People & Places

If you've been around long enough, you probably remember when Wilton Drive was just a stretch of sleepy small-town road -- something to get through on your way from one part of Fort Lauderdale to another. No more. In the past five or so years, the drive, which begins where NE Fourth Avenue ends and arcs around to Manors' Five-Points intersection, has undergone a transformation that's nothing short of remarkable. Now, it's Wilton Manors' quirky answer to Las Olas Boulevard. The drive's centerpiece, the Shoppes of Wilton Manors, has gone from a dreary strip mall once anchored by a bank to a spruced-up, lively mosaic of businesses of all sorts. It's now anchored by the enormously popular Georgie's Alibi, a complex with a main bar, a sports bar, a small café, and a patio, all daily drawing a large, diverse clientele that's mainly but not exclusively gay. That's pretty much the pattern for the rest of the drive as well -- such old standbys as a Dairy Queen, a Social Security Administration office, and an Eddie Hauck's Wings N' Things franchise rub shoulders with a GayMart boutique, the gay-owned-and-operated Better Bodies Gym, and the AIDS charity Poverello. The old/new, gay/straight diversity continues from one end of the drive to the other: restaurants and bars (nearly 20 of them), antiques shops, hair salons, real-estate agents, car-repair centers, florists, specialty shops, churches, a children's furniture store, a pet grooming center, a tanning salon, a law office, a travel agency, a chiropractor, a pool hall, a laundry, a plant nursery, a marketing firm, a comic-book store, a lock-and-safe company, an insurance agent, a leather shop, a trailer park, a Christian bookstore, and -- our offbeat favorite -- a branch of the Women's World Wrestling Club. Best of all, the strip is still growing and evolving. Next year, it should be even better.

In Broward County, at least, all politicians lie about annexation. They say they want to grow their city. They say they want to be inclusive. But the fact of the matter is that none of 'em want to touch the county's poorest unincorporated areas, which include less than 6 percent of the 1.7 million population. The so-called "Area A" west of Fort Lauderdale is particularly unwanted. This year, State Rep. Stacy Ritter, a Coral Springs Democrat, tried to change the way things are done. She wanted to transfer power to approve annexations from the state legislature to the counties. But heck, commissioners -- including new chairwoman Lori Parrish -- as well as Swap Shop owner and political heavyweight Preston Henn didn't want that hot potato. So Democratic Sen. Mandy Dawson of Fort Lauderdale killed the plan. And though a self-imposed deadline of 2005 is fast approaching, no one's in a hurry to take on any of these areas. Meanwhile, area residents' taxes are going through the roof. So if you like wonk politics -- or if you just enjoy seeing politicians walk all over one another -- ask about this and watch 'em squirm.

In Broward County, at least, all politicians lie about annexation. They say they want to grow their city. They say they want to be inclusive. But the fact of the matter is that none of 'em want to touch the county's poorest unincorporated areas, which include less than 6 percent of the 1.7 million population. The so-called "Area A" west of Fort Lauderdale is particularly unwanted. This year, State Rep. Stacy Ritter, a Coral Springs Democrat, tried to change the way things are done. She wanted to transfer power to approve annexations from the state legislature to the counties. But heck, commissioners -- including new chairwoman Lori Parrish -- as well as Swap Shop owner and political heavyweight Preston Henn didn't want that hot potato. So Democratic Sen. Mandy Dawson of Fort Lauderdale killed the plan. And though a self-imposed deadline of 2005 is fast approaching, no one's in a hurry to take on any of these areas. Meanwhile, area residents' taxes are going through the roof. So if you like wonk politics -- or if you just enjoy seeing politicians walk all over one another -- ask about this and watch 'em squirm.

Back in 1999, this newspaper discovered a startling fact about Josephus Eggelletion, who was then a state representative. Eggelletion had a cushy little job at the Broward County School Board, which paid him nearly $48,000 a year. The problem: He worked only 18 weeks but still collected his full paycheck. For the remaining 21 weeks of the school year, he was paid by both the school board, where he wasn't, and by the state in Tallahassee, where he presumably was. When we interviewed him, he was busy on a weekday afternoon -- lounging at the Inverrary Golf Club. So it didn't surprise us when it broke that he'd been caught flaunting his credit card at his new job on the Broward County Commission. On our credit, Eggelletion charged lavish meals, drinks, a $659 leather briefcase, hundreds in dry-cleaning bills, and, of course, golf games. Then it was discovered that while he was in Brazil on county business (where he spent plenty of our money in a putative attempt to lure the Black Film Festival to Broward), he was listed as "sick" at his old job at the school board, which now pays him $58,000 (in addition to the commission salary of $80,000). It may be time to send him to the links full-time, where his heart is. It obviously isn't with the public.

Back in 1999, this newspaper discovered a startling fact about Josephus Eggelletion, who was then a state representative. Eggelletion had a cushy little job at the Broward County School Board, which paid him nearly $48,000 a year. The problem: He worked only 18 weeks but still collected his full paycheck. For the remaining 21 weeks of the school year, he was paid by both the school board, where he wasn't, and by the state in Tallahassee, where he presumably was. When we interviewed him, he was busy on a weekday afternoon -- lounging at the Inverrary Golf Club. So it didn't surprise us when it broke that he'd been caught flaunting his credit card at his new job on the Broward County Commission. On our credit, Eggelletion charged lavish meals, drinks, a $659 leather briefcase, hundreds in dry-cleaning bills, and, of course, golf games. Then it was discovered that while he was in Brazil on county business (where he spent plenty of our money in a putative attempt to lure the Black Film Festival to Broward), he was listed as "sick" at his old job at the school board, which now pays him $58,000 (in addition to the commission salary of $80,000). It may be time to send him to the links full-time, where his heart is. It obviously isn't with the public.

Lois Frankel is a Democrat, pro-choice, a feminist, and Jewish; she supports gay rights and affirmative action, questions the efficiency of the FCAT, has tenaciously fought the tobacco industry, speaks her mind, and frequently criticizes Gov. Jeb Bush -- the man she called a "thief" repeatedly on national television during the 2000 presidential election. It only makes sense (ideologically if not practically) that Frankel, the Minority leader of the Florida House of Representatives, would file as a candidate for the highest public seat in the state. So what if Janet Reno crushes her in notoriety and fundraising potential? So what if attorney Bill McBride is regarded as the moderate-to-conservative "safe" vote? So what if the current governor's brother is George W., an American president with higher approval ratings than anyone in history? Lois Frankel believes that she's the capable one. Well, as they say, more power to her. She's gonna need it.

Lois Frankel is a Democrat, pro-choice, a feminist, and Jewish; she supports gay rights and affirmative action, questions the efficiency of the FCAT, has tenaciously fought the tobacco industry, speaks her mind, and frequently criticizes Gov. Jeb Bush -- the man she called a "thief" repeatedly on national television during the 2000 presidential election. It only makes sense (ideologically if not practically) that Frankel, the Minority leader of the Florida House of Representatives, would file as a candidate for the highest public seat in the state. So what if Janet Reno crushes her in notoriety and fundraising potential? So what if attorney Bill McBride is regarded as the moderate-to-conservative "safe" vote? So what if the current governor's brother is George W., an American president with higher approval ratings than anyone in history? Lois Frankel believes that she's the capable one. Well, as they say, more power to her. She's gonna need it.

Progressive isn't a word often associated with South Florida, but the area certainly qualifies in one way: Wilton Manors is one of only two cities in the country to have an (openly) gay mayor and a gay-majority city council. (The other is West Hollywood, California.) And as far as anyone can tell, when Jim Stork succeeded John Fiore on March 12, he became the first gay mayor to assume office from another gay mayor -- ever. Chalk it up to the diminutive size of the "Island City" (about 13,000 in population) and the relatively high percentage of gays (about a third by some estimates). Can't we all just get along? Maybe here, we can. Better still, Stork promises to practice the politics of inclusiveness, reaching out not only to gays but to Haitians and other minority groups that call Wilton Manors home. Now let's just hope Stork delivers.

Progressive isn't a word often associated with South Florida, but the area certainly qualifies in one way: Wilton Manors is one of only two cities in the country to have an (openly) gay mayor and a gay-majority city council. (The other is West Hollywood, California.) And as far as anyone can tell, when Jim Stork succeeded John Fiore on March 12, he became the first gay mayor to assume office from another gay mayor -- ever. Chalk it up to the diminutive size of the "Island City" (about 13,000 in population) and the relatively high percentage of gays (about a third by some estimates). Can't we all just get along? Maybe here, we can. Better still, Stork promises to practice the politics of inclusiveness, reaching out not only to gays but to Haitians and other minority groups that call Wilton Manors home. Now let's just hope Stork delivers.

When it comes to longevity, Palm Beach County Administrator Bob Weisman has beaten all the odds. Having served as the county's top dog for ten years, he's not only survived far longer than the average four- to five-year tenure of most county administrators but is one of the longest-serving county chiefs in the state, according to Ken Small, who tracks such things for the Florida League of Cities. Weisman, 50, owes his longevity to no one but himself. The key to the one-time utility chief's success may be that he never wanted the job in the first place. He accepted it in the wake of the nasty ouster of his predecessor only on the condition that he could return to his deputy administrator post if he didn't like the rarified air at the top. With the goal only of being a good administrator, he's been able to resist the seductive urge to become involved in the always-petty and always-dangerous world of politics. He gives his publicity-conscious bosses straight answers -- whether they want to hear them or not. Wearing his trademark short-sleeve dress shirts, he was a calm voice during last year's post 9/11 anthrax scare, during the 2000 election debacle that put Palm Beach County on the national map, and during courthouse construction snafus, budget cuts, and lesser crises that erupt regularly in the county governmental center. Never heard of him? Don't worry. Bob likes it that way.

When it comes to longevity, Palm Beach County Administrator Bob Weisman has beaten all the odds. Having served as the county's top dog for ten years, he's not only survived far longer than the average four- to five-year tenure of most county administrators but is one of the longest-serving county chiefs in the state, according to Ken Small, who tracks such things for the Florida League of Cities. Weisman, 50, owes his longevity to no one but himself. The key to the one-time utility chief's success may be that he never wanted the job in the first place. He accepted it in the wake of the nasty ouster of his predecessor only on the condition that he could return to his deputy administrator post if he didn't like the rarified air at the top. With the goal only of being a good administrator, he's been able to resist the seductive urge to become involved in the always-petty and always-dangerous world of politics. He gives his publicity-conscious bosses straight answers -- whether they want to hear them or not. Wearing his trademark short-sleeve dress shirts, he was a calm voice during last year's post 9/11 anthrax scare, during the 2000 election debacle that put Palm Beach County on the national map, and during courthouse construction snafus, budget cuts, and lesser crises that erupt regularly in the county governmental center. Never heard of him? Don't worry. Bob likes it that way.

Greed is both America's driving force and its incurable sickness. One particularly egregious symptom: the obsession with property values. The lust for high-end real estate reinforces old prejudices, creates paranoiac provincialism, and often leads to a stifling conformity that strangles the imagination -- but hey, it fattens the wallet. (Yes, Weston, we're talking about you). All of these facts conspire to make the property appraiser's Website a most delectable pleasure of the guilty variety. The site feeds that unhealthy instinct Veblen called "pecuniary emulation." You usually can't find out your coworkers' salaries, but, on Bill Markham's database, you can damn well learn how much they paid for their houses. Look up your boss and confirm once and for all that the nincompoop is making way too much money. Look up politicians, pastors, friends, neighbors. Find out their square footage and what they pay in taxes. You know you want to know, so get down off your high horse and log on. On a more practical note, somebody told us it can also help gauge the value of a home you are buying or selling. Just remember to follow the instructions: last name-comma-no space-first name, like say, Rodstrom,John (who has a house assessed at more than $700,000 on Nurmi Drive in Fort Lauderdale, if you're curious).

Greed is both America's driving force and its incurable sickness. One particularly egregious symptom: the obsession with property values. The lust for high-end real estate reinforces old prejudices, creates paranoiac provincialism, and often leads to a stifling conformity that strangles the imagination -- but hey, it fattens the wallet. (Yes, Weston, we're talking about you). All of these facts conspire to make the property appraiser's Website a most delectable pleasure of the guilty variety. The site feeds that unhealthy instinct Veblen called "pecuniary emulation." You usually can't find out your coworkers' salaries, but, on Bill Markham's database, you can damn well learn how much they paid for their houses. Look up your boss and confirm once and for all that the nincompoop is making way too much money. Look up politicians, pastors, friends, neighbors. Find out their square footage and what they pay in taxes. You know you want to know, so get down off your high horse and log on. On a more practical note, somebody told us it can also help gauge the value of a home you are buying or selling. Just remember to follow the instructions: last name-comma-no space-first name, like say, Rodstrom,John (who has a house assessed at more than $700,000 on Nurmi Drive in Fort Lauderdale, if you're curious).

Fort Lauderdale Assistant City Manager Pete Witschen has been trying to get out of his job for a few years now. He has applied for most every open city manager position in the country -- and came very close to escaping South Florida a few times. But his dismal record in Fort Lauderdale haunted him and ultimately knocked Witschen out of contention again and again. There were the improper relationships with female underlings -- a city planner and a police officer -- that our unapologetically moralizing mayor, Jim Naugle, didn't approve of. Poor Pete was very mad when this newspaper broke that story and madder still when the Charlotte Observer cited our article while Witschen was trying to get a municipal job in North Carolina. And we can't forget those pesky city discrimination cases, which have exacerbated racial tensions and are going to cost taxpayers millions of dollars. Witschen, bluntly put, has been a piss-poor leader; city manager Floyd Johnson did the right thing to pay Witschen six months' salary and show him the door. Too bad the decision didn't come several years ago.

Fort Lauderdale Assistant City Manager Pete Witschen has been trying to get out of his job for a few years now. He has applied for most every open city manager position in the country -- and came very close to escaping South Florida a few times. But his dismal record in Fort Lauderdale haunted him and ultimately knocked Witschen out of contention again and again. There were the improper relationships with female underlings -- a city planner and a police officer -- that our unapologetically moralizing mayor, Jim Naugle, didn't approve of. Poor Pete was very mad when this newspaper broke that story and madder still when the Charlotte Observer cited our article while Witschen was trying to get a municipal job in North Carolina. And we can't forget those pesky city discrimination cases, which have exacerbated racial tensions and are going to cost taxpayers millions of dollars. Witschen, bluntly put, has been a piss-poor leader; city manager Floyd Johnson did the right thing to pay Witschen six months' salary and show him the door. Too bad the decision didn't come several years ago.

We're no fans of Plantation Councilman Ron Jacobs. He's one of those suburban politicians that, when you see him in action, you wonder how much Valium and other assorted sedatives you would find in the medicine cabinets of those cozy middle-class and upper-middle-class neighborhoods in Plantation. Jacobs is, in short, a self-satisfied ass with a perpetual smirk on his face. But we must give him his props on deciding to investigate disabled activist Fred Shotz when Shotz began snooping around the city to find Americans with Disabilities Act violations. Jacobs sicced a private investigator on Shotz and soon had a video showing Shotz, who gets around in a wheelchair, standing up to pump gas into his car. The councilman's instincts on this one were correct -- Shotz, in our opinion, is as crooked as the path of the average I-95 driver. Before he started his ADA business, he was the radio "Love Doctor" who lied about his educational background and masqueraded as a sex therapist. Before that, he was a Yippie who ran around with Abbie Hoffman (he claims). Now he's an outspoken nudist who runs around suing everything he sees in federal court. We believe in the ADA and want to see it enforced. And we believe Plantation is doing a lousy job of making its facilities accessible to the wheelchair-bound and deserves to get its ass kicked. Just not by Shotz. So when Dr. Love alleged in federal court that Jacobs, Mayor Rae Carol Armstrong, and city attorney Don Lunny violated his civil rights, we were hoping Shotz would lose. And federal magistrate Judge Barry Seltzer upheld our ever-waning faith in the justice system by throwing Shotz's case out with the garbage this past March. Unfortunately, it surely won't slow Shotz down, whether he be on wheels or his own two legs.

