Yes, folks, I am in the lovely state of Indiana (at least, I'm going to assume it's lovely -- last night on the way in it pretty much looked like wall-to-wall rain). Still shaking from six rain-drenched, haggard hours on the road, I fell out of the car and into the welcome arms of the Broaddus household.

Maurice was cooking chicken marsala--one of my all-time favorite dishes--at a pace my stomach did not approve of, and the too-tempting aroma chased Chesya Burke and I out into the garage to where Joe and Gerald and Rob were stomping Brian Keene at Magic.

And I discovered something strange about myself -- watching men play Magic is oddly soothing. Medatative. Zen, even. I suppose it follows the same theory regarding standing in line at the post office. You are in a place where you are under no pressure to contribute -- cannot contribute if you have no idea how to play the game.

I sat there between Keene & Gerald, nursing my water, and reveling in the fact that there was nothing I was supposed to be doing, nothing I was supposed to have done, and nothing expected of me in the near future.

It was liberating. Absolutely liberating.

Hearing all the stories, and the banter regarding one-point orcs, albatrosses, rabid wombats, kudzu and armageddon, were just a bonus.