It's so peaceful here. So serene. So well cared for. Some people, like 78-year-old Malka Lewin, come every day to visit their dearly departed pets and to tend to the décor they've created at the little gravesites: plants, photos, statues. A lot of credit goes to cemetery manager Jim Kovalcik, who has been working here for more than 13 years. This 1400-plot cemetery has been here since 1978; fewer than 300 plots are left. The cost to bury your pet (dog, cat, rabbit, bird, ferret, "whatever fits") ranges from $650 to $800, and that includes the gravesite, a marker, the casket (your choice of three), and time in the viewing room before the burial. Kovalcik performs the graveside memorial service and lowers the casket into the ground, also included in the price. Generally Kovalcik asks if anyone has anything to say; then he concludes the ceremony with a few comforting words, like what grief means and how it always hurts to lose a beloved member of the family.

If you've never done hatha yoga before, instructor Vera Paley is your gal. She specializes in teaching novices (though she teaches intermediate levels too) in a way that's, well, awe-inspiring. Watch Paley do the shoulder stand, the frog, the fish, the spinal twist, and you'll be saying, "Hey, if she can do it, I can too." After all, Paley, our role model for old (whatever that is), turned 80 last year. Maybe that's why her favorite line is, "You're never too old -- or young -- to do yoga." (Some of her newest students are older than she is.) Another favorite line, "You're only as young as your spine is flexible." Meaning: If you can't sit on the floor with your legs stretched out and touch your forehead to your knees, you know whom to call.

If you've never done hatha yoga before, instructor Vera Paley is your gal. She specializes in teaching novices (though she teaches intermediate levels too) in a way that's, well, awe-inspiring. Watch Paley do the shoulder stand, the frog, the fish, the spinal twist, and you'll be saying, "Hey, if she can do it, I can too." After all, Paley, our role model for old (whatever that is), turned 80 last year. Maybe that's why her favorite line is, "You're never too old -- or young -- to do yoga." (Some of her newest students are older than she is.) Another favorite line, "You're only as young as your spine is flexible." Meaning: If you can't sit on the floor with your legs stretched out and touch your forehead to your knees, you know whom to call.

Looming precariously over A1A like a Jenga tower ready to topple, the bright pink, perpetually-under-construction Palms is visible from Lauderdale-by-the-Sea down to Port Everglades. Viewed from an airplane, the high-rise condo reaches upward like a rosy flare, warning that you are about to touch down in a jungle of over-development. But the Palms is notable not just for its questionable, pretentious aesthetics. It also symbolically represents the development ethos of Fort Lauderdale, where the city commission has never met a building plan it didn't like or a lobbyist's check it couldn't cash. Here's an exercise to conduct. Put on your UV ray- blocking sunglasses and wander over to the Palms. Take out a measuring tape and see exactly how much "green space" surrounds the building. Then check out the City of Fort Lauderdale's building regulations regarding how much green space is required per foot of building and see how the two measurements mesh. How did this happen?

Looming precariously over A1A like a Jenga tower ready to topple, the bright pink, perpetually-under-construction Palms is visible from Lauderdale-by-the-Sea down to Port Everglades. Viewed from an airplane, the high-rise condo reaches upward like a rosy flare, warning that you are about to touch down in a jungle of over-development. But the Palms is notable not just for its questionable, pretentious aesthetics. It also symbolically represents the development ethos of Fort Lauderdale, where the city commission has never met a building plan it didn't like or a lobbyist's check it couldn't cash. Here's an exercise to conduct. Put on your UV ray- blocking sunglasses and wander over to the Palms. Take out a measuring tape and see exactly how much "green space" surrounds the building. Then check out the City of Fort Lauderdale's building regulations regarding how much green space is required per foot of building and see how the two measurements mesh. How did this happen?