We're no fans of Plantation Councilman Ron Jacobs. He's one of those suburban politicians that, when you see him in action, you wonder how much Valium and other assorted sedatives you would find in the medicine cabinets of those cozy middle-class and upper-middle-class neighborhoods in Plantation. Jacobs is, in short, a self-satisfied ass with a perpetual smirk on his face. But we must give him his props on deciding to investigate disabled activist Fred Shotz when Shotz began snooping around the city to find Americans with Disabilities Act violations. Jacobs sicced a private investigator on Shotz and soon had a video showing Shotz, who gets around in a wheelchair, standing up to pump gas into his car. The councilman's instincts on this one were correct -- Shotz, in our opinion, is as crooked as the path of the average I-95 driver. Before he started his ADA business, he was the radio "Love Doctor" who lied about his educational background and masqueraded as a sex therapist. Before that, he was a Yippie who ran around with Abbie Hoffman (he claims). Now he's an outspoken nudist who runs around suing everything he sees in federal court. We believe in the ADA and want to see it enforced. And we believe Plantation is doing a lousy job of making its facilities accessible to the wheelchair-bound and deserves to get its ass kicked. Just not by Shotz. So when Dr. Love alleged in federal court that Jacobs, Mayor Rae Carol Armstrong, and city attorney Don Lunny violated his civil rights, we were hoping Shotz would lose. And federal magistrate Judge Barry Seltzer upheld our ever-waning faith in the justice system by throwing Shotz's case out with the garbage this past March. Unfortunately, it surely won't slow Shotz down, whether he be on wheels or his own two legs.

Lucious Boyd savagely raped and killed Dawnia Hope Dacosta, a 21-year-old church singer who was saving herself for her dream man. Two other women swore he raped them as well, but juries didn't believe them. One of those women, Michelle Galloway, wept and shook in our arms when we found her for a story we were doing back in September 1999. The I.D. of murdered Melissa Floyd was found on the grounds of Boyd's family funeral home in Fort Lauderdale. And a teenaged girl named Patrece Alston disappeared while on a day trip with him in 1998 and hasn't been seen since. In an impromptu jailhouse interview, New Times sat across from Boyd in September 1999, after the rapist and killer was charged with Dacosta's murder. Boyd seemed scared to talk; his dull black eyes looked like those of a tired animal in the wilderness. Death by the state is too good for him. Let him get in prison what he gave to unsuspecting women while he was free.

Lucious Boyd savagely raped and killed Dawnia Hope Dacosta, a 21-year-old church singer who was saving herself for her dream man. Two other women swore he raped them as well, but juries didn't believe them. One of those women, Michelle Galloway, wept and shook in our arms when we found her for a story we were doing back in September 1999. The I.D. of murdered Melissa Floyd was found on the grounds of Boyd's family funeral home in Fort Lauderdale. And a teenaged girl named Patrece Alston disappeared while on a day trip with him in 1998 and hasn't been seen since. In an impromptu jailhouse interview, New Times sat across from Boyd in September 1999, after the rapist and killer was charged with Dacosta's murder. Boyd seemed scared to talk; his dull black eyes looked like those of a tired animal in the wilderness. Death by the state is too good for him. Let him get in prison what he gave to unsuspecting women while he was free.

Really, how can one argue for capital punishment when the state's decision rests on the word of people like Scheff? This guy is the kind of cop who doesn't let the facts get in the way of a good case. Frank Lee Smith -- a poor black man with a hard past and no money -- faced the chair because of Scheff's worse-than-dubious investigative techniques. Smith was saved from execution only because cancer got him first: He died a horrible death in prison before DNA tests proved he was innocent of killing a six-year-old girl. More recently, BSO is having serious second thoughts about the conviction of two teen boys, Tim Brown and Keith King, for the murder of BSO Deputy Patrick Behan in 1990. A former deputy recently boasted to undercover agents that he killed Behan. The Brown and King convictions stand, but a look at those cases, particularly King's, shows that the investigation -- supervised by now-Major Scheff (that's right; he's been promoted) -- was full of problems, including jailhouse snitches who perjured themselves and numerous recantations by key witnesses. We just hope the next BSO convict found innocent is still alive when it's time to go free.

Really, how can one argue for capital punishment when the state's decision rests on the word of people like Scheff? This guy is the kind of cop who doesn't let the facts get in the way of a good case. Frank Lee Smith -- a poor black man with a hard past and no money -- faced the chair because of Scheff's worse-than-dubious investigative techniques. Smith was saved from execution only because cancer got him first: He died a horrible death in prison before DNA tests proved he was innocent of killing a six-year-old girl. More recently, BSO is having serious second thoughts about the conviction of two teen boys, Tim Brown and Keith King, for the murder of BSO Deputy Patrick Behan in 1990. A former deputy recently boasted to undercover agents that he killed Behan. The Brown and King convictions stand, but a look at those cases, particularly King's, shows that the investigation -- supervised by now-Major Scheff (that's right; he's been promoted) -- was full of problems, including jailhouse snitches who perjured themselves and numerous recantations by key witnesses. We just hope the next BSO convict found innocent is still alive when it's time to go free.

Declared the "working man's hero" in the Sun-Sentinel this past January, City of Fort Lauderdale engineer Elgin Jones has filed lawsuits against his employer for racial discrimination, claiming he was passed over for a job because he's black. The 39-year-old also moonlights as a government reporter and columnist for the county's incendiary Broward Times. Is writing about the people he's suing a conflict of interest? No way, he says. Reporting about the people he's suing is his right to "freedom of expression." Some say the issue of Jones's dual jobs is nitpicking: Former Broward Human Rights Board member Jeff Gorley, for one, believes Jones is Broward County's answer to Braveheart, praising him for attracting the attention of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, which recommended that the Justice Department review hundreds of city-employee discrimination complaints. Note to Jones: Look into blue face paint.

Declared the "working man's hero" in the Sun-Sentinel this past January, City of Fort Lauderdale engineer Elgin Jones has filed lawsuits against his employer for racial discrimination, claiming he was passed over for a job because he's black. The 39-year-old also moonlights as a government reporter and columnist for the county's incendiary Broward Times. Is writing about the people he's suing a conflict of interest? No way, he says. Reporting about the people he's suing is his right to "freedom of expression." Some say the issue of Jones's dual jobs is nitpicking: Former Broward Human Rights Board member Jeff Gorley, for one, believes Jones is Broward County's answer to Braveheart, praising him for attracting the attention of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, which recommended that the Justice Department review hundreds of city-employee discrimination complaints. Note to Jones: Look into blue face paint.

Last fall was a very bad season for charities not involved in post-9/11 relief efforts. This is why the Florida Philharmonic's ballsy, successful campaign to raise $2.5 million was so remarkable. Coming on the heels of so much bad press for the philharmonic -- the musicians' strike in 2000 and its ensuing tensions, James Judd's abrupt resignation in November 2001, the resignation of its executive director in December 2001, continued budget deficits -- it's simply amazing they pulled it off. Robert Levinson, past chairman of the orchestra's tricounty Governing Council, ticks off the campaign's three dimensions: The orchestra's 84 musicians donated part of their salaries; the front office staff cut costs largely by laying off employees; and board members past and present both donated their own funds and leaned on their friends for about a million dollars -- while checks in small denominations totaling $20,000 to $30,000 rolled in. Voilà! $2.5 million found, roughly half in cost savings and the remainder in donations, in six short weeks. The orchestra is saved. Suddenly, for the first time in years, everyone involved with the philharmonic is playing from the same sheet music, and what you hear is the sound of success.

Last fall was a very bad season for charities not involved in post-9/11 relief efforts. This is why the Florida Philharmonic's ballsy, successful campaign to raise $2.5 million was so remarkable. Coming on the heels of so much bad press for the philharmonic -- the musicians' strike in 2000 and its ensuing tensions, James Judd's abrupt resignation in November 2001, the resignation of its executive director in December 2001, continued budget deficits -- it's simply amazing they pulled it off. Robert Levinson, past chairman of the orchestra's tricounty Governing Council, ticks off the campaign's three dimensions: The orchestra's 84 musicians donated part of their salaries; the front office staff cut costs largely by laying off employees; and board members past and present both donated their own funds and leaned on their friends for about a million dollars -- while checks in small denominations totaling $20,000 to $30,000 rolled in. Voilà! $2.5 million found, roughly half in cost savings and the remainder in donations, in six short weeks. The orchestra is saved. Suddenly, for the first time in years, everyone involved with the philharmonic is playing from the same sheet music, and what you hear is the sound of success.

Back in the year 2000, this newspaper reacted with well-justified righteous indignation when Judie Budnick, vice chairperson of the Broward County School Board, came out with her campaign slogan: "This Bud's for Us." She also threw in a play on the Budweiser frogs: "Bud... Nick." We asked her if aping beer ads was appropriate for a leader in public education. Angry that we would dare raise the issue, she said it was simply a good way to market her name to the voters. We wondered if she'd had a few too many King of Beers herself. This past February 6, while addressing students at Plantation High School, Budnick's tacky streak reared its ugly head once again. In front of the kids, she blurted out curses like a sailor at a Tourette's syndrome conference. She "damned" a bunch of people, said some school administrators were "spewing shit" (helpfully spelling "s-h-i-t" for the assembled youth), and compared her opponents to Hitler. We have an idea: Let's pour this Bud down the drain.

Back in the year 2000, this newspaper reacted with well-justified righteous indignation when Judie Budnick, vice chairperson of the Broward County School Board, came out with her campaign slogan: "This Bud's for Us." She also threw in a play on the Budweiser frogs: "Bud... Nick." We asked her if aping beer ads was appropriate for a leader in public education. Angry that we would dare raise the issue, she said it was simply a good way to market her name to the voters. We wondered if she'd had a few too many King of Beers herself. This past February 6, while addressing students at Plantation High School, Budnick's tacky streak reared its ugly head once again. In front of the kids, she blurted out curses like a sailor at a Tourette's syndrome conference. She "damned" a bunch of people, said some school administrators were "spewing shit" (helpfully spelling "s-h-i-t" for the assembled youth), and compared her opponents to Hitler. We have an idea: Let's pour this Bud down the drain.

In 1917, Brooklyn-born Al Ross decided to join the U.S. Navy when he was barely 16 years old. As a seaman first class during World War I, he patrolled the Atlantic coast from Norfolk, Virginia, to Jacksonville, Florida. When the war ended, he worked as circulation manager for a publishing company. After the stock market crash of 1929, he started the Albatross Chemical Co. in Long Island, New York, which is now headed by his daughter and other family. As a member of the Jewish War Veterans, he worked in 1938 to break up street-corner meetings of Nazi, Communist, and fascist teen organizations. A few years later, as the United States entered World War II, he cracked down on draft dodgers as an investigator for the Selective Service. Ross had been coming to Florida since 1927 and moved to the Sunshine State in the '40s with his wife, Edie, with whom he would share his life for more than 70 years. She succumbed to Alzheimer's disease four years ago. "She's a lovely girl," he sighs. Now an even 100 years old, the five-foot-tall, small-framed veteran still wears his original medal-covered uniform, giving speeches all over South Florida championing patriotism and educating the public about the importance of war veterans. Refusing to retire, he continues to work in public relations for the Palm Beach Daily News, a position he's held for 14 years. Ross has dedicated his life to patriotic causes and frequently dresses in red, white, and blue. "Veterans Day, by the way, is every day of the week, not just November 11," he stresses. "It saddens me that people don't ever think to say 'thank you' to a veteran. But the average person does not honor the veteran properly. If it wasn't for them, they wouldn't have freedom of speech or freedom of the press." The walls of Ross's Palm Beach condo are covered in accolades he's received from George W. Bush, U.S. Rep. Mark Foley, former President Ronald Reagan, and veterans groups. Among them: a certificate that the American flag was flown over the Capitol building in Washington, D.C., in recognition for his courage and bravery in WWI, a piece of wood from the USS Constitution during its restoration in 1974, and a letter from the Town of Palm Beach designating him as the town's first "Legendary Living Landmark." Ross, the last surviving member of Barracks 507 West Palm Beach WWI veterans group, starts reciting one of his speeches, which he says brings people to tears and has earned him a medal from the Navy. There are "172 veteran hospitals overloaded with veterans who are blind, deaf, and in wheelchairs. If you look them over, you'd think they were panhandlers. This is because they served and went through hell. That's why you never hear what veterans' duties were in the wars. When they go to bed at night, they have nightmares," he says. "You know what it is to lay on the ground trying to kill the man in front of you or avoid being killed yourself." He shares with his audiences the origin of the song "Taps" and the meaning of the Pledge of Allegiance. So how does Ross feel about reaching his age milestone? "It isn't so good to get into your 100s. It's good that you can reach 100, but it's bad, because you have to give up golf, swimming, biking, and tap dancing -- all the things that I love." He doesn't necessarily give away his secret to longevity. "Oh, I'm happy. I don't have any enemies. I have loads and loads of friends. It all comes out in the work I do," he says. The only thing he regrets is not buying Florida land when it was $1 an acre. Even with a lifetime of achievements, medals, and honors, he still remains modest. "I've been asked to write a book. I say, 'Who's interested in just a little guy from Brooklyn?' But they could make a movie," he suggests.

In 1917, Brooklyn-born Al Ross decided to join the U.S. Navy when he was barely 16 years old. As a seaman first class during World War I, he patrolled the Atlantic coast from Norfolk, Virginia, to Jacksonville, Florida. When the war ended, he worked as circulation manager for a publishing company. After the stock market crash of 1929, he started the Albatross Chemical Co. in Long Island, New York, which is now headed by his daughter and other family. As a member of the Jewish War Veterans, he worked in 1938 to break up street-corner meetings of Nazi, Communist, and fascist teen organizations. A few years later, as the United States entered World War II, he cracked down on draft dodgers as an investigator for the Selective Service. Ross had been coming to Florida since 1927 and moved to the Sunshine State in the '40s with his wife, Edie, with whom he would share his life for more than 70 years. She succumbed to Alzheimer's disease four years ago. "She's a lovely girl," he sighs. Now an even 100 years old, the five-foot-tall, small-framed veteran still wears his original medal-covered uniform, giving speeches all over South Florida championing patriotism and educating the public about the importance of war veterans. Refusing to retire, he continues to work in public relations for the Palm Beach Daily News, a position he's held for 14 years. Ross has dedicated his life to patriotic causes and frequently dresses in red, white, and blue. "Veterans Day, by the way, is every day of the week, not just November 11," he stresses. "It saddens me that people don't ever think to say 'thank you' to a veteran. But the average person does not honor the veteran properly. If it wasn't for them, they wouldn't have freedom of speech or freedom of the press." The walls of Ross's Palm Beach condo are covered in accolades he's received from George W. Bush, U.S. Rep. Mark Foley, former President Ronald Reagan, and veterans groups. Among them: a certificate that the American flag was flown over the Capitol building in Washington, D.C., in recognition for his courage and bravery in WWI, a piece of wood from the USS Constitution during its restoration in 1974, and a letter from the Town of Palm Beach designating him as the town's first "Legendary Living Landmark." Ross, the last surviving member of Barracks 507 West Palm Beach WWI veterans group, starts reciting one of his speeches, which he says brings people to tears and has earned him a medal from the Navy. There are "172 veteran hospitals overloaded with veterans who are blind, deaf, and in wheelchairs. If you look them over, you'd think they were panhandlers. This is because they served and went through hell. That's why you never hear what veterans' duties were in the wars. When they go to bed at night, they have nightmares," he says. "You know what it is to lay on the ground trying to kill the man in front of you or avoid being killed yourself." He shares with his audiences the origin of the song "Taps" and the meaning of the Pledge of Allegiance. So how does Ross feel about reaching his age milestone? "It isn't so good to get into your 100s. It's good that you can reach 100, but it's bad, because you have to give up golf, swimming, biking, and tap dancing -- all the things that I love." He doesn't necessarily give away his secret to longevity. "Oh, I'm happy. I don't have any enemies. I have loads and loads of friends. It all comes out in the work I do," he says. The only thing he regrets is not buying Florida land when it was $1 an acre. Even with a lifetime of achievements, medals, and honors, he still remains modest. "I've been asked to write a book. I say, 'Who's interested in just a little guy from Brooklyn?' But they could make a movie," he suggests.

