I could see she was in trouble. Our happy little party chatter had turned far too deep and introspective for her liking. He was getting too close, digging too deep and making her uncomfortable. As usual, vodka was to blame. We had met only hours before but the bonds of womanly sisterhood compelled me to come to her rescue the same way she had mine when she spied me standing alone on the patio, looking for trouble just in case it didn’t come calling.

I turned the tables on myself. He didn’t know me that well, couldn’t have that much to say about me. As he took a breath from saying that she’d never let anyone in her life, never let anyone really love her, I offered up that while he was charting life courses he was free to create one for me, as I was finding myself a bit adrift.

He turned to me, pointing a finger squarely at me and said “You know what your problem is? You have no fucking clue what you want. You’re sitting here waiting for the wrong. fucking. thing. You’re too goddamn beautiful for that. You keep making the same mistake over and over again and nothing ever changes. You both do.”

Stunned and speechless, I fell back into my chair with eyes wide and took a swig of my Shiner. Who the fuck was this man to so accurately call me out on my shit like that?

In his later tales, he shared with us a Spanish phrase that translates to “There is no bad that some good can not come of it.” It was the perfect way to sum up my night; as things didn’t go at all as planned - that waiting bit - but I did make a new friend. As our sage went to refill his drink and acquire more beers for us, she and I exchanged numbers and discussed getting together. “I can tell you this much” I said, “If what he said about you is true, we’re going to get along great.”

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Still in Chicago, my mother texts me as I sit with Maigrey enjoying a lovely dinner at a sidewalk cafe where the early week special of 1/2 priced bottles of wine has lured my boy-tilting self in. The Blackberry rests on the corner of the table, steadily buzzing as usual. I’m surprised to see a text message from my mother, in which she inquires when I’m going to the Cubs game she knew I was scheduled to attend on my trip out here. Okay, so mom needs a little lesson on the All-Star break… *shrug*

I reply that the game was on Saturday. She texts back - “So what now?” Well into the wine and equally so into my lesson on the value of sometimes just saying exactly what you want and mean, I reply back:

“Right now I am sitting outside eating dinner and drinking a bottle of wine and looking for hot guys.”

Can’t say I quite expected the volley I got from dear ole mom:

“Me too. Enjoy. Love you.”

I replied with, “I won’t tell dad if you don’t!” and continued on with dinner; laughing away my boy tilt with Maigrey in the perfectly cool Chicago evening.

I return to Austin tomorrow; reluctantly. I would much prefer to have Vegas (the dog) shipped to me and buy a new wardrobe than to face the music at home.

It’s been a fantastic weekend and I miss everyone already!! Looking forward to Gentile Summit ‘09!!

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Damn straight.

Still in Chicago, highlights of the weekend coming as the brain cells awaken and revive themselves. Some of them just remembered some good stuff at breakfast a few hours ago! Weeee!!!

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I don’t know why this year. Maybe because last year I was completely distracted by hospitals and surgeons and doctor’s orders and relearning my way around Houston. It never for a second crossed my mind that this year I might envy my friends heading to the city in the desert, to spend countless hours in casino conference rooms counting chip stacks.

Oh how I do. It’s the blast of 100 degree heat that hits me as I cross the parking lot; it’s the Las Vegas documentary on PBS; it’s the desperate need of a change of pace; it’s the whiff of MGM Grand perfume on my dresser; the rings on my finger I bought to remember it all. I miss the WSOP. All of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. I can say this because of the distance…because I am now sufficiently far enough removed to romanticize the entire experience. This summer, my head might have to focus through a day’s work, but thanks to the hard work of some excellent writers (and friends) my heart can travel to the Rio.

2008 World Series of Poker Blogs:

Pokerati
Tao of Poker - Dr. Pauly
LasVegasVegas
WickedChopsPoker
PokerNews, featuring the lovely Change 100,the very talented Mean Gene, and my favorite skinny Yankee - F-Train.
PokerStarsBlog, featuring UpForPoker’s Otis
PokerListings, featuring my favorite mountain man, Jason “Spaceman” Kirk
PokerBlog.com - My home during the 2006 WSOP; I’ll always have a soft spot for this site. The PokerShrink is one of the best in the biz and still keeps the home fires buring.

