April 10th, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean: I groggily awake in my plane seat on what is April 10th in the Hawaiian Islands meaning I’m reliving a day as a result of passing over the International Date Line. I keep my eyes shut for a while and hear the clatter of my fellow passengers eating breakfast. I’m too tired to eat. I lay there motionless for 20 minutes or so until the captain comes on and informs us it is currently 8:43am (that’s 5:43am Melbourne time) and we’ll be touching down in Honolulu at approximately 9:07am. I slowly open my eyes and find John next to me finishing his breakfast, having changed out of his pajamas and back into normal clothes. I lean back in my chair and try to return to slumber but fail. A while later a flight attendant comes by, taps me on the shoulder, and hands me the glass of apple juice that I’d requested the night earlier on my breakfast menu, though I’ve already slept through the meal itself. After I gain moderate consciousness I go into the bathroom and change back into my suit in anticipation for landing.

The landing is smooth and a few minutes later we disembark. I’m one of the first people to the customs queue, which has three separate lines for US citizens. There are a couple people in the far right lines so I go to the one on the far left, directly in front of a booth which is occupied by a confused Asian couple having a translator attempt to relate a conversation to the customs agent for them. This lasts quite a few minutes, and eventually the lines next to me fill up but nobody gets behind me, perhaps because I’m in the wrong place or perhaps because they realize the Asian couple is going to take forever. Eventually a customs agent from one line over beckons me to come over, but a 30ish woman in the line beside me makes that sharp, annoyed exhaling sound that women make when they’re, well, annoyed by something. I turn to her and say genuinely
“I’m sorry have you been waiting quite a while? Why don’t you go ahead?”
“Yea! And the line is over here okay?!” she adds in an extremely bitchy tone. Now I’m left with three options:
1. Do nothing: Avoid conflict with her and her boyfriend because it’s the middle of a customs check point in an airport where causing a scene is always a bad idea.
2. Play it cool: Tell her “Lady, I play by nobodies lines but my own” (confession; having just awoke from far too little sleep I didn’t have the quick wit to think of this in the moment, regrettable since I now think it was the optimal move.)
3. Keep it real: Bark at her and her boyfriend “Are you always such a fucking cunt to everyone that’s nice to you!? Hey dude, I can see why you took her on the vacation, though I personally recommend leaving her here” (something I genuinely did think of at the time, and it’s been a while since I’ve felt like ‘c bombing’ a girl without it being a joke, but then I was never a morning person.)

I grit my teeth, swallow my pride, and decide letting loose a stream of profanities at a customs check probably isn’t worth the hassle no matter how satisfying it’d be. Hopefully she spends the 30 seconds she saved lying out in the sun and gets skin cancer. I stand there awkwardly for a moment and contemplate going to the now lengthy back of the line, but as I take my first step in the direction the lady who’d been behind her says
“Sir why don’t you just go ahead of me, you’ve been waiting too.” My God, what an angel.
“Thanks so much, have a great trip, cheers.”

I pass through customs without further altercation, and after collecting my bags wait around outside to see if Cade is picking me up. After waiting a few minutes I realize he might not have bothered coming since two days ago I wasted his time when my facebook message didn’t reach him before he went to the airport to find me. I go to a nearby pay phone and call his cell. He sounds half asleep on the other end and tells me he’s still in bed. I tell him I’ll grab a cab and see him in 15 minutes.

When I get to his house I end up rousing Cade and his lovely girlfriend Kari out of bed. They both greet me with a hug, and within minutes we’re back into our old ways of accusing each other of wanton homosexuality. When I grab a shower a few minutes later I find my insults to be supported by the contents within, 19 bottles of hair and skin product. I bet he has skin that Ed Gein would kill for though.

After I finish cleaning up Cade’s mom Jada arrives home and we decide to head out to ‘Dim Sun’ for lunch. I haven’t eaten breakfast so by the time we reach the restaurant I’m devouring food the second it’s placed in front of me, manners be damned. Nobody seems to mind when I explain that I haven’t eaten in 12 hours.