That Miller wrote more than 250 articles between January 2001 and April 2002 doesn't qualify her as best writer, even though that's a heap of stories. Interpret the quantity as a sign that Miller stays doggedly on top of her beat. For a year, Miller followed a story she broke on April 12, 2001, on the use of powerful psychiatric drugs to control hard-to-manage children in the state's foster-care program. On March 14, 2002, she reported that a bill to curb the use of such drugs passed the Florida House by a vote of 114-1. This year, Miller has been reporting on statewide problems with investigations into child abuse and neglect reports. After stories by Miller, the Florida Department of Children & Families fired a private company in March whose employees allegedly had cleared cases without investigating them in order to meet quotas. She also reported later that month that the backlog of child-abuse and -neglect reports in the state had soared from 4000 to 50,000 in two years due to an increase in calls to the state hotline and that because of that, thousands of cases had "remained untouched by investigators for over a year." Miller keeps finding stuff we need to know and then hammering it until something is done to make it right. And that's good.

That Miller wrote more than 250 articles between January 2001 and April 2002 doesn't qualify her as best writer, even though that's a heap of stories. Interpret the quantity as a sign that Miller stays doggedly on top of her beat. For a year, Miller followed a story she broke on April 12, 2001, on the use of powerful psychiatric drugs to control hard-to-manage children in the state's foster-care program. On March 14, 2002, she reported that a bill to curb the use of such drugs passed the Florida House by a vote of 114-1. This year, Miller has been reporting on statewide problems with investigations into child abuse and neglect reports. After stories by Miller, the Florida Department of Children & Families fired a private company in March whose employees allegedly had cleared cases without investigating them in order to meet quotas. She also reported later that month that the backlog of child-abuse and -neglect reports in the state had soared from 4000 to 50,000 in two years due to an increase in calls to the state hotline and that because of that, thousands of cases had "remained untouched by investigators for over a year." Miller keeps finding stuff we need to know and then hammering it until something is done to make it right. And that's good.

This kid ain't one of those prima donna, two-story-a-year, long-lunch types. He cranks. From Enron to citrus canker to mortgage fraud, he reports the hell out of events and writes 'em like a champ. In just the past couple of years, he's told us that Florida has more lightning per square mile than any other state, that employees of the Miami Seaquarium chowed on a rare leatherback turtle, and that Coral Springs is a particularly easy place to get busted if you don't pay attention to water restrictions. While his prose is nothing flashy, everything's there. Perhaps our favorite recent story of Fleshler's alerted us to the fact that developers were able to win themselves a very good deal on Florida's West Coast by flushing a rare creature called the Big Cypress fox squirrel, Sciurus niger avicennia, down the River of Grass. The point of view was subtle in this piece, but it convinced us that he's on the side of the little guy.

This kid ain't one of those prima donna, two-story-a-year, long-lunch types. He cranks. From Enron to citrus canker to mortgage fraud, he reports the hell out of events and writes 'em like a champ. In just the past couple of years, he's told us that Florida has more lightning per square mile than any other state, that employees of the Miami Seaquarium chowed on a rare leatherback turtle, and that Coral Springs is a particularly easy place to get busted if you don't pay attention to water restrictions. While his prose is nothing flashy, everything's there. Perhaps our favorite recent story of Fleshler's alerted us to the fact that developers were able to win themselves a very good deal on Florida's West Coast by flushing a rare creature called the Big Cypress fox squirrel, Sciurus niger avicennia, down the River of Grass. The point of view was subtle in this piece, but it convinced us that he's on the side of the little guy.

He's a veteran columnist who knows his way around politics, scams, and condo developments. He seems as comfortable writing in his deft and creative way about the rich and famous as he does about the hoi polloi. But he's not just a reporter; he's a newspaper Renaissance man. In addition to his column, he has published installments of his never-ending, lightweight novel Shady Palms in the paper. And, as if fiction weren't enough, Cerabino occasionally writes his column in poetic verse, as he did during the Bush-Gore election fiasco. If every big local daily around here had a columnist like Cerabino, our breakfast reading might no longer threaten to put us back to sleep.

He's a veteran columnist who knows his way around politics, scams, and condo developments. He seems as comfortable writing in his deft and creative way about the rich and famous as he does about the hoi polloi. But he's not just a reporter; he's a newspaper Renaissance man. In addition to his column, he has published installments of his never-ending, lightweight novel Shady Palms in the paper. And, as if fiction weren't enough, Cerabino occasionally writes his column in poetic verse, as he did during the Bush-Gore election fiasco. If every big local daily around here had a columnist like Cerabino, our breakfast reading might no longer threaten to put us back to sleep.

The copyeditor is like a baseball umpire: No one notices unless there's a screwup. And hey, in the newspaper business, everybody makes mistakes. That's why we run corrections (really, really small, somewhere we hope no one will see them). And sometimes, it's more likely the writer's fault. Like in the Sentinel's Sports section, when Dave Joseph wrote a commentary on Ricky Williams. Really, any writer who would begin a sentence, "In the words of Meat Loaf..." without even a hint of irony can't be the sort of fellow who makes for a fun night in the ol' copyediting slot. But shouldn't he know that, when reaching for a hackneyed cliché to describe Williams's propensity for driving fast, the phrase to use would be "put the pedal to the metal," not "put the peddle to the metal"? We are left to conclude that this guy's copy was so riddled with other errors that this one just slipped by the Sentinel's grammar police. In the case of the headline for Vanessa Bauzá's Cuba Notebook column in the International section of the same issue, though, we're afraid we must blame the beleaguered copy desk. At daily papers, copyeditors almost always write the headlines -- and if they don't, they're still responsible for checking the things and are supposed to be trebly vigilant for gaffes that will appear in 30-point, small-caps type. The headline in question: "In Fox flap, Castro flaunts convention." OK, all you grammarians out there, figure it out. The column describes Fidel Castro's revealing tapes of a conversation with Mexican President Vicente Fox, which is a diplomatic no-no, which flies in the face of tradition, which means that Castro... flouts convention. The horror, the horror.

The copyeditor is like a baseball umpire: No one notices unless there's a screwup. And hey, in the newspaper business, everybody makes mistakes. That's why we run corrections (really, really small, somewhere we hope no one will see them). And sometimes, it's more likely the writer's fault. Like in the Sentinel's Sports section, when Dave Joseph wrote a commentary on Ricky Williams. Really, any writer who would begin a sentence, "In the words of Meat Loaf..." without even a hint of irony can't be the sort of fellow who makes for a fun night in the ol' copyediting slot. But shouldn't he know that, when reaching for a hackneyed cliché to describe Williams's propensity for driving fast, the phrase to use would be "put the pedal to the metal," not "put the peddle to the metal"? We are left to conclude that this guy's copy was so riddled with other errors that this one just slipped by the Sentinel's grammar police. In the case of the headline for Vanessa Bauzá's Cuba Notebook column in the International section of the same issue, though, we're afraid we must blame the beleaguered copy desk. At daily papers, copyeditors almost always write the headlines -- and if they don't, they're still responsible for checking the things and are supposed to be trebly vigilant for gaffes that will appear in 30-point, small-caps type. The headline in question: "In Fox flap, Castro flaunts convention." OK, all you grammarians out there, figure it out. The column describes Fidel Castro's revealing tapes of a conversation with Mexican President Vicente Fox, which is a diplomatic no-no, which flies in the face of tradition, which means that Castro... flouts convention. The horror, the horror.

"Because of knucklehead errors, a photograph caption in The Palm Beach Post Monday incorrectly identified one of the Three Stooges, as well as Abbott and Costello. The caption misidentified Curly Howard, at left, one of the Three Stooges, as Curly Joe Howard. Curly Howard, whose real name was Jerome Lester Horwitz, was the brother of Moe and Shemp Howard. Curly Joe DeRita was the sixth and last member to join the Stooges. The caption also incorrectly referred to Bud Abbott and Lou Costello when in fact the photo showed Costello and Abbott, at right. The errors appeared on Page 4E of the Accent section; the photos illustrated a story on the front page of Accent about movie shorts. We're pleased to note that we correctly identified Laurel and Hardy."

"Because of knucklehead errors, a photograph caption in The Palm Beach Post Monday incorrectly identified one of the Three Stooges, as well as Abbott and Costello. The caption misidentified Curly Howard, at left, one of the Three Stooges, as Curly Joe Howard. Curly Howard, whose real name was Jerome Lester Horwitz, was the brother of Moe and Shemp Howard. Curly Joe DeRita was the sixth and last member to join the Stooges. The caption also incorrectly referred to Bud Abbott and Lou Costello when in fact the photo showed Costello and Abbott, at right. The errors appeared on Page 4E of the Accent section; the photos illustrated a story on the front page of Accent about movie shorts. We're pleased to note that we correctly identified Laurel and Hardy."

Bob Stevens had worked for supermarket tabloids for 30 years, pasting alien heads on celebrities and making us believe that indeed Elvis is alive. His career was cut short last October after he died from inhalation anthrax upon opening a letter laced with the fatal white powder at American Media Inc. in Boca Raton. More than 500 people attended the 63-year-old photo editor's funeral at the Unity of Delray Beach Church. The parking lot outside the church was filled with journalists waiting to catch a shot of the procession. A few shouted questions at those in mourning. Reporters were, not surprisingly, asked to exercise a little restraint or leave.

Bob Stevens had worked for supermarket tabloids for 30 years, pasting alien heads on celebrities and making us believe that indeed Elvis is alive. His career was cut short last October after he died from inhalation anthrax upon opening a letter laced with the fatal white powder at American Media Inc. in Boca Raton. More than 500 people attended the 63-year-old photo editor's funeral at the Unity of Delray Beach Church. The parking lot outside the church was filled with journalists waiting to catch a shot of the procession. A few shouted questions at those in mourning. Reporters were, not surprisingly, asked to exercise a little restraint or leave.

Say what you will about Michael Koretzky, but he is undeniably irrepressible. And every now and then, he is very, very good. From his turbulent times at XS/City Link to his brief helmsmanship of the now-defunct weekly Free Times in Palm Beach, Koretzky keeps sharpening his role as universal thorn in the side. In his latest venture, the made-on-a-shoestring zine called Slug, he's rubbing the Palm Beach Post and the Sun-Sentinel the wrong way. Koretzky obtained copies of internal memos from the papers and pasted them all over his little publication. Want to see the unseemly Post gloat over the sales boost from 9/11? It's in there. Want to hear the cynical Post boast about beating the competition into the house of a nine-year-old girl who accidentally stabbed her brother in the heart? It's in there. While the raw ambition of the Post is laid bare, the Sun-Sentinel, in a strange way, comes off as even worse; the Sentinel's internal communiqués are unbearably boring in the worst, most sanitized, life-sucking corporate way. Check out this drivel from Sentinel management on strategies to increase readership: "Work on a variety of action plans is nearing completion.... Blitz the market with a campaign to increase our standing as the premiere provider of information." It makes you realize just how important those secondary and tertiary providers of information really are. Keep slugging, Koretzky.

Say what you will about Michael Koretzky, but he is undeniably irrepressible. And every now and then, he is very, very good. From his turbulent times at XS/City Link to his brief helmsmanship of the now-defunct weekly Free Times in Palm Beach, Koretzky keeps sharpening his role as universal thorn in the side. In his latest venture, the made-on-a-shoestring zine called Slug, he's rubbing the Palm Beach Post and the Sun-Sentinel the wrong way. Koretzky obtained copies of internal memos from the papers and pasted them all over his little publication. Want to see the unseemly Post gloat over the sales boost from 9/11? It's in there. Want to hear the cynical Post boast about beating the competition into the house of a nine-year-old girl who accidentally stabbed her brother in the heart? It's in there. While the raw ambition of the Post is laid bare, the Sun-Sentinel, in a strange way, comes off as even worse; the Sentinel's internal communiqués are unbearably boring in the worst, most sanitized, life-sucking corporate way. Check out this drivel from Sentinel management on strategies to increase readership: "Work on a variety of action plans is nearing completion.... Blitz the market with a campaign to increase our standing as the premiere provider of information." It makes you realize just how important those secondary and tertiary providers of information really are. Keep slugging, Koretzky.

At its best, boxing is a balletic display of mental and athletic prowess. But who needs that when there's a bunch of has-been trash-talkers whose royalties ran out in '96 who are willing to get the crapola beaten out of themselves on national television? As evidence of this truth, we turn to Miramar bike-shop owner and former pompadoured pop-rapper Vanilla Ice. 'Nilla just couldn't quite slide across the ring fast enough to avoid the right hooks, roundhouses, and jabs of Todd Bridges, who played Willis on '80s sitcom Diff'rent Strokes. The celebrity match -- also featuring putative Clinton harassee Paula Jones versus Olympic redneck Tonya Harding and Partridge Family vet Danny Bonaduce versus Greg from The Brady Bunch -- was sure entertaining. But we have a suggestion for next time: Vanilla's old-school Aqua-Netted 'do against Paula Jones's fake, uh, fingernails.

At its best, boxing is a balletic display of mental and athletic prowess. But who needs that when there's a bunch of has-been trash-talkers whose royalties ran out in '96 who are willing to get the crapola beaten out of themselves on national television? As evidence of this truth, we turn to Miramar bike-shop owner and former pompadoured pop-rapper Vanilla Ice. 'Nilla just couldn't quite slide across the ring fast enough to avoid the right hooks, roundhouses, and jabs of Todd Bridges, who played Willis on '80s sitcom Diff'rent Strokes. The celebrity match -- also featuring putative Clinton harassee Paula Jones versus Olympic redneck Tonya Harding and Partridge Family vet Danny Bonaduce versus Greg from The Brady Bunch -- was sure entertaining. But we have a suggestion for next time: Vanilla's old-school Aqua-Netted 'do against Paula Jones's fake, uh, fingernails.

Manning the afternoon drive-time shift at WQAM-AM is no soft gig. It's easy to get lost in the afterglow of popular morning and midday hosts Neil "God" Rogers and Jim "Mad Dog" Mandich. And because he's "only" a sports-talk host, Hank "The Hammer" Goldberg doesn't get the style points he deserves. Hammer knows sports, all right, and with no illusions -- he knows that the bottom line often counts for more than the box score. But it's his character that makes the show special, the taste and attitude he dishes out in asides and digressions. Nightclub acts, bookmakers, and Joe's Stone Crab -- Hammer's idea of class is old-school Miami Beach. He's no square, you understand; he just loves the tried-and-true. And macho as the sports world can be, Hammer's got no patience with male chauvinism or gay-bashing, readily smacking down callers who show the slightest hint of either. Want an object lesson in "not suffering fools gladly?" Listen to the smolder in Hammer's tones as he feeds out the rope on a listener's thoughtless rant, then blisters him with "You're an idiot!" and coolly explains -- with flawless logic -- just why. A New Jersey boy -- and you can hear it in his voice -- Hank must have been one of those smart Jewish kids more drawn to the street than the shul. One word of Yiddish he probably knows, though, is heimisch. It means a guy you can trust.

