People & Places

Yes, strolling along Rose Drive just south of Davie Boulevard can bring you more than a view of quaint houses and bougainvillea galore. You can also spot male peacocks preening and strutting as they try to entice their dull-feathered female counterparts into a little bump and grind. If you visit the area at night, you can hear both the conquerors and the conquered crying out from the shadows like cats. The occasional iridescent feather dropped on lawns and sidewalks is the price for all that prancing.

Water is trickling

Lilies glistening as they

Listen to the wind

The number one fringe benefit of living in this section of older ranches and ramblers? Not the proliferation of bail bondsmen in case you get into trouble. Not the proximity to the New River, though that is nice. Not the fact that you’re within walking distance of the jail so you can go see Mom during visiting hours. No, the best thing is the free legal advice gleaned from chats with the neighbors over your backyard fence. In some places it looks like about every other home has been transformed into a lawyer’s office. And these aren’t the persnickety uptown lawyers who wouldn’t give you the time of day — at least not yet, anyway. These are the little guys hungry for business and eager for action. These are the guys who bring their work home with them.

The mullet, of course, is a fish generally caught in our waters for sport, rarely to be eaten. (What did you think we were talking about?) But it’s one of the most interesting aquatic creatures swimming in our midst, especially in late fall, when the fish begin to spawn. The extremely active critters regularly leap out of the water to feed, twirling their silvery bodies in a frenzy, but during spawning season one can see stretches of local waterways absolutely boiling with sex-crazed schools of mullet. Just before dusk hundreds of the fish congregate under bridges and docks, swirling and churning noisily. Just seconds south of downtown, the section of the Tarpon River that passes under the Third Street bridge is prime mullet-spotting (and -catching) territory.

To hear some folks tell it, one can truly enjoy the Everglades only by dropping a canoe into the sawgrass and paddling into the sunset, armed with merely a compass, a bottle of insect repellent, and a healthy respect for the region’s scaly dominant predator. Fortunately for the less intrepid among us, one needn’t go to such extremes to view the wondrous flora and fauna of the River of Grass. The Royal Palm Visitor Center, located on a side road four miles from the park’s main entrance in South Miami-Dade, marks the beginning of two short yet breathtaking walks. The Anhinga Trail, much of which extends over the swamp as a boardwalk, teems with wildlife; herons and egrets stalk the shallows, alligators up to 12 feet long vie for prime sunbathing spots, ospreys wheel overhead in search of aquatic prey, and female soft-shell turtles dig their nests — sometimes within two feet of the trail. The nearby Gumbo Limbo Trail winds through a hammock of the red-barked trees and offers a cool, quiet respite from its more bustling neighbor, the silence broken only by the fluttering of the occasional flycatcher or catbird. If you’re feeling particularly adventurous, the center stands near the entrance to the 28-mile network of Long Pine Key Trails, which wind through hardwood hammocks and sawgrass prairie. Or drop a canoe into the water; they’re for rent in the Flamingo Lodge, Marina, and Outpost Resort, at the park road’s end.

Because his voice is perfectly pitched (rich and sonorous) and his mind is perfectly bent (far to the right), this former Canadian and ex-baseball player is a talk-radio natural. He doesn’t go in for “that Black Helicopter garbage,” but neither does he place any credence in evolution, the moon landing, or the Cold War. (He suspects the fix was in.) What does he believe in? Ronald Reagan, “The Clinton Chronicles,” the Committee of 300 (if you don’t know, don’t ask), and his regular Wednesday guest, “the number one gold and silver man in the country,” a hustler named Larry Heim, who counsels Dan’s listeners on the safe refuge only precious metals can afford from the coming crash. In his disquisitions on the latest public infamy (generally of the Clintons), Gregory tends to get carried away during his one-hour show, which airs at 10 a.m. weekdays, often fumbling around for words. At the height of Pat Buchanan’s “religious war” campaign of ’92, he practically asphyxiated himself in exhorting his listeners to get up and march into the streets. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed. We were waiting for him.

Judging by the fuel prices, you’d think the Mobil station across from the Boca Teeca Country Club offers petrol Cordon Bleu instead of plain old gasoline. And while what you get at the pump is the same old, same old, the convenience store shames most gourmet boutiques. Clear-plastic bins of loose jelly beans and other candies cover half of the front wall — you can fill a little plastic bag with cotton candy, caramel popcorn, bubble gum, and pear-flavor Jelly Belly beans. Next to the candytopia stands the self-serve frozen yogurt station; faced with eight flavors, three sizes, and several toppings, one can easily fill up with more lactose than octane at this Mobil. The station also offers cold drinks, a few plebian items (for example, potato chips), and a glass case of croissants and glorified donuts. Ain’t Boca grand?

Late one night police cars crowded the parking lot, but no one was at the pumps. Was it closed? Had it been robbed? As it happens, it was neither. Still, a Fort Lauderdale officer sternly warned that this is among the most dangerous places in town. Oooh, we’re shaking! It’s the entertaining kind of danger. For example, when a frantic customer didn’t know the English word for his desired purchase, he made a crude pantomime instead. The clerk never missed a beat, handing his enthusiastic patron a condom. A youthful employee may wink and throw in a free bottle opener with your Friday-afternoon beer purchase, though such gifts may be just as easily snatched back by the disapproving boss (his father). You just never know at this family-owned Amoco. Pump your petrol and take your chances.

South Florida breeds car burglars like cockroaches; they’re everywhere, they like to rifle through your stuff, and they’re pretty damn fast. (The only differences are that the thieves aren’t quite as big as the roaches and can’t fly.) So you never want to park your car out there in the public domain. But every now and then, it happens: You’re meeting friends, you plan to ride in their car, and you wonder what to do with your vehicle. The park-and-ride lots have four attributes that make them perfect: They’re centrally located along I-95, well-lit, patrolled by Wackenhut, and free. They also stay open round-the-clock. But Tri-Rail does not recommend leaving your car there overnight, because patrols cease about 9 or 10 p.m. and don’t resume until 4 a.m. We, however, have braved it through midnight and even later at times and have returned to find our car as safe as a bug in a rug… or maybe a roach in a rug.

The bad, bloody news flows from her lips with unhurried urgency. Her incandescent blue eyes burn with earnest sincerity, without betraying the fact that she’s reading from a TelePrompTer. Her hair is serious yet stylish, her wardrobe sharp and understated. She punches the end of her line, then throws to… Craig Stevens. Right there! Look at her profile. Is the corner of her cherubic little mouth turned up just a wee bit? Could it be the smile of someone whose immediate professional future looks tolerable? Could it be, dare we say it, a look of relief? No, it’s gone. Damn. Almost had her, but she’s just too smart. She’s too good. She’s the best.

De Land offers a three-in-one package deal of Florida attractions: In one weekend (without excessive hours whiled away on Interstate 95) you can enjoy Spanish moss-strewn Old South, Disney-tinged commercialism, and lush natural beauty. Located about 225 miles north of West Palm Beach, De Land echoes Savannah, Georgia: Both towns boast graceful architecture and bona fide downtowns. But unlike the isolated Savannah, De Land sits conveniently between Orlando and the Ocala National Forest. While you’re in De Land, have dinner at the Holiday House Restaurant, located at 704 N. Woodland Blvd., across from Stetson University. While you clean off your plate of Southern-style buffet samplings, members of restaurant cofounder Willa Cook’s family watch: Family portraits, each painted by Cook herself, literally cover the walls. Cook, aside from starting a thriving restaurant in 1959 and working as a professional painter, also happens to be a three-time water-skiing world champion. Eating aside, the turn-of-the-century storefronts warrant a nice stroll through downtown De Land, and the university’s architecturally diverse campus beckons. If you like hiking, the best section of the Florida Trail happens to cut right through the nearby national forest, where the trail weaves through gently rolling hills. And when you tire of the outdoors and sleepy Southern charm, the mouse awaits.

Since the mid-1970s Benitez has been the sober, soothing Spanish voice of South Florida news on WLTV-TV (Channel 23), but we like him better as a standup comic whose shtick is broadcast on the radio. The local affiliate of Colombian media giant Caracol already boasts the most rollicking drive-time show in this market in any language. Each weekday from 4 to 7 p.m., “Regreso a Casa” (The Return Home) bubbles with the exuberant puns and parodies of talk-jocks Alfonso Quintero, Paula Arcila, and Saulo Garcia, as well as the dulcet tones and improvised rhymes of Eduardo Vasquez and Gabriel Cuartas, better known as Los Trovadores. But this show really gets cooking at about 5:45, when the motorcycle sound effect heralds Benitez’s arrival live from the Channel 23 studios. (Benitez is a Harley-Davidson nut, famous for tooling around town on his Hog.) After exchanging pleasantries, he adds his basso profundo to the segment called “El Chiste de la Tarde” (The Afternoon Joke), as the group engages in the hallowed Colombian tradition of sitting around telling guy-walks-into-a-bar jokes. Benitez more than holds his own with the hosts, with such winners as: “Manola arrives at the airport counter with this enormous TV. They say to her, Manola, don’t they have TVs in Galicia?’ Yeah, but the thing is, I prefer the shows from here.'” Rimshot, please! Many of the jokes involve untranslatable puns, especially off-color ones. (Suffice to say that arepa has one meaning when applied to a tasty corn patty and quite another when referring to a woman’s anatomy.) Whether or not the jokes make the audience laugh, the fact that every one elicits cacophonous guffaws from the assembled joke-tellers can’t help but amuse listeners, even those with an imperfect grasp of Spanish. When Benitez gives a rundown of that night’s news at 6 p.m., the hilarity settles down just a bit — hasta mañana.

OK, you’re a parent. Junior’s marks this year are underwhelming. And the teacher and the school, well… let’s just say they’re not meeting their obligations to you or your child. What to do? How ’bout doing it yourself? There’s precious little stopping you: The state requires only that you file a letter of intent with the local school board. But who will help you? First rest assured that you’re not alone; currently nearly 6000 children from kindergarten through 12th grade in Palm Beach and Broward counties are home-schooled, and the practice is growing 10 to 15 percent nationally every year. The Florida Parent Educators Association (FPEA) refers parents considering home schooling to several local support groups. (These groups tend to gather their own kind, be they free thinkers or fundamentalists.) Once you begin, home schooling options are almost limitless. A family could spend as much annually as the cost of tuition at a private school, though it’s also possible to do it for next to nothing by buying used materials at the home school associations’ sales and workbooks from pharmacies and grocery stores. Catalogs, online resources, and enrichment courses are available for parents who feel they need more-traditional school supplies; field trips, physical education classes, spelling and geography bees, and book clubs spin off from the support groups as the need arises. How will you know if Junior is progressing? Once again you have options. You can have your child tested by a certified teacher or administer a standardized test. (The Iowa tests are a favorite.) And what about the long-term outcome? To get beyond high school, kids “test out” by taking the GED or dual-enrolling (as home-schooled teenagers) at a community college. Most universities accept home-schooled students with a year’s worth of college grades. Heck, you might even consider Stanford for your baby, baby! Last year Stanford University admitted 9 of the 35 homeschooled children who applied, calling the applicants “an exceptionally strong group.”

Hey, Bob, no one knows what you’re doing right, but keep it up. Cherub-faced and perennially chirpy, Soper could probably announce the arrival of six simultaneous hurricanes with a smile and a cheery sendoff. In the face of gale-force winds, Soper keeps his chin up, warning us about the dangers of flying fruit from neighbors’ trees with cautionary concern. Moreover, Soper’s back-page column in the local section of the Sun-Sentinel (recently redesigned, much to our chagrin) is his forum to answer questions and dispense good-natured advice. Want to know when to plant broccoli? Or why it gets dark at night? Or what makes rain so gosh-darn wet? Or does it ever rain cats and dogs? Or frogs? Just ask — no question is too big, small, or inane for Soper’s genuine good humor to tackle. Moreover, and most important, Soper’s predictions often pan out.

Who would have expected Japanese colonists in South Florida? Well, they were here, nearly a century ago, and although their Yamato farming community in Boca Raton didn’t last, their legacy lives on in the form of the Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens. Think of this 200-acre complex as an organic whole, the way a Zen Buddhist might, and you’ll begin to appreciate the architectural splendor of the place, which is actually made up of two distinct museum buildings and an intricate series of gardens linking them. The original “Yamato-kan,” which opened in 1977, is a replica of a traditional Japanese villa, wrapped around a starkly beautiful rock garden and set on a small island. Nearly a mile of carefully manicured trails winds through half a dozen styles of gardens, each magnificent in its own way, to take you up the hill to the new museum, which opened in 1993. It’s a much grander structure, also inspired by traditional Japanese architecture, featuring galleries, a teahouse, and a 225-seat theater. Between the two buildings is a large lake stocked with turtles and big, colorful Japanese carp that gather at a feeding station on the island, where, by the way, you can take in a collection of bonsai trees, which demonstrate that, in Japanese hands, even nature can be transformed into architecture.

For four hours a day, she berates, taunts, and baits America’s right wing in a relentless, I’m-as-mad-as-hell rant. She’s the liberal anti-Rush of South Florida whose searing afternoon drive-time rhetoric is sure to burn the Bushies and warm the hearts of those who insist Gore Got More. Her voice oscillating between a smoky, late-night-DJ purr and a strident Brooklyn squawk, she’ll dissect the news, casting a particularly jaundiced eye upon any act perpetrated by a Republican. Yet unlike the increasingly irrelevant Limbaugh, Rhodes: (a) does her homework, and (b) accepts calls from those who disagree with her. Her exchanges with such folks sometimes degenerate into unintelligible shriek fests, but more often than not, she lets them speak their piece — before pulling the plug and giving herself the last word, of course. Her advice to the misguided: “Think before opening your mouth to me, because I sure do before I open mine to you.”

Put simply, South Florida as we know it today probably wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for a retired millionaire named Henry Flagler and his vision of linking the state’s entire east coast, from Jacksonville to Key West, by rail. And his Palm Beach estate, Whitehall, now known as the Flagler Museum, is the ultimate monument to the man who paved the way for a Florida economy dominated by agriculture and tourism. When he embarked on the project that would make him the father of Florida development, Flagler had already amassed a fortune through his Standard Oil partnership with, among others, John D. Rockefeller. As if a second career as a railroad magnate weren’t enough, Flagler also constructed a series of spectacular buildings as he made his way down the peninsula: St. Augustine’s Hotel Ponce de Leon, Palm Beach’s Royal Poinciana and the Breakers hotels, and of course Whitehall. The 60,000-square-foot, 55-room “Taj Mahal of North America” became the winter home of Flagler and his wife, Mary Lily Kenan, and today it’s preserved in all the glory that led the New York Herald in 1902 to characterize it as “more wonderful than any palace in Europe, grander and more magnificent than any other private dwelling in the world….” Wander among the trappings of Flagler’s lavish lifestyle (including his own personal railcar), and praise him — or curse him — for making South Florida possible.

