Daulerio isn't disappearing from the site, but he will be shuttling the weekly column he's written since June 2006. Tomorrow's the big finale, so let's all give him the "Dead People Montage At The Oscars" love we all know he deserves. Because that's all Daulerio's ever wanted: Love.

And, in case you needed one last smoky tornado fix:

Cultural Oddsmaker
Sean Salisbury, Mayor Of Miami [Deadspin]

One thing is clear: The time of the racing sausage is finished. Racing testicles are now the rage. Look for the Brewers to make the switch for next season.

UPDATE: Kissing Suzy Kolber was also there, and apparently there was a giant running lung.

Tuesday Links Of Testicular Fortitude [100 Percent Injury Rate]
Avant/Chicago
A Runner Who The Race Outran [Kissing Suzy Kolber]

Today, just a few days after he called the Eagles' PR office, Daulerio showed up at his office and was greeted by James Clark, a "security representative" of the NFL. (He was an unannounced guest.) And he had all kinds of questions.

Mr. Clark and I had about 10 minutes of conversation that he wrote down on his yellow notepad, most of which was me explaining how I found nothing in any of the conversations I'd had with other people that was worth reporting. However, Mr. Clark explained that the league had received a call from the Eagles, and that this is what the NFL does in certain criminal matters — regardless of how, in this case, unfounded or questionable the source of the allegations may be.

So, I never published the story— I had nothing, really — and, yet, the NFL felt it had just enough loosely based info to send someone over to check it out without even the courtesy of a phone call. So, either these rumors (with a big, blinking capital "R," remember) have a little more credibility than suspected, or the Eagles are completely paranoid right now and have resorted to public relations buffoonery by turning a non-story into one.

OK, this is kind of a fun game. Everybody, let's come up with "rumors" that we've "heard" about NFL players, and see if we can get James Clark to visit us.

We'll start: "Sources" hear "stories" of Jeff Reed's illegal and rampant cockfighting ring. What will the NFL do about this national disgrace?

The NFL And The Eagles Are Highly Sensitive To All Matters Dog-Related [Philadelphia Magazine]

We knew AJ was ready to stir some shit up down there, but until that picture of him and Sean Salisbury showed up in our mailbox, we had no idea how far he was willing to go. Next thing we knew, he was BLEEDING ORANGE AND GREEN, being eyed by Trey Wingo and, of course, making friends with Stuart Scott. It was a virtuoso performance ... and half the good stuff never even made it to the site. It was an epic, bravura week ... and Lemme Know remains the sordid highlight.

We're actually just using "Lemme Know" as shorthand; this nomination should stand for the whole Super Bowl trip. To keep in mind, when you vote.

But is it a Hall of Famer? Seventy five percent is the threshold for induction. Vote below: Polls will be open until next Monday morning.

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

By the way, the lovely and talented Lady Andrea has put together a clearinghouse for all Deadspin Pants Parties. Miami, Atlanta and Las Vegas, coming up, with more on their way, surely.

There's drinking afterwards too; after the jump, AJ has all the details.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

Okay, after we'll have a room at Kildare's, Headhouse Square on Second and South, with drink and food specials. Email me if you plan on attending, so I can give them a proper head count. Also, email me if you'd like to have a Where's Mamula Sandwich so I can know how many to bring. Those will cost $3 extra, and you can pay me at the park or buy me a beer. Or, you know, gimme a handy.

It's prime time for Spring Break, and who deserves a wild weekend, meet-and-greet with some of its fans more than the staff of ESPN? That's right, Orlando, lock up your daughters: It's ESPN the Weekend. This is year four of the event that takes a bunch of current athletes, former athletes and ESPN personalities and unleashes them upon Disney's landscape. And, you, YOU, lucky fan and admirer of the WWL can interact with these people in a Magical Kingdom, within groping distance of all of these sports luminaries and dimly lit sports reporting personalities.

Notables from the sports world scheduled to appear include: Ben Roethlisberger, David Robinson, Drew Brees, Roger Clemens, Devin Hester, Roy Oswalt and, amazingly, former Dodgers manager Swirly Lasorda. Mangia!

The ESPNers scheduled include: Peter Gammons, Mike Golic, Dan Patrick, Lemme Know, Linda Cohn, Karl Ravech and El Wingo.

Noticeably absent from the ESPN promo team? Salisbury and Berman. Salisbury, well, he knows Orlando is Cougar central, and he likes them a bit younger, so he's probably going lone wolf in Bristol this weekend, maybe taking in a matinee of Wild Hogs. But Berman? He's emceed a bunch of these things, but you're telling me that the man who is arguably the most recognizable face on the Network is unavailable to attend a meet-and-greet with a delirious family-friendly fan base? Really. He's not into that sort of thing? Weekender in Florida with all of his buddies and hanging out doing the New Year's Eve countdown at Pleasure Island every night? Yeah, I'm sure he voluntarily sat that one out.

As most of us know, any kind of work trip or class trip usually has its own little cliques. And most of the fans this week who've plunked down their hard-earned cash to, hopefully, ride Space Mountain with Chris McKendry (not a euphemism — well, maybe it is) will naturally gravitate toward the athletes/ESPN personalities they find most recognizable and appealing. That'll result in very lonely moments for some of the lesser known, lesser liked personalities who will find themselves sitting in the Mad Teacups all by themselves this weekend as Stu Scott fights off the boo-yahing hordes and Dan Patrick tries to close the deal with Snow White.