Manning the afternoon drive-time shift at WQAM-AM is no soft gig. It's easy to get lost in the afterglow of popular morning and midday hosts Neil "God" Rogers and Jim "Mad Dog" Mandich. And because he's "only" a sports-talk host, Hank "The Hammer" Goldberg doesn't get the style points he deserves. Hammer knows sports, all right, and with no illusions -- he knows that the bottom line often counts for more than the box score. But it's his character that makes the show special, the taste and attitude he dishes out in asides and digressions. Nightclub acts, bookmakers, and Joe's Stone Crab -- Hammer's idea of class is old-school Miami Beach. He's no square, you understand; he just loves the tried-and-true. And macho as the sports world can be, Hammer's got no patience with male chauvinism or gay-bashing, readily smacking down callers who show the slightest hint of either. Want an object lesson in "not suffering fools gladly?" Listen to the smolder in Hammer's tones as he feeds out the rope on a listener's thoughtless rant, then blisters him with "You're an idiot!" and coolly explains -- with flawless logic -- just why. A New Jersey boy -- and you can hear it in his voice -- Hank must have been one of those smart Jewish kids more drawn to the street than the shul. One word of Yiddish he probably knows, though, is heimisch. It means a guy you can trust.

You have to love Lori Parrish, if not for her unabashed Flo-at-the-diner looks, then for her brash, shameless attitude. She's a woman comfortable with who she is. Parrish is a good ol' girl who knows what she wants: power -- more power than most of us could ever possibly imagine. She wants us all to be Parrishioners. In her most recent Machiavellian move, Her Hairness helped engineer the defeat of fellow commissioner Kristin Jacobs so she could become chairwoman of the commission. And she's used that seat in a way never before seen. Parrish immediately hired two flacks to spread the word on how great the county is; one of the first press releases included pictures of you-know-who. You might think it's all a self-serving, disgraceful joke. But we know Parrish is preening and posing for a higher cause: She wants to become Broward's next property appraiser. It's quite a diabolical strategy: Our souls first, then our homes.

You have to love Lori Parrish, if not for her unabashed Flo-at-the-diner looks, then for her brash, shameless attitude. She's a woman comfortable with who she is. Parrish is a good ol' girl who knows what she wants: power -- more power than most of us could ever possibly imagine. She wants us all to be Parrishioners. In her most recent Machiavellian move, Her Hairness helped engineer the defeat of fellow commissioner Kristin Jacobs so she could become chairwoman of the commission. And she's used that seat in a way never before seen. Parrish immediately hired two flacks to spread the word on how great the county is; one of the first press releases included pictures of you-know-who. You might think it's all a self-serving, disgraceful joke. But we know Parrish is preening and posing for a higher cause: She wants to become Broward's next property appraiser. It's quite a diabolical strategy: Our souls first, then our homes.

It was just another night on Eddie K.'s 10 p.m.-to-2 a.m. shift on WQAM-AM (560). Because it was the tail end of March, South Florida's king of late-night sports talk had plenty of raw material. Blah-blah-blah Heat, blah-blah-blah Marlins, and, of course, blah-blah-blah gambling. Then, right before the break, Kaplan got an "ACLU call." A man wondered what it must be like for Kaplan to "work with niggers, kikes, and spics all the time." (Or something to that effect. We were in our car at the time and couldn't reach for a pen without endangering our fellow motorists.) Now, such a call would not normally go out over the air: The host would press the "dump" button, and thanks to the magic of the seven-second delay, the world would never hear those slurs. But Kaplan let this shit hit his fans -- and then spun it into gold. He segued from that call into one of his patented commercials for the Booby Trap in Pompano Beach. Now, some folks might find strip clubs as offensive to women as the caller's epithets were to the respective ethnicities. Not our Ed: He proceeded to wax poetic on how, if one is infected with racism, all one must do is spend one night among "the beautiful, young, naked women of the Booby Trap -- women of all colors and descriptions," and one will be cured. About how, when overcome by such transcendent concupiscence, all of one's prejudices melt away, as if by magic. It was truly moving. In fact, the next time the United Nations sponsors one of those conferences on racism, we nominate Ed Kaplan to be keynote speaker.

It was just another night on Eddie K.'s 10 p.m.-to-2 a.m. shift on WQAM-AM (560). Because it was the tail end of March, South Florida's king of late-night sports talk had plenty of raw material. Blah-blah-blah Heat, blah-blah-blah Marlins, and, of course, blah-blah-blah gambling. Then, right before the break, Kaplan got an "ACLU call." A man wondered what it must be like for Kaplan to "work with niggers, kikes, and spics all the time." (Or something to that effect. We were in our car at the time and couldn't reach for a pen without endangering our fellow motorists.) Now, such a call would not normally go out over the air: The host would press the "dump" button, and thanks to the magic of the seven-second delay, the world would never hear those slurs. But Kaplan let this shit hit his fans -- and then spun it into gold. He segued from that call into one of his patented commercials for the Booby Trap in Pompano Beach. Now, some folks might find strip clubs as offensive to women as the caller's epithets were to the respective ethnicities. Not our Ed: He proceeded to wax poetic on how, if one is infected with racism, all one must do is spend one night among "the beautiful, young, naked women of the Booby Trap -- women of all colors and descriptions," and one will be cured. About how, when overcome by such transcendent concupiscence, all of one's prejudices melt away, as if by magic. It was truly moving. In fact, the next time the United Nations sponsors one of those conferences on racism, we nominate Ed Kaplan to be keynote speaker.

Alternately intriguing and annoying, this weekly hour of winetastings, wine talk, industry insider gossip, and general gourmet chit-chat would be unbearably precious if hosts Mark Spivak and John List weren't so goddamn knowledgeable. The oenologically challenged may still come away with the sneaking suspicion that all the talk about noses, backbones, tannins, and terroirs is nothing more than the emperor's new clothes for alcoholics, but the hosts bring such panache to the patter that the listener has no choice but to be swept away, even when the air gets thick with self-congratulation. "Until next week," the weekly signoff goes, "drink no white zinfandel." Like we haven't already learned that much. A show has to be pretty damn entertaining to draw you back after that. This one is.

Alternately intriguing and annoying, this weekly hour of winetastings, wine talk, industry insider gossip, and general gourmet chit-chat would be unbearably precious if hosts Mark Spivak and John List weren't so goddamn knowledgeable. The oenologically challenged may still come away with the sneaking suspicion that all the talk about noses, backbones, tannins, and terroirs is nothing more than the emperor's new clothes for alcoholics, but the hosts bring such panache to the patter that the listener has no choice but to be swept away, even when the air gets thick with self-congratulation. "Until next week," the weekly signoff goes, "drink no white zinfandel." Like we haven't already learned that much. A show has to be pretty damn entertaining to draw you back after that. This one is.

We give up. We have succumbed. We tried to resist him. We tried to keep his charms at bay, tried to forget the way he soothes our collective psyche like a steady drip of aural opiates. We didn't trust him, not with that convenient, store-bought name and dangerously smooth demeanor. But Dwight Lauderdale -- or perhaps just his soft, bedroom eyes -- defeated us. We're now powerless under his dream-like spell. When he's serious, we're serious. When he gives us that warm smile, we smile back. We chuckle at his inane happy talk between weather and sports. We have no idea what is really going on in the world, and guess what? We don't care. We are Dwight Lauderdale zombies -- and we're coming for your brains next.

We give up. We have succumbed. We tried to resist him. We tried to keep his charms at bay, tried to forget the way he soothes our collective psyche like a steady drip of aural opiates. We didn't trust him, not with that convenient, store-bought name and dangerously smooth demeanor. But Dwight Lauderdale -- or perhaps just his soft, bedroom eyes -- defeated us. We're now powerless under his dream-like spell. When he's serious, we're serious. When he gives us that warm smile, we smile back. We chuckle at his inane happy talk between weather and sports. We have no idea what is really going on in the world, and guess what? We don't care. We are Dwight Lauderdale zombies -- and we're coming for your brains next.

When Benno Schmidt reports for NBC 6 News, whether it's live coverage of "Brazen Bandits" robbing a convenience store or yet another sad story about an elderly person found living ankle-deep in animal poo, his hair looks fabulous. Almost escaping the frame of his closeup, Benno's locks are like Clark Kent's: black and lustrous, with a sensible dollop of dippity-do (our guess is Aveda's Defy). How he achieves the particular shellac that holds his three-inch-tall Wall of Bangs in place despite the intense heat of TV lights is inspiring. From Texas originally? Naw, the East Coast. He graduated from Wesleyan University (with a New Times writer, to whom he once exclaimed, "Can you believe I'm on TV giving the news, man?") and sharpened his skills at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. No beauty-school dropout, Benno gets high marks for his big hair.

When Benno Schmidt reports for NBC 6 News, whether it's live coverage of "Brazen Bandits" robbing a convenience store or yet another sad story about an elderly person found living ankle-deep in animal poo, his hair looks fabulous. Almost escaping the frame of his closeup, Benno's locks are like Clark Kent's: black and lustrous, with a sensible dollop of dippity-do (our guess is Aveda's Defy). How he achieves the particular shellac that holds his three-inch-tall Wall of Bangs in place despite the intense heat of TV lights is inspiring. From Texas originally? Naw, the East Coast. He graduated from Wesleyan University (with a New Times writer, to whom he once exclaimed, "Can you believe I'm on TV giving the news, man?") and sharpened his skills at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. No beauty-school dropout, Benno gets high marks for his big hair.

Irony, thy name is weather. Especially here in South Florida, where the damn thing can turn on a dime and, historically, has been our greatest blessing, bringing tourists and settlers, and greatest curse, bringing Hurricane Andrew and its ilk. Dealing with this loaded material -- the one bit of news that always affects the viewer directly -- local cloud jockeys generally fall into one of two schools of delivery: upbeat Dr. Feelgoods or clinically precise Professor Krankenheimers. Lopicola alone, the weekend mainstay on this NBC affiliate, strikes a postmodern pose. His broad, pleasant face radiates both amusement and calm; the muscular body language -- cold fronts drawn down across the map with precise left jabs -- shows both engagement and control. This is the weather we have, for better or for worse, is his subtext -- and hey, at least we aren't shoveling snow. Lopicola's tousled brush cut makes him a "Best Hair on the Air" contender too, but his "love it or leave it" meteorology is distinctively cool.

Irony, thy name is weather. Especially here in South Florida, where the damn thing can turn on a dime and, historically, has been our greatest blessing, bringing tourists and settlers, and greatest curse, bringing Hurricane Andrew and its ilk. Dealing with this loaded material -- the one bit of news that always affects the viewer directly -- local cloud jockeys generally fall into one of two schools of delivery: upbeat Dr. Feelgoods or clinically precise Professor Krankenheimers. Lopicola alone, the weekend mainstay on this NBC affiliate, strikes a postmodern pose. His broad, pleasant face radiates both amusement and calm; the muscular body language -- cold fronts drawn down across the map with precise left jabs -- shows both engagement and control. This is the weather we have, for better or for worse, is his subtext -- and hey, at least we aren't shoveling snow. Lopicola's tousled brush cut makes him a "Best Hair on the Air" contender too, but his "love it or leave it" meteorology is distinctively cool.

Warning: Do not attempt to drive or bike down this winding, mile-long stretch unless you carry the maximum dental-insurance coverage. The opulent and luxurious multimillion-dollar estate homes on both sides of the road are sure to make your jaw drop. Many of the mansions are tucked behind lush vegetation and tall palm trees, but if you slow down enough (the speed limit is 35 mph anyway, and you'll fit right in), you can sometimes catch glimpses of the exotic and perfectly manicured gardens by peeking through the heavy metal gates and down the serpentine driveways. Architecture varies from the classic to the gaudy, and that makes the drive even more interesting. Among the oddballs are a medieval castle wannabe -- complete with tall, round turrets on each corner and gold-plated lions at the gate -- and a bright-white art deco mansion, with its walls and vestibules built in various geometric and pointy shapes. You can also catch a view of the sea here and there and breathe the fresh ocean air. If you're lucky, you might even spot Donald Trump or Oprah. Just don't forget to close your mouth if you do.

Warning: Do not attempt to drive or bike down this winding, mile-long stretch unless you carry the maximum dental-insurance coverage. The opulent and luxurious multimillion-dollar estate homes on both sides of the road are sure to make your jaw drop. Many of the mansions are tucked behind lush vegetation and tall palm trees, but if you slow down enough (the speed limit is 35 mph anyway, and you'll fit right in), you can sometimes catch glimpses of the exotic and perfectly manicured gardens by peeking through the heavy metal gates and down the serpentine driveways. Architecture varies from the classic to the gaudy, and that makes the drive even more interesting. Among the oddballs are a medieval castle wannabe -- complete with tall, round turrets on each corner and gold-plated lions at the gate -- and a bright-white art deco mansion, with its walls and vestibules built in various geometric and pointy shapes. You can also catch a view of the sea here and there and breathe the fresh ocean air. If you're lucky, you might even spot Donald Trump or Oprah. Just don't forget to close your mouth if you do.

If you've been around long enough, you probably remember when Wilton Drive was just a stretch of sleepy small-town road -- something to get through on your way from one part of Fort Lauderdale to another. No more. In the past five or so years, the drive, which begins where NE Fourth Avenue ends and arcs around to Manors' Five-Points intersection, has undergone a transformation that's nothing short of remarkable. Now, it's Wilton Manors' quirky answer to Las Olas Boulevard. The drive's centerpiece, the Shoppes of Wilton Manors, has gone from a dreary strip mall once anchored by a bank to a spruced-up, lively mosaic of businesses of all sorts. It's now anchored by the enormously popular Georgie's Alibi, a complex with a main bar, a sports bar, a small café, and a patio, all daily drawing a large, diverse clientele that's mainly but not exclusively gay. That's pretty much the pattern for the rest of the drive as well -- such old standbys as a Dairy Queen, a Social Security Administration office, and an Eddie Hauck's Wings N' Things franchise rub shoulders with a GayMart boutique, the gay-owned-and-operated Better Bodies Gym, and the AIDS charity Poverello. The old/new, gay/straight diversity continues from one end of the drive to the other: restaurants and bars (nearly 20 of them), antiques shops, hair salons, real-estate agents, car-repair centers, florists, specialty shops, churches, a children's furniture store, a pet grooming center, a tanning salon, a law office, a travel agency, a chiropractor, a pool hall, a laundry, a plant nursery, a marketing firm, a comic-book store, a lock-and-safe company, an insurance agent, a leather shop, a trailer park, a Christian bookstore, and -- our offbeat favorite -- a branch of the Women's World Wrestling Club. Best of all, the strip is still growing and evolving. Next year, it should be even better.

Every Florida tourism ad ever made shows someone out for a solitary stroll on the beach, watching seabirds skim over the lapping waves as the sun lights the sky afire. What greater contentment can there be than a barefoot hike with the sea breeze in your face? Well, OK, there are a few. But a warm and solitary beach is way up there. Trouble is, everybody wants his own patch of sand. That's why 2.7 million people are crammed into Broward and Palm Beach counties. And most of them are lucky to own the sand in their shoes. Still, amid all this bustle, there are still a few lonely spots where the honks and screeches of the city recede to a gentle murmur, lost in the whooshing waves. Tops has got to be John U. Lloyd Beach State Park, jutting out from Dania Beach just south of Port Everglades. There, isolated from the troubles of the mainland, the lucky few can trudge two and a half miles of usually empty beach backed by tangled trees, with only shriveling jellyfish for company. The park is accessible from Dania Beach Boulevard and A1A, 8 a.m. to sundown. Or park at the Dania Beach Fishing Pier at the beach's south end for a nominal fee (open 24-7 for fishermen, until 11 p.m. for everyone else) and just stroll up the strand. Pedestrians and cyclists get into John U. Lloyd park for $1, single motorists for $2, and up to eight people in a car for $4. But that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?

