Darin and I stood in Old Town, on the corner of DeLacy and Green. It was a magnificent night: eighty degrees, clear skies, the slightest breeze stirring the young leaves on the trees behind us.
The whole area was packed with people who were taking advantage of the unseasonably warm March evening: families and young couples crowded the sidewalks, as a nearly-full moon slowly climbed the Eastern sky.
“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” I said.
“Getting the tires changed on my Jeep.”
“Want to get together and have a cigar? I haven’t had a smoke in months, and I’d like to celebrate the release of my book.”
“Sure. How’s the afternoon sound?”
“Perfect! I’ll write in the morning, and then we can goof off later in the day.”
We jumped out of the way as several little kids flew around us, their bemused parents half a block behind them.
“Do you have any cigars?” He said.
“No, the last few in my humidor are all crispy and old.”
“Well, why don’t we go into that shop across the street, get a couple, and smoke them by my pool?” He said.
“I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.”
We crossed the street, and walked into the shop. Four guys sat on overstuffed leather chairs and watched the basketball game on a flat screen TV. A cloud of delicious blue smoke hung heavily in the room.
I breathed deeply as we passed through it and entered the walk-in humidor: 70 degrees and 70 percent humidity never felt so wonderful.
“You like the Avos?” Darin said.
I shook my head. “No, I think they’re grossly overpriced.”
“Griffins?”
“Never had one.”
The door opened, and the young clerk, straight from the pages of Details magazine, walked in.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” He said. He wasn’t quite condescending, but he was heading that way.
I looked at the Davidoffs and Arturo Fuentes. I lingered over a bunch of Romeo y Julietas. Number One, Number Three, Number Four . . . but no Number Two.
“Do you have any Number Twos?” I asked.
He looked down at the boxes and said, “No, I don’t think we do.”
He clicked his tongue several times and challenged me. “Why do you want the number two? Why not the number three?”
Oh, there’s the condescending.
“When I bought my first box of cigars, it was R&J number two,” I said, “so that’s what I like to smoke.”
He looked at me.
“What about the Avos?”
Darin laughed.
“I’m not a big fan of them,” I said. I started to feel like I was dealing with a car salesman.
“Well, what about this one here?” He picked up a Churchill-sized cigar in a natural wrapper. Of course it was the most expensive cigar in the store.
“This one is very popular with the ladies,” he began.
“Wait.” I said.
Well, I think I said it. Maybe it was the Guinness I had with dinner.
“Are you trying to sell me a girlie cigar?”
He looked puzzled, and said, “Oh no, I mean that this is a nice, light cigar, and –”
“And it’s perfect for little bitches like me, right?”
“Well, sir, what I mean is –”
“Is that I’m a sissy little bitch who likes wussy cigars with his lemondrop martinis and Sex In The City DVDs?”
Darin laughed again, and I joined him. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, man,” I said, “I’ll just have an 8-5-8.”
The clerk looked like he’d just found out the gun wasn’t loaded after all.
“I think it’s a cosmopolitan that goes with Sex In The City,” he said.
“Oh? Well, I hear there’s a cigar in here that’s perfect for you.”
He laughed. “I’ll ring you guys up when you’re ready.”

I’ll post full details of my audition on Monday (short version: I had fun, and made them laugh a whole bunch, but I don’t know if I’m what they are looking for), but I just saw something in the Mysterious Future at Slashdot, and this is too insanely cool to wait:
Peter Jackson Will Direct "The Hobbit"!!!111one one one bang one
According to this news item, there’s some question about who will distribute the film, but Peter Jackson has the rights to direct it, and wants to make it feel just like the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

NEW YORK (AP) – Peter Jackson won’t be returning to the Shire any time soon. The Oscar-winning director is planning to film “The Hobbit,” the prequel to “The Lord of the Rings,” trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien, but two studios must first fight over legal rights to the film.
Jackson said New Line Cinema has the rights to make the movie, but MGM has the rights to distribute it.
“I guess MGM’s lawyers and New Line’s lawyers are going to have a huge amount of fun over the next few years trying to work it all out,” he told reporters recently in Los Angeles, according to AP Radio. “I’m obviously busy for a couple of years on ‘King Kong’ so those lawyers can just go at it for a long time.”

Here is my first Open Letter to Peter Jackson, written with tongue planted firmly in cheek:

Dear Mr. Jackson,
Please let me be part of “The Hobbit.”
Please. Please. Please. Please. I will totally be your best friend.
Sincerely,
Wil Wheaton
PS- Please please please please. Thank you.

Holy crap.
I have an actual Audition tomorrow, for a pilot!
This show sounds hilarious, and right up my alley: It’s about a married couple in their early 30s, and how they reconcile their punk rock past with their pottery barn present.
Funniest thing: I’m not reading for the husband with the punk rock past . . . I’m reading for the part of his new neighbor . . . who is an uptight conservative, whose idea of a good time is discussing the latest mid-sized SUV.
Talk about playing against type!