So I'm putting on my Captain Neo glasses, maxing out my Dick's Sporting Goods gift cards and placing odds on the ESPN personalities who'll be the least popular at the WWL's Disney Weekend.

Let's pants Mike Greenberg in the Hall of Presidents, after this jump ...

Eric Karabell: 2/1

When he's not being mistaken for John Clayton's son, Karabell will most likely be spending a lot of his time trapped in his hotel room because, unfortunately, he's got his Northeast Regional 5x5 Elite baseball draft this weekend and he's determined not to let Howie Kendrick slip past round six this time. So, he might catch up with some of the guys later on Saturday night, but he has to get up at the crack of dawn Sunday morning to drive down to Clearwater because Cole Hamels is supposed to be throwing BP. And how could he possibly miss that?

Orestes Destrade: 3/1

Even though he's become a major contributor to "Baseball Tonight," Destrade is kind of caught in the middle between unmemorable major league baseball player and not-so-recognizable ESPN personality. Plus, it doesn't help that he's probably the nerdiest looking Cuban ex-baseball player on the planet. So, in order to not feel out of place all weekend, he'll most likely spend a lot of time with his family, standing in line at EPCOT Center and spending thousands of dollars to get his wife and children matching leather Universal Studios jackets. You're a stud, Orestes. A big fucking Cuban stud.

John Seibel: 2/1

You may not recognize John Seibel, but you'll be able to pick him out by the "I'm sorry, who are you again?" responses he gets when he attempts to get special treatment at all Disney events this weekend. It won't help that Steve Phillips still think he's the summer intern and keeps asking him to call the front desk at his hotel to make sure he's got enough pillows.

Skip Bayless: 1/1

"Hi. My name's Skip. I work for Cold Pizza. Do you want a picture with me?" His enormous ego will get the best of him, and Bayless will find it unconscionable that some of the fans down here for The Weekend wouldn't want him to accompany them in the Haunted House. Look for Skip to follow around a bunch of the better known ESPNers, inserting himself into pictures and chastising people who don't know who he is. I'm Skip. Skip Bayless. Cold Pizza?

Howie Schwab: 1/4

Ugh. Is there ever a situation in life where this guy would ever be a welcome addition to your social circle? I'm sure Stu Scott will be trying to shake Howie all weekend, or else he'll spend his after hours at 8 Trax trying to lasso Orlando ponies with a wingman who'll try to seduce women with his ability to name every Hartford Whaler from the 80s in alphabetical order — backwards. If you're heading down to Orlando, expect to find Schwab spending a lot of his downtime wandering around Tomorrowland by himself after he was told that "everybody was meeting up there around 9 p.m." Plus, when he does get recognized, it'll be by a bunch of meatheads, grabbing their crotches and yelling "Hey Schwab! Stump this!".

You see, AJ Daulerio is leaving his loyal comrades in New York City this week for his hometown of Philadelphia, where he will be working for Philadelphia magazine. (Don't worry, Cultural Oddsmaker will continue.) So Friday night, we gathered for a surprise roast of the Deadspin cult hero who is, in fact, the balls.

We were the host of the gathering, but other roasters included Aileen Gallagher, Eric Gillin and Amy Blair of The Black Table, Lindsay Robertson, Matt Dorfman and Deadspin design savant Jim Cooke. Above are the video highlights of the evening, shot and edited by the outstanding Richard Blakeley.

If you're a regular Cultural Oddsmaker reader, you won't be surprised that AJ urinates on his roommate's computer, attempts to pick up girls with the promise of a "smoky tornado" and tries to stick suppositories in his anus while in cabs. We tried to hire Stuart Scott to join us, but he was too expensive. Witness the madness above.

Full pictures from the manic evening are found right here, and Daulerio's response to the evening is over at Gawker.

Good luck in Philly, Daulerio. Don't burn the place down.

AJ Daulerio Going Away Roast Photos [Flickr]
Former Gawker Guest Editor, Noted Skirt-Chaser A.J. Daulerio's Video Goodbye [Gawker]
Cultural Oddsmaker: What Will Happen At The LeBron Roast? [Deadspin]

Since the Super Bowl ended and the swirling madness of March has yet to come upon us, those interested in professional sporting activities have had limited big-time events to occupy our time, evidenced by "SportsCenter"'s increased NASCAR coverage over the last few days. The one event earmarked to break up the doldrums has been the NBA All-Star Game, which promised to be even more of a glitzy, half-court alley-oop, behind-the-back pass spectacle than usual, thanks to its relocation in Las Vegas. David Stern braced himself for gambling blowback, hooker buffets, and all of the other sinful accompaniment that could potentially derail this firecracker weekend, only to have John Amaechi's gayness and Tim Hardaway's allegiance to the Westboro Baptist Church tripwire the event before any of the players even sasquatch their way on to the Vegas tarmac.

Now, Stern has a public relations staff working overtime to ensure that anyone affiliated with the NBA has to keep their comments about the Hardaway/Amaechi slap-fight to a minimum - or else, like Hardaway, face league banishment for expressing views not representative of the NBA's "No, no - we LOVE homos!" stance. Right now, Stern is probably praying for somebody to start blasting at Michael Jordan's Birthday party at the Bellagio. In this world, it's much easier to sidestep thuggery than gay bashing.

But is there a way to move away from the issue and keep the focus on the All-Star excitement? Some adjustments will have to be made.

