Wednesday, February 7, 2007

Dispatch from Miami: In Which Our Hero Has the Single Most Inexplicable Night of His Life

Captain Caveman is safely back in the confines of Brooklyn, but he'll continue sharing stories from Miami until... probably forever. Today's tale: the Maxim party, taxi guitar, 86'd, and Paul Rudd.

The word "surreal," to my whiskey-soaked brain, seems trite and overused. There are few things outside of our dreams that actually rival the works of Salvador Dali -- rare disasters like 9/11, the Indian Ocean tsunami, and post-Katrina New Orleans are some of the exceptional scenarios that actually warrant the surreal tag.

Me, personally: I was in one of the first American vehicles over the Kuwait-Iraq border in 2003. Invading a sovereign nation is surreal. Driving down the streets of Baghdad in a tank, expecting enemy contact, while Iraqis cheer you on is surreal. But nothing could have prepared me for the litany of strangeness I experienced the Friday before the Super Bowl.

I was in my hotel room -- totally not masturbating, by the way -- at 8:30 p.m. when I received a call from Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio (whose own account of the evening is a tremendous read). Did I want to be his plus-one to the Maxim party? Hold on, let me check my day planner. Eh, okay.

I met up with the freshly de-mustachioed one around 9 p.m. and was met with one of my two known natural enemies: an open bar (Kryptonite #2: strippers). I had eaten a veggie wrap and a handful of potato chips all day. This was not going to end well.

If you don't mind me shedding the too-cool-for-school attitude for a moment: the Maxim party was a pretty fucking cool party. The booze was free, the dance floor was on the beach, the music was perfectly not too loud, and the women... even the ugly girls were hot. I got a drink for Noely, a Brazilian fashion designer who just opened a store in Boca. She was crafted by the Hands of God Himself. She had to go rescue her friend (cornered by a loser), but was I going to be around later? she asked. Yes, I said. All night. For sure.

Oh, and I guess there were famous people, too. They weren't Noely, though.

Indeed not.

  • I spoke with Martha Stewart apprentice -- and fellow blogger! -- Bethenny Frankel, who looked pretty spectacular in a little black dress with ample decolletage. I couldn't place her until she told me. Probably because she was never sexy on Martha's show. (NOTE: this was when I was a paid TV ad research writer. I had to watch the show.)
  • John Rocker and girlfriend, with whom I, like AJ, had a brief conversation. John Rocker: one of the nicer people I met that night. Sorry.
  • Freddie Mitchell somehow hanging out with Brady Quinn and Julius Jones (solidly rocking a button down and sweater vest). When AJ cornered him for a conversation and Quinn and Jones kept walking, the desperation in FredEx's eyes was plain to see. He didn't want to get left behind.
  • Seahawks hero Tony Romo, whom I only espied from afar. I did not get the chance to thank him. Not at his side: Jessica Simspon, Carrie Underwood.
  • Lesser Seahawks hero Mike McMahon, best known for his stellar performance in the Eagles' 2005 Monday night massacre against the Seahawks. 42-0. I didn't thank him, either, but he looked good in a suit, no tie, and with a hot blonde in tow.
  • Andy Roddick. I thought I had perfectly mussed hair, but motherfucker knows how to tousle his hair. I should have asked him for tips.
  • Kevin Federline himself. As he came down the stairs, a woman stopped and begged him for a photo. K-Fed did not want his photo taken, but then she said, "I was AT your wrestling performance." She seemed emphatic and maybe a little dangerous, so K-Fed relented, and yours truly snapped the photo. Lisa promised to email said picture to this fine media outlet, but my hopes aren't too high.) As Federline eagerly but politely disengaged himself from us, I told him, "John Cena's a total bitch." Which is true. Fucking pretend-ass Marine.
  • A cleaned-up K-Fed looks absolutely nothing like any of the KSK writers. You hear me? NOTHING.
Why are there not more famous names on that list? Alas, the Sagamore does not offer ample restroom facilities, which is unfortunate, because I was downing Coors Lights at the cyclic rate. AJ proposed going to his hotel one block away, where there was not an infinite line. This fueled a deep, rumbling worry inside me, but the pain in my bladder trumped all logical thought. As we left the party, I said to the bouncer, "We can get back in, right?" And he assured us, yes. After all, we had wristbands.