Take a wisecracking sports junkie from Brooklyn whose accent makes De Niro sound like a Harvard grad, team him with a former college and NFL place-kicker who may be the Doogie Howser of pop culture, and you have the two-headed morning-radio monster affectionately known as Scott and Sid. Their unique mix of sports commentary and a youthful sense of humor that, according to them, borders on irreverence and bad taste, breathes a breath of fresh air into the South Florida radio arena, where Ron and Ron, Howard, and Neil have become so much stale bread. In 1997, Coral Springs High School grad Scott Kaplan turned his connections from a short-lived professional-football stint into an opportunity to host an online radio show at sportsline.com, with Sidney Rosenberg joining him shortly thereafter. Now, just three years later, after being syndicated by CBS radio, their four-hour show reaches more than 25 cities from Maine to Sacramento. They've become the favorite sons of the 18-to-35 demographic, representing South Florida with their paesano-flavored "Lauder-DALE!" They have the social agenda of Jeff Spicoli, the humor of a young Andrew Dice Clay, and the brash attitude of Tony Soprano, whose TV series they plug with reckless abandon. Even some of their regular callers have reached celebrity-like status. Whether they're broadcasting a live play-by-play of a hot-body contest at Bootleggers or jabbering away with the top names in sports and entertainment, these guys do it every morning.

Take a wisecracking sports junkie from Brooklyn whose accent makes De Niro sound like a Harvard grad, team him with a former college and NFL place-kicker who may be the Doogie Howser of pop culture, and you have the two-headed morning-radio monster affectionately known as Scott and Sid. Their unique mix of sports commentary and a youthful sense of humor that, according to them, borders on irreverence and bad taste, breathes a breath of fresh air into the South Florida radio arena, where Ron and Ron, Howard, and Neil have become so much stale bread. In 1997, Coral Springs High School grad Scott Kaplan turned his connections from a short-lived professional-football stint into an opportunity to host an online radio show at sportsline.com, with Sidney Rosenberg joining him shortly thereafter. Now, just three years later, after being syndicated by CBS radio, their four-hour show reaches more than 25 cities from Maine to Sacramento. They've become the favorite sons of the 18-to-35 demographic, representing South Florida with their paesano-flavored "Lauder-DALE!" They have the social agenda of Jeff Spicoli, the humor of a young Andrew Dice Clay, and the brash attitude of Tony Soprano, whose TV series they plug with reckless abandon. Even some of their regular callers have reached celebrity-like status. Whether they're broadcasting a live play-by-play of a hot-body contest at Bootleggers or jabbering away with the top names in sports and entertainment, these guys do it every morning.

The grueling workweek is done, and you have that measly little crumpled paycheck in your back pocket. That small piece of paper represents your toil, your sweat, your blood. And it's barely enough to keep a leaking roof over your head. So what do you do? You take it to Blackstone's, where you not only cash the check (minus a mere 2.5 percent or so), but you get a bottle of their cheapest whiskey to help you forget all about the horrible pay, the terrible job, your bad credit, and the fact that you're all alone in this world. It goes for $8.99 a liter, and it has all the charm and taste of a rag-wrapped old can of turpentine from your father's garage. That's not important. It gets the job done, and you still have a few dimes left to buy a can of Van Camp's pork and beans for dinner from Blackstone's food section. You're set for the weekend. It's a wonderful life.

The grueling workweek is done, and you have that measly little crumpled paycheck in your back pocket. That small piece of paper represents your toil, your sweat, your blood. And it's barely enough to keep a leaking roof over your head. So what do you do? You take it to Blackstone's, where you not only cash the check (minus a mere 2.5 percent or so), but you get a bottle of their cheapest whiskey to help you forget all about the horrible pay, the terrible job, your bad credit, and the fact that you're all alone in this world. It goes for $8.99 a liter, and it has all the charm and taste of a rag-wrapped old can of turpentine from your father's garage. That's not important. It gets the job done, and you still have a few dimes left to buy a can of Van Camp's pork and beans for dinner from Blackstone's food section. You're set for the weekend. It's a wonderful life.

It's not his 21-year résumé as a TV meteorologist, his two Emmys, or even his batting average in predicting hail versus heat that singles out Kamal. It's his style. His hair's always plentifully gelled, his tightly tailored suits gleam with a pseudo-sharkskin veneer, and his tie is exquisitely knotted in just the right spot. All of that gives Kamal the presence of a Vegas high roller, a well-heeled stockbroker, or an up-and-coming New York don. He also had that little run-in with the cops over a D.U.I. rap. Let's face it, the weather broadcast runs pretty much the same from one channel to the next, but Kamal's snappy showmanship stands out in a sea of blue-and-khaki blandness. We're grateful for the shifty zip he brings to local broadcasts.