Calling all Teen Titans fans!
This weekend’s new episode “Winner Take All,” airs at 9PM on Cartoon Network, and features everyone’s favorite underwater-fish-talking-guy, Aqualad!

I can’t recall if I wrote about this, or if I just talked about it with some friends, but I am incredibly proud of the work I’ve done on Teen Titans, and I am so grateful that I get to be part of it.
The last time I was over there, when I was walking from my car to the studio, someone called out to me, “Hey! Aqualad!” and the biggest smile filled my face. It was quite a contrast: when someone calls out, “Hey! Wesley!” I sort of look at the ground and wish I was invisible . . . but when this unseen person called me “Aqualad” my heart jumped, and I looked around to see who said it.
You know, I could probably sell my soul and work all the time on shitty low budget genre films that nobody cares about. I could probably make a decent living doing it, too. I mean, you’d tune in if I was on some late night erotic thriller, right?
Wait. Don’t answer that. As a matter of fact, let’s forget I ever brought that up. (Although . . . it would be nice to see Lisa Boyle up close and in person.)
Uhhh . . . let’s forget I said that, too, okay?
The point is, I care about the work that I do, and if I can help it, I don’t want to contribute to the stinking pile of garbage that passes for popular entertainment these days.
When I get to be part of something that’s consistently good, something that I can be totally proud of, and heartily endorse, I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. It’s just awesome that I can tell people to watch Teen Titans without any of the standard disclaimers that have accompanied just about everything I’ve acted in over the last few years.
Now, if I can just get Las Vegas, The West Wing, Arrested Development, and Family Guy to give me a chance . . .
Seriously. Tune in on Saturday. Teen Titans is superfuckingcool.

Note: readers who are unfamiliar with hold-em rules can find them at ultimate bet dot com. Readers who are unfamiliar with poker terminology may want to read This glossary from CNN first. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.
Part one of this story is here.
Part two of this story is here.
Part three of this story is here.