Of course, we're dumbfucks. We couldn't get back in. Fifteen minutes later and the line had been shut down. Desperate, sweaty people crowded the gate. I stood there for a few minutes with false hopes, then gave up. I'm fine being sweaty, but I refuse to be desperate.

Oh, God -- but Noely! Noely, Noely.... A small part of my soul died when we walked away from the party. (Psst! Noely: call me!)

Anyway, Plan B: a party in North Beach, a $20 cab ride away. AJ knew this guy Chris from his days at Oddjack -- they'd met a year and a half ago at some sort of gambling convention. I got into the cab feeling a step above suicidal, somewhere above Elliott Smith but below Terrell Owens. It's the kind of feeling for which a lifetime of Seattle sports fandom should really have prepared me better.

"Hey, can I play your guitar?" AJ was talking to the cabbie. I hadn't seen the guitar in the front seat; I had been envisioning gruesome car wrecks in my head.

The cabbie handed him the guitar, and AJ commenced giving passable, possibly even tuneful, renditions of '80s metal hits, none of which sounded remotely familiar when played slowly on an acoustic guitar in a cab ride through bumper-to-bumper ("The avenue's packed!") traffic up Collins, aka A1A... BEACHFRONT AVENUE! (For the record, girls were indeed hot, but generally wearing more than bikinis.)

So, party #2: up an elevator to the second floor, where I met Chris and each of the eight guests at the party. And three of them were girls! Score! I helped myself to the finger foods laid out and began downing Jack and Cokes. Because fuck it.

The star of the party was a Florida State grad named Jenny Woo, an energetic Asian girl with blue eyes (or at least blue contacts) and -- judging by the intimate contact she instigated within moments of our meeting -- a gym membership where she gets her money's worth. She's one of those people who everyone addresses by first and last name at all times. Merely Jenny's not enough; she's Jenny Woo, dammit.

After a few Jack and Cokes, some more conversation with Jenny Woo, and an impromptu photo shoot of the girls that featured the other two girls making out (I arrived too late to snap that, but some puffy Italian guy got it), I decided that this party wasn't so bad after all. After all, I'm not comfortable with crowds, and the booze there was just as free as it was at the Maxim party.

A while later, I was sitting comfortably in a deck chair when Chris, the host, walked up to me carrying a shot of Jagermeister. "Drink this," he said. Uh, okay. I downed the shot.

"Now get out."

"Sorry, what?"

"Get the fuck out of here!" He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the chair, then looked at AJ. "You too!"

I tried to play peacemaker because, you know, Jenny Woo, but Chris wanted no rational talk. He said something brusque about me insulting the puffy Italian photographer, and the conversation was over. Twenty seconds later AJ and I were in the elevator, and that was that. (Psst! Jenny Woo: call me!)

"Did that really just happen?" I asked.

"Dude, what the fuck did you say to that Italian guy?"

"I have no fucking clue, man. I don't think I even talked to him all night. I guess it might have happened when he was telling the girls to be sexy, but I don't think I said anything wrong. Usually I try to make it pretty clear when I'm trying to insult someone."

And so AJ and I set out on foot, sixty blocks away from his South Beach hotel (which in Miami translates to approximately 30 miles), dazed from the effect of going from invited to the Maxim party to kicked out of a lame-ass ten-person soiree party get-together.

The only solution, of course: more drinking! Eventually we found a cab, got out across the street from AJ's hotel, and proceeded to the basement bar of the hotel next door, where -- naturally -- Paul Rudd was singing karaoke.


I'm afraid I can't remember what it was Paul was singing -- I was absolutely Kennedyed by this point -- but I vaguely recall it being something pretty cool and not at all cliched or overdone. And, as you can see, he fucking sold that song.

