Mi espanol necesita mucho trabajar.

I just got back from a week spent with Team Venezuela, which was its own beast. Due to International (read: World Baseball Classic) rules I was not allowed in the clubhouse. The public relations man was friendly but didn't speak English. I could only request to speak to one player each day, which made it rough goings on the features I was supposed to do.

There was a flat tire somewhere between Lakeland and North Port, a hotel room straight out of Boyz in the Hood and an extremely awkward reunion with a guy I dated for a summer in college who somehow, inexplicably found his way onto the Venezuelan roster. I motorboated a grown man, saved a cockroach's life and got stranded at a bar far, far away from any of those things previously mentioned.

Oh, and my Spanish sucks.

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I commuted for the first three days of camp Venezuela, which was probably not the smartest idea time- and money-wise but I've always been happier in my own bed. On my way home from Day 1 which was a nightmare by itself, I had a blowout on the highway and had to drive 55 mph for the next hour until I found a place to buy a new tire. Good times.

Days 2 and 3 were uneventful; I wrote what I could considering I didn't know what the hell I was doing anyway, got kissed by more old Venezuelan men than I could count and headed to Tampa for a night of drunken debauchery with Hoch (Yanks) and Bastian (BJays).

I decided it was probably best to just get a room in Tampa rather than abstain from drinking. I wanted the cheapest hotel possible, since I was only going to use it to shower and sleep in for a few hours anyway, and settled into a Days Inn off of Dale Mabry in Tampa. For $79 +tax I got a room with a mini fridge, microwave, cable TV ... and the biggest cockroach I've ever seen in my life on the bathroom floor to greet me when I walked in. (I'm not exaggerating, I waited for it to rise up on its hind legs, produce a top hat and cane and belt out an opening number. You know..."Hello my baby, hello my hunny, hello my rag-time gallll....").

That's when me and a love for cheap hotel rooms parted ways for good. I shook out all of the towels in the bathroom, inspected all of the drawers, tapped the pillows and vowed to get out of there as soon as I could.

Sitting on the bed and waiting for Bastian to come and get me, I noticed an inordinate amount of activity occurring in the room next to me (and I could "notice" this because the door to my room hung 2 inches above the ground, leaving a convenient gap for, say, giant singing cockroaches to stroll right in). In the next hour I witnessed four drug deals through the peephole, which excited me to no end.

Bastian and I took off and drove around a fair bit before landing at the Green Iguana because he's Canadian and therefore unable to understand simple directions given to him by his navigator (me). We had a few drinks before Hoch & Co. showed, added a few more once they settled in, and took off for Bar Louie.

Which was dead, so we went next door to Blue Martini against my protests. That's where I motorboated Hoch, made fun of the ridiculously hot girl dancing with the incarnate of Jerry Garcia and drank more and more.

There were a couple of Rays players there which I managed to successfully avoid until I went to pay my tab. They offered to pay (definitely cool of them since I'm...well, broke) but I had it handled until I turned around and all of my friends were gone.

This is when a mild panic set in, because I had neither a) car, nor b) transportation nor c) cell phone (my battery died sometime earlier). Rather than use this opportunity to search for my amigos, in my semidrunken state I decided that this most certainly was the best time to sit down and make friends. God, forgive me.

Before long, I was stuck with WeirdCreepyPolkaDotShirtGuy, who sucked my hand and begged me to come home and sleep with him. ("No, no, it's OK, you don't have to worry. I'm married, see? *shows wedding ring* I have a wife. I just want to lie in bed and hold you.") WCPDSG did, however, pay my tab, so he was forgiven. And then my friends came back to save me.

I crashed on Bastian's couch not long after and when I woke up I was still drunk, which led to this amusing exchange:

Bastian: /typing on IM
I just told Hoch you were still drunk. He said, "LLL, I love Dawn."
Me: /laughs
Tell him, "laugh laugh laugh. she loves you too."
I have to make potty.
/tries to get off the couch, something pops, falls off couch while Bastian laughs
Owww, my butt is broken. Did you hear that? My butt cracked! Help!

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day nursing a serious hangover and writing Chapter 1 of the Life and Times of Orber Moreno (or, if you prefer, La Vida y Tiempos de Orber Moreno. That much I can bilingualize). I fell asleep IMMEDIATELY upon re-entering North Port.

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Today I spent the day in Bradenton, not anything I was looking forward to since the ballpark is right down the road from Luck-e's apartment and even getting off at the exit gave me a serious complex.

It was made MUCH better by a reunion with my Pittsburgh writers, Rob and John, PR guy Jimmy T. and MLB on-air superstar Trenni. One of the Rays players that I saw at Blue Martini came over to say good morning, which erased all oh-god-he's-going-to-think-I'm-an-alcoholic feelings I might have had.

I'm insanely jealous of Trenni, who not only has a long-term, long-distance relationship and is making it work just fine, she now works for MLB Network meaning she has someone to do her makeup and hair. Really. She doesn't even have to care about what she looks like any more (she'd look fabulous even if she didn't care, by the way). She blow-dries her hair, heads to the studio and lets someone else do all the work (I hate her. heh.).

But there's more, and this is when I really began to hate her for being so cool: she gets a clothing allowance from the network AND -- AND -- a personal style consultant that goes with her to the stores and tells her what makes her look hot and what doesn't (umm Hello? where the hell were these people when I was buying black-and-blue plaid stretch pants? ugh). AND she gets to live in New York City. And her boss knows his shit. I SO want to be Trenni "when I grow up." Haha.

I'm thinking about working out the WiiFit way, but I miss my beer buddy Matt (aka ShittyPoopPantsII for reasons beyond my comprehension even though I'm fairly certain I gave him the moniker) dearly. I haven't seen him in a week and told him I'd go grab a beer. So hey, off I go.

The L.A. Times had a story about Shane in today's paper. I doubt he knows what an honor it is to have a 2.5-millionish circulation newspaper care enough about his career to write a feature all about him, so I'll say it -- it's a big deal. I wish people would stop talking about what a cool story his is, I was supposed to be the one to write a book and shock everyone who didn't know what he's been through. Stupid media, always ruining everything. *sigh*

Beer time. Seacrest out.