Meet Nadia Abdelrhman, a Stranger reader who has vowed to do everything The Stranger suggests for the entire month of March. Look for her reports daily on Slog and Line Out. —Eds.

Michael Chabon won a Pulitzer prize, guys, which I imagine makes reading from a piece, wherein you call out the names of your sixth grade bullies, all the more sweet.

And, Chabon really loves Edgar Allan Poe. He read excerpts from his Gentlemen of the Road, which reveres the former literary great. I like Poe too, so I was down with it. I was even down with the part where he admitted that—in the sixth grade—he believed he was the reincarnation of the late, great Poe. But make no mistake, he doesn't believe in reincarnation anymore, for it is too stained of human wishes.

He is verbose and the fans love it. I am in a back corner of the near-to-capacity auditorium in Benaroya Hall, "relaxed" and in translucently transcendent reverie of Poe via an aggrandized Chabon.

During the Q&A, he informed the crowd that he started out reading DC Comics, but switched to Marvel at age 11; stated his belief that a work of fiction can breech the unknowable core that resides within each of us; presupposed why there aren't any Jews in Westerns; and finally, claimed he and his wife were single-handedly responsible for the Obama win, via the ripple effect.

After the reading, Benaroya Patrons, i.e.; anyone who had paid $50 or more for a ticket, were invited to a drink and greet with the author at the W Hotel. Luckily, The Stranger secured me one of those tickets.

I went to the W, walked up some stairs, and was met with a posh, dimly lit lounge harboring free wine, hors d'oeuvres, and Chabon himself, encircled by his many adoring admirers.

Having never read the fellow, it took me two glasses of wine and the kind urgings of some hawkish, older fans to ask him two uninspired questions. After giving him my spiel about why I was there, in a roundabout way, I asked him if he could imagine some other career in which he could have made a similarly substantial mark on the world—to which he had little to no answer; he said he kind of wanted to be an architect at some point during his childhood. After that, I asked him about his musical preferences; he said he likes almost everything, besides bluegrass and polka.

I would have approved of this event, but when I admitted to Chabon that I hadn't actually read any of his work, he deftly shot back that it was okay, because he hadn't read any of mine either. Later, when I took the bus home, I found an almost empty container of urine on the ground next to my seat. It rolled over my foot before I noticed it was there.