Vegas isn’t entirely out of the question this summer… but perhaps like in all relationships a little distance makes the heart grow fonder. And while he is by no means a substitute, it does help to have a little bit of Vegas at home.

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DP: you’ve got competition
DP: http://thebiglead.com/?p=5920
April: *gasp*
April: you just ruined my entire day
DP: haha
April: i mean seriously*
DP: well, i’m enjoying it more now looking some of those pics…
April: like, looking for the nearest bridge
April: i can’t believe you would do this to me
DP: well, better i do it than you walking in on them making out at a bar
April: i’m not sure i can get over this betrayal
April: see if i wear his t-shirt this Friday!

Scott: wow that pic looks nothing like you

Roomie: Leave it to DP to be aware the minute something like that hits the interwebs.

*No, not seriously. It was instead the last honest LOL moment I had before the day took a complete 180.

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Being local and living in South Austin, the drive to the Salt Lick isn’t all that bad for Scott and I, but in our typical fashion, we found a way to make a scene. He pulled up in my driveway in his Jeep with doors and top off, and I opened the door and informed him that in no way would I be making the 30 minute ride in that hair-destroying vehicle. There would be pictures taken, and cute boys there, and I am a girl, with a perfectly good car at her disposal.

And thus we proceeded to argue back and forth ["Get in the Jeep." "No!"]for a good ten minutes, him sitting in the Jeep idling in my driveway while I bitched from the pathway of my perfectly manicured front lawn. Roomie, being President of the Homeowner’s Association, would have been thrilled. (Hey, the neighbors say they never see us…) Matter settled; Scott drives off in the Jeep and me in the Mustang. …until we turn around, come back to the house, he parks the Jeep, and we leave in my car.

He bitches of course - Ian left the seat too far back, I only have one song from the artist on my iPod, there’s too much R.E.M., I drive “like old people fuck” (“yeah, fast and awesome!”). But by the end of the evening; more accurately, on the way home, he sees the light and agrees that letting me drive was the right thing to do. With a designated driver he’s been able to kick back and relax all night… which means I now have a most amusing co-pilot for the drive home. We joke that Scott IS Family Guy’s Peter Griffin. When you read the below, you absolutely must picture Peter Griffin when you do it, because it was never more accurate than that drive.

“You know what’s a fun word? Appaloosa. Appaloosa. Say it. Say it. Appaloosa. Say it.”
“Appaloosa.”
“You know what else is a fun word? Shin. Shin.”
….
“Shin”
“Elbow. Elbow. Say it. Elbow.”

_____________________________________________________________

Despite the offers, I passed on waking up early Saturday morning and driving to the other end of the world (i.e., North Austin) to hang out at a golf course with the gang when I had zero golfing skills. Sleeping in was much more my style, then running errands and heading over to Mookie’s for BBQ in the afternoon.

Mookie ran a great tournament, as always, and it was great to see everyone - Don, CK, Carter, Astin, JJ, Steve, Rocco, & Sed. Personally I wasn’t getting anywhere with my cards and ended up going out right at the break when my queens ran into aces, because I am such an online player and don’t adjust well to playing live at all, and obviously can’t lay down a big pair. I then drowned my sorrows with whiskey and chocolate and JoeSpeaker. I am such a girl.

At least I had a cutie to keep me company while waiting for the cash game to get started…

Complete set of pictures from the weekend are here - enjoy!

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“You drive like a fuckin madwoman.”
“But a skilled madwoman.”
“If he only knew how you drove in this car…”
“Please. After the shit that’s happened in this car over the past two weeks, do you really think a little speedy and aggressive lane changing is gonna be what gets me in trouble?? And trust me, he’s well aware of my driving habits anyway.”

My joyriding days in the Jaguar have come to a close, with Roomie handing me the keys to the Mercedes yesterday while he took the Jaguar in for it’s end-of-lease inspection. It passed with flying colors, no thanks to the dumbass moments he and I have both had with it in our care. Mine still remains a secret to him, and I have no idea how he missed seeing the two bright blue towels laying in the backseat for days on end last week.