So, today, I'm pulling out my vintage 1984 University of Hawaii jersey, making my best Johnny Weir dunk face and calculating the odds on what'll happen this weekend as a result of Hardaway's statements.

Show me your killer crossover, after this jump.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Tim Hardaway Goes to Rehab: 1/2

This is the world we live in. Regardless if Tim Hardaway has even taken one sip of Hennessey in his life, it'll probably be recommended that he spend some time away from everybody to "work through his issues" and find out where the origins of his misguided hatred come from. Soon after, we'll see Hardaway attending LGBT meetings and Act Up marches all across the country in an effort to redefine his image — and make him once again employable as an NBA analyst somewhere. After that, Hardaway and Amaechi will most likely have a sitdown on Oprah, where they'll be forced to embrace, completely exorcising Hardaway's fear of being groped in the shower by one of his teammates. Unfortunately, the best way to rewire people these days is to put them on Oprah. If only Morton Downey Jr. was still alive.

Danny Gans To Sing National Anthem With Sir Elton John: 2/1

In case there are any protesters marching outside the arena, the best way to ensure that the NBA is a tolerant league is to use a recognizable gay entertainer to quash those suggestions. Even though Danny Gans is supposedly well known for his spooky impersonations of famous singers and originally planned to warble the National Anthem using many of his various voices — Smokey Robinson, David Bowie, um, Ricky Martin — it just won't be enough. If there was ever a perfect place for Elton to magically pop-up in a purple, sequined suit and pink coke bottle glasses playing a rainbow colored piano, this is the time. "I can't lie..".

Reshuffling of the NBA Celebrity All-Star Roster: 3/1

Yes, there's a way to do this subtly, without raising too many eyebrows. Just replace Little Bow Wow with Neil Patrick Harris, David Arquette with T.R. Knight and Carrot Top with that dude from N'Sync ... oh, and make sure that there's a WNBA player on the court at all times. Thankfully, Taye Diggs is already penciled in as a member of the East team. There's a start.

Nobody Talks to Jim Gray: 4/1

Stern will most likely alert all participants — even those loosely affiliated with the NBA — to not answer any questions from the long-faced man with the thinning hair and the evil glint in his eye. Gray's penchant for exploiting the negative and making people squirm has probably made him the least welcome person in Las Vegas this weekend. Stern has drawn up "exit route" maps so former players and NBA executives can easily navigate the unfamiliar confines of the Thomas & Mack Center in case they get cornered. In addition, Gray will have to set-up all interviews this weekend via the NBA's special guest PR handler — Chad Curtis.

The best thing we overheard all weekend was at the massive ESPN block party Friday. We didn't break out the Whisper 2000, but two guys were talking about Stuart Scott in our general area, and we couldn't help but listen in. Supposedly, Scott (who we didn't see all weekend) was absolutely irate with [Daulerio's] hilarious tale about trying to bed a cheerleader. Though we didn't dive into their conversation, we overheard these two young men saying that Scott really wanted to 'kick that kid's ass' and it didn't seem in jest. Almost like he was hunting for him.

We checked in with Daulerio, but he's not answering his phone: Perhaps Stu already got to him! Other fun Big Lead tidbits: Gregg Doyel was hanging out with Jemele Hill (!!!!!), and two of Sports Illustrated's best writers, Franz Lidz and Jeff MacGregor, have accepted buyouts. Unless Rick Reilly can keep writing columns as outstanding as his was last week every week — rather than once a month or so — we sense trouble over there.

Media Musings From A Party-Filled Super Bowl Weekend [The Big Lead]
Stuart Scott Attempts To Jack Himself Up [Deadspin]

MIAMI — It's been a busy week, obviously, and I, for whatever reason, have been put ON NOTICE by members of a certain media conglomeration that any more funny business would not be tolerated. I had no intentions of becoming a wooly-faced Stuttering John for this trip, or the fun police, for that matter; that's just how this fateful week has turned out so far. And now, I've been officially informed by said media conglomeration members that the presence of the mustache at any parties this weekend will not be tolerated and may result in physical harm.

Given that, there will be some, mmm, adjustments made for tonight's Maxim party to ensure maximum efficiency in the world of undercover reportage. New correspondents will be introduced; new tactical positioning plans will be laid. However, after-after parties are pretty much open season, and tonight's the last night where many of the burly heroes we've encountered this weekend will be able to oil themselves into a state of Lemmeknow lucidity. So, this week, I'm showering up a bit, buying some new clothes and I'm taking odds on the celebrities the rest of the weekend who may or may not take their justifiable beefs to physical levels.

Take one final bristly ride, after this jump.

Stuart Scott: 3/1

Even though he's supposedly in the middle of divorcing his allegedly "crazy" wife, Stu's still apparently not very pleased with the suggestion he's seeking solace from the messy personal matter in the lap of a former Bronco ex-cheerleader. What happens in South Beach, stays in the booyah. However, based on his unfortunate ocular disadvantage, it'll be tough to get scrappy without his punches landing just a shade to the left. Or maybe common sense will overtake his boiling anger, and he'll just simmer down enough to enjoy the rest of the weekend. Hate the game, Mr. Scott.

