Maxim's Superbowl Shitshow party was everything one could hope for and so much more. The Sagamore Hotel transformed itself into a beachfront paradise with celebrities and athletes, and, of course FredEx and his Godly hands cavorting about the joint. Freddie Mitchell was attached to Irishman Brady Quinn and Julius Jones for most of the evening, trying to round up ladies, or an offseason workout partner, or relevancy— most likely all three. I approached Freddie, bursting with Eagles superfandom, thanked him for 4th and 26 and the Vikings Divisional playoff game which he totally owned. Then I asked for a pic. Next question?
"What are you up to now?"
Fred pauses. Annoyed...Death stare...He hates me.
"Chillin'..."
Obviously.
Action photos were scarce at the event, since many of the paid photogs would get a little huffy if renegade digital camera sorts were cockblocking their work. But , I did my best.
After the jump, read about the somewhat fascinating conversation with John Rocker, Warren Moon, and David Spade's fuckyfaced PR agent.
I arrived at the Maxim Party waaaay too early, proving my red carpet greeness and lack of confidence in being let in without the help of the dearly departed mustache. So, at 9 p.m, I'm sitting on an oddly shaped plastic love seat smoking a cigarette, taking in the Hotel De Maxim regime setting up their various Absolut Vodka and Coors Lights stations. I then wonder again how Coors Light continues to be allowed into these supposedly A-list events. Why doesn't Gennessee Cream Ale ever pony up for these things?
Dude comes over, asks to bum a cigarette, and introduces himself as Chris, a press agent for BWR.
"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet David Spade here and be his handler this evening. He'll be here soon."
Without much provocation, this greasy sumbitch just starts dumping on Spade for no reason.
"He's a real fucking loser. He's doing this sitcom right now that completely fucking sucks. But that's all he can get now."
"Well, he got Heather Locklear, though right?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation only 20% less slimey.
"He wishes. He's totally using her just to get his name out ther. Now, she's somebody. But, seriously, Spade's a nice guy, but he's a total fucking loser. If I get enough in me I might call him on it tonight."
"Oh, so they're just friends? They never hooked up? I kind of figure that. Or hoped that, at least."
Dude asks for another cigarette immediately after he puts the first one out he bummed.
"No, no, no. He's fucking her. He fucks her all the time. He's just acting like he's a good guy and in love with her, though. He's not. That's how he's using her.He's trying to pull of this nice guy routine, but it's not the case. I mean, he's cool and all, he's real friendly, but just not with her. Like I said, he's a fucking loser."
BWR Public Relations, ladies and gentlemen — they treat their clients great!
About 10 p.m. Spade walks in with the Farley Brother in tow. Kind of surreal, like in this weird Tommy Boy flashback kind of way — epic, really. I just feel bad for Spade. He should probably get some other people to handle his publicity better.
So, the rest of the early arrivals start to filter in. I'm alerted that John Rocker and Alicia Marie are milling about. Hey, they know Deadspin! Right? They do, actually, and give their regards to the Royal We. Alicia Marie says that when she and John were walking through Coconut Grove, O.J. Simpson stopped while in the back of his white limo, rolled down the window, and hollered over to John Rocker that he's a fan of his. Brilliant.
Most other people would probably lose their minds from such a creepy encounter with the Juice, but Rocker seemed a little perplexed of how to take the compliment, shrugged, and appeared to accept it for better, worse, and weirdness.
"He's kind of fat now, " Rocker said.
They graciously agreed to take a picture and then Rocker requested that there be no altering with photoshop. "Don't make it so her top's off or that I'm saying "I Hate Black People" or something." Luckily, I would have no idea how to do such a thing. They ruled.
After a few more Coors Lights, some of the bigger names began to walk in — Tony Romo, Andy Roddick, Spike Lee, uh, Jay Fiedler. Fiedler was introducing himself to a group of girls perched in one of the beachfront hotel rooms, scolding them for smoking.
I saw Warren Moon and did my best impersonation of a Houston Oilers fan to catch a few minutes of conversation.
"You're a warrior!" I said. He thanked me, asked if I was having a good time, then started to move with the crowd headed over to the main entrance way.
I probed him some more.
"Hey, man, that Buffalo game? That stil haunt you? I'm still pissed about it."
Moon was a little annoyed. "I'm sorry you're pissed. That was 20 years ago, you have to get over it. I did. I lost a lot of big playoff games in my life. That was just one of 'em."
"Yeah, but that was bad. Still kills me."
"It was 20 years ago. Y'all have a good time tonight."
Then he hustled through the crowd to go find a nice lady to take home and punch in the face. Or Coors Light. One or the other.
The Hotel de Maxim, unfortunately, had two bathrooms that were supposed to satisfy about 4,000 Coors Light-filled bladders for the evening. I and my cohort decided that we should head back to my hotel down the street to piss and then come back in. We were told we could come back in. But the wait was lengthy by that point due to the party getting extremely crowded and even though there was so much more magic on the inside — KFed! Fergie! Mike McMahon! Ridiculous looking girls made of suntan and areola! — but we'd had enough. But the Hotel de Maxim, was who we thought they were — shockingly awesome. I just hope David Spade had himself a good time.