We decide to spend our day at the beach slash aquatic nature preserve that Cade volunteers at, ‘Hanama Bay’. Unfortunately the weather is overcast and gloomy, and it’s questionable whether the temperature is much above 70. Still, I didn’t come to Hawaii to hide inside (except for SCOOP main event day of course) so we go for it anyway. As I inch into the bay I realize it’s freezing, so I stand motionless for a few minutes then convince myself the best way to make it feel better is sprint through the water and leap in with reckless abandon. It’s about mid leap that I remember than ‘Hanama Bay’ is mostly filled with rocks and corral, and a second later my knee harshly scraps some rock, opening up a nice wound. This coupled with the crappy weather and total lack of eye candy at the beach makes for a less than spectacular outing, though any time spent with Cade and Kari is always fun. They’re such an awesome couple and I love them both to bits, but Christ do I seethe with envy watching them carouse about when I know I’ll be banging my hand to sleep.

In the evening Cade has arranged for us to attend the concert of an ‘environmental rock/punk band’ at a local club. I haven’t been to a punk rock concert since I was 17 and ran around the moshpit slamming into people as a form of camaraderie. Now at 24 I watch the pit from afar, feeling both too old and too tired from the lack of sleep to get in there and get my ass kicked. When did I get so dull? On the plus side, this Friday night we return to Cade’s house at 10pm and sober, as opposed to last time when we got back at 3am with me raging drunk, slamming into the empty water cooler bottles outside then picking one up and singing into it at some absurd volume.

April 10th, Melbourne Australia: I arrive at the airport over two hours early for a domestic flight on a Friday afternoon. The place is practically abandoned, and although I’m not flying business until I get to Sydney I decide to queue up in the ‘Business/Qantas Club’ line because the lady behind the desk looks bored and clearly won’t turn me away just because my connecting flight is economy.

Most people view airports and flying as a huge hassle. As a result they often bring attitude with them to every encounter they have at the airport, particularly with staff. I see things differently; the people who work at the airport have the ability to make your life either totally miserable or considerably more comfortable. They take attitude from rushed dickheads all day, and even those who are nice are normally transparently attempting to get something. To my knowledge there’s no ultimate trick to getting comps or upgrades at the airport, but if you’re polite, engaging, and build some rapport with the person helping you they just might go out of their way to set you up. It’s with this mentality that I approach the business class desk
“Hi, I’m not traveling on business until I get to Sydney but is it alright if I just go ahead and check in here?”
“Oh sure sir, that’s no problem. Can I have your ID?”
“Of course…so I’m quite a bit early for my flight today, do you have any book recommendations for me?”
“What’s that?”
“Well the flight isn’t until 3:30 so I’ll be needing a book to kill the time. Any recommendations for me?”
“Hmm let me think…have you read Angels and Demons?”
“Oh yes, read it and loved it. What’d you think?” (This part is important, it’s one thing to just ramble on about shit when talking to people who can help you, but they won’t feel invested in the interaction until you give them a reason to be.)
“Oh I haven’t read it yet but I’m hoping to, people tell me good things.”
“Did you enjoy the Da Vinci Code?”
“Oh yes quite a bit.”
“Ah then you’ll love Angels and Demons. I think it was probably better.”
“Yea, that’s what I keep hearing. Have you seen the movie?”
“Well no it’s not out yet. I think it’s one of those big summer release type things in the States.”
“Oh right, like the new X-men movie. Do you like that series?”
“Are you kidding? I love em. They definitely picked the right character to continue the series with, Wolverine is so cool.”
“I know! He’s so…”
“Angry” I interject with a smile.
“Yes, that’s right. One sec here I just need to call about your seat on the Honolulu flight.”
She gets on the phone for a while and has difficulty getting through to people. She’s stuck on hold for a while so we continue talking about books and I mention that numerous people have recommended ‘The Wolf on Wallstreet’ to me, and that they’re turning it into a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio. She’s definitely a Leo fan. Eventually she gets through to someone and then turns the computer my way and asks which seat I’d like. She tells me which one I should take that will get me the most room, which is a lone seat along the window.
“Ah perfect then, plenty of room to stretch out and I won’t bother anyone with my smell.”