With DonkeyPuncher in town, we headed out to dinner and then downtown to catch a coworker’s band’s show. When I head downtown, I always park in the same parking lot. It’s centrally located and makes it super easy for me to remember where in the hell I parked when the night is over. The one time I had to deviate from this simple rule during SXSW I spent a good 15 minutes wandering around 2nd street trying to determine which parking garage I had left my car in - and while sympathetic parking attendants will assure you you’re not the only one in the same boat, they still can’t identify the garage you’re looking for based on the level name. DP and I had no problem finding a spot in my favored lot this time and I took care to lock my purse in the trunk, gloss up, arm the alarm - the important things.

There had been rumor earlier in the day of rain, but we ignore such things in Texas, because most of the time it’s not going to happen. Even though the sky had looked particularly ominous when I left work, I was still choosing to pretend there would be none. When chatting with a coworker on the patio between bands, and he mentioned the rain was supposed to be coming in a few hours, I told him that wasn’t going to happen until well after 2am, when we were all safe and sound in our beds. We call this denial. Because it did start to rain, a hard solid downpour that would not let up, about half way through our friend’s set. I stood there with my coworkers who had come out in support as we all looked up at the ceiling, then each other, each with a “oh shit” look slowly spreading across our faces. Nothing sucks more than being out downtown when it starts to rain. Especially if you are a girl, as we tend to roll in heels and thin tops. But really… who brings an umbrella to 6th Street? As DP and I discovered when we finally decided to brave the thunderstorm and head out to the car, some people do. We call these people losers.

Personally speaking I had on the best heels I could have for such an event, and with jeans rolled up it wasn’t so bad. We actually didn’t have too far to walk and the rain had lightened up some by that point so the only real concern I had was for the BlackBerry which wasn’t going to get too soaked, and if it survived all the times it got dropped during SXSW, then it’s a tough little guy. But as we got to the car, I noticed that in all my locking it up I had neglected to notice one small detail.

Driver side. Back window. Down.

It’s been pouring for hours, and the Jaguar with leather seats has been sitting there with the window open collecting rain. Hell never mind the rain, the Jaguar itself has been sitting downtown with the fucking window open for HOURS. And it’s still there! Relieved as I am over that, I am a wee bit shaken over how in hell I’m going to get out of this one. According to DP, there wasn’t too much water pooled up - had the front come in from the other direction though… Once I get home I towel the seat off as much I can and spend the next few days driving with the windows down at every opportunity - something I generally do anyway, but now with a purpose!

I haven’t told Roomie, and have no plans to do so. It’s not that my infraction is so bad really, and certainly he’s done worse. But I think it’s good for DP and I to have a little secret. And as nice as it’s been to drive luxury cars for a while, it did feel awfully good to drive my baby again today. You know, like an absolute madwoman.

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Not long after I began to entertain the thoughts of buying a new car, Roomie began the long process of his own new car selection. His current ride, a 2004 Jaguar, was a lease set to expire in June of this year and therefore a replacement was a necessity. He briefly toyed with the idea of downsizing to something practical with a lower monthly payment. Those of you who know him know that was a very very brief period. One thing he did decide on was that he wanted to move to something smaller - a two-seater that would remove him as the de facto driver every time we went out anywhere. He spent hours searching online and finally found the car that would meet his needs - a Mercedes CLK350.

He was buying pre-owned, and had narrowed down the choices to three - one in Houston, one in Dallas, and one in Santa Barbara. The one in Houston was the first choice and was the easiest one for us to go take a look at, so off we went one weekend to make a visit. A beautiful car, with everything he wanted. The only problem was the salesmen unwilling to budge from the sticker price. In fact, they informed us that once we left they were actually going to be raising it. I guess the economic downswing hasn’t affected North Houston. We wished the salesman good luck, put a hex on the car, and returned home. Last we checked it was still sitting on the lot.