On Thanksgiving eve, Miami-Dade County wussed out in fear of the Republicans at the gate. Palm Beach decided to take the festive Thursday off and ended up looking like a bunch of turkeys. (After the county missed the Monday deadline, a British reporter summed up the stupidity of this decision by asking a sheepish judge and canvassing board member Charles Burton, “You chose pumpkin pie and turkey over a national election?”) But Broward’s stalwart chad-checkers — County Commissioner Suzanne Gunzburger, Judge Robert W. Lee, and Judge Robert Rosenberg — cried, “Damn Bill Scherer and Marc Racicot, full speed ahead!” They got their candied yams and cranberry sauce to go and ended up meeting Katherine Harris’s certification deadline for recounted ballots. Though their efforts ultimately didn’t amount to a hill of spiral-sliced ham, we should all give thanks for their dedication and diligence.

LePore was once almost universally admired by politicians in Palm Beach County. She has a genuine charm, works hard, and seems truly to care about the integrity and fairness of the election process. Time was, nobody would say a bad thing about her. Then came her ill-conceived butterfly ballot, which led thousands of Al Gore’s supporters to accidentally vote for Pat Buchanan, thus giving W. the presidency. The world fell in on her. Pundits openly ridiculed her. Angry Dems flooded her office with hate mail. She instantly became the Bill Buckner of national politics, the woman who booted the presidential election. At the same time, she tirelessly had to coordinate the confusing recount mess. In handling all that incredible pressure, LePore proved she did indeed deserve the respect she’d earned for her years of exemplary service. Yet she will forever be remembered for her botched ballot.

She’s pro-choice, she votes, and she wants you to vote as well — especially if you’re pro-choice, too. To that end Burch’s red head can be seen at countless street festivals, Lollapalooza-like concerts, Planned Parenthood clinics, and women’s events, asking anyone within hollering distance, “Are you registered to vote?” She isn’t one of these paid types who accosts people at post offices; Burch does this because she cares deeply about a citizen’s right to choose. In the spirit of knowing one’s enemy, Burch even subscribes to the Christian Coalition’s newsletter. “It’s painful to write the check every year, but I do,” she laughs. Burch has maintained an active volunteer schedule for the past decade, acting as chairperson of the local Planned Parenthood public-affairs committee, the public-policy chair of Boynton Beach’s branch of the American Association of University Women, and this year as president of the Florida Association of Planned Parenthood Affiliates. That last role gave her the opportunity to collar Gov. Jeb Bush in late February, when she regaled him with the benefits of abstinence-based, not abstinence-only, education. To her delight the governor said he wanted to know more. Though pleased by this brush with fame, Burch says she will still go back to the grassroots: setting up tables in local Planned Parenthood clinics, asking women if they are registered to vote, and patiently showing them how to fill in the forms.

When he learned last year that Walgreens planned a traffic-magnet, suburban-style store in his funky-chic Northwood neighborhood — a residential district north of West Palm Beach’s downtown — Carl Flick sounded the alarm. He and his neighbors had spent the last decade pulling Northwood out of a 20-year slump. And while the drug chain’s proposed $4 million investment would have been a boost to the area’s lagging business district, it would also have meant compromising the neighborhood’s New Urbanist master plan. From his post as head of the volunteer Northwood Citizens Planning Committee, Flick used his e-mail expertise and professional savvy (he works as a senior planner for Palm Beach County) to rally the citizenry and stiffen the spines of the city fathers, who drew a line in the pavement and refused the chain’s zoning exemption. Just say no to drug stores.

When the Norton Museum of Art asked the West Palm Beach city commission to overrule the city’s historic preservation board and OK the destruction of a 1920s garage to make way for the museum’s latest round of expansion, the trustees expected to get their way. Not in Mango Promenade. The residents of this narrow peninsula of a neighborhood, less than 12 blocks long and a block and a half wide, have watched the well-funded cultural Goliath grow and devour their district’s northernmost blocks through the years. Not this time. Mango Promenade was the city’s very first automobile suburb, said the working folk whose sweat equity had revived the neighborhood in recent years, and those old garages are central to its character. The Mangoistas took that argument to a packed city hall hearing in February, outdueled a team of Norton lawyers and architects, and convinced the commission, for once, to do the right thing.

When Broward County bicycle coordinator Mark Horowitz suggested putting bike racks on buses more than a decade ago, people thought he was crazy. The bikes would fall off, they’d get stolen, no one would use the racks — Horowitz heard all the complaints. Still he persevered. Two years ago Broward County transit officials finally agreed to try the racks; last summer Palm Beach County transit followed suit. Today officials in both counties declare their programs — Broward’s BYOB (Bring Your Own Bike) and Palm Beach County’s BOB (Bikes On Board) — unmitigated successes. An estimated 800 bicyclists are taking the bus daily in Broward, as are an estimated 500 people in Palm Beach. Pretty impressive numbers for transit systems that have struggled for years to increase ridership. In fact, officials say, they now face a different problem: More bicyclists want to use the buses than they can handle. Horowitz says that problem won’t be solved easily or soon. Each rack can accommodate only two bikes; bigger racks would stick out too far, creating a safety hazard. But being too popular is a nice problem to have — for a change.

Florida citizens enjoy unparalleled access to government documents — our Sunshine Law is the most comprehensive in the nation. But the people whose job it is to hand over the documents are a mixed lot. Some are helpful, some are incompetent, some delight in their ability to obfuscate and complicate. And then there’s Jeff Samuels, public records guy extraordinaire. The last time we called him to look at a file, Samuels said he was really busy and it might take a while. “How long?” we replied, expecting to be put off for weeks. When he answered, “Is tomorrow OK?” we nearly swallowed our No. 2 pencil. On another occasion, after we had copied some documents, Samuels called the next day to report that he’d done a quality check on our request and discovered that we’d been overcharged by 60 cents. They just don’t come any better.

First the former Led Zeppelin guitarist moves to your Las Olas neighborhood. Then the rock god starts showing up at parties, and his wife tries to buy art from your friends. Before long you go to your favorite local bar, and he’s there, too, praising your favorite local band. Sheesh. This guy won’t leave you alone. You need to chill out, so you go to yoga, but after class, you learn that your yoga instructor is Jimmy’s yoga instructor! Maybe Jimmy Page doesn’t want to be the best new local celebrity. Maybe he wants to be you.

A creative writing professor at Florida International University, Duhamel writes the sort of edgy-but-life-affirming poems of which we could all use a little more in our lives. She specializes in fusing her often racy introspection with politics and pop culture; her acute sense of the absurd and her playfulness serve as a strangely perfect backdrop for the exploration of topics such as feminism or the military. In one poem, “Kinky,” Duhamel depicts Barbie and Ken switching heads:

Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin

Over Ken’s bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles

Atop his girlfriend’s body, loosely,

Like one of those novelty dogs

Destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.

The poem goes on to depict a strange sexual encounter that turns gender identity on its head. Duhamel seems to make the mind’s strange, everyday meanderings artful, and she imparts upon all of us a delightful sense that we, too, live in a poem.

Flash back to 1909: There’s little ten-year-old Winnie Lancy at her great-grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary in Vermont. As the festivities die down, her great-grandfather, a Civil War veteran who is about 81 years old, starts talking about something he rarely mentioned: Gettysburg. And Winnie listens with awe as he talks of shaking Abraham Lincoln’s hand on the day the 16th President gave his most famous speech. Suddenly her schoolbooks come to life.

Zoom forward to November 11, 2000. There’s 101-year-old Winnie standing between President Clinton and actor Tom Hanks at the groundbreaking for the new World War II memorial. She has a place of honor at the ceremony because she is the last known living mother of a soldier killed in World War II. Her son, Norman, was killed August 4, 1944, on what was supposed to be his final air mission before coming home. (She loves Hanks but doesn’t care much for Clinton, though she shook his hand anyway.) Winnie, who has lived in Plantation for the past 48 years, earned her own place in history through incredible longevity. Born in 1899, she turned 102 years old April 5; her mind remains remarkably sharp, seemingly resistant to the decaying rigors of time. “God gave me a strong mind,” she says. “If my mind ever goes, then I want to go.” She’s been widowed since 1973 and now lives in Plantation Acres with a daughter, one of her two surviving children out of six. She credits her long life to a good diet (at five-foot-two, she usually weighed a healthy 130) and having never touched cigarettes or alcohol, at least not voluntarily. She says the reason booze repulses her dates back to Christmas in about 1911, when her uncles, playing around, doused her with beer. We’re thankful for that prank, since it might have contributed to the reason we have such a human treasure in our midst today.

The nation ogled the comings and goings at the courthouse during last fall’s postelection battle, but the show goes on, folks. You want big names? How about Johnnie Cochran and Al Sharpton, who recently used the courthouse as a backdrop for basking in the outrage over the Lionel Tate life sentence? Your favorite — or most irksome — television news personalities routinely shoot standup footage across the street. And those annoying lawyers in television commercials who promise big bucks for your mishap? They’ll be there. But it’s the everyday citizenry who most intrigue: the guy who screws up enough courage to contest a speeding ticket; the would-be parents who beam with joy after a final adoption hearing; a guilty defendant’s family looking stunned and puffy-eyed as they exit; school kids filing in for a civics field trip. And if you want a snack for the show, the peanut man is parked on the sidewalk most days. Buck a bag.

Spend enough time watching these people, and you will come to an inevitable conclusion: In addition to providing great theater, the criminal justice system is also a babe magnet. Go to civil and you see hot-to-trot divorcées and racy, newly liberated dudes. Go to the criminal courtrooms and find the beautiful-yet-bellicose Bonnies and their glowering, deliciously dangerous Clydes. And don’t forget all those Angie Harmons and Dylan McDermotts, the women lawyers in their sheer blouses and red power skirts, the men in their suits cut just so. Mm-mm-mm. Some of the finest legal tender you’ll ever see. And as an added bonus, the ones in private practice are flush with cash. If you don’t believe it, just watch them strut outside and climb into their Mercedes convertibles. The courthouse also offers a stage to try out your sure-fire pickup lines, like “With a corpus like that, you can habeas me anytime,” or the more daring, “How about you and me get together and check out my legal briefs?” For those remorseless and oh-so-hot criminals, it’s even better. Try: “I know you’re an armed felon — but damn you’re fine!” Or the sweet, subtle, “Haven’t I seen your wanted poster before?” And of course, the old standard: “What’s a nice girl like you doing getting convicted in a place like this?”

To most people in Broward County, Scherer was just another lawyer/lobbyist type who scurried around getting government contracts. (His plum is a North Broward Hospital District deal.) He wasn’t really in the public eye much — which turns out to be a good thing for all concerned. When the manual recount was under way in Broward, Scherer, a GOP operative, did a pretty good job of turning the procedure into a national joke. As the canvassing board counted votes and the television cameras rolled, Scherer started screaming at the counters like a spoiled child. “You are trolling for votes here!” he yelled. “You can’t get this election any other way…. You told these lawyers to go bring you more votes!” Scherer’s idiotic and arrogant outbursts (he had two of them on successive days) embarrassed not only him but also our fair county and the entire nation. Thank goodness Circuit Judge Robert W. Lee had the good sense finally to toss him out of the proceedings. Now if only we could toss him out of Broward altogether….

Really, what kind of man are you going to find at a bar? Sure, you’ll get lucky — if you consider a fling with a sallow, flabby, weak barfly lucky. We don’t. We want taut buns, bulging biceps, healthy lungs, the whole package. That is why we recommend you skip the bar and try the Firm. We’re not saying this is an exclusively gay gym; there is no such thing. But we are saying its strategic location near Victoria Park and not far from Wilton Manors makes it a more likely place than other gyms to meet like-minded bodies. And buff ones at that. Recommended pickup line: “Need a spot?”

It’s 11 a.m. on the first Sunday morning of the month, and it’s a bright sunshiny day. Call the girlfriends and grab the beach blanket or chairs — you’re going out. It’s important to be a little more subtle than you are on Saturday night at the Sea Monster, although almost anyone and anything goes along the New River between the Broward Center for the Performing Arts and Las Olas Riverfront during the SunTrust Jazz Brunch. This is the best place to meet the right kind of girl. As one brunch regular puts it, “The unsavory types are nursing hangovers on Sunday, so they’re not here.” The cool girls come out in droves because they know that the tunes are good (though not always jazzy), and the people-watching is second to none. The smaller stages, such as the Connie Hoffman Gazebo and the New River Inn stage, provide good music and a few choice secluded and shady spots. Lots of foot traffic means that if you spy someone you like, it’s not hard to bump into them “accidentally” and start a conversation about the weather or the music. While chatting, wander over to get a bite to eat from some of the vendors, then invite her over to your blanket in the shade. The rest is up to you.

The advantages of breaking off a relationship at a highway rest/food stop are almost too numerous to list. For one thing, thanks to passing traffic no one can hear you if you choose to make a scene. Then there’s the transient nature of the other customers, who are more interested in a bathroom break and a quick burger than they are in your love life. The restrooms themselves provide safe refuge, whether it’s to wash your face (if you’re sad), scrawl some graffiti (if you’re mad), or triumphantly groom yourself for your next, er, victim (if you’re glad). And of course the metaphor of breaking up next to a highway can’t be ignored: Love, like traffic, may stall. But you will always, eventually, move on.

When it comes to relationships, everyone screws the pooch once in a while. Yet no one screws it more frequently or spectacularly than those darn heterosexual males. This particularly oafish lot is most often in dire need of extraordinary measures when it comes to begging forgiveness of their mates. And guys, when you’re patching things up, the last thing you want is an audience. What if you flub your lines? What if she slaps your face? What if she’s so moved by your contrition that she strips naked on the spot? Hey, it could happen — and if it does you’ll be glad you heeded our advice and took her to Big Cypress, South Florida’s largest expanse of unspoiled nature. In it you’ll find 729,000 acres of hiking trails, camping spots, endless views, huge cypress stands, swamps, gators, starry skies, a few easily avoided beer-swilling rednecks, and all the solitude freshly stitched-up romance needs.

A specter is haunting CityPlace, and its name is Michael Monet. The actor, model, club kid, and all-around scene fixture died in 1995 of a heroin overdose in the old First Methodist Church that is now the centerpiece of the gaudy West Palm Beach shopping complex. In the early ’90s, in the interval between the bankruptcy of one real-estate scheme and the construction of the current consumerist playland, Monet worked as caretaker of the then-abandoned church. While living in the church’s warren of storage rooms and living quarters, he turned the place into an informal artists’ collective, a drug-fueled hangout, and a nighttime rave club. It could have been an experiment in living — what anarchists call a temporary autonomous zone — but Monet’s personal demons got the better of him, and he sank into the paranoia and depression that led to his suicide. Monet might have despised the fate of his haunt, a short-lived bohemian enclave now entombed in mainstream materialist frenzy. On the other hand, he might have appreciated the irony. Whatever else he was, Monet was both authentic and original — two qualities sorely lacking at CityPlace.

So maybe it didn’t prove a very good hiding place for William Colee’s family, whom Seminole Indians slaughtered in this very place in 1836, but that doesn’t mean the park isn’t good for something. For downtown Fort Lauderdale pencil pushers, this park is a prime spot for ducking deadlines. Only a few blocks away from the grind, this green space offers the cubicle-bound more than four acres to kick back and contemplate tame squirrels, Spanish moss, and watercraft of all sizes and descriptions gliding along the Intracoastal. There is no phone, park ranger, or any other way of getting snagged playing hooky — nothing but quiet. Bring a book, and leave the cell phone in the car.

