I had every intention of seeing John Vanderslice and St. Vincent play Emo's on Sunday night. Every intention. I had every intention of watching The Sopranos and Entourage on Sunday night. Every single intention possible. But, when someone you know and trust grabs hold of you and whispers, "We're having a dinner for Francis Ford Coppola on Sunday night, you should come," you throw everything out the window and ask, "Where and when?" And then, when you're driving with Jarren up to Vespaio on South Congress Ave., you realize you couldn't be more excited. Once Coppola walks into the private dining room with Richard Linklater, you think to yourself, "This man is a living legend." Soon enough, Terrence Malick enters with his wife, and you stop to think, "This is all too surreal." And finally, as the night draws to a close and Malick/Linklater/Coppola are in a huddle chatting like old friends, you say to yourself, "This was a very nice evening, indeed." And with that, it becomes obvious that a last-minute change of plans is not such a bad thing sometimes.