John Clayton: 2/1

Salisbury wants no part of any more publicity outside of critical gametime analysis and his mesmerizing ties, so he'll shy away from vengeful brutality — but he's got the goons to take care of upholding his God-given right to beav poach. But the big, burly guys are too obvious and will be easily recognized upon initial attack. His cohort John Clayton, however, will be less obvious a henchman. However slight Clayton appears on camera, ask anyone who's seen Tweety prancing around Radio Row this week in a pair of shorts can tell you: Man's got some Zidane-like legs on him.

Orange Jacketed Spanish Woman at Radio Row: 10/1

At the beginning of the week, this feisty woman had the short odds and the pepper spray to completely derail any and all reportage for the entire week. However, after yesterday's blessed walk on the Blue Carpet, she changed her mind a bit and said, in broken Ingles, that she was "hab-pee" I finally got the passes to mingle with greatness. She even kissed the cheek of both myself and the man who took the picture, who was quite taken aback by her outward displays of affection. Yet, that was yesterday — although she'll be more civil if I attempt to befoul the Blue Carpet again, she'll still have to act accordingly per her job requirements.

The Dinger's Mangled Digit: 15/1

To even suggest that the pinkie was stepping out from the rest of the phalanges to covet female companionship is insulting and just wrong. Although the ESPN party is happening outside of the South Beach madness, the pinkie is plenty capable of finding itself a vehicle with a GPS tracking device to hunt me down and puncture my sternum with its 36 degree-angled force. Having been shown a forensics file from the pinkie's last victim, this is not a death I would wish upon my worst enemy.

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Here's the second of his two tales from Miami for today.

After Monday's total collapse outside of Radio Row at the Convention Center, the good ship AOL Sports Bloggers Live— I LIKE THOSE GUYS — I was finally awarded a day pass and able to step my dirty feet onto the shimmery blue carpet and get a close up of the frenzy. (The audio of the appearance is right here.) It's all what you would expect — Jim Rome Rome burning, Mike and Mike Madogging and Salisbury, of course, looking ruddy and text messaging. Plus there are numerous former and current athletes shuffling from each show trying to hide their "Not another fucking white guy" look when one of the producers from the various radio shows attempts to corral them to to the stage. My conversation with the Mottram consisted mainly of mustaches and my new found love of the Clevelander. Thankfully, Mr. Irrelevant lent me his camera so I could take a few photos and finally get a close up look of the McNabb family in action on their "The KNEE IS FINE" campaign. It pains me to say this, however — it's not.

More photos and shenanigans after the jump.

After I left the Blogger Booth, I hurried right over to McNabb's area. I had to see it up close. The limp. Yes, he has a brace on, and Mrs. McNabb assured me that it's "A-Okay, baby," but man, that limp. It reminded me of Bill Cosby doing that drunk guy impression in Bill Cosby Himself. But Five was in politicking mode, glad-handing, smiling, and keeping his conversations short with people. Most of the conversations began and ended with "I'm feeling good — the knee is fine." I hope so, I do, I do, I do.

I followed him around a bit to see him walking and then I realized that I was in the general vicinity of the Mayor. He was on a break, he was texting, of course, and he looked pretty pissed. I put the balls away for now because, as one Radio Row insider put it, "He would put you through a wall" if I tried to get a picture with him. It's still only Thursday. There is still time for plenty of big drunk ESPN people to knock the mustache off my face.

In my walk through Radio Row, I also saw Baldinger towing the women he was sitting with last night, who do not appear to be Clevelander Talent, but rather relations of the managerial/familial type. That's reassuring. I also spotted Don Shula rotting his way through a Sirius Interview, Bernie Kosar swanning around like it's still 1982, Sterling Sharpe in his patented Pimp 'n Pink look and Ditka, in a ridiculous purple suit most likely purchased from Brooks Brothers' defunct "Velvet Grimace" line from 1993.

I was in and out quickly, as it is still the beginning of this harrowing weekend — hopefully, my attorney will be available for just one more round before our time is through.

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.

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

When we first arrived at The Clevelander, we were told by the helpful bartender that Michael Irvin was upstairs. He said we could go right on up, plenty of people up there, you should have no problem. My attorney's face lit up. Cane lovers, you know? But as we came to the upstairs portion we were greeted by the same velvet rope New York City night club agenda:

"Private party, guys."

Not surprising. With the mustache, sweat shirt jacket, $4 H & M polo and my attorney Lt. Winslow in a BoSox hat, we weren't going to get into a Fat Tuesday's Happy Hour, let alone a Private Party with Michael Irvin. Winslow was crestfallen. This was, according to him, the man who got him into Miami Hurricanes football. "He's the PLAYMAKER", he screamed. He clutched two hands over his hat and wore an expression like he'd just found out one of his friends got murdered. I felt that I had failed him and all of humanity at that point. My lawyer should meet his idol.

Fortunately, colleagues were abound. Colleagues who knew the bouncers from San Diego. Colleagues who love Deadspin. One conversation and a handshake later, we were past the velvet rope, and headed upstairs to the Clevelander. Lt. Winslow was about to meet his idol.

(more after the jump)

The above picture shows what the downstairs Clevelander dance floor looked like. So, our attire was plenty reasonable, and somewhat classy, comparatively speaking. But now were headed upstairs. To Irvin's lair. As soon as we got in there, Winslow spotted Irvin huddling in the corner, his gynormous bodyguard keeping a close eye on those who tried to approach him. Winslow, bursting, walks over to him.