I spoke with him for a while that night -- he's one of my few celebrity sightings in New York -- about him closing down Bleecker Bar the night before going on Good Morning America, and how he'd spoken at length with my girlfriend at the time (She was attending the same theater school from which he graduated), and I've got to say: Paul Rudd's a pretty cool dude.

(Psst! Paul Rudd: call me!)


San_Erino said...

It's a little after 1030pm, Alaska time (only reason why this is so early). Thanks for the read before I crawl into bed. Or watch Brazil v. Portugal on the DVR. Or spend the next six hours playing Starcraft...

Life is OK when unemployed.

MCBias said...

I think I'm starting to get the hang of writing CC stories. When does the convention for fan fiction start? Do we all have to wear shirts that Daulerio threw out and stay out of the sun for the rest of our days? It goes like this...
1. CC meets exotic tanned woman.
2. CC makes just enough progress with said exotics to make blog readers consider leaving their mother's basement.
3. Something goes wrong, or CC finds something wrong with the girl, and we are convinced that "Nah, she really wasn't that attractive. I'm staying in the basement where I have a lifetime supply of comic books and cheese doodles."

The Big Picture said...

fuck! paul rudd! Awesome. bet he was singing one of those cool 80s songs from Wet Hot American Summer.

Mike Terrill said...

It's official: CC, you are the balls. Fuck AJ.

Signal to Noise said...

I hope you worked in a "know how I know you're gay?" repartee.

Very nice rundown of the drunken craziness.

Chris(BessMervinGirlDetective) said...

Any posts that include sly references to Vanilla Ice, John Rocker, hot Asian women,and Freddy Mitchel deserve a gold star.

Also was Freddy Sporting one of his signature bow ties?

Grimoald said...

I would totally sing a duet with Rudd, that guy is awesome, plus he is like, cut. From marble. He's gorgeous. He's like this beautiful face and this incredible body.

Joe Asheville said...

Outstanding. 60% of the time, CC comes through every time.

Trader Rick said...

"You taste like a burger...I don't like you anymore."

Well done, CC, except for one thing: Why were you drinking Coors Light at an open bar? Were there some And Twins you were trying to impress?

Unsilent Majority said...

let me guess, you called the puffy italian guy a "puffy italian guy"

Danny G said...

Nothing like the assclown host offering you a shot, then kicking you out. He was obviously being a dick, but not that big of a dick.

the dude said...

Kicked out of two parties and you got to see the star of Overnight Delivery sing...even though you didn't get to hook up with the Woo I'd still say that's a top 10 evening.

Captain Caveman said...

Why were you drinking Coors Light at an open bar?

I had barely eaten anything, and I was drinking for the long haul. It was the easy thing to order.

FenwayFaithful78 said...

Captain Caveman you're my hero.

I think it should be mandatory for the off season that one KSK gay mafia-ette take a drunken weekend trip each month and then report back.

It's comic relief.

Anonymous said...


How the hell do you ever even contemplate leaving the Maxim party? Are you out of your mind? Pee in your pants if you have to, but don't leave unless you are thrown out forcibly.

Is it just me, or would this make a great "TLC life lesson" statuette?

Dat RoRo Kid said...

good story, CC. Being a Miamian myself, I gotta quote from a movie featuring one of Paul Rudd's better performances:

'When in ROME...'

Shoulda never left that Maxim party even if you pee'd yourself, dude. I'm sure it only got sloppier and sluttier.

GOD, I love my hometown...

Mevs said...

I enjoyed your recap of your journey CC. It seems like you partied like a rockstar. Maybe someday, if I make something of my life I'll get the chance to do something similar like this, but I am having my doubts.

Anonymous said...

sounds like somebody is a little ashamed of having gotten his start in life as a dancer on Brittney's Slave4U tour

PK said...

"drink this" "Now Get Out"

What a genius way to toss someone from a party. It's a cordial pat on the back before a kick in the ass. Love it. Too bad it happened before you had more face time with Wu.

Yournotunique said...

I know he's the host and all, but you can't let some douchefucker offer you a shot then yank you around like some schoolgirl. Semper Foul.