The car in Dallas was 2nd on the list, and visiting it was just about as out of the question as visiting the one in Santa Barbara. Fortunately Roomie has a trusted friend in the area that he could call upon to make a visit and report back to him. Once he got the all clear, the negotiations could begin. And this time, Roomie was dealing with a salesman who actually understood how the game was played. A week later the car was delivered and we spent a Saturday driving around getting to know the new member of the family.

Roomie did the first leg behind the wheel of course, but let me take over in the afternoon so he “see how I drove it” before he agreed to let me take all by myself Monday and Tuesday. The windows weren’t tinted you see, wouldn’t be until I took the car in for it Tuesday morning; and until they were he wasn’t going to take it to work. Which meant he was going to continue driving the Jaguar until then, and I’ll be damned if I was going to let a Mercedes sit in the garage while I drove around in a 12-year old Mustang. So after picking up our friend Kevin at the best coffee shop in Austin and then heading to the mall, I was allowed to drive him home. If you’ve ever ridden in a car with me, you can probably guess how it went.

RED LIGHT TURNS GREEN, APRIL FLOORS IT
Me: Glancing in rearview mirror “HA! Lookit them all still way back there at the light!”
Roomie: “You are never driving this car again”

The car comes equipped with navigation system, one of Roomie’s requirements in his new car. While on the way to pick up Kevin he turned it on and the screen came alive with a highway grid showing… the 405?

“Is this… is this car from California???”
“Yeah. When I pulled the CarFax it originated from Long Beach.”
“Awwwww. I feel so much closer to her now!! She’s not really a Dallas snob, she’s a California bitch! Look, she’s trying to navigate us to LA. Take her home. Take her home!!“

He never does what I say.

During my drive time we stopped to get gas (she’s a thirsty one) and while Roomie pumped, I played with the nav system more. From it I reached a completely biased conclusion about the previous owner. Clearly he was gay. Every name programmed in there was male, save for one woman, and then mom.

“And then there’s this entry… it just says ‘Dealer’.”
“That could mean a lot of things…”
“Yea… but it don’t mean Mercedes dealer!”

I did drive it for the first two days, taking care of the window tinting so Roomie didn’t have to suffer the indignity of showing up at work with a car not ready for her public debut. She is most definitely an LA girl. To my delight, this car has an auxiliary jack whereas the Houston car did not, so she and Steve [my sentient iPod] hooked up immediately. Together they pulled the Silversun Pickups on average every other song.

Roomie loves the car, and I am happy for him. It’s a beautiful car. The Mustang is enjoying a nice rest in the garage, as I have been driving the Jaguar for the past few weeks. Truth be told, the Mercedes doesn’t do much for me really. Oh sure, the initial acceleration is nice. But once you get there? 80 feels like 70, 70 feels like 60, and so on. I realize that’s the point. But I like to feel like I’m doing my speed. That you don’t in luxury cars is exactly the reason why I always get my speeding tickets in them. I prefer the Jaguar over the Mercedes for the reasons it drove Roomie crazy - the little bits of road noise and bumps that let me feel the road and let me know where I am. For me, driving the Mercedes is like having unsatisfying sex with a really hot guy. It’s boring and uninspiring. But looks good!

I’m likely losing the Jaguar in a few weeks, as opposed to the planned date of June. It’s probably for the best - I’ve gotten a wee bit attached, to the point of considering buying it myself. It’s probably better I go back to other plan - finding a way to get the old man down the street with the new Shelby to put me in his will.

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Things I haven’t done yet but probably will:

1. Break down and call the cable company and sign up for another year of Extra Innings
2. Convince my IT guys that I should be allowed to stream video across the network since they break the rules too, and then sign up for mlbTV. Or just skip the convincing part.

One thing I will for sure do is attend Astros opening day which is next Monday (the REAL opening day for me). This was decided late last night, and I can see the conversation with my boss now.

