...uh...me. I thought about simply backing away and hiding, but Claire kindly mentioned that I was able to speak English.
When I got home and went to sleep, I had an incredibly vivid series of dreams, including a fake news report about a nuclear submarine sinking with some incredibly dangerous weapons aboard and the Navy attemping some elaborate and risky rescue, and one about eating some hamburger that a relative had made for me only to discover it contained bone chips the size of my forearm. THE END.