He shakes his hand and tells him " I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE & GREEN!! WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK TO CORAL GABLES TO HELP GET THIS OFFENSE BACK ON TRACK?" Winslow said Irvin was polite enough, but clearly wanted "no fucking part of him." Nevertheless, Winslow assures me that he's content. He buys shots for anyone in the general vicinity: " I JUST MET THE FUCKINGPLAYMAKER HIMSELF!!!!!!". After a few more shots, Winslow heads back over to Irvin and tells him "YOU ARE THE REASON I BECAME A CANES FAN IN THE FIRST PLACE."

We leave The Clevelander, Winslow is still spinning, and as we are walking down the sidewalk, we just happen to be right behind Irvin and his bodyguard, and two other guys— both about 5'3 Italian guys — walking with him. The one little guy says to Irvin. "We really have to get some pussy." Irvin starts to strut, pops open his cellphone and says "I'm about to get me some right now." The entourage high fives.

As Irvin is strutting ahead of them on the phone, a hot ass girl is walking towards us. Irvin stops, in the middle of the sidewalk, to ogle her the way every other black guy does when a marginally hot female comes within three feet of them. Irvin purses his lips: "Woooooooooooooo!"

She blows right by him. She doesn't recognize him. Winslow is stunned. "SHE JUST BLEW OFF THE PLAYMAKER!"

But Winslow spent the rest of the night in a daze, floating, not even thinking about his 8 a.m. court date.

The last installment: Stuart Scott, Alex Brown and one hot text message.

Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the first of his three tales from a crazed night in which, as this picture clearly shows, he sneaked into the right media party.

No, I did not ask him to take a picture of his junk on his cellphone. No, I did not ask him about "Jew". I was just in awe. Stunned, really, at how many women Salisbury attracts. From dumpy chicks with glasses, to 6-foot model-y types: they all swarmed him. Salisbury was not without female accompaniment for less than 10 seconds at a private party at the Clevelander. Most of the time, they would hug him. "He's soooo tall!" they'd say to each other. Most of the women have probably never watched "NFL Live" before. Or even known about his less than spectacular quarterbacking career. They just knew he was something.

He shook plenty of people's hands. He stirred his vodka tonic — with three limes on a napkin — and he made small talk when necessary. And when he agreed to take a picture with a smiling couple, adoring busboys, giraffe beav, he just requested one thing, as he sternly called over my lawyer Lt. Winslow after he snapped a quick photo of Salisbury getting his picture taken:

"I don't want it ending up on the internet."

(more after the jump)

The Clevelander is a cheesy Margitavilleish type club downstairs, and its upstairs, "VIP" section is about the size of a modest New York City apartment, wall-to-wall white, and held a "private" party last night with, oh, 35 people. Michael Irvin huddled in the corner with a bodyguard who was a Big Black doppelganger. Stuart Scott, dressed in his best fratty tan and white stripey, chatted up the few people who would come up to him and "Boo-yaaaa" and then awkwardly shook their hand. Bears defensive end Alex Brown drank Cranberry and vodka and even did the kamikaze shots that were bought for him by some very excited Bears fans.

But Salisbury held court. Salisbury is the mayor. Salisbury is the real balls.

He is a tall guy, and he's got that swagger. It's not a young guy swagger. It's that former athlete, gym teacher, asshole-type machismo. He makes wry smiles at the women who approach him and will let the ESPN fanboys come up to him, but he looks them in the eye and he makes sure that they're legit and not trying to do anything crazy, or gay, or just out and out annoy him. He gives a two second Eastwood wince to every single guy that comes up to him in that way because, tonight, guys, it's for the ladies — but he'll shake your hand, accept the accolades about how "great a job" he does at ESPN.

But if you don't have boobs, it's gonna be a brief chat.

But he was paranoid about pictures (why???) and made sure every person that wanted their photo taken with him seemed to have good intentions. I was a little paranoid about approaching him with Winslow since Salisbury had already scolded him — and the bouncers were already doing us a favor, so it wouldn't be wise to cause any annoyance and risk getting tossed. So we took the Deadspin camera and handed off to another person who agreed to get the photo with Salisbury. I walked up behind him and politely asked for a picture with him. He gave me the Eastwood, but I had the perfect trump card.

"It's for my fiancee. She would kill me if I didn't get a photo with you."

He couldn't turn that down.

He gave me the smile. He put his arm around me and waited for the photo. I jutted out the mustache has much as far as I could and waited for the flash.

"No internet", he repeated again after it was over, and we pounded fists and I walked away and he went back to the bar, to the next woman in line, and spent the rest of the night just being Salisbury and constantly checking his phone to see where he'd end up next.

Oh, there is more to this evening, which shall be shared later — Irvin's suit, Alex Brown's explanation of his Miami fistfight, and, most stunning, Stuart Scott's text message booty call.

Come back. It'll be great.

Finally, a managerly type fellow named Jonathan Zimmer came out with my id and broke the bad news to me that there was no listing for Gawker Media. All of the applications had to be approved by the end of November, he said. "Did your boss tell you he received a confirmation letter?" I assured him that Nick Denton, head of Gawker Media, is such a rabid sports fan that he couldn't have possibly forgotten to apply. But, of course, he did. Because Deadspin would not be able to offer its patented accessless, favorless, discretionless coverage with actual media passes.

All of the credentialed media is corralled into a giant, warehouse-sized conference room where they mill about and do their various reporterly duties and radio programs. The closest you can get to the event is by standing outside a doorway and watching the blue carpeted Media Paradise from afar. But you cannot step over the blue carpet. Not at all. More about this oddly rigid policy after the jump.

