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.

"Deadspin!"

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!

djtjr@trumporg.com

I hope he has some updates for me when I get back.

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the final of his three tales from a crazed night.

Bears defensive end Alex Brown looked like he was having the time of his life last night. The former Gator enjoyed well-wishers from both Bears fans and Gator fans alike. He's affable, he smiles a lot, and he was never without a vodka cranberry. The first part of the night, he was hanging with Michael Strahan at the front of the Clevelander. Strahan, even though he's post-divorce, still looks like a guy that's getting the shit kicked out of him by a woman.

Before the Super Bowl, Brown was probably best remembered for his part in the Sugar Brawl. Lt. Winslow, Canes fan ("I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE AND GREEN") remembers it vividly. Lt. Winslow had to get to the bottom of what happened. He advised me, as my attorney, that he wouldn't do anything that would result in a beating by a gigantic black man. The mustache can only protect so many.

After the jump, read Winslow's full transcript with Alex Brown in front of the velvet ropes, as we waited to get into Irvin's Lair about the Sugar Brawl. Oh, and there's some Stuart Scott fun down there too.

Lt. Winslow: Yo Alex can i get a pic?
Alex Brown: Sorry man, no pics.
LW: I understand, I understand. Well then let me ask you this. Off the record ... what really happened that night on Bourbon Street?
AB: What night you talking about?
LW: Come on man. I'm a Cane; you know what night I am talking about.
AB: Ohhhhhh THAT night. Man, what you know about that?
LW: Dude... I fucking bleed orange & green. I mean, i know what I've HEARD happened, but I want to hear it from the source.
AB: What you heard happened?
LW: Well... I heard that my boys started that shit, that Al Blades poured a drink over Reche's(Caldwell's) head and that's how it started.
AB: (laughs) You are 1/2 right.
LW: Thats what I heard. That Al Blades started it.
AB: Yeah, and he was the first motherfucker to get knocked out too.

(The bouncer at The Clevelander calls his roommate and puts roommate on the phone)

AB: (Into phone): Well yeah man, I would be jealous if I was you too. I got to go now — I got to go take care of business with these 3 ho's upstairs.

However, as soon as he went upstairs, said ho's were already talking to Sean Salisbury. (That'll happen!) On the stairwell, we noticed Stuart Scott leaning up against the railing, talking on his cell phone. The conversation overheard was about "getting together later on" and he was obviously disappointed that someone wasn't meeting up with him. But who?

Later, inside, as I approached Stuart Scott to get a picture taken with him ("No thanks, dude" is what he said), I leaned over his shoulder and caught him text messaging and the name of the person he was sending the message to:

"Lemme know."

Now, obviously, "Lemme know" is pretty non-descript. But at 12: 30 a.m., in Miami, well, it means "Are you coming out tonight to fuck me or what?" Especially given who Scott was texting (I literally read the name right off his phone):

Her name is Michelle Beisner, former Denver Broncos cheerleader and aspiring D-list Hollywood actress-type. Blonde. White Woman. Hey, nobody likes to start rumors about Stuart Fucking Scott, but if Michelle Beisner is his booty call, well, BooYa, my friend. Boo Fucking Ya.