Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Here's the first of his two tales from Miami for today.
Last night started slowly ... and ended slowly, unfortunately. I attended the Sony Playstation Playboy Cocktail party where media guests were invited to sit around and play Madden with Playmates. Or something. The South Seas hotel was nice, the booze was free, but it was a very well-connected crowd of media/TV types, most of whom were very proud producers of the NFL Network or Yahoo Sports. Good for them.
Just as I was about to fall asleep in the outdoor pool area, Trey Wingo and Mark Schlereth come prancing through the door to pop in before a nice evening of cliched dining at Joe's Stone Crab. I flittered with my mustache and then contacted my attorney and demanded he shake off his hangover and come right down to South Beach again so we can get a photo of the Wingo. He agreed, but first had to take a much-needed bath and enjoy some other sustenance besides Heineken Light and shots of Patron. Fine. I can wait.
But as I sat at the bar, I looked over at Wingo and noticed he and one of the event organizers eyeballing me. They were talking about me. Was it the mustache? Had Trey Fucking Wingo just outed me? I had to find out without making too much of a stink.
Continue the adventure ... and meet a new correspondent after the jump.
I followed the producer guy outside. I bummed a light off of him, and he was totally giving me the small-talk freeze out as he was dicking around with his Blackberry. He shoved the lighter across the table without looking up.
"You a producer for ESPN?", I asked.
"No, " he shot back.
I stood there in silence, smoking, content for this conversation to go nowhere, then two minutes later, still without looking up.
"Who do you work for?", he said.
He did not blink. "Really," he huffed. "Interesting work." Gets up from the table, walks away. I go back inside, and Wingo and Schlereth were gone. Has the mustache betrayed me? I might have to shave it in order to prevent the cold shoulder. Incognito!
Finally, my attorney arrived, and we decided to go back to The Clevelander to see if there was any chance that we could hit Dumb Fucking Luck Central two nights in a row. We started in the same area, but it was a different bartender. I asked him if anything was going on tonight and if there were any celebrities. He just said "Probably," real nonchalantly, but continued. " Last night I heard Dan Patrick took home a girl half his age." (Editor's Note: This does not necessarily mean this hypothetical and probably fictional woman is all that young.) Patrick's doing his radio show from The Clevelander, so I'm assuming he takes home some of the Clevelander, ahem, talent every night of the week. Maybe it's because of his sandwich-eating abilities.
Finally, once we though all hope was lost for the evening, who pops back to the Clevelander? Alex Brown, cranberry and vodka still firmly in hand. It is at this point where my attorney worried for his own safety. Worry not, I assured him. I'm sure he has no idea about the site at all. I walked up to Alex Brown, pretending to be a Gator fan, just getting an update on his week.
He explained he had lots of film work, but right now he's "Just hangin' out". Really? How about a pic, man?
"Nah, no photos tonight, man. Last night it got all crazy ... maybe later in the week." Later in the week? "Yeah, this is my last night drinking, though. Got work to do the rest of the week." Hey! Me too!
I then headed back to my table — dejected, a little disappointed — but then I spot out of the corner of my eye ... Brian Baldinger sharing a table with his own not-very-impressive looking Clevelander talent. I walk over to the table to talk to him just as one of the dumpy blondes he was with was — no lie — playfully fiddling with his fucked up pinkie.
"Hey, Brian, I'm a huge Eagles fan, any chance I can get a photo?"
"Of course, man, of course."
I then asked him how the rest of his week was going and if it was going to be real busy, which he kind of shrugged off and then finished his beer in one big gulp, mangled pinkie hanging off the side of the cup as he chugged.
So, what are you doing the rest of the week?
"It's South Beach, man. I'm going to throw a little salt over my shoulder for luck."
Oh, for the game?
(Looks at me.) "Nah. You know, salt. For luck. Every man needs some luck this week in South Beach." (Winks)
Just not Dan Patrick, apparently. (Ed. Note: Fictionally!)
Right now, I'm off to Radio Row and the magical Blue Carpet to take a run on AOL Sports Bloggers Live, which is the official favorite Internet radio show of Bill Simmons. ("I like those guys!") I'll be offline for a while but posting later today. If you, readers, have any updates that you'd like to pass along, I insist that instead of using the Deadspin Hotline Number that you take up all Super Bowl related inquiries to the newly deputized Deadspin correspondent: Donald Trump Jr.
Now, this is, apparently, his new cellphone number, and he's very paranoid about it since he just had his old one changed. So, make sure you give him worthwhile tips. I'd hate to see such a hard-working young fellow get distracted by meddlesome phone calls.
(646) 483 3417
or just email him!
I hope he has some updates for me when I get back.