Greetings From Miami
Hola from Miami, peeps. It's amazing. Nice brisk evening around 60 degrees, and already two people have complained to me about the weather. Must be nice.
I'll get a few things out of the way.
I definitely drew the small straw on the hotel hierarchy. This place is downright shady. It actually reminds me of this crazy dive bar in Federal Hill in B-more where we used to do screaming, drunken karaoke back in the day, then get escorted out. It was near my cousin Todd's old house, but I can't remember the name of it now. It had a pirate motif, though.
Anyway, there is some sort of odd, live tropical bird sitting about 30 feet from me in this bar (they used to have a similar bird at the bar I can't think of). There is a cheesy, snall dance floor area, blaring horrible Nelly tunes. I'll give the bird credit, however. From the piercing sounds he's making he hates the music as much as I do.
A man who may be homeless is one bar stool over. There is graffiti in the elevators (plural indeed, but only two on premises). And, being the idiot I am, I ordered the Mahi Mahi sandwich. What are the odds it comes out of a can? (Just took my first bite; I won't be dining at the hotel again). And my Presidente is lukewarm. My room may have been remodeled ... in ... 1978. Trust me, Wilbon ain't staying here. But I'm a lowly beat writer, so that's the way it goes.
And I left my house today at the worst possible time, with a sick baby, and a fatigued, soon-to-be-sick pregnant wife and with some other serious family stuff going on as well. But we'll get through it. Okay, so enough complaining.
On to the week at hand.
Last year in Detroit I was a Super Bowl novice. Didn't know how to get into parties or who to talk to. This year I'm coming correct, intent on bringing you guys as much ancillary Super Bowl madness as possible. So far, I am confirmed for the red carpet at Diddy's parties (Sean Combs, not our blog buddy from Sir Mix-A-Lot Land.) Playboy will let me on their red carpet, but not sure if I'm in the actual party yet or not. (Perhaps Wilbon could vouch for me).
But Penthouse, well, they know where their bread is buttered. We're in, peeps. Full blown access with Snoop Dogg on the mic. Also, I am supposed to interview Snoop Dogg on Saturday after his youth football game, and we have access to some VIP events on the beach during the week with Jessica Simpson, Mark Wahlberg, and a bunch of other A-Listers supposed to attend.
This week, I'll be your Mary Hart. Strange season. Began with me brushing past Katie Holmes in the bowels of FedEx Field, and could end with me asking Jessica Simpson if she likes the Colts and the under. Gotta love the NFL.
Jason La Canfora
January 28, 2007; 8:45 PM ET
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