hurricanes and hills
While deeply honored to have been chosen as the Mardi Gras blog of the day by Twin Cities Babelogue (show us your links!), the exposed post is embarrassingly, abysmally old. So head to the archives (see: “starstruck”) if you’re looking for blood-soaked prom queens; otherwise, stay right here.
I, on the other hand, am heading to happy hour. This is the rather new but much-cherished Mardi Gras happy hour tradition at Copeland’s for a few of us editors and assorted folk, and I’m looking forward to it probably just a teensy bit too much. Nevertheless, I’m hoping not to fully continue the tradition of previous years, which involved getting blind drunk, falling over (totally due to a seismic disturbance felt only by me, seriously), dancing (badly) with strangers, and making comparisons between romance and ski-hill transportation devices.
Speaking of skiing, that’s what I did this past weekend, for the first time in about three-quarters of a decade, during which period I’d gained the corresponding amount of fear, weight, and ineptitude. Despite the sabbatical, though, I utterly failed to break any bones. Not bad. Especially considering the fact that my equipment had been deemed OBSOLETE by the ski shop guy. (To get the full effect, say “obsolete” with an old-man voice, a German accent, and a little chuckle at the folly of youth. Or late-pre-middle-age, in my case.) At any rate, it was fun—due in no small measure to the fact that it was, I believe, the first time I’d ever gone skiing since turning the big two-one. And due, also, to the great serendipity of having a former bartender among our number (and he’s a chiropractor, too—I’m telling you, this is the apotheosis of ski-trip companions). So we returned to the condo each night to enjoy hot showers and cold martinis. No vermouth (we were roughing it, you know), but PLENTY of olives.
Speaking of drinks…