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.