Every Florida tourism ad ever made shows someone out for a solitary stroll on the beach, watching seabirds skim over the lapping waves as the sun lights the sky afire. What greater contentment can there be than a barefoot hike with the sea breeze in your face? Well, OK, there are a few. But a warm and solitary beach is way up there. Trouble is, everybody wants his own patch of sand. That's why 2.7 million people are crammed into Broward and Palm Beach counties. And most of them are lucky to own the sand in their shoes. Still, amid all this bustle, there are still a few lonely spots where the honks and screeches of the city recede to a gentle murmur, lost in the whooshing waves. Tops has got to be John U. Lloyd Beach State Park, jutting out from Dania Beach just south of Port Everglades. There, isolated from the troubles of the mainland, the lucky few can trudge two and a half miles of usually empty beach backed by tangled trees, with only shriveling jellyfish for company. The park is accessible from Dania Beach Boulevard and A1A, 8 a.m. to sundown. Or park at the Dania Beach Fishing Pier at the beach's south end for a nominal fee (open 24-7 for fishermen, until 11 p.m. for everyone else) and just stroll up the strand. Pedestrians and cyclists get into John U. Lloyd park for $1, single motorists for $2, and up to eight people in a car for $4. But that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?

Some things just shouldn't be too civilized. The Everglades is one of them. Even as the state and feds plan to spend untold billions to clean up what we've already done to the River of Grass, the Moloch of commercialization still rears its reptilian head at tourist traps like Everglades Holiday Park and the Billie Swamp Safari. Of course, no one wants to go back to the stinky hell that was the lot of our pioneer forbears, but a simple nod to the creature comforts should be enough when searching out the beauties of nature. That's just what the happy motorist will find at Mile Marker 35 on Alligator Alley. The modest rest stop has a few vending machines, half a dozen picnic tables, and two boat ramps, all watched by a Wackenhut security guard. The big bonus is the only public restroom between Weston and the Miccosukee reservation near the Collier County line. No noisy airboats, nobody pestering you to buy shellacked alligator heads -- just you, your bass boat, and a swamp. Like it was meant to be.

Some things just shouldn't be too civilized. The Everglades is one of them. Even as the state and feds plan to spend untold billions to clean up what we've already done to the River of Grass, the Moloch of commercialization still rears its reptilian head at tourist traps like Everglades Holiday Park and the Billie Swamp Safari. Of course, no one wants to go back to the stinky hell that was the lot of our pioneer forbears, but a simple nod to the creature comforts should be enough when searching out the beauties of nature. That's just what the happy motorist will find at Mile Marker 35 on Alligator Alley. The modest rest stop has a few vending machines, half a dozen picnic tables, and two boat ramps, all watched by a Wackenhut security guard. The big bonus is the only public restroom between Weston and the Miccosukee reservation near the Collier County line. No noisy airboats, nobody pestering you to buy shellacked alligator heads -- just you, your bass boat, and a swamp. Like it was meant to be.

If you combine West Lake Park with the Anne Kolb Nature Center next door, you have one of the biggest public spaces in all of South Florida: almost three square miles of water, mangrove, and room to roam -- all just a whistle away from the ocean. West Lake has a wonderful kids' playground, a big lake where Broward Community College offers sailing and windsurfing classes, and top-notch picnic facilities. On any given weekend, the park bustles with high-powered basketball games, trick in-line skaters, and birthday parties. The six-year-old nature center next door provides a view of Florida as it ought to be. There's a five-level observation tower and delightful canoe trails. Both places are cheap. West Lake admission costs $1; entry to Anne Kolb is free. They're open 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. during the winter and 8 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. in summer. So go east, young man (or woman or child). Leave the 'burbs behind.

If you combine West Lake Park with the Anne Kolb Nature Center next door, you have one of the biggest public spaces in all of South Florida: almost three square miles of water, mangrove, and room to roam -- all just a whistle away from the ocean. West Lake has a wonderful kids' playground, a big lake where Broward Community College offers sailing and windsurfing classes, and top-notch picnic facilities. On any given weekend, the park bustles with high-powered basketball games, trick in-line skaters, and birthday parties. The six-year-old nature center next door provides a view of Florida as it ought to be. There's a five-level observation tower and delightful canoe trails. Both places are cheap. West Lake admission costs $1; entry to Anne Kolb is free. They're open 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. during the winter and 8 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. in summer. So go east, young man (or woman or child). Leave the 'burbs behind.

Since winning the supervisor of elections post in 2000, this longtime school board member has pushed Broward County's voter-registration rolls higher than those of Miami-Dade's for the first time in history. She's also revamped the way locals vote -- but not without a fight. When she first floated the idea of ATM-style touchscreen machines, commissioners balked. They warmed to the idea a couple of months later and eventually passed a $17.2 million contract with Nebraska-based Election Systems & Software late last year. When some of the new machines showed up with dim screens, Oliphant came down hard on the company and persuaded it to fix the problem. And when the Broward Charter Review Commission tried to take away her control of her department's budget, it received a firsthand demonstration of Oliphant's clout: two rooms full of vocal supporters. Seems the woman in charge of the political process in Broward knows a thing or two about politics herself.

Since winning the supervisor of elections post in 2000, this longtime school board member has pushed Broward County's voter-registration rolls higher than those of Miami-Dade's for the first time in history. She's also revamped the way locals vote -- but not without a fight. When she first floated the idea of ATM-style touchscreen machines, commissioners balked. They warmed to the idea a couple of months later and eventually passed a $17.2 million contract with Nebraska-based Election Systems & Software late last year. When some of the new machines showed up with dim screens, Oliphant came down hard on the company and persuaded it to fix the problem. And when the Broward Charter Review Commission tried to take away her control of her department's budget, it received a firsthand demonstration of Oliphant's clout: two rooms full of vocal supporters. Seems the woman in charge of the political process in Broward knows a thing or two about politics herself.

Never mind its four Little League baseball fields, five football fields, 27-hole golf course, and 40 picnic shelters. The 900-acre Okeeheelee Park goes beyond the traditional role of a community park and takes the meaning of the word recreation to the extreme. Case in point: the five waterski courses -- one of which is a nationally recognized venue for world-class competitions. On any given day, you'll find avid water-skiers and wake-boarders making waves and splashing innocent bystanders at the park's 170 acres of water. All courses can accommodate traditional, barefoot, and kneeboard skiing, and for all of the day-jobbers out there, one of the courses is even lighted for night skiing. BMX bikers young and (slightly) old pull off 180s and 360s at the park's track, which is complete with dirt hills, sharp tricky turns, and half-pipes. Nature lovers walk, jog, and bike through woods and wetlands along the park's 1.2-mile-long nature trail. And as dads turn up the heat at the park's barbecue pavilions, kids run around and play to their hearts' content while the mouth-watering aromas of grilled burgers and corn on the cob fill the air. Additional facilities include a wooden fishing pier, two boat launching ramps, four adult softball fields, volleyball courts, five children's play areas, eight tennis courts, and a nature center. In short, there's something for everyone. And even though it's far from the beach -- the park is practically in the Everglades -- and there isn't a grain of sand in sight, you'll still find plenty of "fun in the sun."

Never mind its four Little League baseball fields, five football fields, 27-hole golf course, and 40 picnic shelters. The 900-acre Okeeheelee Park goes beyond the traditional role of a community park and takes the meaning of the word recreation to the extreme. Case in point: the five waterski courses -- one of which is a nationally recognized venue for world-class competitions. On any given day, you'll find avid water-skiers and wake-boarders making waves and splashing innocent bystanders at the park's 170 acres of water. All courses can accommodate traditional, barefoot, and kneeboard skiing, and for all of the day-jobbers out there, one of the courses is even lighted for night skiing. BMX bikers young and (slightly) old pull off 180s and 360s at the park's track, which is complete with dirt hills, sharp tricky turns, and half-pipes. Nature lovers walk, jog, and bike through woods and wetlands along the park's 1.2-mile-long nature trail. And as dads turn up the heat at the park's barbecue pavilions, kids run around and play to their hearts' content while the mouth-watering aromas of grilled burgers and corn on the cob fill the air. Additional facilities include a wooden fishing pier, two boat launching ramps, four adult softball fields, volleyball courts, five children's play areas, eight tennis courts, and a nature center. In short, there's something for everyone. And even though it's far from the beach -- the park is practically in the Everglades -- and there isn't a grain of sand in sight, you'll still find plenty of "fun in the sun."

When bicycling enthusiasts organize tours, they head to northern Palm Beach County. And for good reason. While there are few bad views from State Road A1A anywhere along the coast, once north of the pomp of Palm Beach, the back-to-nature scenery is downright stunning, and reminders of Florida's much-ignored history abound. Mangroves reappear, traffic disappears, and the road hugs the beach as it did elsewhere before condos became king. And it looks as good on four wheels as two. A good place to start is Juno Beach, a quaint seaside town of 2800 residents just north of PGA Boulevard. In the late 1800s, the town was the fourth stop on the Celestial Railroad, a short-lived line connecting Juno and Jupiter with train stations the publicity-savvy rail company dubbed Venus and Mars. Continuing north, you'll be surrounded by largely untouched land on the west and the blue expanse of the Atlantic on the east as you pass by the popular Juno Beach pier. At Carlin Park, the road turns west, and you'll have to get out on perpetually traffic-clogged U.S. 1 to cross the Jupiter Inlet. Once over the inlet, you'll see the 105-foot-high, bright-red Jupiter Lighthouse, which was built on an ancient Indian burial ground in 1860 and still provides a beacon to boats today. Head back east to A1A, where you'll be within spitting distance of the Intracoastal. Just north of the county line, stop at Blowing Rocks, a preserve managed by the Nature Conservancy. If you hit it at low tide, you'll discover the meaning behind its name. Sea water shoots out of holes in the porous limestone rock, creating a scene more characteristic of the rugged Pacific Coast than the more placid Atlantic. Since you've come this far, you might as well continue to Jupiter Island, the carefully manicured, old-money haven where the first President Bush went often to visit his mother. Now home to half the top golfers in the PGA, it is also where President Clinton took a highly publicized knee-twisting tumble while staying up late drinking with... er, make that talking to Greg Norman. Drive around and find out how those who consider Palm Beachers riff-raff really live. Cap the drive by taking a dip at the public park at the end of the island. Then what? Drive back and see everything you missed on the way up.

When bicycling enthusiasts organize tours, they head to northern Palm Beach County. And for good reason. While there are few bad views from State Road A1A anywhere along the coast, once north of the pomp of Palm Beach, the back-to-nature scenery is downright stunning, and reminders of Florida's much-ignored history abound. Mangroves reappear, traffic disappears, and the road hugs the beach as it did elsewhere before condos became king. And it looks as good on four wheels as two. A good place to start is Juno Beach, a quaint seaside town of 2800 residents just north of PGA Boulevard. In the late 1800s, the town was the fourth stop on the Celestial Railroad, a short-lived line connecting Juno and Jupiter with train stations the publicity-savvy rail company dubbed Venus and Mars. Continuing north, you'll be surrounded by largely untouched land on the west and the blue expanse of the Atlantic on the east as you pass by the popular Juno Beach pier. At Carlin Park, the road turns west, and you'll have to get out on perpetually traffic-clogged U.S. 1 to cross the Jupiter Inlet. Once over the inlet, you'll see the 105-foot-high, bright-red Jupiter Lighthouse, which was built on an ancient Indian burial ground in 1860 and still provides a beacon to boats today. Head back east to A1A, where you'll be within spitting distance of the Intracoastal. Just north of the county line, stop at Blowing Rocks, a preserve managed by the Nature Conservancy. If you hit it at low tide, you'll discover the meaning behind its name. Sea water shoots out of holes in the porous limestone rock, creating a scene more characteristic of the rugged Pacific Coast than the more placid Atlantic. Since you've come this far, you might as well continue to Jupiter Island, the carefully manicured, old-money haven where the first President Bush went often to visit his mother. Now home to half the top golfers in the PGA, it is also where President Clinton took a highly publicized knee-twisting tumble while staying up late drinking with... er, make that talking to Greg Norman. Drive around and find out how those who consider Palm Beachers riff-raff really live. Cap the drive by taking a dip at the public park at the end of the island. Then what? Drive back and see everything you missed on the way up.

You will not require any additional instructions to find the Seminole Rest Stop on Alligator Alley. If you do, you're clearly beyond help, since it's the only gas station on the nearly 80-mile stretch of toll road. Nor will you need many clues to pick out Wally, the rest stop's resident gator. He lives in the canal that rings the station's south parking lot. Call him and he'll paddle over with a toothy grin. Imbeciles have fed him (don't you dare), which makes him distressingly friendly for a nine-foot-long armored reptilian warrior. Stand on the other side of the chain-link fence, take photographs, and be glad he isn't feeding on you.

You will not require any additional instructions to find the Seminole Rest Stop on Alligator Alley. If you do, you're clearly beyond help, since it's the only gas station on the nearly 80-mile stretch of toll road. Nor will you need many clues to pick out Wally, the rest stop's resident gator. He lives in the canal that rings the station's south parking lot. Call him and he'll paddle over with a toothy grin. Imbeciles have fed him (don't you dare), which makes him distressingly friendly for a nine-foot-long armored reptilian warrior. Stand on the other side of the chain-link fence, take photographs, and be glad he isn't feeding on you.

When a tourist from the big city saw a bevy of bunnies running from a freshly cleared sugar-cane field, he freaked and phoned People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. But little did that Yankee carpetbagger know that that's just the way it's done in Pahokee. Every January during sugar-cane harvest season, a few agile boys in the town of 6900 take to the "rundown," the sport of scrambling after rabbits fleeing the burning fields -- shooting Peter Cottontail, skinning their prizes, and selling them for $2 a hop. Call it barbaric if you will, but many in this hamlet directly east of State Hwy. 715 say it's basic training for their high school's future track and football stars.

When a tourist from the big city saw a bevy of bunnies running from a freshly cleared sugar-cane field, he freaked and phoned People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. But little did that Yankee carpetbagger know that that's just the way it's done in Pahokee. Every January during sugar-cane harvest season, a few agile boys in the town of 6900 take to the "rundown," the sport of scrambling after rabbits fleeing the burning fields -- shooting Peter Cottontail, skinning their prizes, and selling them for $2 a hop. Call it barbaric if you will, but many in this hamlet directly east of State Hwy. 715 say it's basic training for their high school's future track and football stars.

The DMV is one of those extraordinary settings where social status and income take a back seat to bureaucratic decree. Almost everyone drives, from the salt-of-the-earth working class to the mega-wealthy. Almost everyone, therefore, must show up every so often in person for eye exams and mug shots. And oh, what a treat it is to see these disparate denizens rubbing shoulders. The Rolls-Royce owner gazing straight through the cretin beside him. The plumber pitching woo to the blonde behind him. The spastic businessman trying to buy his way forward in the line. The lanky teen who's so near, yet so far, from hitting the road solo. Pity we don't renew annually.

The DMV is one of those extraordinary settings where social status and income take a back seat to bureaucratic decree. Almost everyone drives, from the salt-of-the-earth working class to the mega-wealthy. Almost everyone, therefore, must show up every so often in person for eye exams and mug shots. And oh, what a treat it is to see these disparate denizens rubbing shoulders. The Rolls-Royce owner gazing straight through the cretin beside him. The plumber pitching woo to the blonde behind him. The spastic businessman trying to buy his way forward in the line. The lanky teen who's so near, yet so far, from hitting the road solo. Pity we don't renew annually.

Nothing like a big red cock on your logo to drive home the message, one clearly announced in this liquid dispensary's official motto: "A great place to bring a date, or to find one!" Housed in a stone-and-peach building just minutes from the airport and downtown, ringed by gay-friendly neighborhoods like Flamingo Park and El Cid, Roosters has been a center of Palm Beach County gay social life for nearly 18 years. Except for the male strippers, it's not that different from the typical corner bar -- pool tables, drink specials, karaoke, Monday-night bingo -- but everything is done with an ironic twist of the wrist, the slight self-parody of the lavender set on home turf. Knowing glances exchanged in the main room inside, more intimate conversation in the quiet corners of the back patio.