As I wandered around the facility ducking in empty rooms slated for reporters Westwood One, CBS, it was apparent that this is still probably one of the most boring events to ever cover in your entire life. The journalists that were cloistered in these little rooms tethered to their laptops and seemed to be harried and not having a very good time. Because they aren't. They are grinding away and, unlike, say, myself, they actually have to have a coherency and validity to their work.

But why couldn't I be a part of their crew? After about 20 minutes of just wandering around, asking various security guards where Radio Row was, where I could buy a soda, where I could see some celebrities, it was obvious that the only way to all of these things was on the blue carpet. As I stood at the foot of the blue carpet, I was being watched by tiny security woman who must've been at least 60. Even though I kept inquiring about the possibility of me stepping foot onto the carpet to run over to the other side of the facility to get a soda, she wouldn't budge.

"Sir, even I couldn't step foot on this carpet without this pass? Now, would you please step back?"

I pulled out my camera to snap photos of some recognizable people: "Hey, Lynn Swann! Can I take your photo?" "Hey, Howard Eskin! I'm a big fan! How about a photo for the boys back in Philly?" All of this was done, of course, behind the line, off of the blue carpet and with enough of a derangement that it troubled the tiny security guard woman and Lynn Swann who looked genuinely annoyed to be stopped for a photo.

All of the way back in the corner I saw Jimmy Johnson's glimmering white hair in the distance. "Hey, that's Jimmy Johnson!", I yelled to the security lady, who didn't appreciate the fact that I was yelling and only standing three feet away from her and inching over the blue line.

"Sir, please step back. I don't want to have to ask you to leave."

"But that's Jimmy Johnson! He's my favorite! And all I really want is a soda. I'll give you $10 if you just let me run over to the other side to get a soda!"

"Sir, I wouldn't do it for $10,000, now please step back over the line."

As more and more people wandered in and out, flashing their badges, it became more and more frustrating to me that I wouldn't be able to join in the fun. Why can't I go sit on Sidney Rosenberg's lap? Why can't I exchange pleasantries with Howie Long?

"Look, I'll just be 10 seconds. Just let me get a soda, " I said as I crossed 10 feet over the line onto the blue carpet.

"Sir, please don't do this to me. Please. Get over the line! Get over the line!"

She gripped the walkie talkie attached to her lapel.

"But it's Jimmy Johnson! Can I get a soda?!"

A gray haired man who resembled Frasier's father walked over.

"Is everything okay here?"

The woman informed the gentleman that I was trying to get onto the carpet without a pass.

"Sir, you can't come here without credentials."

I pleaded some more.

"But it's Jimmy Johnson! How much does it cost to get in here? Please? I just want a soda?"

He eyeballed me. He caressed his walkie talkie like a gunslinger.

I stepped forward.

"Just gimme 10 seconds to get a soda..."

He pressed the button.

"Security! I need Security down here right away."

With that, I was whisked off the blue carpet, back in the hallway, and then shown the door.

Maybe I'll have better luck tomorrow.

One of the saddest parts about oversleeping in a hotel is realizing that you missed the Continental Breakfast. You stroll into the lobby and have this sinking feeling that everybody else milling around the lobby has accomplished so much more with their mornings than you have. You see people in bathing suits, children prancing around with brochures and hordes of other vacationers checking in with all of their luggage on wheels. This is how I felt — initially — but I soon realized/remembered that the Continental Oceanfrontviewship has no Continental breakfast, even though its name suggests it. Unless, of course, the army of Spanish children jumping around the lobby is the breakfast. That would be bad. But I must admit, when you get home at 5:24 a.m., those little ninos screaming and yelling with their Alligator Alley brochures wouldn't be so bad to eat with a side of wheat toast and coffee — or whatever this sludgy, espresso-like concoction is.

It is in this moment of dread, of worthlessness and sifting through text messages from last evening that I attempted to answer by, it appears, typing with my face, it's clear that last night seemed to accomplish nothing but shameless abuse of an expense account — with my, ahem, attorney present at all times, of course — unless you consider 12 shots of Patron/Cuervo at The Deuce and some other dirtbag place a good use of time.

However, when I finally checked my mailbox at 10:14 a.m. this morning, I realized that a lot can be accomplished when you have little or no agenda during Super Bowl week. And you can make dreams come true for a small football salami maker in Michigan:

AJ,
just a quick note to remind you of your old friend JoJo the Salami Football. I just spoke to Joe Ilowski today, and not only is he doing them again this year, but apparently they will be featured on... THE VIEW.

Word is that Mrs. Hasselbeck came across the tale, and insisted they have to get hold of some for the show. So apparently they will be on THE FRIGGIN VIEW on Wednesday.

So with that news, Joe authorised me to tell you that if you want JoJo Junior, he can send you one in Miami, in return for a shameless plug.

Oh, and since Matt H. will apparently be watching his wife play with Joe's salami, Joe might set up a quickie web site to take advantage of anyone that wants to party with JoJo's siblings.

Keep out of trouble in Coconut Grove.

Doesn't that just make everything worthwhile?

In addition, after the jump, some of the local denizens of South Beach offer their opinion about who will win Super Bowl XLI. I'm now off to Media Day, with no press pass and a serious hangover.

Here are some of the people that agreed to be part of the survey conducted last evening/early this morning. The question: WHO WILL WIN SUPER BOWL XLI?

