I’ve spent a lot of great days and nights in Miami with Dave over the years.
Turns out, we were both wrong.
For just yesterday, I visited Dave at his shimmering palace on the shores of Miami-Dade county.
I’d been preparing for our visit with a dogged discipline.
At some point, Dana produced a tin of tobacco products intended to lever up our buzz.
Thank goodness, too, for I had brought only my most European-cut swim trunks.
This is Miami, people; where you don’t wear your mid-shin Billabong boardshorts to bathe.
It’s mid-thigh or die.
I awoke refreshed and alert, albeit sore from a scorched esophagus.
Dana “jogged” on the treadmill amid three octogenarian women in golf visors conducting their daily physical therapy.
I believe that we were the very first Barstool employees ever to visit Dave’s Miami house.
Tommy believes there is a bond between them because ages ago, Tommy was part of Team Portnoy.
This according to Dave, mind you.
I could tell he was thinking it.
Inside Dave’s refreshingly air-conditioned home, we waited on a gigantic couch while Dave wrapped up a podcast.
His two famous dogs wagged their tails and Miss Peaches in particular sought scratches in the most endearing way.
It was amazing to see him in his own home.
So off-hand, so casual, so comfortable.
We were all immediately friendly with each other.
“Sure, knock yourself out,” he replied warmly.
Would you have the balls to ask if you could swim in his pool?
Not a fucking chance.
Which is why you’re reading word 1099 of a blog I wrote about daring to be wet.
But not knowing the depth of Dave’s pool, I dipped a toe to check the temperature.
You guessed it: bathtub.
The perfect antidote to a blustery day in south Florida.
Also, I opened my eyes underwater and it was totally fine.
Plus, I believe it’s a saltwater pool from the taste test I performed.
You could easily bottle it for use in brining a partridge shot down on a rousing November bird hunt.
I mentioned the perfect temp and he said he keeps it that way for summer swims.