By the time you get to the police station to pick up an arrest record, you’re probably in a rotten mood. Maybe the cops arrested your kid. Maybe your backyard marijuana farm caught a police officer’s eagle eye. Maybe, in a last-ditch effort to ruin your fascist boss, you’ve launched an extensive background check on the bastard. But whatever your circumstances, a festering rage probably pumps through your veins as you stumble into the station; the last things you need are ornery bureaucrats crawling through the motions of locating incident reports. That’s what you get, though, unless you had the foresight to commit your crime in Davie. The Davie Police Department records section, located in a spanking new building with an open, light ambiance, offers quick, polite service. The men and women retrieving records actually smile. They gladly explain and interpret police reports. And they even listen politely to the rambling stories of injustice that accompany each document.

When original Bice maitre d’ Maurizio Ciminella packed up his seating charts and set up a pasta palace of his own a few blocks north of Worth Avenue, a good deal of the glitz went with him. Revlon gazillionaire Ron Perelman may or may not have been his silent partner, but the balding mogul makes it a regular pit stop, at times in the company of his better half, actress Ellen Barkin. Athletes can’t seem to get enough of Maurizio’s wood-fired, Tuscan-style oven, whatever their game: golfer Greg Norman, All-Pro wide receiver Chris Carter, NASCAR’s Jeff Gordon, god-with-a-puck Bobby Orr. Broadcasters also can’t get enough: NBC Today host Matt Lauer has been known to break bread sticks with CBS Early Show host Bryant Gumbel. You can’t dine anywhere in Palm Beach without running into local boys Jimmy Buffett and Rod Stewart, but Amici has hosted rarer warblers, from the sublime Jackson Browne to the ridiculous Michael Bolton. Perry Farrell and the whole Porno for Pyros crew passed, unfortunately, preferring Maurizio’s newer joint, Galaxy Grille, just a short way south.

Gilbrace Ristel may be mobile, but come summertime he isn’t hard to find. Ristel hails from Haiti, but for seven years he’s been a nomad, roaming the often road-blocked residential streets between Federal Highway and Andrews Avenue near downtown Fort Lauderdale. Listen for the tiny tinkling of ice cream truck themes such as “The Entertainer.” The music has a languid sound, like a 45 rpm record played at 33. And though Ristel can’t hear this classic summer soundtrack from inside his truck, he seems to move at the same easy tempo, never rushing his young customers as they choose from prepackaged treats with names like Creamy Krunch (Ristel’s favorite) and Crazy Coconut.

Forget the stereotype of the cop huddled in his patrol car as he munches on Dunkin’ Donuts. In the wee hours of the night, Fort Lauderdale’s men and women in blue leave their cruisers parked and running at an abandoned Las Olas Boulevard gas station. As their cars purr away our tax dollars, the cops file into the Floridian and plop down for a proper feast. The laid-back Las Olas culinary fixture even cordons off a whole room just for the officers. The separation of the people from the police will recall your nursery school field trip to a country farm: In spite of a fence and Mrs. Pleasant’s warnings not to get too close, you strained to see the ducks, cows, horses, chickens, and… uh, other various and sundry farm-type animals.

Budweiser baseball caps. Harley-Davidson muscle tees. Drafts for a buck and the juke playing songs about exes in Texas. Welcome to working-class Fort Lauderdale. Culturally far from though geographically near to the silicone-studded and Tommy Hilfiger-clad bodies of Himmarshee Village, Grady’s offers working locals a place to toss back a few, watch big-screen TV, and smoke lots and lots of cigarettes. That’s a task the bar’s owners have taken seriously since the place was opened in 1940. Wood-paneled walls and Busch and Bud Lite chandeliers give the place a homey feel, as does mainstay waitress Jane, who’s brought cheeseburgers and suds to regular patrons for 30 years. If you get too rowdy, she’ll set you straight. Quick.

Your Beamer’s buffed to a radical shine, your pecs are engorged from a brisk workout at the gym, you have a fresh and fab haircut, and you’re horny. Better make the scene at the Alibi, where the eye candy is sweet and the drink deals get the juices flowing. This hip hangout in the heart of Wilton Manors — the city-within-a-city that is fast becoming a national gay-relocation destination — features a comfortable lunch patio outdoors, a bank of video screens and a pumping sound system indoors, and even a delightfully equipped men’s room in the back. More important, it’s usually filled with hot-looking men looking for other hot-looking men. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

If David Lynch were scouting for locations around Fort Lauderdale to film his next bizarre odyssey, chances are that Charlie’s Rustic Bay Inn would be near the top of his list. But even if Lynch doesn’t introduce dancing midgets, locals can say with some certainty that this is one of the weirdest watering holes around. Wedged between auto body shops in a forbidding industrial neighborhood, Charlie’s looks like a place you’d bring your truck to have the engine valves adjusted. But inside the tiny, smoky, wood-paneled room is a small range of liquor and bottled beers peeking from an old cooler. The clientele is rough, gruff, and seedy — just the type you’d expect at a clandestine joint such as this. But the real attractions are the tag-team servers behind the bar. These pneumatic women exude a certain scent of naughtiness that makes one wonder what might happen if the mood were to strike them. Imagine the possibilities.

Boca Raton is notorious for symbolizing South Florida’s anticulture: stuffy, platinum-pated, insufferably posh, and full of itself. We wouldn’t want to grow up there. But if worse came to worst, at least there’s one small pinpoint of hipness in this vast bad-jewelry-and-plastic-surgery capital. It’s stuck behind a 7-Eleven off the corner of Palmetto Park Road and Dixie Highway. It’s dark, dank, and about as unpretentiously pretentious as can be. For Boca’s disaffected youth (or at least those of legal drinking age), it’s nice to have a walk-to watering hole sans $13 chocolate martinis or dress-code elitism. What it does offer, besides reasonably priced cold frosty ones, is music of the live, local, and loud variety. How does such a bastion of anarchy survive in tanned, tony Tinselville? We haven’t a clue, but we’re sure glad the Boca Pub exists. Maybe there’s hope for Boca Raton after all.

Along the south side of the New River, just west of I-95 and north of I-595, lies Secret Woods Nature Center, a 56-acre oak-hammock preserve that’s a favorite destination for busloads of kids on school field trips and hikers wanting to explore short trails to observe flora and fauna. In addition to housing raccoons, otters, and other critters, the park is prime habitat for South Florida’s big-ass banana spiders, the yellow-and-black arachnids that weave tremendous, orb-shape webs and sit smack in the middle of them, waiting for unsuspecting bugs to become victuals. Lining the trails on both sides and even creating a canopy above the planks, the eight-legged creatures are literally everywhere. If you’re squeamish about spiders, rent Charlotte’s Web, then saunter on down to Secret Woods and see if you can find a place in your heart for these colorful, if not exactly cuddly, creatures.

When the presidential race was on the line last fall, the world’s attention focused on Florida. And as everyone remembers, we became a nationwide laughingstock, a bunch of nincompoops who couldn’t punch a chad to save our subtropical lives. When the Republican-controlled state legislature threatened to stick its trunk into the mess, the giggles turned into guffaws. “Those crackers are actually pondering naming their own delegates,” said one Tennessee pol. “Why that’s unconstituuuuutional…!” CNN, MSNBC, and scads of foreign TV geeks covered our state’s capital like a strangler fig on a gumbo-limbo. Who saved the day? Democratic Rep. Lois Frankel of West Palm Beach. An ardent feminist with a keen ear for smart political talk, she rallied the beleaguered Democrats (mostly from SoFla, of course) and talked the talk for hours at a time on worldwide airwaves. She always looked fresh, and her speeches were crisp. In the end the legislature adjourned without a decision, leaving the U.S. Supreme Court with one less constitutional conundrum to consider. (Then the Supremes decided to break a statistical tie with a 5-4 vote, a call that will be debated and rehashed through the ages.) Even so, thanks to our Lois, the world realized that every Floridian isn’t crazy — only those house leaders whose names rhyme with weenie.

Fashion-conscious South Florida has a way of keeping the passé at bay. Hairstyles that have come and gone are usually relegated to backwoods parts of the Panhandle, appearing every so often in Davie or at the odd demolition derby or NASCAR event. But the haircut police evidently haven’t cracked down on the Home Depot in Oakwood Plaza, where you can rock your Tennessee top hat without fear of reprisal. You know: your mudflap, your Kentucky waterfall, your IROC cut, your Billy Ray Cyrus. Translated, we’re talking about the long-in-back, short-in-front style about which folks guffaw behind your back — everywhere but here. A recent visit for home-improvement supplies found the SoFla mullet alive and well. Keep your eyes peeled and you may even spot a few tykes with adorable mini-mullets.

A socialized dog is a happy dog, and a dog allowed to run off-leash is in heaven. Problem is there aren’t many places left for dogs to run around unfettered in this concrete jungle of ours. Bark Park, “the park dogs ask for by name,” is just the place to let Bowser play with other dogs and get his romp on. Located inside Snyder Park — park admission for adults is $1.50 weekdays, $2 weekends — Bark Park is a fully fenced facility just perfect for four-legged frolicking. If your hound has a hankering to run with the big dogs, then by all means, let her hang out in the area designated for “adventurous” dogs. If not head for the separate enclosure for smaller dogs. Tree-lined trails run through the park, and along the way are side-by-side drinking fountains at heights for dogs and people. Play equipment such as ramps, hurdles, and tunnels are available if your dog is up for the challenge. Although much fun can be had at Bark Park, one must abide by the rules. Your pooch must be on a leash on the way in and out of the park, and you need to have your leash with you inside. You’ll also need your dog’s proof of current rabies shots. The most important rule of all: Owners must clean up after their dogs. Scooper supply depots are set up throughout the park for this purpose. Hey, better to scoop now than deal with poopy paws later.

Every city has a Mardi Gras parade these days. So what separates a good one from a bad one? Access to alcohol, plain and simple. If your city has a Mardi Gras parade yet cracks down on public drinking, your city has a substandard celebration. Hollywood, though, kicks out the jams, combining the best of Carnaval with a little Mardi Gras. The city closes downtown to auto traffic for the big parade, usually the Saturday night before Fat Tuesday, and party people pour into the streets, where they willingly sacrifice their dignity for a few strands of beads. Plus, bars sell beer outside, just like in the Big Easy. After the spectacle passes, make your way to Young Circle and party the night away to live music. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

In the fall peewee football reigns and the smell of popcorn wafts from the concession stand. In winter Latin-American and Haitian teams in brightly colored soccer jerseys take to the field while, on the basketball court, shirts and skins dribble, then dunk. Paths offer biking and skating, an old train locomotive encourages climbing, and ample shelter is available for the days that rain dampens an intimate picnic. At Holiday Park, which was recently renovated, Broward County’s white-skirted seniors can find love at the Jimmy Evert Tennis Center; the homeless may unfurl their bedrolls at twilight and enjoy the park’s 91.1 acres of respite. And when the downtown skyline is dusted in sunset and framed by green, even a plodding, obligatory jog becomes a holiday indeed.

Back in the 1930s, well-to-do Chicago brothers Preston and Tom Wells fell in love with Fort Lauderdale — and with Champ Carr, the likable fishing guide and raconteur who took them out on their annual winter excursions into the briny deep. In 1936 the pair decided to build a small but exclusive resort hotel on the banks of the New River and install Carr as manager; they even named it the Champ Carr Hotel. When Carr retired in 1947, the lodging was renamed the Riverside Hotel. Other than that, it hasn’t changed much from the original three-story hotel and six-story tower. It’s still an unpretentious, European-style inn with the original Lapa Lapa tile floors and coral rock keystone fireplaces designed by society architect Francis Abreu. The 105 traditional rooms and suites, which range in price from $149 out of season to $269 in season, still boast their original Jacobean-style oak furniture, and although the clientele has changed from wealthy dowagers to hard-charging business types, the rhythm and serenity of the hotel hasn’t. Food offerings include two well-regarded restaurants, both Ron Morrison creations: the moderately priced Indigo, with its Southeast Asian fusion cuisine, and the expensive Grill Room, a steak-and-seafood house modeled after a British colonial pub in some far-flung outpost. A word of warning: the hotel is in the process of adding 112 rooms and 4 executive suites in an adjacent 13-story tower by 2002. As at any of the world’s newly renovated grand old hotels, you’ll want to consider asking for accommodations in the old wing.

You’re fresh off the truck from Kansas. You read somewhere that you have ten days after moving to the Sunshine State to get a Florida driver’s license. So you dutifully march your newbie ass down to the nearest office of the Department of Highway Safety & Motor Vehicles. And you wait in line. And wait. And wait. And wait. The woman seated to your right snaps her gum and gripes in a thick Bronx accent. The sweaty guy on your left holds a loud conversation with his pal via the cell phone grafted to his ear. It dawns on you that you may have died and gone to hell. Our mentioning that salvation was only a phone call away will only make it worse, but it’s true. You could have made an appointment. You’d have been in and out in half an hour, the proud possessor of a spanking-new Florida license complete with your smiling mug. But you didn’t make an appointment. You’re a loser. Hope you brought something to read.

OK, yeah, we admit it. Sometimes we time it. We synchronize our exit from I-595 eastbound to I-95 southbound, or switch from I-95 northbound to I-595 westbound to coincide with the landing of — whoooooooooooooooooooosh — a jumbo jet. What makes this experience, well, such fun is the same thing behind the appeal of roller coasters: all the fear, none of the consequences. What if the pilot gauges it wrong? Luckily it’s never happened. And you can get even closer to the planes by driving around Perimeter Road, which is open to the public and hugs the airport fence all the way around. Still, we prefer the spontaneity of a chance encounter, as well as the terror demonstrated by some motorists who are obviously not in the know. In very few places on Earth do three major traffic arteries — I-95, I-595, and Federal Highway — nestle so close to an airport. Enjoy it.

We all know that politicians are scoundrels at heart, and we all long to see them punished for their evil deeds, though too often we cannot quite catch them in the actual doing of said deeds. They’re slippery little devils, which is how they came to be politicians in the first place. So it is all the more delicious when an especially powerful pol slips up and is justly punished. Such is the case with former Broward County commissioner Scott Cowan. Last year Cowan got busted for filching funds from his 1998 campaign. He wrote checks to fictitious people and cashed them himself, sprinkled money on his daughters, bought himself some nice furniture — the works. Really blatant, really stupid stuff from the man once considered the king of county politics and a dealmaker extraordinaire. Cowan pleaded guilty to six misdemeanor violations of election laws last November and got a six-month jail sentence and a $6000 fine. Most delicious of all: When a judge let him out on work release, the once-mighty Cowan got a job at a pizza parlor.

One more time: Butterfly ballot. Angry Democrats. Happy Republicans. OK, we’re done.

