Saturday night I headed over to Sean and Michelle's place for their annual Mardi Gras to-do, with pal and roomate thaitea in tow. It was a blast, as it always is; I literally look forward all year to the crawfish etoufee they make. Andrea and Doug contributed a terrific spinach salad, some great muffaletta, and a king cake that I didn't eat because I am a jerk. (It was very pretty, though.) The high point of the evening was definitely the live music: Sean, his boss, and his boss' wife played some amazing old-time Cajun fiddle music, which caused an outbreak of folk dancing. I drank sazeracs, had lovely conversations, and generally enjoyed the hell out of myself, but the whole thing was rather bittersweet, as I realized this was probably my last Mardi Gras and possibly the last time I'd see several of the people in attendance. (Don't get it twisted -- I'm inexpressably excited about the move. I dig the Twin Cities, I'm incredibly pumped to try full-time freelancing, and I love my girl ninafarina and her kid more than I can ever put to words. I absolutely think I'm doing the right thing at the right time, and that my life is just going to get better and better. But I've lived in this town a dozen years and I'm leaving behind a lot of good friends, and it's hard to shake the sensation, every time I do something these days, that it'll be the last time I do it.)
Sunday I was a horrible filth-pig who hunkered like an animal in front of the computer, scribbling away madman-style and filling my dirty mush with junk while my sad little electric heater burbled away against the cold. Aaaah, the glamorous life of the raconteur.
And how's YOUR motor running?