We are back from a weekend expedition to Tampa, where we attended the wedding of my friend Cubes. Lots of food and beer and merrymaking.

I am hoping someone else took pictures, because all I managed to snag was a mid-beer moment by the pool in which I appear to have captured the sun exploding and at the wedding, a horse, for some reason.

A highlight of the trip included a visit to a bar in Clearwater called New York, New York. Despite being in Clearwater, Aram assured me it was the spitting image of New York – the neon lights, the leather-skinned retirees, the dollar drafts. They even had a dress code – after all, you can’t just wear anything in New York, you know. I think I saw Woody Allen in the back.

Then, when we got to Nashville, we returned home to find two rooms in our apartment without power and no hot water. Oh, and a dead possum in my trash. Nothing says “welcome home” after 12 hours of driving like a dead marsupial.

I love living in the south.

UPDATE: Perhaps this is where the possum came from?