Nothing like a big red cock on your logo to drive home the message, one clearly announced in this liquid dispensary's official motto: "A great place to bring a date, or to find one!" Housed in a stone-and-peach building just minutes from the airport and downtown, ringed by gay-friendly neighborhoods like Flamingo Park and El Cid, Roosters has been a center of Palm Beach County gay social life for nearly 18 years. Except for the male strippers, it's not that different from the typical corner bar -- pool tables, drink specials, karaoke, Monday-night bingo -- but everything is done with an ironic twist of the wrist, the slight self-parody of the lavender set on home turf. Knowing glances exchanged in the main room inside, more intimate conversation in the quiet corners of the back patio.

California is renowned for its tofu-and-granola lesbians, but there seem to be more vegetarian lesbians per capita in South Florida than in Los Angeles and San Francisco combined. Pick your type -- Birkenstock, butch, lipstick, or new age -- and she'll be roaming the aisles at the Fort Lauderdale Whole Foods Market. But the dykiest section of the store is definitely the prepared-foods counter. You can peruse grilled tofu while cruising the chic chick next to you as she examines the veggie sushi with one eye and your abs with the other. At least you know you'll have enough in common to agree on a restaurant for your first date. If you don't want to wait that long, grab your food right then and see if she offers to pay for your meal when you reach the cashier. Or you can always stalk the vitamin aisle and ask your prey, "What brand of B-12 do you suggest if we're going to stay up all night?"

California is renowned for its tofu-and-granola lesbians, but there seem to be more vegetarian lesbians per capita in South Florida than in Los Angeles and San Francisco combined. Pick your type -- Birkenstock, butch, lipstick, or new age -- and she'll be roaming the aisles at the Fort Lauderdale Whole Foods Market. But the dykiest section of the store is definitely the prepared-foods counter. You can peruse grilled tofu while cruising the chic chick next to you as she examines the veggie sushi with one eye and your abs with the other. At least you know you'll have enough in common to agree on a restaurant for your first date. If you don't want to wait that long, grab your food right then and see if she offers to pay for your meal when you reach the cashier. Or you can always stalk the vitamin aisle and ask your prey, "What brand of B-12 do you suggest if we're going to stay up all night?"

What are the two greatest impediments to meeting that special someone? Temporal constraints and disjunction, of course. (You know: being in the right place at the right time.) If you could just get Mr. or Ms. Right to sit still for a while beside you, the magic would flow like words from a poet's pen. Well, what better place than the peaceful, laid-back setting of a blood bank? Strapped to a blood bag for ten minutes, you're putting your best altruistic foot... er, arm, forward for all to see (not to mention passing a basic health questionnaire). Resting in that psychotherapeutic incline, the conversation will come naturally between you and your newfound love interest. You'll get far past the whatta-ya-do-for-a-livin' questions. Best of all, you can seal the deal over cookies and OJ while the object of your attraction remains delightfully lightheaded.

What are the two greatest impediments to meeting that special someone? Temporal constraints and disjunction, of course. (You know: being in the right place at the right time.) If you could just get Mr. or Ms. Right to sit still for a while beside you, the magic would flow like words from a poet's pen. Well, what better place than the peaceful, laid-back setting of a blood bank? Strapped to a blood bag for ten minutes, you're putting your best altruistic foot... er, arm, forward for all to see (not to mention passing a basic health questionnaire). Resting in that psychotherapeutic incline, the conversation will come naturally between you and your newfound love interest. You'll get far past the whatta-ya-do-for-a-livin' questions. Best of all, you can seal the deal over cookies and OJ while the object of your attraction remains delightfully lightheaded.

Admit it: Once you've decided to end it, the painful part isn't ejecting Mr. or Ms. Wrong from your life; it's facing the music when you break the news. There are, quite understandably, personal safety issues to consider. Well, buck up, all you heartbreakers out there: At the airport, all the security work has been done for you. Step One: Feign a trip for you and the one you don't love. Step Two: Pass through the metal detectors, where the threat of sharp objects will be removed. Step Three: Tarry beside the M16-wielding National Guarders who inevitably hang around the luggage checkers, then proclaim the split. If the announcement goes over like a Bowie knife in a suitcase, call in the camo.

Admit it: Once you've decided to end it, the painful part isn't ejecting Mr. or Ms. Wrong from your life; it's facing the music when you break the news. There are, quite understandably, personal safety issues to consider. Well, buck up, all you heartbreakers out there: At the airport, all the security work has been done for you. Step One: Feign a trip for you and the one you don't love. Step Two: Pass through the metal detectors, where the threat of sharp objects will be removed. Step Three: Tarry beside the M16-wielding National Guarders who inevitably hang around the luggage checkers, then proclaim the split. If the announcement goes over like a Bowie knife in a suitcase, call in the camo.

Tell your ex you've planned a surprise, and let the wooing begin. Setting the scene is everything, and this is one of the few stretches of Fort Lauderdale beach covered with bare sand instead of condos. Just north of the hustle and bustle of Las Olas, you've got instant romance that won't cost you a dime, as long as you read the parking restrictions. Go at night for the whole moonlit-walk-on-the-beach theme. If you want to make it really special, prepare a dinner picnic featuring all of your intended-to-be-once-again's favorite foods, plus treats like strawberries and chocolate. That doesn't take any imagination but always gets you major points. You can hold hands as you stroll on the sand, dip your toes in the breaking surf, and promise to do better this time. If all goes well, you'll be happily coupled again. If it doesn't, you didn't drop a fortune on dinner, drinks, appetizers, and dessert at some pricey restaurant. Your only problem will be lugging the cooler back to the car by yourself.

Tell your ex you've planned a surprise, and let the wooing begin. Setting the scene is everything, and this is one of the few stretches of Fort Lauderdale beach covered with bare sand instead of condos. Just north of the hustle and bustle of Las Olas, you've got instant romance that won't cost you a dime, as long as you read the parking restrictions. Go at night for the whole moonlit-walk-on-the-beach theme. If you want to make it really special, prepare a dinner picnic featuring all of your intended-to-be-once-again's favorite foods, plus treats like strawberries and chocolate. That doesn't take any imagination but always gets you major points. You can hold hands as you stroll on the sand, dip your toes in the breaking surf, and promise to do better this time. If all goes well, you'll be happily coupled again. If it doesn't, you didn't drop a fortune on dinner, drinks, appetizers, and dessert at some pricey restaurant. Your only problem will be lugging the cooler back to the car by yourself.

The great thing about this hotly contested March 12 election was that the whole town got involved, whether for or against the $19 million bond issue to renovate the aging 1920s casino and surrounding amenities of the town's public beach. It was topic A in local conversation for months, and every square inch of lawn in town seemed to be plastered with "Yes" or "No" placards. While the beach and its structures clearly are in need of repair, citizen resistance to the proposal was galvanized by the fact that the PAC urging passage of the bond was funded in part by businesses that stood to profit from it. That -- and the little town's innate resistance to wholesale change -- proved too much for even the likes of slick bond champion Mayor Rodney Romano to overcome. Voters just said "No" by a 3-2 margin, a showing that said as much about the citizens' feelings of being bulldozed as about their feelings regarding beach repair.

The great thing about this hotly contested March 12 election was that the whole town got involved, whether for or against the $19 million bond issue to renovate the aging 1920s casino and surrounding amenities of the town's public beach. It was topic A in local conversation for months, and every square inch of lawn in town seemed to be plastered with "Yes" or "No" placards. While the beach and its structures clearly are in need of repair, citizen resistance to the proposal was galvanized by the fact that the PAC urging passage of the bond was funded in part by businesses that stood to profit from it. That -- and the little town's innate resistance to wholesale change -- proved too much for even the likes of slick bond champion Mayor Rodney Romano to overcome. Voters just said "No" by a 3-2 margin, a showing that said as much about the citizens' feelings of being bulldozed as about their feelings regarding beach repair.

Celebrities have money. Too much, really. They're so loaded that they're compelled to buy mansions they don't live in, sports cars they rarely drive, art they don't appreciate, and apparel they look absurd in. And we love 'em for it. We've carved out bastions for these dear ones to procure such nonessentials, Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills being a prime example. The Gold Coast's answer to that ritzy strip is Worth Avenue, a roughly 200-yard stretch of art galleries, upscale restaurants, jewelers, clothiers, and real-estate agents. Cartier watches, Kaufmann de Suisse jewels, handbags by Bottega Veneta, Fleur-de-Lis Antiques -- in toto, celebrity flypaper. Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Celine Dion, and Jimmy Buffett are regulars; look for the influx of new faces after any given celebrity golf tournament -- and whenever Jack Frost invades the north.

Celebrities have money. Too much, really. They're so loaded that they're compelled to buy mansions they don't live in, sports cars they rarely drive, art they don't appreciate, and apparel they look absurd in. And we love 'em for it. We've carved out bastions for these dear ones to procure such nonessentials, Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills being a prime example. The Gold Coast's answer to that ritzy strip is Worth Avenue, a roughly 200-yard stretch of art galleries, upscale restaurants, jewelers, clothiers, and real-estate agents. Cartier watches, Kaufmann de Suisse jewels, handbags by Bottega Veneta, Fleur-de-Lis Antiques -- in toto, celebrity flypaper. Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Celine Dion, and Jimmy Buffett are regulars; look for the influx of new faces after any given celebrity golf tournament -- and whenever Jack Frost invades the north.

All the world's a stage, some dead guy said. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the human pageant of South Florida. And nowhere in South Florida features a better midnight matinee than Swifty Laundromat. The chain of 24-hour wash-'n'-drys seems designed for drama with its wide-open, cleanly tiled venues. They're all brightly lighted, the better to show off patrons. While Swiftys are spotted all over the area, our favorite is on the main drag in Hollywood, where some amazing people show up to suds their shorts at 2 a.m. There's the guy with the big sore on his lip who declares that women should be disposable conveniences as his girlfriend fondles his leg. There's the old man who strips down to his skivvies to make sure everything goes through the wash. There's the granola-munching cross-country hikers, stopping for a rare wash. There's the disheveled, incoherent woman angrily demanding of the change machine that it stop putting lawn chemicals on her children. And there's the hip-hop teens who crank up the bass in their low-rider pickup and hold an impromptu parking-lot party while their underwear spins. All these and more have been on display during recent late-night visits. Coming soon to a Swifty near you.

All the world's a stage, some dead guy said. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the human pageant of South Florida. And nowhere in South Florida features a better midnight matinee than Swifty Laundromat. The chain of 24-hour wash-'n'-drys seems designed for drama with its wide-open, cleanly tiled venues. They're all brightly lighted, the better to show off patrons. While Swiftys are spotted all over the area, our favorite is on the main drag in Hollywood, where some amazing people show up to suds their shorts at 2 a.m. There's the guy with the big sore on his lip who declares that women should be disposable conveniences as his girlfriend fondles his leg. There's the old man who strips down to his skivvies to make sure everything goes through the wash. There's the granola-munching cross-country hikers, stopping for a rare wash. There's the disheveled, incoherent woman angrily demanding of the change machine that it stop putting lawn chemicals on her children. And there's the hip-hop teens who crank up the bass in their low-rider pickup and hold an impromptu parking-lot party while their underwear spins. All these and more have been on display during recent late-night visits. Coming soon to a Swifty near you.

Sweet jumping Jesus in a shit stream! Will this construction never end?!

Sweet jumping Jesus in a shit stream! Will this construction never end?!

Hard to believe that this innocuous restaurant and bar, situated across the street from the serenity of Young Circle Park, played host to some of the most hated extremist zealots since World War II gave us the SS. A group of the September 11 hijackers and murderers came to this watering hole to drink, harass the employees, and generally act like pricks. They traded stories of what they were going to do with their several dozen virgins while dining on Shuckums's grade-A bar food and sucking down ice-cold brews. While hindsight is 20/20, foresight is nearly blind, so we forgive the staff of this place for not giving the jerks food poisoning when they had the chance. In fact, we give them major props for even putting up with what were reportedly some colossally rude customers whose tipping practices would make even Scrooge wince in dismay. And, oh, the stories the Shuckums staff will have to tell for years down the road. As for the terrorists, we hope those "virgins" gave them an eternal case of the clap.

Hard to believe that this innocuous restaurant and bar, situated across the street from the serenity of Young Circle Park, played host to some of the most hated extremist zealots since World War II gave us the SS. A group of the September 11 hijackers and murderers came to this watering hole to drink, harass the employees, and generally act like pricks. They traded stories of what they were going to do with their several dozen virgins while dining on Shuckums's grade-A bar food and sucking down ice-cold brews. While hindsight is 20/20, foresight is nearly blind, so we forgive the staff of this place for not giving the jerks food poisoning when they had the chance. In fact, we give them major props for even putting up with what were reportedly some colossally rude customers whose tipping practices would make even Scrooge wince in dismay. And, oh, the stories the Shuckums staff will have to tell for years down the road. As for the terrorists, we hope those "virgins" gave them an eternal case of the clap.

Got a death wish, with no Charles Bronson in sight? No problemo. Just take an unwary stroll through the tourist mecca of West Palm Beach. Among its other attractions, the area north of Okeechobee Boulevard boasts the highest concentration of murders anywhere in Broward or Palm Beach counties. Seventeen people met violent ends there in 2001; the total for all of West Palm Beach is just two higher. But, hey, that's down from 24 citywide in 2000. A section of Fort Lauderdale is a close runner-up for 2001, with 15 homicides in the area north of the New River and west of Federal Highway.

Got a death wish, with no Charles Bronson in sight? No problemo. Just take an unwary stroll through the tourist mecca of West Palm Beach. Among its other attractions, the area north of Okeechobee Boulevard boasts the highest concentration of murders anywhere in Broward or Palm Beach counties. Seventeen people met violent ends there in 2001; the total for all of West Palm Beach is just two higher. But, hey, that's down from 24 citywide in 2000. A section of Fort Lauderdale is a close runner-up for 2001, with 15 homicides in the area north of the New River and west of Federal Highway.

Observe canine near ocean: head aloft, nose sniffing air, body in full alert. With our much inferior olfactory capabilities, we cannot know the rich text that a dog reads when it gets near the beach. A German shepherd has some 225 million sensory receptors with which to decode scent in its nose, whereas we have only about 5 million. So while we might catch a whiff of suntan lotion, the dog can detect clumps of seaweed at the shoreline, bits of sandwich tossed in the sand, dead fish a mile away, salt sprayed into the air when a wave crashes. Dogs live for smell. How sad it is, then, that most beaches bristle with signs featuring a big X with the outline of a canine. But not all. Here's a little secret: There is one place where dogs are legal on the beach. And they don't have to be tethered to a leash if under voice control. For the past eight years, the Friends of Jupiter Beach have labored to make sure a two-mile stretch of Jupiter Beach remains open to dogs. They provide 250,000 doggie bags yearly to pick up poop. (Look for doggie-bag stations at beach accesses.) They do monthly beach cleanups. They patrol the beach for infractions. All the Friends ask is that you bring only dogs who are friendly to both humans and canines, that you not allow your dog to bother other beachgoers, and that you clean up after your pooch. Follow those commonsensical rules and your dog can romp in the Atlantic, roll in a pile of seaweed, sniff the shoreline, or happily chase and retrieve a Frisbee.