We like Lori Parrish. We really do. She’s a Southern lady with an attitude almost as big as her hair, and we respect her for that. Sure, we’ve slammed her a couple of times, but we’re paid to do that. It’s nothing personal. Because we like her. We really do. Of course we might have raised her ire a bit last August when we exposed the fact that she charged a whopping $13,000 in cell phone bills to her campaign — in which she ran virtually unopposed. But now at least we know who was on the other end of those phone calls: good old lobbyists. They are, after all, her best friends, according to statements she made in an April 2 article written by that cute and rascally Sun-Sentinel columnist, Buddy Nevins. In the story Parrish called attempts to regulate lobbyists and limit their power a “bunch of B.S.” To clarify her point, she gave a classic quote about the relationship between politicians and influence peddlers: “All of us play golf, play cards, go to the movies, are attendants in [lobbyists’] weddings, or a variety of other things,” Parrish said. “Some of us even married a lobbyist or two along the way. To me, [curbing lobbying] is simply unnecessary.” Now, don’t that just wrap a soft blanket around your little heart and make it coo? Who knew that government here in Broward was such a love-in?

True story: Lee Hillier, then a Plantation city commissioner, is sitting at the bar at Grin’s Pub, a pleasant dive, having a few beers. The gnarliest half-drunk patron in the place, a man with few teeth and a dirty gray beard, comes up to him and starts complaining about a house in Plantation that gets on his nerves. The house has a trailer on the property and violates half the codes in Plantation’s book, the drunk says. Hillier listens for a while and — bam! — the commissioner remembers the house in question. Soon, he’s telling the drunk how he tried in vain to have his city enforce codes there.

The story illustrates both the best and the worst about Hillier, who lost his reelection bid in March. He knew more about Plantation — every cul-de-sac, intersection, zone, rule, and code — than anyone else in the city. He also had one hell of a vision: He wanted to create an international marketplace on State Road 7, and thus revitalize the predominantly black area east of the Turnpike. He wanted to thwart the power of lawyer/lobbyist Emerson Allsworth (who happens to be a convicted drug money launderer) and Allsworth’s partner, Bill Laystrom, who together represent developers and control the Plantation commission. Hillier fought to clean up the city, add sidewalks and lights, and increase access to public facilities for disabled citizens. The problem: He failed to build any consensus on those issues. The ingrained, aging, white conservative Plantation political machine, which has neglected the east side for decades, beat Hillier down at every turn. He was far too blunt for diplomacy and thus never managed to clean up the city, or even that run-down house, for that matter. In the end, he proved you can’t even fight City Hall from within its walls — at least not in tight-fisted, cowardly Plantation. But we salute him for trying.

Sure, it’s been a year of skirmishing in South Florida. The baseball stadium, the convention center, Elián, and of course Chad all sparked disputes that were better than anything that happens in the ring these days. But tear gas notwithstanding, all those issues still qualified as good, clean fun — and that’s not the way we like our debate. We are particularly enamored of the allegedly disgusting behavior that led to the Town of Davie’s suspension last year of Rocky Johnson, dad of World Wrestling Federation champ The Rock. Johnson, himself a former pro grappler, was hired in June to a $9-per-hour job working around kids as an activities leader at Pine Island Community Center. Before he was summarily dispatched, he had a helluva time at taxpayers’ expense. Among other things, cops say, he received a blow job, got a massage, and took naps at work; bragged to the kids about his (and The Rock’s) penis size; and inappropriately touched a camp counselor’s behind. Twice. How was he hired? Three clues: Davie mayor Harry Venis drove Johnson to his interview, sat in on it, and was listed by Johnson as a reference. We just can’t understand why they sacked Rocky. This is the kind of behavior that gets people elected governor in Minnesota.

No one likes those lazy jerks who hang their Christmas lights up when they first move into a new place, then leave them up until they move out. When it’s just a few strings of icicles, this practice is at least tolerable. But when the supposedly posher-than-thou Las Olas Boulevard boasts a herd of reindeer that refuses to admit the season has come and gone, we have a problem. The city takes down all the other lights that hang over Las Olas Boulevard at Christmas time in Florida’s only visible sign of holiday cheer, yet the stubborn herd remains. Strolling past the boulevard’s galleries and boutiques gives one a sense of this well-heeled town in all its glory. But then you see the reindeer. Maybe they’re not so bad after all. They remind us that even the highest of Fort Lauderdale’s high-end commercial districts can be just as tacky as the lazybones next door.

With the exception of one or two stations, South Florida radio sucks. Downloading music from Napster is generally a better bet. But now, thanks to Lars, Dr. Dre, and a few other industry crybabies, Napster is soon to be no more. Good thing you can still stream in Real Audio tunes via TheHoneyComb.com, an all-purpose site that’s plugged into what’s happening in South Florida. THC’s raison d’être stems from a distaste for commercialized, “corporate” radio, and the site wants to reach out to listeners who feel the same. The radio playlist is an eclectic mix of dub, jungle, and rock from both lesser- and well-known artists like Baby Robots, Leftfield, and King Tubby. The site also features an extensive listing of shows at venues from Coral Gables to Orlando. National and local acts can also “bee” seen at the Hive (Respectable Street in West Palm Beach, the site’s de facto clubhouse). THC is updated monthly, offering links to other clubs, Florida bands, online radio stations, magazines, e-zines, record labels, and other relevant Websites. In other words, this HoneyComb is buzzing — yeah-yeah-yeah!

YP president John Haley sums up his fundraising philosophy thus: “Give them what they want, and like, so that it becomes irresistible.” And what do yuppies want? Parties! At least 3000 people in their twenties and thirties have joined, making this the largest young-professionals group to support a charity in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Last year YP hosted 42 events ranging from nightclub mixers to ski trips. Its members contributed $250,000 to Covenant House’s $9 million budget last year, an admirable 82 percent of which went directly to the costs of helping the runaway, homeless, and at-risk youth who come to Covenant House for help. Perhaps all that beneficence explains why so many people at YP functions are smiling — or maybe it’s because they have something to confess on Sunday. Covenant House, is, after all, a Catholic charity (though it is not affiliated with any archdiocese and does not discriminate in its programs). And though the Holy Father may not sanction all the goings-on at a YP function, he certainly can’t complain about all the good the group is doing.

Standing upon this hill, one can see for a good long distance in almost any direction. Of course the vista serves mostly to reinforce the general flatness of the surrounding terrain: pleasant, mostly green, utterly monotonous. Is this view worth enduring the smell? Probably not. While the vast majority of Broward County’s waste is burned to generate power, more than 50,000 tons of it was accepted at the Broward County Interim Contingency Landfill (also known as the Southwest Regional Landfill) last year. That may seem like a lot, but Broward County Waste Management predicts that the site has enough room to last the rest of the century. What happens then, you may ask? Well, that’s why these places are called “interim contingency landfills.” In other words Waste Management is waiting for something better to come along; we hope it’ll happen within the next 100 years.

If you’ve done any B&B-hopping in your life, you know the stellar inns are historied, meandering mansions. Stay in those B&Bs — often Victorian style — and you can almost hear the echoes of butlers announcing guests and piano lessons in the music room. Trouble is, Queen Victoria held little sway in South Florida, and venerable homesteads are few. Though it doesn’t date back quite to Her Majesty’s reign, the mansionesque Caribbean Quarters, built in 1939, captures some of the feel of yesteryear — and stands within a block of the beach. The three-story B&B’s spacious courtyard is an oasis from the hubbub of the beachfront and features a spa, lush vegetation, trellis centerpiece, and tables from which to eat that namesake breakfast. Rooms are swank, some with hardwood flooring and tiles preserved from original construction. Prices range from $75 to $175 during summer season, $110 to $220 in the winter. We are amused.

Each year our readers choose A1A as the best scenic drive in Broward and Palm Beach counties and of course they’re right — in part. There are some scuzzy stretches of this oceanside road, to say nothing of the many miles of looming condos blocking that same ocean from view. But the stretch of A1A from the Flagler Memorial Bridge to Southern Boulevard (known to its Palm Beach residents as Ocean Boulevard) is truly scenic — if your idea of scenic runs to the homes of the rich and famous. The route is lined with French chateaux, Italian villas, English Georgian, plain old American colonial, and the ubiquitous Mediterranean. It’s a visit to the Wizard of Oz-tentation in his Emerald City of envy-green hedges clipped to manicured perfection and acres of velvety lawn (no drought in Palm Beach, folks). If all this splendor makes you grind your teeth, turn your eyes eastward. With the exception of an occasional gazebo larger than your house, the road is open to the vast expanse of the Atlantic crashing below the cliffs. Nature knows what scenic is.

Ahh, South Florida. Sun, sand, surf, and shade. Shade? OK, so South Florida, with its wide-open beaches and signature palm trees, isn’t exactly renowned for offering lovers of the outdoors much natural relief from the heat — which is just one of the things that makes a milelong stretch of State Road A1A through the tiny, tony town of Gulf Stream so, well, cool. Along the stretch just north of Delray Beach, drivers and bikers are shrouded by a canopy of spectacular Australian pines that line the oceanfront highway. Can you believe that, if state transportation workers had had their way, the 400 trees would be gone? For years, well-heeled town residents fought to save the 80-year-old trees, which are on the state’s hit list because they have a tendency to blow over during hurricanes. In 1996, in response to residents’ appeals, the Florida Legislature finally passed a special law that protects this swath of trees from state chain saws in perpetuity. State road officials and environmentalists, who hate the trees because they’re not native and crowd out vegetation that is, are still upset that the town won the war of the wood. But when it comes to stuff along the shore that crowds out natives and has a tendency to fall down during hurricanes, trees sure beat condos.

She writes one of those lifestyle columns you instinctively know you’re going to hate. It’s called “Real Life,” but as any discerning newspaper reader knows, anytime a newspaper writer is set loose to write about “family issues,” the column is going to be sappy, self-involved, and teeth-grittingly annoying. Emily Minor, however, rises above the my-life-is-so-damned-interesting phenomenon. Yes, her husband and her son are regular fixtures in the column she’s been writing since 1995. But more often she leaves her family at home and writes about real people — from parents watching their mentally handicapped adult child strive for independence, to a prominent doctor insisting that she didn’t fully appreciate life until she got breast cancer, to a mother attending a Backstreet Boys concert to deal with her daughter’s death. Minor isn’t preachy, falsely modest, cloyingly familiar, or overly dramatic. “I’m such a beer-swilling slob,” she writes. And you believe her and love her for it. In fact reading her column is a lot like having a beer with a friend who gives you something to think about but isn’t offended if you disagree with her views. She’s also not averse to stepping down from her lofty perch to write news stories. During the election melee that gripped Palm Beach County this past fall, she wrote profiles of elections supervisor Theresa LePore and county commissioner/canvassing board member Carol Roberts that depicted real women, not the monsters we saw in the national media. Moreover she’s proof that in real life, stories don’t always have storybook endings. Three years ago a New York literary agent contacted her about writing a book. The agent, Stephen Lord, discovered Jack Kerouac and, in so doing, gave the Beat generation its bible, On the Road. After getting an advance from Harcourt Brace, Minor took a six-month leave of absence to become an author. But when she was done, editors decided not to publish it. “My mom loves it,” she says. That’s real life.

This place is worth a visit if only to savor its flag: a scepter, star, and crown in purple, red, and white that resembles nothing so much as the banner of a Belgravian fascist league out of 1930s Europe. In truth this denomination is nothing more than an early-20th-century Pentecostal outgrowth of Border State Baptist schisms (how’s that for obscure origins?), another of the gang of holy rollers that has made big inroads into the African-American and Hispanic communities in South Florida. Not for the faint of faith: baptism, speaking in tongues, and faith healing are all de rigueur. Get down on your knees, raise your hands in the air, and give thanks.

The Sun-Sentinel television critic is not a man to suffer fools gladly. Therefore, when you write him a letter to ask him a dumb question — like “When can I catch reruns of Touched by an Angel?” — be sure to brace yourself. In his column in Sunday’s On TV, he will publish your inane query, then he will administer the appropriate punishment. And if you’re from the wrong part of town, watch out! Jicha’s fond of rubbing your nose in it. “No wonder you’re single,” he berated one hapless writer. “You live in Weston.” Don’t even get Jicha started on political topics, especially global warming. He’ll unleash a torrent of bile scalding enough to rival the surface of the sun. “It scares me that people still believe that nonsense,” he recently testified. “Try talking about global warming to the people up in Canada.” Jicha’s anti-environmental theories are about as valid as Rush Limbaugh’s, but that still won’t get him to shut his pie hole. That’s why we keep reading him.

Sorry, but not all of us are down with this whole New Urbanism kick. Building ritzy, cookie-cutter cities with hyperexpensive shops and homes doesn’t sound like a good way to build a sense of community to us. It sounds more like a refuge for the Thurston and Lovey Howells among us — and that’s exactly what CityPlace has become. Go out there and see the beautiful people strolling along the fake Main Street or dining at Bellagio or shopping at some “art” store full of trinkets that only the two Dons — Trump and King — can afford. Our recent visit there was pleasant and the food and drinks were great (at $7 per margarita, they’d better be), but the atmosphere was so bland we started feeling like extras in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Rich white people everywhere. Yuck. If we see another brightly colored sweater wrapped around somebody’s waist, we’re gonna hurl. But CityPlace does at least one thing oh-so-right: parking. The huge parking garages are wonderfully located a short escalator ride from the action, and amazingly parking is free. That’s right. No change, no bills, no crazy-ass chips that you have to cash in afterward. Fort Lauderdale, are you listening?

Plenty of crackerjack reporters slave away at The Herald‘s Broward County headquarters. We think, for example, that Lisa Arthur, Dan de Vise, and Bill Yardley do some solid work — given the constraints of daily journalism. But this award should go to someone unsung; thus our pick is Diaz. A general-assignment reporter with solid news judgment and a fluid writing style, Diaz has proven himself adept at both cops-reporting and feature-writing. He shies from sensationalism, writes with flair, and imparts his work with a rare sensitivity. Diaz’s empathy for his subjects and sense of fairness distinguish him as one of The Herald‘s most promising up-and-coming scoops.

One day after the paper reported that Glades Central’s girls’ basketball team “beat the crap out of” William T. Dwyer’s squad, 62-33, it printed the following Editor’s Note: “A brief article in the high school girls’ basketball roundup in The Post Tuesday used inappropriate language to describe the Glades Central High School victory, 62-33, over William T. Dwyer High School. The Post regrets the lapse in judgment and apologizes to readers.” Boy, those editors really wrote the shit out of that one.

It sounds like a nightmare: You’re driving your black Eddie Bauer-edition Ford Explorer through a maze of roads lined with cookie-cutter, single-family homes. Slowly the houses melt together into a blur of fawn-colored stucco, garage doors, and sentrylike mailboxes. Perhaps you’ve passed your house several times already — you cannot even recall whether you opted for the model A, with the picture window, or model B, with the bonus room. Your neighborhood, which has the hypnotic monotony of the ocean’s rolling waves, has lulled you into a stupor. It sounds silly, but unless you’re a homing pigeon or have Lewis and Clark’s sense of direction, buying a house in Pembroke Falls could mark your mental undoing. But if the lure of this gated community intoxicates you, try putting a little red flag on your roof — and hope no one else follows suit.

