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This trip is officially on like Donkey Kong, and forshadowing would indicate a continuous rain of oak casks to the dome.

Thursday I headed to Moscow for our version of Amy’s shower for baby Bojangles (Aurora).

She was very naughty and shot out way before her due date but is doing well now. She plumped up past five pounds and will finally leave the hospital soon. This paved the way for an alkie-friendly celebration. You know how we do.

We had a big wine n’ spag night, and it reminded me that while I love and need travel, my favorite thing in the world (regardless of location) is a night with people who know me best and who I don’t have to impress (and who appreciate my rapping skillz).

Heartfelt gratitude for good homies noted, we descended upon Moscow downtown like a swarm of liquory locusts.

Yes, I have been drinking long enough and with enough zeal to be considered pro material, but sometimes I have to relearn lessons like: Never mix $4 grape champagne with sundry cheap wine with well rumncoke with liter steins of PBR. I had a great evening and saw some long-lost brozefs. I also woke up Friday morning with the worst headache of my drinking life (except that one time…but I blame drugs for that one).

Many naps and popped Ibus later, I woke up, planning to head home and feverishly pack but somehow ended up in John’s Alley instead. Weird. And Saturday was Moscow Mardi Gras. Yes, it is overpriced, the lines are disgusting and it’s way too fucking cold for teat baring, but it is also a pretty sweet hedonfest in the midst of Idaho farmland. Luckily, the grease in my hair lubed some brain cogs, and I bounced Saturday morning. First I shelled out (like a ninja turtle) to upgrade the 16MB default memory card of my digicam to a 2GB (Fuck. Ing. A!) card and had an overpriced breakfast at The Pantry served by a waitress who may have been geeked out on mood stabilizers. She forgot or brought 30 minutes later most things we asked for and listened to our orders with the wide-eyed, tilted-head look of a robo-zombie. My cup of drip coffee also cost $1.75 which provoked a homicidal twinge. To their benevolent credit, however, air and water were “on the house.”

I got home around noon and cranked shit into mach turbo 7. I finished laundry, packing, bathing and stocking firewood reserves and was on the road by 9 a.m. the next day. Due to excessive practice, I’m pretty skilled at the terrible task of packing. Why terrible? Imagine everything you will wear or need for the next two months, then fit it onto your back, then add some bulky writing accouterments and 45 tangly cords. I will make a recommended packing list at the end of this trip when I have determined the things with which I absolutely regret wasting space in my single-serving gypsy caravan.

Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter wherein Spokane steals my soul and Seattle soothes it.

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