Ah, home.

I went to New Orleans for a few days for work (and a day and a half for fun), and since I got back I've been writing and writing and writing to the point that I'm even boring myself, but I just can't stop. I've been spending a lot a lot of time alone lately, and I LOVE it, but it makes all the crap I normally say over a day get amplified in my head. And you know I say a lot of stuff over a day.

The very, very short version:

New Orleans is great and sad and broken and is, apparently, my subtropical DC. I schmoozed and mingled, got bruised and bloodied, ate way too much, drank way too much, wandered around the same blocks way too much, and talked to an awful lot of really great people (and a few not so great people, though I'm sure they're lovely underneath it all). I feel very good. And I have a mystery bruise handprint on my arm.

More soon. By the time I get it written out and added up, I'll undoubtedly have told you in person.