Anonymous said...


That one night you and AJ experienced was more exciting than every night out I've ever had put together.

Oh boy, looks like it's suicide again for me.

Mike said...

CC, you'd have gotten back into the Maxim party no problem if you just sucked up your pride and told them you were Federline.

There are sacrifices that just have to be made sometimes.

MDG said...

You know it was really the fact that Jenny Woo said that she thought you were cute. That's why you got the boot. Host boy was threatened.

Or Stu Scott was on the way over.

jackin'4beats said...

Woo-Tang! Woo-Tang! Woo-Tang! Woo-Tang!

I just couldn't resist. CC - good work, next time, don't leave the party until you get the digits.

becky said...

an anti-climactic story that took place 5 days ago. exactly what we have come to expect around these parts.

Chris(BessMervinGirlDetective) said...

So am I missing something on this Jenny Woo girl? Seems as though she is some type of gambling celeb.

flubby said...

Next time Caveman will make like that crazy astronaut and invest in some adult diapers.

Enrico said...

This is the kind of stuff that makes KSK and Deadspin the balls.

I'm heading out Vegas for All Star weekend, AJ and CC have been inspirational. I'm going to do everything I can to get my picture taken with Stephen A. Smith. And if he doesn't work out, maybe a stripper named Crystal or something.

Grimey said...

You know how I know you're gay?

Veggie wrap.

Jacob Bennett said...

Paul Rudd seems like a cool guy.

I know he's a fake marine, but I interviewed John Cena once and he's one of the nicest entertainers I've ever talked to. Sorry.

Ryan Reynolds said...

I work with Jacob Bennett, and most of the time he's a reasonable guy. But here he's dead wrong.

Nice or not, John Cena inspired a generation of wife beater-wearing, slack-jawed rapper-wannabes who would gladly sell their souls for a chance to wear a heavy gold chain and be the guy to find the coolest word he can that rhymes with "ho."

Because of him, the Friday night bar scene in my town feels like an evening of sitting in the output tray of a copy machine.

Otto Man said...

Well done, CC, except for one thing: Why were you drinking Coors Light at an open bar?

Actually, the question should be: Why were you drinking Coors Light, period?

Do you not like beer?

Or do you just have a soft spot for Nazi sympathizers and war profiteers?

Whatever. You seem to have acquitted yourself well. Next time, just remember -- with a friend watching your back, any potted plant can become a urinal.

becky said...

That seems like a gross overestimate of the amount of people affected by John Cena.
And anyone who HAS had the misfortune of calling Cena an "influence" would have to be like 16 at the oldest, since he's only been wrestling for a few years.
I'm kind of curious where this bar scene full of 16-year-olds is...that sounds like my style.
Also...I don't like Cena's entrance music. Not at all. Um...I mean I've never even HEARD that shit.
(OK maybe a little, but...DEFINITELY not his whole album. That thing is the biggest running joke among Sony employees.)

Captain Caveman said...

Otto Man, I love your work in these here comments, but beer snobs can collectively go fuck themselves.

I'm a red-blooded American male. I drink all sorts of pisswater -- from Coors Light to Genesee Cream Ale to Schlitz to Bud Light -- without regard for ownership or taste. Doesn't mean I don't like a nice Belgian Triple. Sometimes I'm just there to hold a bottle and get drunk more slowly than usual.

Grimey said...

Nice or not, John Cena inspired a generation of wife beater-wearing, slack-jawed rapper-wannabes who would gladly sell their souls for a chance to wear a heavy gold chain and be the guy to find the coolest word he can that rhymes with "ho."

That, of course, is "placebo."

I have a buddy in the Marines who tried to get into a fight with a guy in a dive bar who was wearing a "Marines" shirt, simply because he didn't buy his story. Real marines aren't too crazy about fake marines, which is why I tell women I am a racecar driver.

twoeightnine said...

Jenny's from Miami Beach, Alabama

twoeightnine said...

it helps if i leave the link

Unknown said...

AJ may be the balls, but that shirt he's wearing is ass.