This nice lady bartender gave us two free shots after many hours of drinking. It should've been around six free shots, but she did what she could. She works at bar called Tequila SOMETHING and will have the unenviable task of working Friday, Saturday and Sunday of this week to thousands of people much more idiotic than we were. But she assured us that it would be "Chicago, all the way!" in XLI.

These two fellas were kind of grouchy and stand-offish. They didn't like having their picture taken. Not at 5 a.m. But even the most argumentative have an opinion about the outcome of this year's Super Bowl. They were both very confident that "Indy!" would trounce the Bears.

These nice people seemed like a happy couple. And by "couple" I mean "sharing stuff they found in the trash together." The man on the right claims he's a die hard Bears fan and says that they'll "kill" Indianapolis. The woman on the left was even more confident that "New England!" would walk away with the Lombardi Trophy again this year.

This surly fellow charged $15 for his photo. $15! And he wouldn't write me a receipt. He mentioned something about being "exploited" by me, but then got all Run DMC Raising Hell on me once the $15 was ponied up. He says "Chicago!" will win the Super Bowl because they're "underestimated — just like me!"

This is a nice woman who was sleeping on a bench on Washington Ave. She mumbled something about "blankets" before passing out in her own lap. For the sake of this assignment, however, we'll assume that she said "Indianapolis, all the way!"

Now, I must shower and attempt to head to Media Day. Hopefully, in an hour, I'll be able to feel my face again.

I've checked into Continental Ocenviewwhatever and have finally put my one bag of balled-up clothing in the sad little dresser and am now checking over my call log from this afternoon. Thanks to those who left messages. Thanks to those who hung up as well. Yes, it is, in fact, the Deadspin Superbowl Hotline, which on any other week, is just my cellphone number. I appreciate the creative use of text messaging as well. HHRclub.org was definitely something I would never have come across on my own free time. But it's nice to know that I could form a long-standing bond with various other individuals who share a love of ugly looking automobiles and mustaches.

Anyway, my hotel:

• No parking
• No internet in the room
• Lots of Indian fellas dressed in hip-hop gear.

Plus, the room itself, although equipped with a double-bed and most of the amenities suitable for halfway house poshness, comes with a television that has three working channels. It's not as bad as "cheese or snow," but Telemundo and ABC, which are only minor upgrades. Tonight, I shall shower with lye and dry myself off with the sanitary strip covering the toilet seat, which will be much more effective than the towels provided.

Off to find some friendly faces and work on my Spanish ... see you tomorrow.

'Morning. Me and the mustache have officially landed in Sunshine and should be gallivanting across the streets of Miami in three to four hours. Right now, I'm typing this from the library offices of Port St. Lucie's branch of the Sun Belt Conference powerhouse Florida Atlantic University Owls. Right now, it's me, two handicapped students and three snow bird old people who could very well be dead by lunchtime sharing a computer cubicle. Most of the other "media" types are in the Miami Convention Center soaking up the Super Bowl excitement, and I'm sitting next to a man who smells like pea soup. This is getting off to a rousing start.

Anyway, I'll be rolling into town in a rented tan Chevy HHR about 1 p.m. and checking into the Continental OceanFront Hotel, which has 2 1/2 stars, one of which was given to it because it has towels. Between my crappy hotel, my ridiculous looking car and my even more ridiculous looking mustache, well, this should be interesting.

Tonight, I'll have absolutely nothing to do but cause trouble, which is exactly what Gawker Media LLC instructed me to do as much as possible, as long as my, ahem, attorney is present with me at all times.

Sound familiar?

I'll have one more post later tonight, but I won't be available online for most of the afternoon. Anybody who has anything newsworthy they'd like to send my way, well, call the Deadspin Super Bowl Hotline at 917-854-3630, and me, the HHR and the moustache will be there in no time.

Enjoy your afternoons.

Last year around this time, thanks to a promotion for that "Pros Vs. Joes" show on Spike that no one we know watches, we strapped on a helmet and batted against John Rocker. That trip worked out so well for everybody that they asked us if we'd be interested in heading to Grand Central Station in New York City this morning and playing a little two-on-two against — of all people — Kordell Stewart and Andre Rison.

We find it difficult to resist the opportunity to publicly embarrass ourselves, so we called up Cultural Oddsmaker A.J. Daulerio to come with us and take the duo on. We had to wake up extremely early — the ball was hiked at 7 a.m. — but we, along with photographic correspondent Aileen Gallagher, were there. The story of our journey is after the jump.

The notion of Pros vs. Joes is a simple one: Retired — or "in between jobs" — athletes displaying their physical might over us mere mortals. We've never actually watched the show, but we're going to assume that the Joes usually lose. The show is mostly about headlines, look what Jose Canseco is reduced to now, so it's fitting that the makeshift "field" was set up in the Vanderbilt Room in Grand Central during rush hour. We find it amazing that people actually showed up and sat in the "bleachers." We assumed they were all friends of the "Joes," or perhaps the saddest groupies of all time.

Because this is Spike, there were of course cheerleaders. Unlike pretty much every other publicity "event" with cheerleaders we've "covered," this one allowed the cheerleaders to stay indoors. Honestly, some people will do anything to get their SAG card.