After the seat is sorted she calls up to the Qantas Club lounge for me and lets them know that despite my not being on business class here in Melbourne that I will be in Sydney and therefore they should let me in when I head up there. She directs me how to get there then I thank her for everything and remind her to enjoy ‘Angels and Demons’. I walk over to the airport ‘Subway’ where I grab a sandwich, buy two books at the neighboring book store, then head up to the Qantas Club lounge where I enter without issue and find a nice couch to whip out my laptop and start writing on.

The flight to Sydney is uneventful and arrives slightly early. The transition to the international terminal is easy and when I get there I ask around about the best place to eat. There are only a few options available and they all appear to suck, but then I remember that the lounge upstairs probably has food. When I arrive not only am I happy to find that I’m correct, but there’s also free booze as far as the eye can see. I’m laying off the beer and hard stuff these days for the diet, so I grab the bottles of red wine and go to town while eating some kind of goulash. It tastes better than the name gives it credit for. I aimlessly browse the internet between bursts of typing, and find that the girl I was seeing has indeed deleted me from facebook like she said she would last night. Great, now my friends list is an even bigger sausage fest.

By the time I’m done writing I’m half drunk and eying the clock. I decide not to risk it this time and head off to my gate 25 minutes early. The flight is already boarding when I get there and I grab a seat and wait for the line to dissipate while I read. When I board I finally look at my ticket and realize I’m on the window seat of the first row. It’s my first time in business class for an international flight, and I’m thrilled to find the seat is enormous and stretches out considerably.

I start chatting with the guy in the seat next to me. His name is John, and he works in the furniture business. He tells me he’s going to Hawaii alone just to kill a few days and get some sun, which is pretty damn balla for a guy who looks to be in his late twenties. He asks what I do for a living which results in a half hour discussion on how exactly one plays poker for a living and what I did to get myself to that point. He explains all the perks to business class to me and elaborates on how to adjust my seat, which according to the diagram on my arm rest appears to be incredibly complex.

At some point one of the attendants comes by and offers us pajamas. At first I decline because I don’t really wear pajamas, but then I remember it’s either that or sleep in my suit so I reconsider and get changed in the bathroom. Just trying to change clothes in the bathroom makes me wonder about the logistical nightmare that attempting to have sex in there would be.

Before I settle in to sleep I restart the conversation with John. He tells me he’s 24 and guesses my age to be 21, and is rather surprised to find out we’re the same. John laments that at such a young age both his knees and back are fucked while his hair is simultaneously thinning and graying. I’d have believed him in an instant if he told me he was 30. Fortunately, I show nearly no signs of age, unless perhaps I haven’t shaven in days. My hair seems to have maintained all its color and thickness and at times I still even have slight acne break outs. A few weeks ago in a bar some girl told me thought I could pass for 17 and a week after that a guy at a downtown slots casino wouldn’t let me enter despite presenting my Wisconsin ID. The legal age of entrance is 18. I was not able to talk my way past that one.

Mostly we discuss how 24 is a strange age, a transitional age. Up until a couple years ago your life was on a pretty set course for most people, and you likely had a large group of friends you’d been familiar with for years. After school people tend to break off and start doing their own things, getting into careers but often beginning to question if the direction they’ve taken is the correct one. I imagine by 30 most people likely have a pretty solid idea of what they’ll be doing with their life or career, but maybe not. Hell, I even have a few friends who are intentional parents at this stage. When the fuck did that start happening? If I had a kid right now I’d wind up playing his Xbox more than he did. I'm wearing pajamas and play a card game for a living.

Eventually our conversation dies down and I lay back into my seat in my pajamas and slip the blindfold over my face. The plane is fairly quiet near the front. I fall asleep without too much trouble.