Observe canine near ocean: head aloft, nose sniffing air, body in full alert. With our much inferior olfactory capabilities, we cannot know the rich text that a dog reads when it gets near the beach. A German shepherd has some 225 million sensory receptors with which to decode scent in its nose, whereas we have only about 5 million. So while we might catch a whiff of suntan lotion, the dog can detect clumps of seaweed at the shoreline, bits of sandwich tossed in the sand, dead fish a mile away, salt sprayed into the air when a wave crashes. Dogs live for smell. How sad it is, then, that most beaches bristle with signs featuring a big X with the outline of a canine. But not all. Here's a little secret: There is one place where dogs are legal on the beach. And they don't have to be tethered to a leash if under voice control. For the past eight years, the Friends of Jupiter Beach have labored to make sure a two-mile stretch of Jupiter Beach remains open to dogs. They provide 250,000 doggie bags yearly to pick up poop. (Look for doggie-bag stations at beach accesses.) They do monthly beach cleanups. They patrol the beach for infractions. All the Friends ask is that you bring only dogs who are friendly to both humans and canines, that you not allow your dog to bother other beachgoers, and that you clean up after your pooch. Follow those commonsensical rules and your dog can romp in the Atlantic, roll in a pile of seaweed, sniff the shoreline, or happily chase and retrieve a Frisbee.

The boys of Custom Bikes are modifying Harleys in this building's first floor, but if you're heading either west or east on Sunrise, take a gander upward for an architectural flourish that would do James Bond proud: The second-floor windows are shaped in a perfect 007. Say, are those rocket launchers and ejector seats on those hogs?

The boys of Custom Bikes are modifying Harleys in this building's first floor, but if you're heading either west or east on Sunrise, take a gander upward for an architectural flourish that would do James Bond proud: The second-floor windows are shaped in a perfect 007. Say, are those rocket launchers and ejector seats on those hogs?

The long-ago kings of Siam dealt with overmighty subjects by presenting them with rare white elephants from the royal stables, animals sacred in Buddhist tradition. Bestowal of such a remarkable creature was an honor all but impossible to refuse, but proper upkeep for a pale pachyderm was a beastly expense that shortly reduced the richest vassal to humble circumstances. South Florida's civic solons are reliving this legend during the interminable squabble over the International Swimming Hall of Fame, now located in Fort Lauderdale but angling for hipper digs. Pushed by development king Michael Swerdlow, Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood, and Pompano Beach have all made perfunctory trumpeting noises in the past year about what an honor it would be to house the hall's tacky museum, but no one wants to cough up millions for a more imposing edifice.

The long-ago kings of Siam dealt with overmighty subjects by presenting them with rare white elephants from the royal stables, animals sacred in Buddhist tradition. Bestowal of such a remarkable creature was an honor all but impossible to refuse, but proper upkeep for a pale pachyderm was a beastly expense that shortly reduced the richest vassal to humble circumstances. South Florida's civic solons are reliving this legend during the interminable squabble over the International Swimming Hall of Fame, now located in Fort Lauderdale but angling for hipper digs. Pushed by development king Michael Swerdlow, Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood, and Pompano Beach have all made perfunctory trumpeting noises in the past year about what an honor it would be to house the hall's tacky museum, but no one wants to cough up millions for a more imposing edifice.

Like the Bahamas, or Cuba before Castro decided he wanted to run the place into the ground, Key West is one of those surreal locations that seems just to be waiting for you to show up and spend your money. But if you're going to make the road trip all the way down there -- a journey for which you should definitely rent a convertible if you don't already own one -- you should have the right roof over your head. Do not stay at any of those massive resort hotels, so far removed from downtown, where all the action is. Bed-and-breakfast Eden House is within easy walking distance of Duval Street, the main thoroughfare, and it beats the holy hell out of the resorts, both in atmosphere and price. At the busiest point in the season, around mid-March, it's $110 per night for a bedroom and bathroom and up to $350 for the bottom half of the Conch House, which includes kitchen and private Jacuzzi and comfortably sleeps four. In the dog days of summer, rates drop to $70 to $265. And each room is its own little world, hidden away from other rooms by a jungle of vines, trees, and ferns. When you're lying amid this flora, sipping a fruity drink, you'll know you've finally reached paradise.

Like the Bahamas, or Cuba before Castro decided he wanted to run the place into the ground, Key West is one of those surreal locations that seems just to be waiting for you to show up and spend your money. But if you're going to make the road trip all the way down there -- a journey for which you should definitely rent a convertible if you don't already own one -- you should have the right roof over your head. Do not stay at any of those massive resort hotels, so far removed from downtown, where all the action is. Bed-and-breakfast Eden House is within easy walking distance of Duval Street, the main thoroughfare, and it beats the holy hell out of the resorts, both in atmosphere and price. At the busiest point in the season, around mid-March, it's $110 per night for a bedroom and bathroom and up to $350 for the bottom half of the Conch House, which includes kitchen and private Jacuzzi and comfortably sleeps four. In the dog days of summer, rates drop to $70 to $265. And each room is its own little world, hidden away from other rooms by a jungle of vines, trees, and ferns. When you're lying amid this flora, sipping a fruity drink, you'll know you've finally reached paradise.

Let's face it: The Hollywood Broadwalk is cool because it's retro. This slice of blacktop on the sand is sooooo '50s. Rather than art deco like South Beach, this place recalls the time when cars had fins and families were, well, families. And what exactly was the glue that bound those bratty brothers, sarcastic sisters, and beleaguered parents? It was mini-golf. And this tiny, fenced-in course really has a 1950s feel about it. None of that high-tech stuff they have at those modern amusement parks. No giant windmills, triple-switcheroo clown figurines, or electronic sirens. Nosireebob. FunTyme costs but $5 for adults and $3 for kids, and you get a free game if you rent any of its bicycles or scooters. And if you must meet someone on Broward County's most retro waterfront, all you really have to say to 'em is "Let's meet at the mini-golf course" and they'll know just what you're talking about.

Let's face it: The Hollywood Broadwalk is cool because it's retro. This slice of blacktop on the sand is sooooo '50s. Rather than art deco like South Beach, this place recalls the time when cars had fins and families were, well, families. And what exactly was the glue that bound those bratty brothers, sarcastic sisters, and beleaguered parents? It was mini-golf. And this tiny, fenced-in course really has a 1950s feel about it. None of that high-tech stuff they have at those modern amusement parks. No giant windmills, triple-switcheroo clown figurines, or electronic sirens. Nosireebob. FunTyme costs but $5 for adults and $3 for kids, and you get a free game if you rent any of its bicycles or scooters. And if you must meet someone on Broward County's most retro waterfront, all you really have to say to 'em is "Let's meet at the mini-golf course" and they'll know just what you're talking about.

Less than eight months ago, Thomas Abrams was the toast of the town, raking in millions as a big, swinging financier and earning respect and admiration for his foundation, which he claimed provided millions for impoverished children. Then in October, the day before he was to host a $25,000-a-plate fundraiser at the Breakers, organizers had to tell the likes of Dan Marino, Eunice Shriver, and Buzz Aldrin that the gala was off. Instead of spending the weekend at the five-star resort regaling celebrities with unsubstantiated claims that he created the X-Men comic book hero Wolverine and played fullback for the Miami Hurricanes, the man who managed 260 accounts worth $6 million from his lavish Fort Lauderdale office was busy. Seems the FBI wanted to talk to him about evidence that showed he had bilked elderly investors out of more than $20 million. Six weeks later, Abrams was arrested and charged with six counts of wire fraud, six counts of mail fraud, and three counts of money laundering. Unable to get his hands on bank accounts the feds froze, the 39-year-old was forced to cry poverty; taxpayers are now picking up the tab for his defense. But whether he's convicted or not, his life will never be the same. In March, the feds auctioned off $700,000 worth of his beloved toys and sports and historical memorabilia. Gone are dozens of autographed bats, balls, jerseys, helmets, and gloves. Gone is a signed copy of Richard Nixon's August 9, 1974, resignation and Gerald Ford's September 8, 1974, pardon. The Harley and Jag? Gone. In retrospect, his fall from grace might have been expected. After all, here's a guy who made millions yet couldn't afford a dictionary so he could correctly spell the name of his company, Pheonix Investment Management, and his charity, Pheonix Foundation for Children. But spelled correctly or not, this is one bird that will only explode in fire, never to fly high again.

Less than eight months ago, Thomas Abrams was the toast of the town, raking in millions as a big, swinging financier and earning respect and admiration for his foundation, which he claimed provided millions for impoverished children. Then in October, the day before he was to host a $25,000-a-plate fundraiser at the Breakers, organizers had to tell the likes of Dan Marino, Eunice Shriver, and Buzz Aldrin that the gala was off. Instead of spending the weekend at the five-star resort regaling celebrities with unsubstantiated claims that he created the X-Men comic book hero Wolverine and played fullback for the Miami Hurricanes, the man who managed 260 accounts worth $6 million from his lavish Fort Lauderdale office was busy. Seems the FBI wanted to talk to him about evidence that showed he had bilked elderly investors out of more than $20 million. Six weeks later, Abrams was arrested and charged with six counts of wire fraud, six counts of mail fraud, and three counts of money laundering. Unable to get his hands on bank accounts the feds froze, the 39-year-old was forced to cry poverty; taxpayers are now picking up the tab for his defense. But whether he's convicted or not, his life will never be the same. In March, the feds auctioned off $700,000 worth of his beloved toys and sports and historical memorabilia. Gone are dozens of autographed bats, balls, jerseys, helmets, and gloves. Gone is a signed copy of Richard Nixon's August 9, 1974, resignation and Gerald Ford's September 8, 1974, pardon. The Harley and Jag? Gone. In retrospect, his fall from grace might have been expected. After all, here's a guy who made millions yet couldn't afford a dictionary so he could correctly spell the name of his company, Pheonix Investment Management, and his charity, Pheonix Foundation for Children. But spelled correctly or not, this is one bird that will only explode in fire, never to fly high again.

Located in the 1926 home of Delray Beach educator S.D. Spady, the museum is a tiny gem of cultural preservation. Runaway slaves seeking refuge from bounty hunters settled in Delray Beach around 1894. The museum features the history of two African-American communities that sprang up from the ground they settled: The Sands, located on Fifth Avenue north of Atlantic Avenue, and Frog Alley, on Fifth south of Atlantic. Many local families loaned photographs to the museum for the exhibit, allowing the museum patron to peek into a little-documented slice of black history. Included are photographs taken in Frog Alley after a hurricane swept through the community in 1947, pictures of area businesses, and photos of residents. The S.D. Spady Cultural Arts Museum opened in July 2001. Museum hours are Tuesday and Thursday from 1 to 4 p.m. and by appointment.

Located in the 1926 home of Delray Beach educator S.D. Spady, the museum is a tiny gem of cultural preservation. Runaway slaves seeking refuge from bounty hunters settled in Delray Beach around 1894. The museum features the history of two African-American communities that sprang up from the ground they settled: The Sands, located on Fifth Avenue north of Atlantic Avenue, and Frog Alley, on Fifth south of Atlantic. Many local families loaned photographs to the museum for the exhibit, allowing the museum patron to peek into a little-documented slice of black history. Included are photographs taken in Frog Alley after a hurricane swept through the community in 1947, pictures of area businesses, and photos of residents. The S.D. Spady Cultural Arts Museum opened in July 2001. Museum hours are Tuesday and Thursday from 1 to 4 p.m. and by appointment.

"Where can you take us to see an alligator in the wild without getting too close?" Chances are that if you ever find yourself hosting two or more out-of-towners, you'll be asked this silly, impossible question. The answer to your out-of-town trouble may just be a visit to this quirky, 50-acre wetlands preserve in suburban Delray Beach, preferably during the early-morning or late-afternoon hours if you want to catch some good wildlife action. The wetlands actually consist of converted percolation ponds used by the Palm Beach County Department of Environmental Resources Management to reclaim treated wastewater -- and don't worry, you can't smell it. The ponds were modified to support a variety of vegetation types including aquatic, emergent, transitional, and upland plants and are now home to more than 100 species of birds, turtles, and, of course, alligators. A sturdy, one-mile boardwalk meanders through several of the small lakes; there are two observation points and plenty of signs to identify and inform your guests about the vegetation, birds, and other wildlife most common to the area. The wetlands are open from dusk to dawn daily, and admission is free.

"Where can you take us to see an alligator in the wild without getting too close?" Chances are that if you ever find yourself hosting two or more out-of-towners, you'll be asked this silly, impossible question. The answer to your out-of-town trouble may just be a visit to this quirky, 50-acre wetlands preserve in suburban Delray Beach, preferably during the early-morning or late-afternoon hours if you want to catch some good wildlife action. The wetlands actually consist of converted percolation ponds used by the Palm Beach County Department of Environmental Resources Management to reclaim treated wastewater -- and don't worry, you can't smell it. The ponds were modified to support a variety of vegetation types including aquatic, emergent, transitional, and upland plants and are now home to more than 100 species of birds, turtles, and, of course, alligators. A sturdy, one-mile boardwalk meanders through several of the small lakes; there are two observation points and plenty of signs to identify and inform your guests about the vegetation, birds, and other wildlife most common to the area. The wetlands are open from dusk to dawn daily, and admission is free.

"What the heck is that?" is probably a common reaction to this large, rectangular metal panel perched on three round pillars facing the library. The horizontal slab is tilted slightly upward, as if it's a mirror for the library's imposing façade. Or maybe, you might speculate, it's some sort of mysterious receiver for signals from outer space. But no, it's a piece of art -- a fact that becomes evident only if you're in the right place at the right time. The sculpture comes alive with brilliant color when the sunlight hits it just so, creating iridescent patterns that dance across the textured surface as you move past it. The panel is the work of Dale Eldred, who chaired the Sculpture Department at Missouri's Kansas City Art Institute for three decades. Eldred specialized in public art, particularly works that, like this one, explore the relationship between the earth and the sun. He died in the "500-Year Flood" of 1993, when the Missouri River swept through Kansas City, leaving behind a body of works (including this one) that depend upon the context of the urban outdoors for their ephemeral effects.

"What the heck is that?" is probably a common reaction to this large, rectangular metal panel perched on three round pillars facing the library. The horizontal slab is tilted slightly upward, as if it's a mirror for the library's imposing façade. Or maybe, you might speculate, it's some sort of mysterious receiver for signals from outer space. But no, it's a piece of art -- a fact that becomes evident only if you're in the right place at the right time. The sculpture comes alive with brilliant color when the sunlight hits it just so, creating iridescent patterns that dance across the textured surface as you move past it. The panel is the work of Dale Eldred, who chaired the Sculpture Department at Missouri's Kansas City Art Institute for three decades. Eldred specialized in public art, particularly works that, like this one, explore the relationship between the earth and the sun. He died in the "500-Year Flood" of 1993, when the Missouri River swept through Kansas City, leaving behind a body of works (including this one) that depend upon the context of the urban outdoors for their ephemeral effects.

That cranky old architectural genius Frank Lloyd Wright said it best: "No house should ever be on any hill or on anything. It should be of the hill, belonging to it, so hill and house could live together, each the happier for the other." Substitute building for house and you have an apt description of this jewel in the crown of downtown Fort Lauderdale's still-evolving Arts and Science District. The Broward Center for the Performing Arts so thoroughly belongs to the small hill it occupies between the western edge of Riverwalk and the eastern fringe of the historic Sailboat Bend neighborhood that it's hard to imagine it was never there in the first place. The center, designed by Massachusetts-based architect Benjamin Thompson, is a graceful conglomeration of curves and gentle angles that mirrors the meandering landscape below it. Marble, terra cotta, stucco, wood, and glass -- lots of glass -- conspire to create a luxurious complex that includes two auditoriums linked by a courtyard and characterized by spacious lobbies, sweeping staircases, and broad corridors. Now if they would just do something about that casino-style carpet....