On Thanksgiving eve, Miami-Dade County wussed out in fear of the Republicans at the gate. Palm Beach decided to take the festive Thursday off and ended up looking like a bunch of turkeys. (After the county missed the Monday deadline, a British reporter summed up the stupidity of this decision by asking a sheepish judge and canvassing board member Charles Burton, “You chose pumpkin pie and turkey over a national election?”) But Broward’s stalwart chad-checkers — County Commissioner Suzanne Gunzburger, Judge Robert W. Lee, and Judge Robert Rosenberg — cried, “Damn Bill Scherer and Marc Racicot, full speed ahead!” They got their candied yams and cranberry sauce to go and ended up meeting Katherine Harris’s certification deadline for recounted ballots. Though their efforts ultimately didn’t amount to a hill of spiral-sliced ham, we should all give thanks for their dedication and diligence.

Late one night police cars crowded the parking lot, but no one was at the pumps. Was it closed? Had it been robbed? As it happens, it was neither. Still, a Fort Lauderdale officer sternly warned that this is among the most dangerous places in town. Oooh, we’re shaking! It’s the entertaining kind of danger. For example, when a frantic customer didn’t know the English word for his desired purchase, he made a crude pantomime instead. The clerk never missed a beat, handing his enthusiastic patron a condom. A youthful employee may wink and throw in a free bottle opener with your Friday-afternoon beer purchase, though such gifts may be just as easily snatched back by the disapproving boss (his father). You just never know at this family-owned Amoco. Pump your petrol and take your chances.

OK, yeah, we admit it. Sometimes we time it. We synchronize our exit from I-595 eastbound to I-95 southbound, or switch from I-95 northbound to I-595 westbound to coincide with the landing of — whoooooooooooooooooooosh — a jumbo jet. What makes this experience, well, such fun is the same thing behind the appeal of roller coasters: all the fear, none of the consequences. What if the pilot gauges it wrong? Luckily it’s never happened. And you can get even closer to the planes by driving around Perimeter Road, which is open to the public and hugs the airport fence all the way around. Still, we prefer the spontaneity of a chance encounter, as well as the terror demonstrated by some motorists who are obviously not in the know. In very few places on Earth do three major traffic arteries — I-95, I-595, and Federal Highway — nestle so close to an airport. Enjoy it.

It sounds like a nightmare: You’re driving your black Eddie Bauer-edition Ford Explorer through a maze of roads lined with cookie-cutter, single-family homes. Slowly the houses melt together into a blur of fawn-colored stucco, garage doors, and sentrylike mailboxes. Perhaps you’ve passed your house several times already — you cannot even recall whether you opted for the model A, with the picture window, or model B, with the bonus room. Your neighborhood, which has the hypnotic monotony of the ocean’s rolling waves, has lulled you into a stupor. It sounds silly, but unless you’re a homing pigeon or have Lewis and Clark’s sense of direction, buying a house in Pembroke Falls could mark your mental undoing. But if the lure of this gated community intoxicates you, try putting a little red flag on your roof — and hope no one else follows suit.

LePore was once almost universally admired by politicians in Palm Beach County. She has a genuine charm, works hard, and seems truly to care about the integrity and fairness of the election process. Time was, nobody would say a bad thing about her. Then came her ill-conceived butterfly ballot, which led thousands of Al Gore’s supporters to accidentally vote for Pat Buchanan, thus giving W. the presidency. The world fell in on her. Pundits openly ridiculed her. Angry Dems flooded her office with hate mail. She instantly became the Bill Buckner of national politics, the woman who booted the presidential election. At the same time, she tirelessly had to coordinate the confusing recount mess. In handling all that incredible pressure, LePore proved she did indeed deserve the respect she’d earned for her years of exemplary service. Yet she will forever be remembered for her botched ballot.

South Florida breeds car burglars like cockroaches; they’re everywhere, they like to rifle through your stuff, and they’re pretty damn fast. (The only differences are that the thieves aren’t quite as big as the roaches and can’t fly.) So you never want to park your car out there in the public domain. But every now and then, it happens: You’re meeting friends, you plan to ride in their car, and you wonder what to do with your vehicle. The park-and-ride lots have four attributes that make them perfect: They’re centrally located along I-95, well-lit, patrolled by Wackenhut, and free. They also stay open round-the-clock. But Tri-Rail does not recommend leaving your car there overnight, because patrols cease about 9 or 10 p.m. and don’t resume until 4 a.m. We, however, have braved it through midnight and even later at times and have returned to find our car as safe as a bug in a rug… or maybe a roach in a rug.

We all know that politicians are scoundrels at heart, and we all long to see them punished for their evil deeds, though too often we cannot quite catch them in the actual doing of said deeds. They’re slippery little devils, which is how they came to be politicians in the first place. So it is all the more delicious when an especially powerful pol slips up and is justly punished. Such is the case with former Broward County commissioner Scott Cowan. Last year Cowan got busted for filching funds from his 1998 campaign. He wrote checks to fictitious people and cashed them himself, sprinkled money on his daughters, bought himself some nice furniture — the works. Really blatant, really stupid stuff from the man once considered the king of county politics and a dealmaker extraordinaire. Cowan pleaded guilty to six misdemeanor violations of election laws last November and got a six-month jail sentence and a $6000 fine. Most delicious of all: When a judge let him out on work release, the once-mighty Cowan got a job at a pizza parlor.

Don’t Blame Me, I Thought I Voted for Gore

She’s pro-choice, she votes, and she wants you to vote as well — especially if you’re pro-choice, too. To that end Burch’s red head can be seen at countless street festivals, Lollapalooza-like concerts, Planned Parenthood clinics, and women’s events, asking anyone within hollering distance, “Are you registered to vote?” She isn’t one of these paid types who accosts people at post offices; Burch does this because she cares deeply about a citizen’s right to choose. In the spirit of knowing one’s enemy, Burch even subscribes to the Christian Coalition’s newsletter. “It’s painful to write the check every year, but I do,” she laughs. Burch has maintained an active volunteer schedule for the past decade, acting as chairperson of the local Planned Parenthood public-affairs committee, the public-policy chair of Boynton Beach’s branch of the American Association of University Women, and this year as president of the Florida Association of Planned Parenthood Affiliates. That last role gave her the opportunity to collar Gov. Jeb Bush in late February, when she regaled him with the benefits of abstinence-based, not abstinence-only, education. To her delight the governor said he wanted to know more. Though pleased by this brush with fame, Burch says she will still go back to the grassroots: setting up tables in local Planned Parenthood clinics, asking women if they are registered to vote, and patiently showing them how to fill in the forms.

The bad, bloody news flows from her lips with unhurried urgency. Her incandescent blue eyes burn with earnest sincerity, without betraying the fact that she’s reading from a TelePrompTer. Her hair is serious yet stylish, her wardrobe sharp and understated. She punches the end of her line, then throws to… Craig Stevens. Right there! Look at her profile. Is the corner of her cherubic little mouth turned up just a wee bit? Could it be the smile of someone whose immediate professional future looks tolerable? Could it be, dare we say it, a look of relief? No, it’s gone. Damn. Almost had her, but she’s just too smart. She’s too good. She’s the best.

One more time: Butterfly ballot. Angry Democrats. Happy Republicans. OK, we’re done.

By the time you get to the police station to pick up an arrest record, you’re probably in a rotten mood. Maybe the cops arrested your kid. Maybe your backyard marijuana farm caught a police officer’s eagle eye. Maybe, in a last-ditch effort to ruin your fascist boss, you’ve launched an extensive background check on the bastard. But whatever your circumstances, a festering rage probably pumps through your veins as you stumble into the station; the last things you need are ornery bureaucrats crawling through the motions of locating incident reports. That’s what you get, though, unless you had the foresight to commit your crime in Davie. The Davie Police Department records section, located in a spanking new building with an open, light ambiance, offers quick, polite service. The men and women retrieving records actually smile. They gladly explain and interpret police reports. And they even listen politely to the rambling stories of injustice that accompany each document.

When he learned last year that Walgreens planned a traffic-magnet, suburban-style store in his funky-chic Northwood neighborhood — a residential district north of West Palm Beach’s downtown — Carl Flick sounded the alarm. He and his neighbors had spent the last decade pulling Northwood out of a 20-year slump. And while the drug chain’s proposed $4 million investment would have been a boost to the area’s lagging business district, it would also have meant compromising the neighborhood’s New Urbanist master plan. From his post as head of the volunteer Northwood Citizens Planning Committee, Flick used his e-mail expertise and professional savvy (he works as a senior planner for Palm Beach County) to rally the citizenry and stiffen the spines of the city fathers, who drew a line in the pavement and refused the chain’s zoning exemption. Just say no to drug stores.

De Land offers a three-in-one package deal of Florida attractions: In one weekend (without excessive hours whiled away on Interstate 95) you can enjoy Spanish moss-strewn Old South, Disney-tinged commercialism, and lush natural beauty. Located about 225 miles north of West Palm Beach, De Land echoes Savannah, Georgia: Both towns boast graceful architecture and bona fide downtowns. But unlike the isolated Savannah, De Land sits conveniently between Orlando and the Ocala National Forest. While you’re in De Land, have dinner at the Holiday House Restaurant, located at 704 N. Woodland Blvd., across from Stetson University. While you clean off your plate of Southern-style buffet samplings, members of restaurant cofounder Willa Cook’s family watch: Family portraits, each painted by Cook herself, literally cover the walls. Cook, aside from starting a thriving restaurant in 1959 and working as a professional painter, also happens to be a three-time water-skiing world champion. Eating aside, the turn-of-the-century storefronts warrant a nice stroll through downtown De Land, and the university’s architecturally diverse campus beckons. If you like hiking, the best section of the Florida Trail happens to cut right through the nearby national forest, where the trail weaves through gently rolling hills. And when you tire of the outdoors and sleepy Southern charm, the mouse awaits.

We like Lori Parrish. We really do. She’s a Southern lady with an attitude almost as big as her hair, and we respect her for that. Sure, we’ve slammed her a couple of times, but we’re paid to do that. It’s nothing personal. Because we like her. We really do. Of course we might have raised her ire a bit last August when we exposed the fact that she charged a whopping $13,000 in cell phone bills to her campaign — in which she ran virtually unopposed. But now at least we know who was on the other end of those phone calls: good old lobbyists. They are, after all, her best friends, according to statements she made in an April 2 article written by that cute and rascally Sun-Sentinel columnist, Buddy Nevins. In the story Parrish called attempts to regulate lobbyists and limit their power a “bunch of B.S.” To clarify her point, she gave a classic quote about the relationship between politicians and influence peddlers: “All of us play golf, play cards, go to the movies, are attendants in [lobbyists’] weddings, or a variety of other things,” Parrish said. “Some of us even married a lobbyist or two along the way. To me, [curbing lobbying] is simply unnecessary.” Now, don’t that just wrap a soft blanket around your little heart and make it coo? Who knew that government here in Broward was such a love-in?

When original Bice maitre d’ Maurizio Ciminella packed up his seating charts and set up a pasta palace of his own a few blocks north of Worth Avenue, a good deal of the glitz went with him. Revlon gazillionaire Ron Perelman may or may not have been his silent partner, but the balding mogul makes it a regular pit stop, at times in the company of his better half, actress Ellen Barkin. Athletes can’t seem to get enough of Maurizio’s wood-fired, Tuscan-style oven, whatever their game: golfer Greg Norman, All-Pro wide receiver Chris Carter, NASCAR’s Jeff Gordon, god-with-a-puck Bobby Orr. Broadcasters also can’t get enough: NBC Today host Matt Lauer has been known to break bread sticks with CBS Early Show host Bryant Gumbel. You can’t dine anywhere in Palm Beach without running into local boys Jimmy Buffett and Rod Stewart, but Amici has hosted rarer warblers, from the sublime Jackson Browne to the ridiculous Michael Bolton. Perry Farrell and the whole Porno for Pyros crew passed, unfortunately, preferring Maurizio’s newer joint, Galaxy Grille, just a short way south.

When the Norton Museum of Art asked the West Palm Beach city commission to overrule the city’s historic preservation board and OK the destruction of a 1920s garage to make way for the museum’s latest round of expansion, the trustees expected to get their way. Not in Mango Promenade. The residents of this narrow peninsula of a neighborhood, less than 12 blocks long and a block and a half wide, have watched the well-funded cultural Goliath grow and devour their district’s northernmost blocks through the years. Not this time. Mango Promenade was the city’s very first automobile suburb, said the working folk whose sweat equity had revived the neighborhood in recent years, and those old garages are central to its character. The Mangoistas took that argument to a packed city hall hearing in February, outdueled a team of Norton lawyers and architects, and convinced the commission, for once, to do the right thing.

Since the mid-1970s Benitez has been the sober, soothing Spanish voice of South Florida news on WLTV-TV (Channel 23), but we like him better as a standup comic whose shtick is broadcast on the radio. The local affiliate of Colombian media giant Caracol already boasts the most rollicking drive-time show in this market in any language. Each weekday from 4 to 7 p.m., “Regreso a Casa” (The Return Home) bubbles with the exuberant puns and parodies of talk-jocks Alfonso Quintero, Paula Arcila, and Saulo Garcia, as well as the dulcet tones and improvised rhymes of Eduardo Vasquez and Gabriel Cuartas, better known as Los Trovadores. But this show really gets cooking at about 5:45, when the motorcycle sound effect heralds Benitez’s arrival live from the Channel 23 studios. (Benitez is a Harley-Davidson nut, famous for tooling around town on his Hog.) After exchanging pleasantries, he adds his basso profundo to the segment called “El Chiste de la Tarde” (The Afternoon Joke), as the group engages in the hallowed Colombian tradition of sitting around telling guy-walks-into-a-bar jokes. Benitez more than holds his own with the hosts, with such winners as: “Manola arrives at the airport counter with this enormous TV. They say to her, Manola, don’t they have TVs in Galicia?’ Yeah, but the thing is, I prefer the shows from here.'” Rimshot, please! Many of the jokes involve untranslatable puns, especially off-color ones. (Suffice to say that arepa has one meaning when applied to a tasty corn patty and quite another when referring to a woman’s anatomy.) Whether or not the jokes make the audience laugh, the fact that every one elicits cacophonous guffaws from the assembled joke-tellers can’t help but amuse listeners, even those with an imperfect grasp of Spanish. When Benitez gives a rundown of that night’s news at 6 p.m., the hilarity settles down just a bit — hasta mañana.

True story: Lee Hillier, then a Plantation city commissioner, is sitting at the bar at Grin’s Pub, a pleasant dive, having a few beers. The gnarliest half-drunk patron in the place, a man with few teeth and a dirty gray beard, comes up to him and starts complaining about a house in Plantation that gets on his nerves. The house has a trailer on the property and violates half the codes in Plantation’s book, the drunk says. Hillier listens for a while and — bam! — the commissioner remembers the house in question. Soon, he’s telling the drunk how he tried in vain to have his city enforce codes there.

The story illustrates both the best and the worst about Hillier, who lost his reelection bid in March. He knew more about Plantation — every cul-de-sac, intersection, zone, rule, and code — than anyone else in the city. He also had one hell of a vision: He wanted to create an international marketplace on State Road 7, and thus revitalize the predominantly black area east of the Turnpike. He wanted to thwart the power of lawyer/lobbyist Emerson Allsworth (who happens to be a convicted drug money launderer) and Allsworth’s partner, Bill Laystrom, who together represent developers and control the Plantation commission. Hillier fought to clean up the city, add sidewalks and lights, and increase access to public facilities for disabled citizens. The problem: He failed to build any consensus on those issues. The ingrained, aging, white conservative Plantation political machine, which has neglected the east side for decades, beat Hillier down at every turn. He was far too blunt for diplomacy and thus never managed to clean up the city, or even that run-down house, for that matter. In the end, he proved you can’t even fight City Hall from within its walls — at least not in tight-fisted, cowardly Plantation. But we salute him for trying.

