I met a bunch of the Houstonist writers last night at a happy hour thang. Prior to yesterday, my only contact with the editor was via email. We hadn’t even talked on the phone. Just in case they were creepy or boring, my friend Robert was scheduled to meet me about 45 minutes into the event. Not because I would need to be saved – I’m a big girl – but because I hate the thought of ruining a good happy hour. Anyway, he needn’t have come (though I’m always happy to hang out with him) because the Houstonist people were delightful and not at all creepy or boring. At least, those who attended – only about half the writers were able to make it. It was really nice being around people who haven’t heard my bullshit before. Not because I was retreading old ground but because it was fresh meat. My friends are all numb to my inappropriate comments or engaging repartee (or bullshit, to state it a different way). And, frankly, it was nice hearing new people’s bullshit too.
The funniest thing that came out of the evening? When Catbirds was mentioned, one of the people in the group said the following, which now firmly places the bar in the annals of urban legend:
I’ve heard that you’ll be hanging out at Catbirds and a guy will come in and say that someone is breaking into [insert car that is in the parking lot] and when you go outside to check on your vehicle you get knifed.