The public relations person in charge of setting this whole business up beckoned Daulerio and us over and informed us that not only were we up next, but that the show had actually put together jerseys for us with "Deadspin.com" on the back. We would have preferred just "Deadspin;" something about the dot-com stamps us as the pasty, wonkish assmunches that we are. That said, we did our best to get our games faces on; we respected that Daulerio grew a Wannstedt-esque mustache for the occasion. If we could grow facial hair, we might have done the same thing.

(Note: Daulerio says he's growing the mustache for his coverage of the Super Bowl in Miami next week. We do not know what that means.)

Before we realized what was happening, we were already on the "field." First off — and this should go without saying — football players are rather huge ... and these are a couple of the small ones. As we walked on the field, the PR guy reminded us "No tackling," as if this was possibly going to be an issue. We laughed it off, and then his face fell serious: "No, seriously; these guys both plan comebacks."

And that just made us sad all over. As we've mentioned before, few plights in athletics are more depressing than that of the retired athlete. (A sadness the show deftly exploits.) We sympathize; from birth, essentially, these men are groomed, prodded and flattered to do one thing, and one thing only: Play sports. But the athletic career ends prematurely, even for the great ones: Kordell Stewart is 33 years old. Can you imagine? Being that age and knowing that your best years are behind you, that no one wants you to do the one thing you've ever been able to do? It's little wonder they sign up for these shows. It's a reminder that they are different, that they are special, that life isn't over, not yet. Heck, we felt so bad for them, we figured we should just take it easy on them. Losing to us could have been psychologically devastating. We might be stupid and frivolous and just a bunch of soulless Internet naysayers ... but at least we have years left to turn it around. What does Kordell Stewart do now? Learn to type?

Oh, and before you ask: We still do not know if Kordell is gay or not. Here, we gave him our best come-hither face, right before he snapped the ball, and our doe eyes fell sadly short. We should have slipped him our number.

Anyway, it was time to rev this engine up. The rules were basic: Two-on-two flag football, four downs, if we stopped them or intercepted a Kordell pass — not an impossibility! — we won, and if they scored, they won. As Kordell, who didn't stop laughing the entire time, prepared to hike the ball, Daulerio decided to trash talk with Rison.

Daulerio: Hey, let's go.
Rison: Where you from?
Daulerio:: Philly, actually.
Rison: You're from Philly? Do you not like black people?
Daulerio: Wha?—-

And then the ball was hiked.

It didn't take long. Kordell lofted one right over Daulerio's head, Rison caught it and the Pros had done it again. We were ready for our dejected walk of shame, until the ref, sensing the philosophical void in our souls, asked if we wanted to try again, this time with Daulerio "guarding" Kordell and us splitting our to take on Rison. We agreed, because we hadn't gotten up at 5:30 a.m. for something that lasted 10 seconds. So we switched spots.

You can't quite tell from this picture, but Rison decided to palm our head. We're not sure why. We ducked, because we don't know where that hand has been. We didn't make any jokes about burning his house down, because he is, as mentioned, rather large.

We had been watching Kordell and Rison play a few other Joes beforehand, and we noticed they had two plays: Go deep, and slant across the middle. (Both tended to end in touchdowns.) So we assumed Rison was going to slant. (Honestly, we're such defensive geniuses; we're like Buddy Ryan here.) So Rison cut across the middle, and we stuck with him ... and then Kordell overthrew him. And we had a stop!

This simply would not do; Kordell and Rison huddled up, and as we prepared for second down, we wondered if we had just earned a modicum of respect from Rison. After all, we — a lowly typist — had stopped him from doing the very thing he had devoted his life to doing. We wondered if he would nod at us, nice play kid, and we would nod back, that's just what we do, baby, and we would enter into battle again. After Kordell and Rison had figured out the new play they put together, Rison lined up across him again. We waited for the nod. "Bad pass," he said. "You're done this time." We didn't nod back. And the ball was hiked.

Rison cut across the middle, again, a little deeper downfield, surprising us. As we followed him, we turned and ...

We ran straight into one of the oversized pilons planted in the middle of the field. We have no idea why those freaking things were there. Rison — the only one of us standing anymore — caught the pass and scored.

Considering the rather obvious physical disadvantages we had, we found the need for trickery on Rison's part a bit, oh, underhanded. (In a joking, please-don't-hit-us way.) We went to tell him so, and we were reminded, once again, that athletes are trained to win, whatever ever the circumstances, whatever the cost. Sure, Rison could have beaten us straight-up ... but it's fun to win in different ways.

Kordell, for his part, was awfully fired up. We suppose the rush is always there, no matter what.

And then, in one of the more surreal experiences of our lifetime, Andre Rison gave us a huge, air-compressing hug and told us he loved us, great game, man, "love ya, totally." We totally understood what Left Eye saw in him.

Finally, we were shuffled off the field and patted on the back. We wondered if we had earned any respect in the eyes of Kordell and Rison, if we had proven ourselves somehow. If we could hold our heads a little higher. If we could stand with the big boys. If Kordell was gay or not. We wondered, and then we looked back, and there were already two other dorks in there with them, we were long forgotten, hugs and "love ya, totally"s and doe eyes all ineffectual, all just another couple of idiots.

And off we went, happy that our future is ahead of us, rather than behind us. Oh, and yes: A little humiliated too. There was that.

Anyway, there will be some other Deadspinners there as well, and there might end up being some meetup block party action. But if you know of anything you think Mr. Daulerio absolutely should not miss, email us or email him and let us/him know. Nothing is off limits; if he doesn't run into Berman at a strip club somewhere, we're going to be sorely disappointed.

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