Gilbrace Ristel may be mobile, but come summertime he isn’t hard to find. Ristel hails from Haiti, but for seven years he’s been a nomad, roaming the often road-blocked residential streets between Federal Highway and Andrews Avenue near downtown Fort Lauderdale. Listen for the tiny tinkling of ice cream truck themes such as “The Entertainer.” The music has a languid sound, like a 45 rpm record played at 33. And though Ristel can’t hear this classic summer soundtrack from inside his truck, he seems to move at the same easy tempo, never rushing his young customers as they choose from prepackaged treats with names like Creamy Krunch (Ristel’s favorite) and Crazy Coconut.

When Broward County bicycle coordinator Mark Horowitz suggested putting bike racks on buses more than a decade ago, people thought he was crazy. The bikes would fall off, they’d get stolen, no one would use the racks — Horowitz heard all the complaints. Still he persevered. Two years ago Broward County transit officials finally agreed to try the racks; last summer Palm Beach County transit followed suit. Today officials in both counties declare their programs — Broward’s BYOB (Bring Your Own Bike) and Palm Beach County’s BOB (Bikes On Board) — unmitigated successes. An estimated 800 bicyclists are taking the bus daily in Broward, as are an estimated 500 people in Palm Beach. Pretty impressive numbers for transit systems that have struggled for years to increase ridership. In fact, officials say, they now face a different problem: More bicyclists want to use the buses than they can handle. Horowitz says that problem won’t be solved easily or soon. Each rack can accommodate only two bikes; bigger racks would stick out too far, creating a safety hazard. But being too popular is a nice problem to have — for a change.

OK, you’re a parent. Junior’s marks this year are underwhelming. And the teacher and the school, well… let’s just say they’re not meeting their obligations to you or your child. What to do? How ’bout doing it yourself? There’s precious little stopping you: The state requires only that you file a letter of intent with the local school board. But who will help you? First rest assured that you’re not alone; currently nearly 6000 children from kindergarten through 12th grade in Palm Beach and Broward counties are home-schooled, and the practice is growing 10 to 15 percent nationally every year. The Florida Parent Educators Association (FPEA) refers parents considering home schooling to several local support groups. (These groups tend to gather their own kind, be they free thinkers or fundamentalists.) Once you begin, home schooling options are almost limitless. A family could spend as much annually as the cost of tuition at a private school, though it’s also possible to do it for next to nothing by buying used materials at the home school associations’ sales and workbooks from pharmacies and grocery stores. Catalogs, online resources, and enrichment courses are available for parents who feel they need more-traditional school supplies; field trips, physical education classes, spelling and geography bees, and book clubs spin off from the support groups as the need arises. How will you know if Junior is progressing? Once again you have options. You can have your child tested by a certified teacher or administer a standardized test. (The Iowa tests are a favorite.) And what about the long-term outcome? To get beyond high school, kids “test out” by taking the GED or dual-enrolling (as home-schooled teenagers) at a community college. Most universities accept home-schooled students with a year’s worth of college grades. Heck, you might even consider Stanford for your baby, baby! Last year Stanford University admitted 9 of the 35 homeschooled children who applied, calling the applicants “an exceptionally strong group.”

Sure, it’s been a year of skirmishing in South Florida. The baseball stadium, the convention center, Elián, and of course Chad all sparked disputes that were better than anything that happens in the ring these days. But tear gas notwithstanding, all those issues still qualified as good, clean fun — and that’s not the way we like our debate. We are particularly enamored of the allegedly disgusting behavior that led to the Town of Davie’s suspension last year of Rocky Johnson, dad of World Wrestling Federation champ The Rock. Johnson, himself a former pro grappler, was hired in June to a $9-per-hour job working around kids as an activities leader at Pine Island Community Center. Before he was summarily dispatched, he had a helluva time at taxpayers’ expense. Among other things, cops say, he received a blow job, got a massage, and took naps at work; bragged to the kids about his (and The Rock’s) penis size; and inappropriately touched a camp counselor’s behind. Twice. How was he hired? Three clues: Davie mayor Harry Venis drove Johnson to his interview, sat in on it, and was listed by Johnson as a reference. We just can’t understand why they sacked Rocky. This is the kind of behavior that gets people elected governor in Minnesota.

Forget the stereotype of the cop huddled in his patrol car as he munches on Dunkin’ Donuts. In the wee hours of the night, Fort Lauderdale’s men and women in blue leave their cruisers parked and running at an abandoned Las Olas Boulevard gas station. As their cars purr away our tax dollars, the cops file into the Floridian and plop down for a proper feast. The laid-back Las Olas culinary fixture even cordons off a whole room just for the officers. The separation of the people from the police will recall your nursery school field trip to a country farm: In spite of a fence and Mrs. Pleasant’s warnings not to get too close, you strained to see the ducks, cows, horses, chickens, and… uh, other various and sundry farm-type animals.

Florida citizens enjoy unparalleled access to government documents — our Sunshine Law is the most comprehensive in the nation. But the people whose job it is to hand over the documents are a mixed lot. Some are helpful, some are incompetent, some delight in their ability to obfuscate and complicate. And then there’s Jeff Samuels, public records guy extraordinaire. The last time we called him to look at a file, Samuels said he was really busy and it might take a while. “How long?” we replied, expecting to be put off for weeks. When he answered, “Is tomorrow OK?” we nearly swallowed our No. 2 pencil. On another occasion, after we had copied some documents, Samuels called the next day to report that he’d done a quality check on our request and discovered that we’d been overcharged by 60 cents. They just don’t come any better.

Hey, Bob, no one knows what you’re doing right, but keep it up. Cherub-faced and perennially chirpy, Soper could probably announce the arrival of six simultaneous hurricanes with a smile and a cheery sendoff. In the face of gale-force winds, Soper keeps his chin up, warning us about the dangers of flying fruit from neighbors’ trees with cautionary concern. Moreover, Soper’s back-page column in the local section of the Sun-Sentinel (recently redesigned, much to our chagrin) is his forum to answer questions and dispense good-natured advice. Want to know when to plant broccoli? Or why it gets dark at night? Or what makes rain so gosh-darn wet? Or does it ever rain cats and dogs? Or frogs? Just ask — no question is too big, small, or inane for Soper’s genuine good humor to tackle. Moreover, and most important, Soper’s predictions often pan out.

No one likes those lazy jerks who hang their Christmas lights up when they first move into a new place, then leave them up until they move out. When it’s just a few strings of icicles, this practice is at least tolerable. But when the supposedly posher-than-thou Las Olas Boulevard boasts a herd of reindeer that refuses to admit the season has come and gone, we have a problem. The city takes down all the other lights that hang over Las Olas Boulevard at Christmas time in Florida’s only visible sign of holiday cheer, yet the stubborn herd remains. Strolling past the boulevard’s galleries and boutiques gives one a sense of this well-heeled town in all its glory. But then you see the reindeer. Maybe they’re not so bad after all. They remind us that even the highest of Fort Lauderdale’s high-end commercial districts can be just as tacky as the lazybones next door.

The number one fringe benefit of living in this section of older ranches and ramblers? Not the proliferation of bail bondsmen in case you get into trouble. Not the proximity to the New River, though that is nice. Not the fact that you’re within walking distance of the jail so you can go see Mom during visiting hours. No, the best thing is the free legal advice gleaned from chats with the neighbors over your backyard fence. In some places it looks like about every other home has been transformed into a lawyer’s office. And these aren’t the persnickety uptown lawyers who wouldn’t give you the time of day — at least not yet, anyway. These are the little guys hungry for business and eager for action. These are the guys who bring their work home with them.

First the former Led Zeppelin guitarist moves to your Las Olas neighborhood. Then the rock god starts showing up at parties, and his wife tries to buy art from your friends. Before long you go to your favorite local bar, and he’s there, too, praising your favorite local band. Sheesh. This guy won’t leave you alone. You need to chill out, so you go to yoga, but after class, you learn that your yoga instructor is Jimmy’s yoga instructor! Maybe Jimmy Page doesn’t want to be the best new local celebrity. Maybe he wants to be you.

Who would have expected Japanese colonists in South Florida? Well, they were here, nearly a century ago, and although their Yamato farming community in Boca Raton didn’t last, their legacy lives on in the form of the Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens. Think of this 200-acre complex as an organic whole, the way a Zen Buddhist might, and you’ll begin to appreciate the architectural splendor of the place, which is actually made up of two distinct museum buildings and an intricate series of gardens linking them. The original “Yamato-kan,” which opened in 1977, is a replica of a traditional Japanese villa, wrapped around a starkly beautiful rock garden and set on a small island. Nearly a mile of carefully manicured trails winds through half a dozen styles of gardens, each magnificent in its own way, to take you up the hill to the new museum, which opened in 1993. It’s a much grander structure, also inspired by traditional Japanese architecture, featuring galleries, a teahouse, and a 225-seat theater. Between the two buildings is a large lake stocked with turtles and big, colorful Japanese carp that gather at a feeding station on the island, where, by the way, you can take in a collection of bonsai trees, which demonstrate that, in Japanese hands, even nature can be transformed into architecture.

With the exception of one or two stations, South Florida radio sucks. Downloading music from Napster is generally a better bet. But now, thanks to Lars, Dr. Dre, and a few other industry crybabies, Napster is soon to be no more. Good thing you can still stream in Real Audio tunes via TheHoneyComb.com, an all-purpose site that’s plugged into what’s happening in South Florida. THC’s raison d’être stems from a distaste for commercialized, “corporate” radio, and the site wants to reach out to listeners who feel the same. The radio playlist is an eclectic mix of dub, jungle, and rock from both lesser- and well-known artists like Baby Robots, Leftfield, and King Tubby. The site also features an extensive listing of shows at venues from Coral Gables to Orlando. National and local acts can also “bee” seen at the Hive (Respectable Street in West Palm Beach, the site’s de facto clubhouse). THC is updated monthly, offering links to other clubs, Florida bands, online radio stations, magazines, e-zines, record labels, and other relevant Websites. In other words, this HoneyComb is buzzing — yeah-yeah-yeah!

Budweiser baseball caps. Harley-Davidson muscle tees. Drafts for a buck and the juke playing songs about exes in Texas. Welcome to working-class Fort Lauderdale. Culturally far from though geographically near to the silicone-studded and Tommy Hilfiger-clad bodies of Himmarshee Village, Grady’s offers working locals a place to toss back a few, watch big-screen TV, and smoke lots and lots of cigarettes. That’s a task the bar’s owners have taken seriously since the place was opened in 1940. Wood-paneled walls and Busch and Bud Lite chandeliers give the place a homey feel, as does mainstay waitress Jane, who’s brought cheeseburgers and suds to regular patrons for 30 years. If you get too rowdy, she’ll set you straight. Quick.

A creative writing professor at Florida International University, Duhamel writes the sort of edgy-but-life-affirming poems of which we could all use a little more in our lives. She specializes in fusing her often racy introspection with politics and pop culture; her acute sense of the absurd and her playfulness serve as a strangely perfect backdrop for the exploration of topics such as feminism or the military. In one poem, “Kinky,” Duhamel depicts Barbie and Ken switching heads:

Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin

Over Ken’s bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles

Atop his girlfriend’s body, loosely,

Like one of those novelty dogs

Destined to gaze from the back windows of cars.

The poem goes on to depict a strange sexual encounter that turns gender identity on its head. Duhamel seems to make the mind’s strange, everyday meanderings artful, and she imparts upon all of us a delightful sense that we, too, live in a poem.

For four hours a day, she berates, taunts, and baits America’s right wing in a relentless, I’m-as-mad-as-hell rant. She’s the liberal anti-Rush of South Florida whose searing afternoon drive-time rhetoric is sure to burn the Bushies and warm the hearts of those who insist Gore Got More. Her voice oscillating between a smoky, late-night-DJ purr and a strident Brooklyn squawk, she’ll dissect the news, casting a particularly jaundiced eye upon any act perpetrated by a Republican. Yet unlike the increasingly irrelevant Limbaugh, Rhodes: (a) does her homework, and (b) accepts calls from those who disagree with her. Her exchanges with such folks sometimes degenerate into unintelligible shriek fests, but more often than not, she lets them speak their piece — before pulling the plug and giving herself the last word, of course. Her advice to the misguided: “Think before opening your mouth to me, because I sure do before I open mine to you.”

YP president John Haley sums up his fundraising philosophy thus: “Give them what they want, and like, so that it becomes irresistible.” And what do yuppies want? Parties! At least 3000 people in their twenties and thirties have joined, making this the largest young-professionals group to support a charity in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Last year YP hosted 42 events ranging from nightclub mixers to ski trips. Its members contributed $250,000 to Covenant House’s $9 million budget last year, an admirable 82 percent of which went directly to the costs of helping the runaway, homeless, and at-risk youth who come to Covenant House for help. Perhaps all that beneficence explains why so many people at YP functions are smiling — or maybe it’s because they have something to confess on Sunday. Covenant House, is, after all, a Catholic charity (though it is not affiliated with any archdiocese and does not discriminate in its programs). And though the Holy Father may not sanction all the goings-on at a YP function, he certainly can’t complain about all the good the group is doing.

Your Beamer’s buffed to a radical shine, your pecs are engorged from a brisk workout at the gym, you have a fresh and fab haircut, and you’re horny. Better make the scene at the Alibi, where the eye candy is sweet and the drink deals get the juices flowing. This hip hangout in the heart of Wilton Manors — the city-within-a-city that is fast becoming a national gay-relocation destination — features a comfortable lunch patio outdoors, a bank of video screens and a pumping sound system indoors, and even a delightfully equipped men’s room in the back. More important, it’s usually filled with hot-looking men looking for other hot-looking men. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Flash back to 1909: There’s little ten-year-old Winnie Lancy at her great-grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary in Vermont. As the festivities die down, her great-grandfather, a Civil War veteran who is about 81 years old, starts talking about something he rarely mentioned: Gettysburg. And Winnie listens with awe as he talks of shaking Abraham Lincoln’s hand on the day the 16th President gave his most famous speech. Suddenly her schoolbooks come to life.

Zoom forward to November 11, 2000. There’s 101-year-old Winnie standing between President Clinton and actor Tom Hanks at the groundbreaking for the new World War II memorial. She has a place of honor at the ceremony because she is the last known living mother of a soldier killed in World War II. Her son, Norman, was killed August 4, 1944, on what was supposed to be his final air mission before coming home. (She loves Hanks but doesn’t care much for Clinton, though she shook his hand anyway.) Winnie, who has lived in Plantation for the past 48 years, earned her own place in history through incredible longevity. Born in 1899, she turned 102 years old April 5; her mind remains remarkably sharp, seemingly resistant to the decaying rigors of time. “God gave me a strong mind,” she says. “If my mind ever goes, then I want to go.” She’s been widowed since 1973 and now lives in Plantation Acres with a daughter, one of her two surviving children out of six. She credits her long life to a good diet (at five-foot-two, she usually weighed a healthy 130) and having never touched cigarettes or alcohol, at least not voluntarily. She says the reason booze repulses her dates back to Christmas in about 1911, when her uncles, playing around, doused her with beer. We’re thankful for that prank, since it might have contributed to the reason we have such a human treasure in our midst today.