During the shuffle, Mrs. Beautiful turns to me and says, “Hey, where the hell is Shane?”
“He’s . . . babysitting.”
“Babysitting?! Who?”
I tell her that I’m not sure. Mr. Director offers the name of a fairly prominent studio executive, well-known for his tantrums.
“I really don’t know.” I’m sort of glad I don’t.
For the next several hands I get nothing but a bunch of small off-suit junk. The only pair I get is crabs, so I let Mr. director and Mrs. Beautiful beat up on each other while I lose enough in blinds to drop back to third. When the blinds go up to 500-1000, my short stack looks a lot shorter. I have just enough to cover one or two more blind bets, and I’m hoping for a miracle.
Mrs. Beautiful is on the button, Mr. Director is the small blind, and I’m the big blind. She calls. Mr. Director folds, and I look at my cards. There’s my miracle: A-10 hearts. My heart thumps hard in my chest. If I remember what I’ve learned from Doyle Brunson correctly, these are good cards to play 3 handed. It’s time to make my move.
I wrap my left hand around my small stacks of chips, and push them toward the center of the table.
“I’m all in.” I know the words come out of my mouth, but they sound distant.
Mrs. Beautiful studies her pocket cards. “Call.”
Visions of doubling up and making a strong run at second, or even first, begin to dance in my head.
I stand up, and turn over my cards. Mrs. Beautiful bites her lip, and turns over Siegfried and Roy.
Two. Fucking. Queens.
With a gentle smile, she says, “I’m sorry.”
Oh fuck me.
The dealer knocks the table, slides the top card under the the muck, and deals out three cards. He spreads them out with a flourish, just like on TV. He flips them over and the flop is revealed: 9 hearts – 10 diamonds – 5 clubs. I make a pair, but her queens still beat me.
I’m not good enough at math to know what my odds are, but I know that I’m looking at twelve outs — twelve cards out of forty-something that can make my hand: eight hearts put me one off a flush, (One of Mrs. Beautiful’s queens is a heart, but my ace beats her if we make it) one of the two tens makes trips, and either ace would give me two pair. I’m not out . . . yet.
The dealer burns and turns . . . a red deuce . . . is it hearts of diamonds? It’s a heart! The lowly two of hearts. It’s the most beautiful card I’ve seen tonight. Eleven cards left now in this deck that can keep me in this game.
The busted out players who have stuck around to drink surround us like railbirds. A wave of excitement ripples through them.
“Come on, Wil!” Yells Mr. Drunk Guy.
Ever since I played my first game of Hold’em in high school, and learned about the World Series of Poker sometime during my junior year, I’ve entertained notions of playing in the big one. But every time I go to Vegas, I look into those poker rooms, and lose my nerve. Before tonight, I’ve never had the balls to play in anything bigger than a home game with friends . . . I doubt I’ll ever play in the WSOP, but the way I feel right now, I could be at the final table, staring across the felt at Johnny Chan.
I take a deep breath, and grab the back of my chair tightly, I don’t have to look at my knuckles to know that they’re white. Here comes fifth street, and the whole thing is in slow motion: the dealer knocks three times with one knuckle, grabs the red-backed corner of the top card, his thumb covering the little Bicycle cherub, and burns it away. Was that one of my outs? I’ll never know. His hand rests atop the deck, and it feels like an eternity before the river is revealed . . .
. . and it’s the queen of clubs. I go out in third place.
Mrs. Beautiful stands up and hugs me. She smells good. Mr. Director shakes my hand, and tells me that I played well. Mr. Drunk Guy tells me how much he loves me.
I am slow to pick up my jacket. I’m conflicted: in the haze of elimination, I wonder if I made a mistake moving all-in, but I’ve just finished third in my first-ever real money tournament! Before I can walk away from the table, the next hand is dealt. Mr. Director, who has an almost 2-1 chip lead on Mrs. Beautiful even after she wiped me out, says, “Let’s finish this,” and puts her all-in.
She calls. He’s got a pair of jacks, she’s got K-Q.
“What are the odds? If I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t believe it.”
The flop is A spades – Q spades – 4 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful leans forward, and looks intensely at the board. Mr. Director stands up, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
A king (clubs) comes on fourth street, and Mrs. Beautiful takes the lead in the hand with two pair. The excitement level from the fourteen or so people who are in the club rivals the poker room at Binion’s.
Mr. Director and Mrs. Beautiful look at each other. She is chewing furiously on her bottom lip, and it’s incredibly sexy. I wish I was in this hand.
The dealer knocks the table, burns the top card, and the jack of hearts — one of my outs, one hand too late — comes down the river. Mr. Director makes three of a kind, and wins it all on a suck out.
I can’t tell who’s more stunned between them. Mrs. Beautiful reaches across the table and shakes his hand. I look down at the green felt table: nine cards turned up, the rest of the pack spread out next to the dealer. A mountain of chips. I wish I had a camera. This would make a great book cover.
When I look up, they’re both cashing out. The railbirds have wandered away, and music starts to fill the room. The dealer scoops the chips into a bag, and the felt top is carried away under one very large Samoan arm.
I look at my watch: it’s after midnight. Since Sean and I worked together on Toy Soldiers, our careers have taken wildly different paths, and each time I look at this innocent timepiece, I feel a twinge of sadness and regret. Occasionally jealousy. I wear it because it was a generous gift. It’s also a reminder. I watch the second hand sweep slowly around past the 8, and for the first time in ages, I don’t feel like a loser. I feel good. Maybe I’ll finally get up the nerve to call Sean. Maybe I’ll ask him over to play cards. I pick up my coat, and go collect my money.
The girl at the bar counts out a stack of bills. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Jet black hair down her back. Goddamn.
“You’ve never played here before.” She says.
“Nope. I didn’t even know this place existed until two weeks ago.”
“You should come in on a weekend night. It gets crazy in here.”
“Plato’s Retreat crazy?” I ask.
She gives me a blank look. I realize that she can’t be older than 22.
“It was a 70s sex club in New York,” I say. “Not that I went there when I was eight, or anything.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “Well, it gets crazy in here.” She hands me my money. “Your finish gets you a free seat at the next game in two weeks.” There’s a very subtle flirtation. I wonder for the briefest second if it’s me or the cash I am stuffing into my pocket.
“Oh? Cool. I’ll be back then.”
“And don’t forget the weekend.” She takes out a shiny black business card with “Odessa” stamped on the back in red ink, and writes “Jessie” on it. “This will get you in.” She smiles, puts it in my hand, and holds on a little too long.
I’m enjoying this entirely too much. “I usually spend the weekends with my wife and stepkids,” I say, “but I’ll hold onto this.”
“You do that.” She says. “You want anything for the road?”
Do I.
“A bottle of water would be great,” I say.
She turns around and reaches down into a box against the back of the bar. Her shirt lifts up, and reveals a tattoo of ribbon, tied into a bow, just above the top of her black and red —
I really need to get out of here.
“Here you go.” She says.
“Thanks. Bye.” I take the bottle, and walk to the door. Mr. Webmaster is waiting for me.
“Hey, you played really well.” He says.
“Thanks. Too bad I got clobbered by those fucking queens.”
“It happens. Can I ask you a question?”
Oh good. He wants me to introduce him to the agent I don’t have.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you play on Celebrity Poker Showdown?”
“Because I’m not a celebrity,” I say. “At least, not in the way it matters to Bravo.”
“Aw, fuck them. You can play here whenever you want.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”
“Just bring Shane and his money next time.”
I laugh and shake his hand.
“Will do.”
I walk out the door, and discover a long line of hipsters down the alley, behind a velvet rope. They have no idea about the game. The Odessa keeps a good poker face.