April 9th, Melbourne Australia: I wake up a little before 10am. That’s not a good sign if I hope to play the SCOOP main event in Hawaii, as the event goes off at 6:30am Melbourne time, meaning I’m three and a half hours off the sleep schedule I need to be on. I went to meet up with another couple who work at ‘Crown’ with the girl I’m seeing after dinner last night and we wound up staying out till 11pm, which for my recent sleep schedule has been an ungodly late hour. When we got home I was exhausted and passed out instantly, something I decide to make amends for it in place of my morning run.

After breakfast I jump on my computer and waste some time browsing the internet before telling myself I should use this opportunity to finish my taxes. Actually doing the taxes themselves using the TurboTax software is fairly simple and straight forward, but going over all the live tournaments I played during the year, figuring out what % of profits went to backers, and then looking up every online tournament I played under them and working out the profit on that (which I must subtract from my yearly profit total online) is where all the bitch work comes in. It takes hours to look and add up everything and when I finally enter all the information into TurboTax it informs me that I owe Uncle Sam a disturbingly high number. Christ I wish I was a real Australian, thank God I only have to pay the federal taxes.

On the plus side, I found that my 2008 totals over the major sites averages out to about 50% ROI at roughly $150 average buy in over a considerable sample. I’ve spoken to a lot of friends recently who I consider very good players (many better than myself) and quite a few of them wound up having a losing year in 2008. My best guess as to why is a combination of bad variance and not putting in volume, something a huge percentage of professional online players don’t do enough of in my opinion.

In the evening we go for Korean BBQ on Victoria Street and go play pool at ‘Princes’. The Australian version of pool uses tiny balls and a fast moving felt with small pockets that often have you bouncing right out if you don’t aim precisely or hit the ball there gently. I get my ass handed to me in all four games but explain to her that “If it weren’t for this pussy ass version of pool with these mini balls I’d be crushing you.” I’m going to need a new excuse when I start losing at pool in the states.

At nights end we lie in bed and discuss what happens now. The best explanation I can give for why it has to end is that “Sometimes you tell everyone you know ‘I’ll see ya in six months’ and never really show up again.” In the case of home, that was three years ago. I’d like to come back to Australia, I hope to, but it wouldn’t terribly shock me if I wound up stopping somewhere along the way and didn’t bother getting on the plane again. It doesn’t help that my permanent residency status in Australia is still up in the air. I suppose only time will tell.

April 8th, Melbourne Australia: I look over my two packed suitcases and carry on bag for anything I might have forgot. I recheck the list I created at the start of the day for things I had to get done and make sure they’re all accomplished. They more or less are, so I zip up my bags and instruct Steven to make sure the place is spotless before Celina gets here in a few days or she’ll kill me. I give him an hours wage and tell him that the remaining weed in the house is all his if he does as asked. He was originally going to be my ride to the airport as well, but after taking me to a movie the girl I’m seeing told me she’d like to drop me off at the airport too.

The traffic through the city is awful, though it frees up considerably once we hit the freeway out towards the airport. My flight is at 7:40pm and we get to the airport at about 5:45. She walks with me into the airport, and I go up to the Qantas international business check in to get my bags sorted
“Hi, I’m here to check in for the 7:40 to Honolulu.”
She pauses and looks at me strangely “Um, do you have a copy of your ticket.”
“I do.” I take it out of my suit pocket and hand it over to her. She examines it for a while then looks at me befuddled.
“Sir did you mean to check into your flight to Sydney? The flight to Honolulu doesn’t leave from Melbourne.”

Suddenly my conversation with the travel agent rushes back. The ticket was booked for all major flights, but I’d have to book my own flight from Melbourne to Sydney, as well as the ones to Wisconsin and Nairobi to Mombasa. I’d remembered the later two, but for some reason blanked on the first one, which was now clearly the most pertinent.
“Oh I can’t believe I did this. Christ I am so stupid it’s amazing” I remark.
“Excuse me sir?”
“Yeeeeeeeeeeea, I don’t have a flight to Sydney cause I’m a huge idiot. Is there anyway to get me to Sydney in time for the 7:40 flight?”
“You’ll have to speak to our sales desk sir, its right down there.”