Put simply, South Florida as we know it today probably wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for a retired millionaire named Henry Flagler and his vision of linking the state’s entire east coast, from Jacksonville to Key West, by rail. And his Palm Beach estate, Whitehall, now known as the Flagler Museum, is the ultimate monument to the man who paved the way for a Florida economy dominated by agriculture and tourism. When he embarked on the project that would make him the father of Florida development, Flagler had already amassed a fortune through his Standard Oil partnership with, among others, John D. Rockefeller. As if a second career as a railroad magnate weren’t enough, Flagler also constructed a series of spectacular buildings as he made his way down the peninsula: St. Augustine’s Hotel Ponce de Leon, Palm Beach’s Royal Poinciana and the Breakers hotels, and of course Whitehall. The 60,000-square-foot, 55-room “Taj Mahal of North America” became the winter home of Flagler and his wife, Mary Lily Kenan, and today it’s preserved in all the glory that led the New York Herald in 1902 to characterize it as “more wonderful than any palace in Europe, grander and more magnificent than any other private dwelling in the world….” Wander among the trappings of Flagler’s lavish lifestyle (including his own personal railcar), and praise him — or curse him — for making South Florida possible.

Standing upon this hill, one can see for a good long distance in almost any direction. Of course the vista serves mostly to reinforce the general flatness of the surrounding terrain: pleasant, mostly green, utterly monotonous. Is this view worth enduring the smell? Probably not. While the vast majority of Broward County’s waste is burned to generate power, more than 50,000 tons of it was accepted at the Broward County Interim Contingency Landfill (also known as the Southwest Regional Landfill) last year. That may seem like a lot, but Broward County Waste Management predicts that the site has enough room to last the rest of the century. What happens then, you may ask? Well, that’s why these places are called “interim contingency landfills.” In other words Waste Management is waiting for something better to come along; we hope it’ll happen within the next 100 years.

If David Lynch were scouting for locations around Fort Lauderdale to film his next bizarre odyssey, chances are that Charlie’s Rustic Bay Inn would be near the top of his list. But even if Lynch doesn’t introduce dancing midgets, locals can say with some certainty that this is one of the weirdest watering holes around. Wedged between auto body shops in a forbidding industrial neighborhood, Charlie’s looks like a place you’d bring your truck to have the engine valves adjusted. But inside the tiny, smoky, wood-paneled room is a small range of liquor and bottled beers peeking from an old cooler. The clientele is rough, gruff, and seedy — just the type you’d expect at a clandestine joint such as this. But the real attractions are the tag-team servers behind the bar. These pneumatic women exude a certain scent of naughtiness that makes one wonder what might happen if the mood were to strike them. Imagine the possibilities.

The nation ogled the comings and goings at the courthouse during last fall’s postelection battle, but the show goes on, folks. You want big names? How about Johnnie Cochran and Al Sharpton, who recently used the courthouse as a backdrop for basking in the outrage over the Lionel Tate life sentence? Your favorite — or most irksome — television news personalities routinely shoot standup footage across the street. And those annoying lawyers in television commercials who promise big bucks for your mishap? They’ll be there. But it’s the everyday citizenry who most intrigue: the guy who screws up enough courage to contest a speeding ticket; the would-be parents who beam with joy after a final adoption hearing; a guilty defendant’s family looking stunned and puffy-eyed as they exit; school kids filing in for a civics field trip. And if you want a snack for the show, the peanut man is parked on the sidewalk most days. Buck a bag.

If you’ve done any B&B-hopping in your life, you know the stellar inns are historied, meandering mansions. Stay in those B&Bs — often Victorian style — and you can almost hear the echoes of butlers announcing guests and piano lessons in the music room. Trouble is, Queen Victoria held little sway in South Florida, and venerable homesteads are few. Though it doesn’t date back quite to Her Majesty’s reign, the mansionesque Caribbean Quarters, built in 1939, captures some of the feel of yesteryear — and stands within a block of the beach. The three-story B&B’s spacious courtyard is an oasis from the hubbub of the beachfront and features a spa, lush vegetation, trellis centerpiece, and tables from which to eat that namesake breakfast. Rooms are swank, some with hardwood flooring and tiles preserved from original construction. Prices range from $75 to $175 during summer season, $110 to $220 in the winter. We are amused.

Boca Raton is notorious for symbolizing South Florida’s anticulture: stuffy, platinum-pated, insufferably posh, and full of itself. We wouldn’t want to grow up there. But if worse came to worst, at least there’s one small pinpoint of hipness in this vast bad-jewelry-and-plastic-surgery capital. It’s stuck behind a 7-Eleven off the corner of Palmetto Park Road and Dixie Highway. It’s dark, dank, and about as unpretentiously pretentious as can be. For Boca’s disaffected youth (or at least those of legal drinking age), it’s nice to have a walk-to watering hole sans $13 chocolate martinis or dress-code elitism. What it does offer, besides reasonably priced cold frosty ones, is music of the live, local, and loud variety. How does such a bastion of anarchy survive in tanned, tony Tinselville? We haven’t a clue, but we’re sure glad the Boca Pub exists. Maybe there’s hope for Boca Raton after all.

Spend enough time watching these people, and you will come to an inevitable conclusion: In addition to providing great theater, the criminal justice system is also a babe magnet. Go to civil and you see hot-to-trot divorcées and racy, newly liberated dudes. Go to the criminal courtrooms and find the beautiful-yet-bellicose Bonnies and their glowering, deliciously dangerous Clydes. And don’t forget all those Angie Harmons and Dylan McDermotts, the women lawyers in their sheer blouses and red power skirts, the men in their suits cut just so. Mm-mm-mm. Some of the finest legal tender you’ll ever see. And as an added bonus, the ones in private practice are flush with cash. If you don’t believe it, just watch them strut outside and climb into their Mercedes convertibles. The courthouse also offers a stage to try out your sure-fire pickup lines, like “With a corpus like that, you can habeas me anytime,” or the more daring, “How about you and me get together and check out my legal briefs?” For those remorseless and oh-so-hot criminals, it’s even better. Try: “I know you’re an armed felon — but damn you’re fine!” Or the sweet, subtle, “Haven’t I seen your wanted poster before?” And of course, the old standard: “What’s a nice girl like you doing getting convicted in a place like this?”

Each year our readers choose A1A as the best scenic drive in Broward and Palm Beach counties and of course they’re right — in part. There are some scuzzy stretches of this oceanside road, to say nothing of the many miles of looming condos blocking that same ocean from view. But the stretch of A1A from the Flagler Memorial Bridge to Southern Boulevard (known to its Palm Beach residents as Ocean Boulevard) is truly scenic — if your idea of scenic runs to the homes of the rich and famous. The route is lined with French chateaux, Italian villas, English Georgian, plain old American colonial, and the ubiquitous Mediterranean. It’s a visit to the Wizard of Oz-tentation in his Emerald City of envy-green hedges clipped to manicured perfection and acres of velvety lawn (no drought in Palm Beach, folks). If all this splendor makes you grind your teeth, turn your eyes eastward. With the exception of an occasional gazebo larger than your house, the road is open to the vast expanse of the Atlantic crashing below the cliffs. Nature knows what scenic is.

Along the south side of the New River, just west of I-95 and north of I-595, lies Secret Woods Nature Center, a 56-acre oak-hammock preserve that’s a favorite destination for busloads of kids on school field trips and hikers wanting to explore short trails to observe flora and fauna. In addition to housing raccoons, otters, and other critters, the park is prime habitat for South Florida’s big-ass banana spiders, the yellow-and-black arachnids that weave tremendous, orb-shape webs and sit smack in the middle of them, waiting for unsuspecting bugs to become victuals. Lining the trails on both sides and even creating a canopy above the planks, the eight-legged creatures are literally everywhere. If you’re squeamish about spiders, rent Charlotte’s Web, then saunter on down to Secret Woods and see if you can find a place in your heart for these colorful, if not exactly cuddly, creatures.

To most people in Broward County, Scherer was just another lawyer/lobbyist type who scurried around getting government contracts. (His plum is a North Broward Hospital District deal.) He wasn’t really in the public eye much — which turns out to be a good thing for all concerned. When the manual recount was under way in Broward, Scherer, a GOP operative, did a pretty good job of turning the procedure into a national joke. As the canvassing board counted votes and the television cameras rolled, Scherer started screaming at the counters like a spoiled child. “You are trolling for votes here!” he yelled. “You can’t get this election any other way…. You told these lawyers to go bring you more votes!” Scherer’s idiotic and arrogant outbursts (he had two of them on successive days) embarrassed not only him but also our fair county and the entire nation. Thank goodness Circuit Judge Robert W. Lee had the good sense finally to toss him out of the proceedings. Now if only we could toss him out of Broward altogether….

Ahh, South Florida. Sun, sand, surf, and shade. Shade? OK, so South Florida, with its wide-open beaches and signature palm trees, isn’t exactly renowned for offering lovers of the outdoors much natural relief from the heat — which is just one of the things that makes a milelong stretch of State Road A1A through the tiny, tony town of Gulf Stream so, well, cool. Along the stretch just north of Delray Beach, drivers and bikers are shrouded by a canopy of spectacular Australian pines that line the oceanfront highway. Can you believe that, if state transportation workers had had their way, the 400 trees would be gone? For years, well-heeled town residents fought to save the 80-year-old trees, which are on the state’s hit list because they have a tendency to blow over during hurricanes. In 1996, in response to residents’ appeals, the Florida Legislature finally passed a special law that protects this swath of trees from state chain saws in perpetuity. State road officials and environmentalists, who hate the trees because they’re not native and crowd out vegetation that is, are still upset that the town won the war of the wood. But when it comes to stuff along the shore that crowds out natives and has a tendency to fall down during hurricanes, trees sure beat condos.

When the presidential race was on the line last fall, the world’s attention focused on Florida. And as everyone remembers, we became a nationwide laughingstock, a bunch of nincompoops who couldn’t punch a chad to save our subtropical lives. When the Republican-controlled state legislature threatened to stick its trunk into the mess, the giggles turned into guffaws. “Those crackers are actually pondering naming their own delegates,” said one Tennessee pol. “Why that’s unconstituuuuutional…!” CNN, MSNBC, and scads of foreign TV geeks covered our state’s capital like a strangler fig on a gumbo-limbo. Who saved the day? Democratic Rep. Lois Frankel of West Palm Beach. An ardent feminist with a keen ear for smart political talk, she rallied the beleaguered Democrats (mostly from SoFla, of course) and talked the talk for hours at a time on worldwide airwaves. She always looked fresh, and her speeches were crisp. In the end the legislature adjourned without a decision, leaving the U.S. Supreme Court with one less constitutional conundrum to consider. (Then the Supremes decided to break a statistical tie with a 5-4 vote, a call that will be debated and rehashed through the ages.) Even so, thanks to our Lois, the world realized that every Floridian isn’t crazy — only those house leaders whose names rhyme with weenie.

Really, what kind of man are you going to find at a bar? Sure, you’ll get lucky — if you consider a fling with a sallow, flabby, weak barfly lucky. We don’t. We want taut buns, bulging biceps, healthy lungs, the whole package. That is why we recommend you skip the bar and try the Firm. We’re not saying this is an exclusively gay gym; there is no such thing. But we are saying its strategic location near Victoria Park and not far from Wilton Manors makes it a more likely place than other gyms to meet like-minded bodies. And buff ones at that. Recommended pickup line: “Need a spot?”

She writes one of those lifestyle columns you instinctively know you’re going to hate. It’s called “Real Life,” but as any discerning newspaper reader knows, anytime a newspaper writer is set loose to write about “family issues,” the column is going to be sappy, self-involved, and teeth-grittingly annoying. Emily Minor, however, rises above the my-life-is-so-damned-interesting phenomenon. Yes, her husband and her son are regular fixtures in the column she’s been writing since 1995. But more often she leaves her family at home and writes about real people — from parents watching their mentally handicapped adult child strive for independence, to a prominent doctor insisting that she didn’t fully appreciate life until she got breast cancer, to a mother attending a Backstreet Boys concert to deal with her daughter’s death. Minor isn’t preachy, falsely modest, cloyingly familiar, or overly dramatic. “I’m such a beer-swilling slob,” she writes. And you believe her and love her for it. In fact reading her column is a lot like having a beer with a friend who gives you something to think about but isn’t offended if you disagree with her views. She’s also not averse to stepping down from her lofty perch to write news stories. During the election melee that gripped Palm Beach County this past fall, she wrote profiles of elections supervisor Theresa LePore and county commissioner/canvassing board member Carol Roberts that depicted real women, not the monsters we saw in the national media. Moreover she’s proof that in real life, stories don’t always have storybook endings. Three years ago a New York literary agent contacted her about writing a book. The agent, Stephen Lord, discovered Jack Kerouac and, in so doing, gave the Beat generation its bible, On the Road. After getting an advance from Harcourt Brace, Minor took a six-month leave of absence to become an author. But when she was done, editors decided not to publish it. “My mom loves it,” she says. That’s real life.

Fashion-conscious South Florida has a way of keeping the passé at bay. Hairstyles that have come and gone are usually relegated to backwoods parts of the Panhandle, appearing every so often in Davie or at the odd demolition derby or NASCAR event. But the haircut police evidently haven’t cracked down on the Home Depot in Oakwood Plaza, where you can rock your Tennessee top hat without fear of reprisal. You know: your mudflap, your Kentucky waterfall, your IROC cut, your Billy Ray Cyrus. Translated, we’re talking about the long-in-back, short-in-front style about which folks guffaw behind your back — everywhere but here. A recent visit for home-improvement supplies found the SoFla mullet alive and well. Keep your eyes peeled and you may even spot a few tykes with adorable mini-mullets.

It’s 11 a.m. on the first Sunday morning of the month, and it’s a bright sunshiny day. Call the girlfriends and grab the beach blanket or chairs — you’re going out. It’s important to be a little more subtle than you are on Saturday night at the Sea Monster, although almost anyone and anything goes along the New River between the Broward Center for the Performing Arts and Las Olas Riverfront during the SunTrust Jazz Brunch. This is the best place to meet the right kind of girl. As one brunch regular puts it, “The unsavory types are nursing hangovers on Sunday, so they’re not here.” The cool girls come out in droves because they know that the tunes are good (though not always jazzy), and the people-watching is second to none. The smaller stages, such as the Connie Hoffman Gazebo and the New River Inn stage, provide good music and a few choice secluded and shady spots. Lots of foot traffic means that if you spy someone you like, it’s not hard to bump into them “accidentally” and start a conversation about the weather or the music. While chatting, wander over to get a bite to eat from some of the vendors, then invite her over to your blanket in the shade. The rest is up to you.