Steve said...


I would be you got booted out of that party b/c some dude didn't like the fact that one of three females was digging you. You got cockblocked. guarantee it.

fallex said...

Tremendous. Only an "Enter the Woo-Tang" (sorry, J4Bs. was a little late) post could have topped it. Her reporting credentials are evident.

Otto Man said...

Otto Man, I love your work in these here comments, but beer snobs can collectively go fuck themselves.

Well, I'm not a beer snob in general. I actually took a tour of a Schlitz factory (a.k.a. "redneck mecca") for a spring break one year, and used to live off cases of Schaefer Light ("the biege bullet") in college, with the occasional Mickey's Big Mouth night thrown in there. Just last weekend, some friends and I downed six pitchers of PBR in a single sitting and lived to tell the tale.

So budget beers are and always will be my friend. But Coors Light, as the tired joke goes, is like having sex in a canoe -- it's fucking close to water. I see Coors Light the same way I see decaffeinated coffee, as something targeted to people who like to pee a lot, but don't want the hassle of taste, body, and mood alteration.

Plus, if I drink enough Iron City this weekend, I might just be able to go fuck myself. Here's hoping.

Speaking of which, wv: fuxbr

Anonymous said...

I'd like to enter one of Jenny Woo's 36 Chambers...


yvgeni said...

Best comment winner:

grimey with
"You know how I know you're gay?
Veggie wrap."

Succinct yet inspired. Simple, yet got me spit out pieces of sandwich on my keyboard to keep from choking.

You sir, win the golden epeen.

The Last Unitard said...

Schlitz was recently on sale at my local supermarket for $2.22 a six pack.

Sure, I like a good beer. I'll down Dead Guy all night long.

However, for the price of 6 Dead Guys I can buy 24 Schlitz's.

What's more American? 6 beers or 24 beers.

I think you know the answer.

Mike said...

What's more American? 6 beers or 24 beers. I think you know the answer.

Americans are supposed to think BIG. Manifest Destiny, and all that shit. The correct answer is "Invade third-world country and steal all its beer."

Bouj said...

Caveman: if you really did get kicked out over some perceived slight against the puffy Italian dude and you didn't you should have REALLY let fly with a good one on the way out. Gotta go down swinging.

Yeah, but it sounds like you got cock-blocked by some insecure douche.

Grimey: Want to know what works? Underwater welder. Seriously. And I don't even know how to swim.

MDT said...

CC, you'd have been able to stay at the bar if you just kept repeating "Me scuzi! Me scuzi!" over and over.

twoeightnine said...

However, for the price of 6 Dead Guys I can buy 24 Schlitz's.

What's more American? 6 beers or 24 beers.

6 Dead Guy's > 48 Schlitz's.

Grimey said...

"I'll take six Schlitz-es. Whatever's free."

Otto Man said...

I believe the plural is Schlitzi.

Or at least that's what we say when we're all blitzed on Schlitz, right before I go plotz.

TheBigO said...

When will white dudes just let the Jeans w/ a blazer look rest? It's dead, what the fuck, you look like an elementary school spanish teacher. Please stop, please.

onthevirg said...

CC, when do we get to hear your recap of the Penthouse party and getting dissed by the Spain Train?

jackin'4beats said...

Spain Train vs. Woo-Tang


8:00pm on Fox Sports Net. Check your local listings.

Now that's a spectacle I can get behind.

Captain Caveman said...

When will white dudes just let the Jeans w/ a blazer look rest?

Never. And it's not an elementary school Spanish teacher look; it's what qualifies as dressing up for a blogger.

MemphisRaines said...

CC - Did Noely happen to design Brazilian flag themed bikinis? Because that would be awesome. Great post as always.

Steve said...

When will white dudes just let the Jeans w/ a blazer look rest?

Hey, if its good enough for Ed Begley, Jr. its good enough for CC!

Steve said...

When will white dudes just let the Jeans w/ a blazer look rest?

Hey, if its good enough for Ed Begley, Jr. its good enough for CC!

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