Somehow I have gotten caught up in the hip-hop party life of South Beach, or SoBe as we “players” call it.
I have forsaken my beloved Bears and I am obsessed with getting the latest “hot ticket.” I am driving around Miami in a Lincoln Navigator, with Ludacris blaring, which of course is a ludicrous concept. Hip-hop music on the radio is funny and unnerving to listen to. Every other word is either bleeped out or deleted to comply with current FCC decency standards.
My posse (my three sons) arrived Friday night on jets. That’s how we roll. They were all commercial flights, but jets sounds cooler.
What on Earth am I going to do at the Penthouse, Playboy and Maxim parties tonight? I’m a 295-pound, 52-year-old man. Am I going to sweep a Pet, a Bunny or even Paris Hilton off of her feet? I don’t even drink or own a camcorder. I should be home reading the sports section. I should be memorizing Bears and Colts stats. I should be picking out the appropriate Tommy Bahama shirt for game day. I have a sweet orange-sherbet-colored raw silk one that I’m planning on wearing to the game, by the way. I only know that because I have had to decide which shirts to wear to the various parties on Saturday night.
The NFL, in its continuing effort to gouge planet Earth, has concocted all kinds of hospitality scenarios in and around Dolphin Stadium for Sunday. I accidentally bought into one of those scenarios, The Touchdown Club. It’s a hospitality tent with food and drink, the pregame broadcast piped in and a kiosk where I can spend more money buying more NFL merchandise. The cost per ticket for this little soiree: $595. Hey, nobody held a gun to my head and made me buy them. Thankfully, no one ever has held a gun to my head for anything. I am in Miami, however, the weekend is still young and I am old and stupid.