This place is worth a visit if only to savor its flag: a scepter, star, and crown in purple, red, and white that resembles nothing so much as the banner of a Belgravian fascist league out of 1930s Europe. In truth this denomination is nothing more than an early-20th-century Pentecostal outgrowth of Border State Baptist schisms (how’s that for obscure origins?), another of the gang of holy rollers that has made big inroads into the African-American and Hispanic communities in South Florida. Not for the faint of faith: baptism, speaking in tongues, and faith healing are all de rigueur. Get down on your knees, raise your hands in the air, and give thanks.

The mullet, of course, is a fish generally caught in our waters for sport, rarely to be eaten. (What did you think we were talking about?) But it’s one of the most interesting aquatic creatures swimming in our midst, especially in late fall, when the fish begin to spawn. The extremely active critters regularly leap out of the water to feed, twirling their silvery bodies in a frenzy, but during spawning season one can see stretches of local waterways absolutely boiling with sex-crazed schools of mullet. Just before dusk hundreds of the fish congregate under bridges and docks, swirling and churning noisily. Just seconds south of downtown, the section of the Tarpon River that passes under the Third Street bridge is prime mullet-spotting (and -catching) territory.

The advantages of breaking off a relationship at a highway rest/food stop are almost too numerous to list. For one thing, thanks to passing traffic no one can hear you if you choose to make a scene. Then there’s the transient nature of the other customers, who are more interested in a bathroom break and a quick burger than they are in your love life. The restrooms themselves provide safe refuge, whether it’s to wash your face (if you’re sad), scrawl some graffiti (if you’re mad), or triumphantly groom yourself for your next, er, victim (if you’re glad). And of course the metaphor of breaking up next to a highway can’t be ignored: Love, like traffic, may stall. But you will always, eventually, move on.

The Sun-Sentinel television critic is not a man to suffer fools gladly. Therefore, when you write him a letter to ask him a dumb question — like “When can I catch reruns of Touched by an Angel?” — be sure to brace yourself. In his column in Sunday’s On TV, he will publish your inane query, then he will administer the appropriate punishment. And if you’re from the wrong part of town, watch out! Jicha’s fond of rubbing your nose in it. “No wonder you’re single,” he berated one hapless writer. “You live in Weston.” Don’t even get Jicha started on political topics, especially global warming. He’ll unleash a torrent of bile scalding enough to rival the surface of the sun. “It scares me that people still believe that nonsense,” he recently testified. “Try talking about global warming to the people up in Canada.” Jicha’s anti-environmental theories are about as valid as Rush Limbaugh’s, but that still won’t get him to shut his pie hole. That’s why we keep reading him.

A socialized dog is a happy dog, and a dog allowed to run off-leash is in heaven. Problem is there aren’t many places left for dogs to run around unfettered in this concrete jungle of ours. Bark Park, “the park dogs ask for by name,” is just the place to let Bowser play with other dogs and get his romp on. Located inside Snyder Park — park admission for adults is $1.50 weekdays, $2 weekends — Bark Park is a fully fenced facility just perfect for four-legged frolicking. If your hound has a hankering to run with the big dogs, then by all means, let her hang out in the area designated for “adventurous” dogs. If not head for the separate enclosure for smaller dogs. Tree-lined trails run through the park, and along the way are side-by-side drinking fountains at heights for dogs and people. Play equipment such as ramps, hurdles, and tunnels are available if your dog is up for the challenge. Although much fun can be had at Bark Park, one must abide by the rules. Your pooch must be on a leash on the way in and out of the park, and you need to have your leash with you inside. You’ll also need your dog’s proof of current rabies shots. The most important rule of all: Owners must clean up after their dogs. Scooper supply depots are set up throughout the park for this purpose. Hey, better to scoop now than deal with poopy paws later.

When it comes to relationships, everyone screws the pooch once in a while. Yet no one screws it more frequently or spectacularly than those darn heterosexual males. This particularly oafish lot is most often in dire need of extraordinary measures when it comes to begging forgiveness of their mates. And guys, when you’re patching things up, the last thing you want is an audience. What if you flub your lines? What if she slaps your face? What if she’s so moved by your contrition that she strips naked on the spot? Hey, it could happen — and if it does you’ll be glad you heeded our advice and took her to Big Cypress, South Florida’s largest expanse of unspoiled nature. In it you’ll find 729,000 acres of hiking trails, camping spots, endless views, huge cypress stands, swamps, gators, starry skies, a few easily avoided beer-swilling rednecks, and all the solitude freshly stitched-up romance needs.

Sorry, but not all of us are down with this whole New Urbanism kick. Building ritzy, cookie-cutter cities with hyperexpensive shops and homes doesn’t sound like a good way to build a sense of community to us. It sounds more like a refuge for the Thurston and Lovey Howells among us — and that’s exactly what CityPlace has become. Go out there and see the beautiful people strolling along the fake Main Street or dining at Bellagio or shopping at some “art” store full of trinkets that only the two Dons — Trump and King — can afford. Our recent visit there was pleasant and the food and drinks were great (at $7 per margarita, they’d better be), but the atmosphere was so bland we started feeling like extras in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Rich white people everywhere. Yuck. If we see another brightly colored sweater wrapped around somebody’s waist, we’re gonna hurl. But CityPlace does at least one thing oh-so-right: parking. The huge parking garages are wonderfully located a short escalator ride from the action, and amazingly parking is free. That’s right. No change, no bills, no crazy-ass chips that you have to cash in afterward. Fort Lauderdale, are you listening?

Every city has a Mardi Gras parade these days. So what separates a good one from a bad one? Access to alcohol, plain and simple. If your city has a Mardi Gras parade yet cracks down on public drinking, your city has a substandard celebration. Hollywood, though, kicks out the jams, combining the best of Carnaval with a little Mardi Gras. The city closes downtown to auto traffic for the big parade, usually the Saturday night before Fat Tuesday, and party people pour into the streets, where they willingly sacrifice their dignity for a few strands of beads. Plus, bars sell beer outside, just like in the Big Easy. After the spectacle passes, make your way to Young Circle and party the night away to live music. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

A specter is haunting CityPlace, and its name is Michael Monet. The actor, model, club kid, and all-around scene fixture died in 1995 of a heroin overdose in the old First Methodist Church that is now the centerpiece of the gaudy West Palm Beach shopping complex. In the early ’90s, in the interval between the bankruptcy of one real-estate scheme and the construction of the current consumerist playland, Monet worked as caretaker of the then-abandoned church. While living in the church’s warren of storage rooms and living quarters, he turned the place into an informal artists’ collective, a drug-fueled hangout, and a nighttime rave club. It could have been an experiment in living — what anarchists call a temporary autonomous zone — but Monet’s personal demons got the better of him, and he sank into the paranoia and depression that led to his suicide. Monet might have despised the fate of his haunt, a short-lived bohemian enclave now entombed in mainstream materialist frenzy. On the other hand, he might have appreciated the irony. Whatever else he was, Monet was both authentic and original — two qualities sorely lacking at CityPlace.

Plenty of crackerjack reporters slave away at The Herald‘s Broward County headquarters. We think, for example, that Lisa Arthur, Dan de Vise, and Bill Yardley do some solid work — given the constraints of daily journalism. But this award should go to someone unsung; thus our pick is Diaz. A general-assignment reporter with solid news judgment and a fluid writing style, Diaz has proven himself adept at both cops-reporting and feature-writing. He shies from sensationalism, writes with flair, and imparts his work with a rare sensitivity. Diaz’s empathy for his subjects and sense of fairness distinguish him as one of The Herald‘s most promising up-and-coming scoops.

In the fall peewee football reigns and the smell of popcorn wafts from the concession stand. In winter Latin-American and Haitian teams in brightly colored soccer jerseys take to the field while, on the basketball court, shirts and skins dribble, then dunk. Paths offer biking and skating, an old train locomotive encourages climbing, and ample shelter is available for the days that rain dampens an intimate picnic. At Holiday Park, which was recently renovated, Broward County’s white-skirted seniors can find love at the Jimmy Evert Tennis Center; the homeless may unfurl their bedrolls at twilight and enjoy the park’s 91.1 acres of respite. And when the downtown skyline is dusted in sunset and framed by green, even a plodding, obligatory jog becomes a holiday indeed.

Yes, strolling along Rose Drive just south of Davie Boulevard can bring you more than a view of quaint houses and bougainvillea galore. You can also spot male peacocks preening and strutting as they try to entice their dull-feathered female counterparts into a little bump and grind. If you visit the area at night, you can hear both the conquerors and the conquered crying out from the shadows like cats. The occasional iridescent feather dropped on lawns and sidewalks is the price for all that prancing.

One day after the paper reported that Glades Central’s girls’ basketball team “beat the crap out of” William T. Dwyer’s squad, 62-33, it printed the following Editor’s Note: “A brief article in the high school girls’ basketball roundup in The Post Tuesday used inappropriate language to describe the Glades Central High School victory, 62-33, over William T. Dwyer High School. The Post regrets the lapse in judgment and apologizes to readers.” Boy, those editors really wrote the shit out of that one.

Back in the 1930s, well-to-do Chicago brothers Preston and Tom Wells fell in love with Fort Lauderdale — and with Champ Carr, the likable fishing guide and raconteur who took them out on their annual winter excursions into the briny deep. In 1936 the pair decided to build a small but exclusive resort hotel on the banks of the New River and install Carr as manager; they even named it the Champ Carr Hotel. When Carr retired in 1947, the lodging was renamed the Riverside Hotel. Other than that, it hasn’t changed much from the original three-story hotel and six-story tower. It’s still an unpretentious, European-style inn with the original Lapa Lapa tile floors and coral rock keystone fireplaces designed by society architect Francis Abreu. The 105 traditional rooms and suites, which range in price from $149 out of season to $269 in season, still boast their original Jacobean-style oak furniture, and although the clientele has changed from wealthy dowagers to hard-charging business types, the rhythm and serenity of the hotel hasn’t. Food offerings include two well-regarded restaurants, both Ron Morrison creations: the moderately priced Indigo, with its Southeast Asian fusion cuisine, and the expensive Grill Room, a steak-and-seafood house modeled after a British colonial pub in some far-flung outpost. A word of warning: the hotel is in the process of adding 112 rooms and 4 executive suites in an adjacent 13-story tower by 2002. As at any of the world’s newly renovated grand old hotels, you’ll want to consider asking for accommodations in the old wing.

This down-home campground is easily overlooked as a tourist destination. Sure, there may be more politically correct, environmentally friendly ways to entertain your visiting friends — but that’s not really the Florida way, now is it? No, the Florida way is to fuel up an airboat, drop some tourists on a little island “planted” with plastic orchids, and browbeat them into buying $6 alligator bites while they wait for the start of a show in which a suspiciously sluggish reptile is poked and prodded. But it’s all worth it when the airboat driver spots a live one, breaks into a shit-eating grin, and lets the throttle rip. Then you’re whistling through the sawgrass with the boat bouncing and bobbing hell-for-leather while your uptight Yankee friends realize they’re somewhere they’ve never been before and maybe will never be again — and are thus moved to yell things like “YEEE-haw! Get them gators!”

Because his voice is perfectly pitched (rich and sonorous) and his mind is perfectly bent (far to the right), this former Canadian and ex-baseball player is a talk-radio natural. He doesn’t go in for “that Black Helicopter garbage,” but neither does he place any credence in evolution, the moon landing, or the Cold War. (He suspects the fix was in.) What does he believe in? Ronald Reagan, “The Clinton Chronicles,” the Committee of 300 (if you don’t know, don’t ask), and his regular Wednesday guest, “the number one gold and silver man in the country,” a hustler named Larry Heim, who counsels Dan’s listeners on the safe refuge only precious metals can afford from the coming crash. In his disquisitions on the latest public infamy (generally of the Clintons), Gregory tends to get carried away during his one-hour show, which airs at 10 a.m. weekdays, often fumbling around for words. At the height of Pat Buchanan’s “religious war” campaign of ’92, he practically asphyxiated himself in exhorting his listeners to get up and march into the streets. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed. We were waiting for him.

To hear some folks tell it, one can truly enjoy the Everglades only by dropping a canoe into the sawgrass and paddling into the sunset, armed with merely a compass, a bottle of insect repellent, and a healthy respect for the region’s scaly dominant predator. Fortunately for the less intrepid among us, one needn’t go to such extremes to view the wondrous flora and fauna of the River of Grass. The Royal Palm Visitor Center, located on a side road four miles from the park’s main entrance in South Miami-Dade, marks the beginning of two short yet breathtaking walks. The Anhinga Trail, much of which extends over the swamp as a boardwalk, teems with wildlife; herons and egrets stalk the shallows, alligators up to 12 feet long vie for prime sunbathing spots, ospreys wheel overhead in search of aquatic prey, and female soft-shell turtles dig their nests — sometimes within two feet of the trail. The nearby Gumbo Limbo Trail winds through a hammock of the red-barked trees and offers a cool, quiet respite from its more bustling neighbor, the silence broken only by the fluttering of the occasional flycatcher or catbird. If you’re feeling particularly adventurous, the center stands near the entrance to the 28-mile network of Long Pine Key Trails, which wind through hardwood hammocks and sawgrass prairie. Or drop a canoe into the water; they’re for rent in the Flamingo Lodge, Marina, and Outpost Resort, at the park road’s end.

Water is trickling

Lilies glistening as they

Listen to the wind

Judging by the fuel prices, you’d think the Mobil station across from the Boca Teeca Country Club offers petrol Cordon Bleu instead of plain old gasoline. And while what you get at the pump is the same old, same old, the convenience store shames most gourmet boutiques. Clear-plastic bins of loose jelly beans and other candies cover half of the front wall — you can fill a little plastic bag with cotton candy, caramel popcorn, bubble gum, and pear-flavor Jelly Belly beans. Next to the candytopia stands the self-serve frozen yogurt station; faced with eight flavors, three sizes, and several toppings, one can easily fill up with more lactose than octane at this Mobil. The station also offers cold drinks, a few plebian items (for example, potato chips), and a glass case of croissants and glorified donuts. Ain’t Boca grand?

You’re fresh off the truck from Kansas. You read somewhere that you have ten days after moving to the Sunshine State to get a Florida driver’s license. So you dutifully march your newbie ass down to the nearest office of the Department of Highway Safety & Motor Vehicles. And you wait in line. And wait. And wait. And wait. The woman seated to your right snaps her gum and gripes in a thick Bronx accent. The sweaty guy on your left holds a loud conversation with his pal via the cell phone grafted to his ear. It dawns on you that you may have died and gone to hell. Our mentioning that salvation was only a phone call away will only make it worse, but it’s true. You could have made an appointment. You’d have been in and out in half an hour, the proud possessor of a spanking-new Florida license complete with your smiling mug. But you didn’t make an appointment. You’re a loser. Hope you brought something to read.

So maybe it didn’t prove a very good hiding place for William Colee’s family, whom Seminole Indians slaughtered in this very place in 1836, but that doesn’t mean the park isn’t good for something. For downtown Fort Lauderdale pencil pushers, this park is a prime spot for ducking deadlines. Only a few blocks away from the grind, this green space offers the cubicle-bound more than four acres to kick back and contemplate tame squirrels, Spanish moss, and watercraft of all sizes and descriptions gliding along the Intracoastal. There is no phone, park ranger, or any other way of getting snagged playing hooky — nothing but quiet. Bring a book, and leave the cell phone in the car.