That cranky old architectural genius Frank Lloyd Wright said it best: "No house should ever be on any hill or on anything. It should be of the hill, belonging to it, so hill and house could live together, each the happier for the other." Substitute building for house and you have an apt description of this jewel in the crown of downtown Fort Lauderdale's still-evolving Arts and Science District. The Broward Center for the Performing Arts so thoroughly belongs to the small hill it occupies between the western edge of Riverwalk and the eastern fringe of the historic Sailboat Bend neighborhood that it's hard to imagine it was never there in the first place. The center, designed by Massachusetts-based architect Benjamin Thompson, is a graceful conglomeration of curves and gentle angles that mirrors the meandering landscape below it. Marble, terra cotta, stucco, wood, and glass -- lots of glass -- conspire to create a luxurious complex that includes two auditoriums linked by a courtyard and characterized by spacious lobbies, sweeping staircases, and broad corridors. Now if they would just do something about that casino-style carpet....

You curse the devilish traffic and the paucity of open space, but these signs of overcrowding mean money in your pocket the day you sign on the dotted line of a warranty deed. Soaring land values mean money for nothin'. According to a recent Sun-Sentinel article, the median sales price for homes in the Fort Lauderdale area grew by 12 percent compared to last year, a jump from $161,200 to $179,800. The West Palm Beach-Boca Raton area saw a median sales-price increase of 14 percent, from $139,200 to $158,300. Why the upsurge? As Manhattanites learned long ago, when you're surrounded by water, you run out of anywhere to build but upward. New Yorkers built in that direction, but down here, single-family homes with a patch of backyard are all the rage. And you don't have to have a beautiful mind to realize there are only so many lots to go around.

You curse the devilish traffic and the paucity of open space, but these signs of overcrowding mean money in your pocket the day you sign on the dotted line of a warranty deed. Soaring land values mean money for nothin'. According to a recent Sun-Sentinel article, the median sales price for homes in the Fort Lauderdale area grew by 12 percent compared to last year, a jump from $161,200 to $179,800. The West Palm Beach-Boca Raton area saw a median sales-price increase of 14 percent, from $139,200 to $158,300. Why the upsurge? As Manhattanites learned long ago, when you're surrounded by water, you run out of anywhere to build but upward. New Yorkers built in that direction, but down here, single-family homes with a patch of backyard are all the rage. And you don't have to have a beautiful mind to realize there are only so many lots to go around.

Guised as a smarmy version of Fernando Lamas, comedian Billy Crystal has for years espoused, "It's better to look good than feel good." It's an apt mantra for Fort Lauderdale's waterfront milieu, where appearance is everything. After all, just how comfortable can those women on Las Olas Boulevard be, what with six-inch stiletto heels scrunching their calves into knotty fists and breasts rock-hard with silicone and/or saline? The Prowler, Chrysler's new-wave hotrod, is a joyous escape from that mentality. Tucked behind the steering wheel and breezing down the avenues, you can be cool and feel cool. Need to shave off a few more degrees? Head this 285-horsepower bullet to the Florida Turnpike, pay your buck, and take her up to warp speed. For a mere $395 a day, you can rent a limited-edition navy-blue Prowler from Unique Auto.

Guised as a smarmy version of Fernando Lamas, comedian Billy Crystal has for years espoused, "It's better to look good than feel good." It's an apt mantra for Fort Lauderdale's waterfront milieu, where appearance is everything. After all, just how comfortable can those women on Las Olas Boulevard be, what with six-inch stiletto heels scrunching their calves into knotty fists and breasts rock-hard with silicone and/or saline? The Prowler, Chrysler's new-wave hotrod, is a joyous escape from that mentality. Tucked behind the steering wheel and breezing down the avenues, you can be cool and feel cool. Need to shave off a few more degrees? Head this 285-horsepower bullet to the Florida Turnpike, pay your buck, and take her up to warp speed. For a mere $395 a day, you can rent a limited-edition navy-blue Prowler from Unique Auto.

We like Hollywood Beach. We like the smell of burning sausage and popcorn (or whatever the hell it is) on the Broadwalk. We like its chaotic, totally Florida feeling, the sense that everyone there is from somewhere else. Hell, we even like the Canadians. And when we escape for a weekend on the beach, we stay at the Diane. Why? Because the rooms are right on the Broadwalk and have great ocean views. They have kitchens. And, at $70 or less off-season (the price jumps to $95 or more during the winter months), they are incredibly cheap and pretty darn clean. Plus, when you get really bored, the place has Canadian cable TV. You can't beat that, eh?

We like Hollywood Beach. We like the smell of burning sausage and popcorn (or whatever the hell it is) on the Broadwalk. We like its chaotic, totally Florida feeling, the sense that everyone there is from somewhere else. Hell, we even like the Canadians. And when we escape for a weekend on the beach, we stay at the Diane. Why? Because the rooms are right on the Broadwalk and have great ocean views. They have kitchens. And, at $70 or less off-season (the price jumps to $95 or more during the winter months), they are incredibly cheap and pretty darn clean. Plus, when you get really bored, the place has Canadian cable TV. You can't beat that, eh?

Phillip Gesue and his partners had to chase out the South Dixie Highway hookers to start in on the renovation of the old Mount Vernon Motor Lodge. The 1940s Bahamas colonial-style building had seen better days; well after the El Cid district it neighbors had gone high-end funky chic in the '90s, the inn's room-by-the-hour clientele remained notably louche. The seedy West Palm landmark's reincarnation as Hotel Biba has been an international effort. Gesue, who has a master's in real estate from Columbia University, jointly developed the property with Nihan Gencer (from Istanbul, by way of the same Ivy League schooling) and H. Wisner Miller (Swedish-American, Swiss raised). The design is by Barbara Hulanicki, whose '60s London fashion label the hotel is named for and whose signature palette of melon, lilac, and celery colors the rooms. The hues would be overwhelming, but the minimalist furnishings, with their simple, organic elements, let them work -- modern, hip, fun. If restless, hotel guests can party in the Biba Bar. Already a local hotspot, it draws "an intelligent crowd," Gesue says. If the party's too much, sit and listen to the fountain in the Japanese garden outside. And though the hotel is upscale, it isn't off-the-charts: No room costs more than $200, and some go for less than $100.

Phillip Gesue and his partners had to chase out the South Dixie Highway hookers to start in on the renovation of the old Mount Vernon Motor Lodge. The 1940s Bahamas colonial-style building had seen better days; well after the El Cid district it neighbors had gone high-end funky chic in the '90s, the inn's room-by-the-hour clientele remained notably louche. The seedy West Palm landmark's reincarnation as Hotel Biba has been an international effort. Gesue, who has a master's in real estate from Columbia University, jointly developed the property with Nihan Gencer (from Istanbul, by way of the same Ivy League schooling) and H. Wisner Miller (Swedish-American, Swiss raised). The design is by Barbara Hulanicki, whose '60s London fashion label the hotel is named for and whose signature palette of melon, lilac, and celery colors the rooms. The hues would be overwhelming, but the minimalist furnishings, with their simple, organic elements, let them work -- modern, hip, fun. If restless, hotel guests can party in the Biba Bar. Already a local hotspot, it draws "an intelligent crowd," Gesue says. If the party's too much, sit and listen to the fountain in the Japanese garden outside. And though the hotel is upscale, it isn't off-the-charts: No room costs more than $200, and some go for less than $100.

For visitors (or even us locals, who should know better) looking for a place to hemorrhage money, the nearly two miles of corridors of the Sawgrass Mills Mall offer more than 400 opportunities to spend. Get an aqua-massage. Buy new shoes in one of the more than 35 shoe stores. Have your jewelry cleaned. Buy clothes from places like Last Call! The Clearance Center from Neiman Marcus, OFF 5th-Saks Fifth Avenue Outlet, Tommy Hilfiger Company Store, POLO Ralph Lauren Factory Store, and Gap Outlet. Restock your shelves or even buy new ones from Target. See a movie at Regal 23 Cinemas at the Oasis at Sawgrass Mills. Eat out at one of the six sit-down restaurants in the Oasis or at the Rainforest Café. If more suitcases are needed, at least nine stores sell them, including Samsonite. Alternately, stop in at the U.S. Post Office to send things home. The pedestrian word for all this excess is "shoppertainment"; 26 million people partake of it annually at the mall. Thank goodness 11,000 parking spaces surround the mall. Additionally, 6000 tour buses each year drop off visitors to spend a day spending, spending, and spending. The mall is a testament to American consumerism and excess. It's everything Osama bin Laden hates about America, and he's probably just jealous.

For visitors (or even us locals, who should know better) looking for a place to hemorrhage money, the nearly two miles of corridors of the Sawgrass Mills Mall offer more than 400 opportunities to spend. Get an aqua-massage. Buy new shoes in one of the more than 35 shoe stores. Have your jewelry cleaned. Buy clothes from places like Last Call! The Clearance Center from Neiman Marcus, OFF 5th-Saks Fifth Avenue Outlet, Tommy Hilfiger Company Store, POLO Ralph Lauren Factory Store, and Gap Outlet. Restock your shelves or even buy new ones from Target. See a movie at Regal 23 Cinemas at the Oasis at Sawgrass Mills. Eat out at one of the six sit-down restaurants in the Oasis or at the Rainforest Café. If more suitcases are needed, at least nine stores sell them, including Samsonite. Alternately, stop in at the U.S. Post Office to send things home. The pedestrian word for all this excess is "shoppertainment"; 26 million people partake of it annually at the mall. Thank goodness 11,000 parking spaces surround the mall. Additionally, 6000 tour buses each year drop off visitors to spend a day spending, spending, and spending. The mall is a testament to American consumerism and excess. It's everything Osama bin Laden hates about America, and he's probably just jealous.

What better place can there be for Joe Six-Pack and clan? You got little kids and a taste for a beer and a flick, you get to the Swap Shop. After all, there's first-run movies there -- that's right, first run. Second, it's a great bargain; you drive in for a mere four bucks, while kids nine and under get in free. (If little Joe Jr.'s a late bloomer, you can stretch it to 11 or 12). Third, you're allowed to bring a cooler full of beer and food. For the little things you forget, vending stations sell burgers and pizza, and guys run around in golf carts selling snacks. Bring some folding chairs and a couple of blankets too. And beer. Did we mention beer?

What better place can there be for Joe Six-Pack and clan? You got little kids and a taste for a beer and a flick, you get to the Swap Shop. After all, there's first-run movies there -- that's right, first run. Second, it's a great bargain; you drive in for a mere four bucks, while kids nine and under get in free. (If little Joe Jr.'s a late bloomer, you can stretch it to 11 or 12). Third, you're allowed to bring a cooler full of beer and food. For the little things you forget, vending stations sell burgers and pizza, and guys run around in golf carts selling snacks. Bring some folding chairs and a couple of blankets too. And beer. Did we mention beer?

Gentile's guilty plea to charges that he communicated over the Internet with a Fort Lauderdale detective who posed as a 14-year-old girl, transmitted explicit photographs, then arranged to meet this "girl" at a Circle K, is shocking. But it doesn't induce that extra frisson of outrage one usually gets from sexual misconduct by a teacher. The 22-year Broward Teachers Union president was always more of a union operator than an educator; it wasn't like he was constantly around kids. In the end, for all his power and influence, he was just another sad, twisted guy trolling the Web for gullible young victims -- a story that is made even more depressing by its familiarity.

Gentile's guilty plea to charges that he communicated over the Internet with a Fort Lauderdale detective who posed as a 14-year-old girl, transmitted explicit photographs, then arranged to meet this "girl" at a Circle K, is shocking. But it doesn't induce that extra frisson of outrage one usually gets from sexual misconduct by a teacher. The 22-year Broward Teachers Union president was always more of a union operator than an educator; it wasn't like he was constantly around kids. In the end, for all his power and influence, he was just another sad, twisted guy trolling the Web for gullible young victims -- a story that is made even more depressing by its familiarity.

Judging by the authentic pink-and-orange Dunkin' Donuts logo sign dating back to 1952, you might expect a waitress wearing cat's-eye glasses and a kerchief-accented nametag that says Madge or Flo to start calling you "honey." Accented with neon, the faded letters sit on a white-painted sheet-metal background a little more than 15 feet off the ground. Although the interior of this 24-hour pit stop has been renovated three times since its opening 50 years ago, it's the only Dunkin' Donuts nationwide that serves more than Omwiches and crullers. From the wake-up special to liver and onions, no meal on the menu costs more than $7.

Judging by the authentic pink-and-orange Dunkin' Donuts logo sign dating back to 1952, you might expect a waitress wearing cat's-eye glasses and a kerchief-accented nametag that says Madge or Flo to start calling you "honey." Accented with neon, the faded letters sit on a white-painted sheet-metal background a little more than 15 feet off the ground. Although the interior of this 24-hour pit stop has been renovated three times since its opening 50 years ago, it's the only Dunkin' Donuts nationwide that serves more than Omwiches and crullers. From the wake-up special to liver and onions, no meal on the menu costs more than $7.

She had the whole world in her hands -- and then she had to take off her judge's robe. And her judge's panties. And, thus half-naked, she drunkenly ran around in a hotel hallway on Amelia Island during a legal conference. Then, as if that weren't enough, she filed a false report claiming she was sexually assaulted. It all happened this past December, and for a time, it looked like Broward Circuit Judge Joyce Julian's days on the bench would be numbered. She still faces potentially career-ending charges filed by the Florida Judicial Qualifications Commission, but considering the colossal embarrassment, she seems to have bounced back pretty well. She admitted to an alcohol problem and has been running a strong reelection campaign full of big contributions from Broward's influence peddlers. Julian was also transferred from criminal court to family court. An appropriate move, since everyone knows that problems like hers are best kept in the family.

She had the whole world in her hands -- and then she had to take off her judge's robe. And her judge's panties. And, thus half-naked, she drunkenly ran around in a hotel hallway on Amelia Island during a legal conference. Then, as if that weren't enough, she filed a false report claiming she was sexually assaulted. It all happened this past December, and for a time, it looked like Broward Circuit Judge Joyce Julian's days on the bench would be numbered. She still faces potentially career-ending charges filed by the Florida Judicial Qualifications Commission, but considering the colossal embarrassment, she seems to have bounced back pretty well. She admitted to an alcohol problem and has been running a strong reelection campaign full of big contributions from Broward's influence peddlers. Julian was also transferred from criminal court to family court. An appropriate move, since everyone knows that problems like hers are best kept in the family.

Lauderhill civic leaders scored big when Tony and Emmy Award-winning actor James Earl Jones agreed to speak at their celebration to honor Martin Luther King Jr. And what better way to show their appreciation than to honor the versatile actor who played the aging ballplayer in Field of Dreams and was the voice of Darth Vader in Star Wars by giving him a plaque? But thanks to the Texas company that produced the $200 plaque, instead of saying, "Thank you James Earl Jones for keeping the dream alive," it thanked James Earl Ray, the Missouri prison escapee convicted of killing the civil rights leader at a Memphis hotel on April 4, 1968. Embarrassed city officials discovered the mistake before the plaque was presented; Jones, ever the gentleman, voiced no criticism, saying, "We have bigger things to worry about." Tune in next year when city leaders honor Dr. Jack Kevorkian for his outstanding contributions to youth in Asia.

Lauderhill civic leaders scored big when Tony and Emmy Award-winning actor James Earl Jones agreed to speak at their celebration to honor Martin Luther King Jr. And what better way to show their appreciation than to honor the versatile actor who played the aging ballplayer in Field of Dreams and was the voice of Darth Vader in Star Wars by giving him a plaque? But thanks to the Texas company that produced the $200 plaque, instead of saying, "Thank you James Earl Jones for keeping the dream alive," it thanked James Earl Ray, the Missouri prison escapee convicted of killing the civil rights leader at a Memphis hotel on April 4, 1968. Embarrassed city officials discovered the mistake before the plaque was presented; Jones, ever the gentleman, voiced no criticism, saying, "We have bigger things to worry about." Tune in next year when city leaders honor Dr. Jack Kevorkian for his outstanding contributions to youth in Asia.