"Who me? All the time. I'm the party king, didn't you know?" He did, at least, host the odd book related shindig. Book signings by local authors (they'd have to be very local, of course), book clubs, William Topaz McGonagall Appreciation Society dinners, that sort of thing. But his drink of choice was, and always had been, a hearty ale. Not a martini. Too fussy. Sure you could get drunk pretty quickly on something that was essentially pure alcohol in a glass, but where was the character?
Mircea's ears perked up, partly at the sound of her kicking around the leaves (which, coincidentally, also kicked around the scent of blood that he was still trying to ignore. He wasn't hungry, but it was kinda like smelling freshly baked cookies after you'd already had a big meal. You weren't hungry, but you could still eat, kinda thing.), but mostly at the Dylan comment. "No shit. You know I drank Hemmingway under a table once, but I always thought Dylan would have been more fun. Seems like a cool guy." He was, frankly, impressed.
He chewed on her question for a moment, hugging his knees to his chest as he considered. "I guess it depends on your definition of contentment. And who is content. Is the general public relatively content? I mean relatively, because you want that for the most part. I think that's the end goal. But no one is ever totally content. Everyone always wants more, right? But if the powers that be are content, that's when you get stagnation. Because the people in charge can trick themselves into believing everything is fine when it's not, and that's when the trouble starts." He wasn't sure he was making sense anymore, honestly, but it was an immense topic, and though it was one he'd had a lot of time to consider, that didn't make it any easier to explain.