“I’m going to be off next Monday.”
“But that report is due.”
“Yes, but it’s Opening Day.”
“But… the report…”
“OPENING. DAY.”
“O….kay… just have that done before you go…”

And today, Steve the iPod will be playing the baseball playlist several times I’m sure. Maybe even drawing from it on his own, as surely his sentient little self understands the significance of today. I’d turn the playlist into a Muxtape for y’all like all the cool kids are doing (catbird ftw) but most of it is not in mp3 format and I’m in no mood to convert. So you get a list:

1. Centerfield - John Fogerty
2. Go Go Astros - if you spent anytime in the Astrodome in the 1980s, you remember this song. And it’s about as cheesy as you’d expect based on the description.
3. Houston Loves The Astros - same as above. These are not easy to find though, and really, no better way to torture the non-Astros fan with you.
4. Turn it Up (Astros Version) - Chamillionaire
5. Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond (sorry metsgrrl)
6. Who Killed Tangerine - Tears for Fears (we’ve covered this before)

Short, but sweet. Gives me plenty of time to move on to my new musical obsession, French hip-hop.

I hope everyone has a fantastic Opening Day, unless you’re a Padres fan, in which case I hope you cry like a little girl!

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When I was 12, two things defined me - my crush on Wil Wheaton and my love of R.E.M. Neither one of which was much understood by my friends and was pretty much seen as uncool. But I didn’t care. I never missed an episode of ST:TNG and the very first CD I ever bought was R.E.M’s Green, and when they toured for that album, I made my mother take me. It was the first concert I ever attended.

Of course, years later it was cool to be an R.E.M. fan and all my friends were then joining me at the concerts and going on about how wise I was in the ways of music to have known from such an early age how awesome they were. Knowing what a huge fan I was, they wondered what would I do if I was ever to meet Michael Stipe, the lead singer of R.E.M.? The mere idea of such left me speechless. “I have absolutely no idea” I would tell them. “Probably stammer, say nothing, and make a complete fool of myself.”

When I first met Wil, he was in town for a Linux convention and did a thing at the Alamo Drafthouse where they showed Stand By Me. It took me a good fifteen minutes to work up the nerve to go introduce myself. During the 2006 WSOP, Ryan took a group of us to dinner at Nobhill where on advice of the server Wil and I agreed to share the lobster potpie. When he decided he wanted to add a steak too, he asked if I’d be up for sharing that as well; when I agreed, he jokingly remarked “Okay, now it’s official, you’re my date.” 12 year-old me fainted and had to be carried away on a stretcher. Adult me has made a great deal of progress. Maybe a little too much progress…

Tonight, after checking in at the St. David’s church and confirming that yes, there was no way I was going to get in to see M. Ward (how awesome would that have been?) I was headed down 7th to Stubb’s to see Okkervil River. Mind as empty as the street. Will there be a line; what to wear to brunch tomorrow (Betty can confirm losing 30 pounds really crimps the wardrobe); what a nice night it is; etc. Walking along when I look up and there passing me on the left is none other than one Michael Stipe. Michael fucking Stipe.

In the split seconds it takes for us to pass each other on the sidewalk, 12 year old me wakes up and says “Holy shit it’s Michael Stipe!!” while 31 year old me says “Yes. Indeed it is.” 12 year old me responds with “You should stop him! NOW! Say something! Do something! It’s Michael FUCKING Stipe!” 31 year old me responds with “Oh? So I stop him and then what? What are you gonna do? What’s your big plan there smarty? And watch your fucking language.”

Deep down though, 31 year old me knows 12 year old me is right. Cause it was the 31 year old me that nearly cried, knowing that with each step I took I just became more crazy obsessed fangirl. I mean it’s one thing to stop the guy when he’s right there next to you on the sidewalk; it’s another to chase him down a block cause you’ve been having this bizarre internal dialogue.

So of course, when you have a moment like this, you immediately Twitter it, because it’s SXSW and there is an unwritten law that that’s what you do. Standing on the corner of 7th & Red River, shaking from more than the chill and texting away, I was approached by a homeless guy asking for “just 50 cents”.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you right now. I’m… look, I’m kinda freaking out right now.”
“Aww, I’m sorry. I won’t bother you.”

So if nothing else comes out of this, other than another one of April’s what the fuck moments, I can offer to my fellow Austinities a new line for giving the brushoff to the homeless guys on 7th. Just tell them you’re kinda freaking out right now. Apparently they understand it.

And next time Stipe… next time. 12 year old me and 31 year old me have made up and are preparing something just in case.

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