As I walk out of the line the girl I’m seeing asks what happened. I explain to her and naturally she bursts into laughter. Who could blame her?

I walk over to the sales desk and explain the situation to the guy behind the computer. He tells me we’ll have to take it over to the international lady down the desk. We walk over and he tries to tell her what’s going on
“It seems the gentleman has a flight to Honolulu from Sydney at 7:40 but no flight to Sydney.”
“What?” she asks.
“It seems the gentleman is a moron” I remark.
She looks at me apparently confused as to who I’m calling a moron
“I’m the moron, I thought my flight to Honolulu left from Melbourne. Is there any way to get me to Sydney in time or get me to Honolulu tonight?”

She starts looking through the computer and describing my options. There’s a 6:30pm flight to Sydney but that won’t get me there in time. I can spend $600 in fare differences, $300 on a flight to Sydney, and god knows how much on a business ticket from Sydney to Honolulu on Pacific airlines in order to get there tonight. Otherwise I can wait 48 hours and pay nothing except for a $130 flight from Melbourne to Sydney. I decide on that option and she books me a flight in the mid afternoon to make sure there is no recurring moron related fiasco.
“This is only slightly embarrassing” I tell her as she hands me my ticket for Friday. “Thanks for all your help.”

I walk back to my girl and tell her “This was all part of the plan really, I felt like spending a couple more days with you but didn’t want to come off needy so I organized this. Yep, all intentional. So what are we doing for dinner?”

We get back into the car and decide on steak for dinner, which means ‘Rockpool’ at Crown. She takes out a cigarette and asks “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Do you?” I ask as I whip out one of the ‘Bolivar’ cigars from my suit pocket. The plus side to being the kind of person that’s so forgetful that you fail to remember to book a connecting flight is that you also sometimes forget you bought Cuban cigars and left them in your pocket until an opportune moment presents itself. I light up in the car, roll the window down slightly, and celebrate my last 48 hours in Melbourne in carcinogenic style. I’ll try this again on Friday.

That’s right, I put a serious foot up the ass of that losing streak by hitting four different five figure cashes in a three day span. It all started when I won the Tilt morning $100 rebuys for $14,553 three days ago, then won the Stars morning $100 rebuys the next day for $15,050 after getting very lucky when getting it in with AJo against QQ heads up for most of the chips in play and spiking an A on the turn. Then yesterday I got second in the morning Tilt $150 for $18,032, then somewhere in the area of eight billion hours later I finally busted out of the SCOOP $500 rebuys in 17th for $10,318 (though that tournament was under Timex.)

I obviously recognize that the major reason for these results was due to a major shift in variance in my favor. I didn’t exactly lose a lot of coin flips during that period, and 80-20’s were closer to 95-5’s. Still, a winning streak inevitably has an affect on your confidence level, particularly after spending a month getting pummeled day in day out. Allow me to give you an artists rendering of this concept. Here’s me four days ago:

I don’t know if I should be betting here, umm, let me see, oh God, maybe I’ll just check.

And here’s now:

I FUCKIN RAISE MOTHER FUCKERS! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!

While making that visual analogy it is important to note that I am in better shape than the Hulk, and would prove this were he a real person I could challenge to an arm wrestling contest and not merely a character invented by Marvel Comics with an anger management problem.

Anyway, as many people already saw in my BBV4L brag post, I’m being kicked out of my apartment. They sent me a double notice, first that the dog needs to be gone immediately or I would face a $1,500 fine, and second that I have 60 days to vacate the property because they are putting it up for sale. I assumed this was their polite way of evicting me, but who knows and it doesn’t really matter. It’s Saturday morning here now and I’ll be leaving Melbourne for five months on Wednesday afternoon, so I’ll just have my stuff thrown in storage and live at Stevo’s balla ass house when I get back until I get my own place, hopefully in Eureka tower.

Until I leave I’ll be at my house all day grinding, or at the gym. So if you want to stop in and say hello (or technically, goodbye) you know where to find me.