Kyle Regan—a masochistic Stranger reader—has vowed to do every single thing recommended by the Stranger Suggests (movies, galleries, bars, concerts) for the month of January. Look for his reports daily on Slog. —Eds.

The Richard Hugo House was packed. I was a little late, which forced me to wait outside the at-capacity building. Eventually a couple left, allowing me legal entrance. It was a weird crowd. One part hipster PBR-drinking scarfers and one part wine-sipping literary fans.

I missed a good half of Rory Douglas’s reading, and what I did hear was muffled by walls and hallways. I wasn’t exactly in prime seating. I was able to make out more of Midge Raymond’s piece, but I never got a chance to actually see her; the crowds and walls blocked everything. I don’t actually know what Douglas or Raymond look like, having never been able to see them. Raymond’s story of a stagnant friendship was my favorite of the night.

Matthew Simmons (by now I had good seating and could see the bearded author) told the story of the man who loves caves. And by caves I don’t mean vaginas (which was the image that I couldn’t get out of my head during his entire piece). Finally, Maria Semple, former Arrested Development writer, read from her book This One is Mine. I love hating rich assholes as much as the next jealous, low-income person. But Semple makes them so laughably aloof that you can’t help but feel for them.

I really liked the flavor of the place. Everyone I talked to was either nice, an author, drunk or some combination of the three. Unlike the previous two books events I’ve gone to, this felt like the actual literature was the focus of the night. The books were for sale, but we weren’t reminded of it every 10 fucking minutes. In the name of transparency, they tried to bribe me with a t-shirt. Even a free shirt couldn’t keep me around for the open mic. As much as I wanted to hear teenagers bitch about being teenagers, I declined.