I don't have enough material for a real dispatch from Miami yet, but I will admit to paying a $20 cover to get into Daulerio hotspot the Clevelander last night. That afforded me the opportunity to pay $7 for Bud Lights, espy the occasional attractive woman dancing on a hoochie dais, and — for a couple seconds — lay my eyes on the Playmaker himself, Michael Irvin (suit, sunglasses, bodyguard, fawning idiots).
Oh, and instead of camping out near a hoochie dais, I sat in the sports bar and watched the Suns break away from the Spurs in the 4th quarter to win 103-87. Totally worth it, too — Amare Stoudemire finished with 24 points, 23 rebounds, and a technical foul on renowned shithead Manu Ginobili. Ginobili, still sporting the karmic shiner from Kobe's "punch," was brilliant in his own right, scoring 32, but anyone who make the NBA look like Italian Serie A has a special place in sports hell — watching "Our Country" commercials for eternity while Ty Cobb kicks his ass.
And yes, I realize that I'm doing yet another post on the Suns when the Cavs and Heat played possibly a more interesting game. What can I say, I have a new NBA crush. The Suns are the new Gilbert Arenas. And the three stacked chicks that just walked into the hotel lobby I'm in are the new Suns.