HERE IN THE CITY OF MIAMI, LIFE IS JUST BEACHY.

Byline: STEVE DILBECK

MIAMI - Visited South Beach for the first time when the Super Bowl was last here, and as the door to my cab opened, there was a Guess model standing right there.

Honest to Claudia Schiffer.

OK, it was Tyrese, but he counts, too.

Returned Friday night, opened the door of my cab and was greeted by the shadow of a gargantuan beer belly, covered by a Brian Urlacher jersey, spilling beer and mumbling, ``Da Bears!''

Now, South Beach is not the kind of place you want to be overwhelmed by first impressions, because let's be honest, every step can bring on a new sense of wonderment.

South Beach is the pulsating, wealthy, hip, Caribbean-flavored center of Miami. It's throbbing nightclubs, pale colors, art deco, fashion overload, celebrities and a lot of skin.

On this night, it is being overwhelmed by a Super Bowl invasion and trying mightily to hold on to its hedonist core.

The energetic heart of South Beach is Ocean Drive. One side of the street is filled with outdoor cafes, hotels, clubs and boutiques. The other side is lined by a shallow park that opens to the beach.

On this night, Ocean Drive is closed to vehicle traffic for maybe a mile- long strip, and the street is packed with thousands of the curious. And even a few locals.

Embarked on this adventure with Gregg Patton, columnist of the Riverside Press-Enterprise, and there is something you immediately should know about him.

Approaching Ocean Drive, I spotted adead ringer for Hyman Roth and turned to him and say, ``Michael, we're bigger than U.S. Steel.''

Patton looked at me like I was from the 53rd moon of Jupiter.

Now as we all know, any man who hasn't memorized every single line of ``Godfather II'' should be required to have an immediate sex change.

Allowed him to hang with me anyway, and within moments my mind was elsewhere.

I was approached on Ocean Drive by a young woman on rollerblades who excelled at filling out her black bikini with thin gold ribbing. Think something about a personals Web site was written on her derriere, but it's possible I was distracted.

Almost half the street was overtaken by the cafes and clubs enlarging their piece of Sodom and Gomorrah by setting additional tables on the asphalt.

At the Mango Tropical Cafe, a couple did some kind of hot salsa number while the waitress in her leopard bikini served drinks.

Next door at American Apparel, mannequins had been removed from one window and replaced with a vigorous go-go dancer wearing a lime green cotton tank top and hot red shorts. The crowd stopped just to watch her vibrate.

You just don't see these things on Reseda Boulevard.

For the first time all week, the weather was typical of Florida: warm and muggy, and on this night, thick with cigar smoke.

The sights were hardly all in the cafes and shops. On the street was an Elvis impersonator, an all-white mime posing as the Statue of Liberty and a guy holding a white duck that looked like it popped out of an Aflac commercial, which turned out to be a stuffed animal.

This was all in stark contrast to one stretch of the park, where white cardboard headstones with the names of American soldiers killed in Iraq were placed in row after row by Howard Dean's Democracy for America.

The streets were filled with Bears fans, but can't remember seeing a single Indianapolis fan.

Maybe South Street just doesn't mesh with their Midwest sensibilities.

Gregg and I decided to stop for a cold beverage, coming soon to a Daily News expense account. Selected a place called the News Cafe because, you know, we're newspaper men and real original that way.

Watching the crowd drift by, it occurred to us that most of Ocean Drive's inhabitants this night looked less like members of the international jet set and a lot more like us: Middle-aged guy in jeans and sneakers.

There wasn't a Paris Hilton, Beyonce or even Shaquille O'Neal to be found. Not a Sonny Crockett or Rico Tubbs, neither the Don Johnson-Philip Michael Thomas nor the Colin Farrell-Jamie Foxx versions. The only celebrity spotted was Jim Kelly, or at least a guy who looked like Jim Kelly, it being a while since either of us had seen the ex-Buffalo Bills quarterback.

There was a man preaching about being saved by Jesus, and in South Beach, this is not called singing to the choir.

Many buildings were lit in soft shades of purple or pale blue, and palm trees along the park were decorated in red and green like Christmas was coming.

Once you wandered outside the heart of Ocean Drive, there seemed to be endless private parties going on at private clubs, hotels and theaters. There seemed red ropes and stretch limos everywhere.

At most, crowds and photographers simply gathered around hoping to spot a really cool celebrity going in.

No wonder there were no celebrities on Ocean, it having to be really embarrassing to be the only one in Miami not invited to some hip private affair.

There was precious little police presence on Ocean, but nearby Collins Street you knew they were around, what with watching an undercover officer bust a hooker right in front of us.

The next street over was Washington Avenue, and it remained packed with those searching for a piece of the famous nightlife. Rapper Dr. Dre was appearing at one theater and the crowd spilled into the street.

Some clubs appeared to just be opening up a couple hours into the next day. And still not an Usher or Brad Pitt of Lindsay Lohan to be seen.

Upon flagging a cab, returned to the hotel without spotting a single steaming Brazilian model, but momentarily free of expanding Bears fans.

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