Subtropical

C'mon, we all want that 15 minutes of fame. Well, maybe we want it for a little longer than that, more like eight to ten hours of prime time on a reality-television show. And if you're wise enough to move here from the peasant-filled snowy lands of the north, you´re already ahead of the pack in preparing mentally and physically for the little screen. Welcome to our reality. First, there´s the weather. The summers are Amazon-hot, and the midday steam can stifle you like an anaconda wrapped around your chest. Think some puny tropical island that Survivor throws your way is any worse? Second, there are plenty of bugs and crawly things. Fear Factor routinely subjects its contestants to spiders, beetles, and other slithery creatures. A true South Floridian laughs at this sitcom. We encounter more hexapods, arachnids, and arthropods making breakfast and showering in the morning than Fear Factor competitors see in three seasons. Third: The Great Race? Interstate 95. ´Nuff said. And finally, the most burgeoning category in reality TV, coupling up, which can be seen on the likes of The Bachelor and Married by America. Living in an area that virtually invented spring break, we have the beachfront know-how and bars to hook up quickly, disingenuously, and deviously.

Hi, there. Come here often? Yeah, me too. My guess is that star-struck lovers like, um, us have been wandering into this planetarium since it was built in 1965. I must say, your eyes look lovely in the moonlight. Or should I say, the simulated moonlight? See that bright light right up there? Lean against me and look where I´m pointing. That´s not a star; it´s Venus. The ancients believed that Venus controlled the emotion of love. Maybe that´s because it seems to flicker bright, then dims a bit, then is bright again. Kind of like the roller coaster of love, hmmm? Ooh, look! A falling star! Make a wish! No, I can´t tell or it won´t come true. I´ll just say it involves a heavenly body. C´mon, let me show you the Zeiss M1015 star projector. It´s completely computer-automated. Hold my hand, ´cause it´s kinda dark in here, and I wouldn´t want us to get separated.

Monday night at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center of South Florida is better than even Saturday night at the hottest bar. Host Laurie Weiner facilitates meetings of the Women´s Rap Group, where you not only get to meet and chat with a couple dozen women of all flavors but you´ll hear the gory details of the many relationships that got started in the windowless room. Many of the women delight in sighing and moaning about their new loves and share every detail from courting to very dramatic breakup. You can meet the woman of your dreams; get dating advice from the group; describe trials, tribulations, and great sex; ponder how to dump her when she gets crazy; and then regale the group with stories of her psychoses until you finally move on. In lesbian time, that process usually takes a couple of weeks. Until the Miami Sol folded after the 2002 season, Broward and Palm Beach dykes had to trek down to the AmericanAirlines Arena to watch women watching the basketball game, hoping to meet the loves of their lives strolling around during halftime. Now, it´s four bucks at the GLCC. Instead of a halftime show, the center´s infamous security guard shows up without fail ten minutes before the end of the meeting to participate in the sex talk that closes out every session. At the end of the night, women who make a connection can follow the rest of the crew to Stork´s Bakery and Coffee House for more personal conversation.

Our 2001 winner of the Best Independent Cinema has the most gay-themed films outside of a queer film festival, making it a great place for boys with brains or a penchant for art films to hook up. The kiosk to the left of the concession stand beats out even Holiday Park for cruising. The four-sided kiosk offers pencils and index cards for your opinions, and the theater gallantly allows even the bad reviews to remain. Each film gets its own side of the square. If you´re a snob, make fun of the spelling and grammar mistakes on the handwritten reviews and see who agrees with you. To find a shared sense of humor, see who laughs at the same comments you do. If he´s cute and you don´t care about anything else, just check out which film he´s interested in and follow him into the theater. Whether you´re shy or bold, the reviews give you a dozen easy ice breakers ranging from, ¨Have you seen that film yet?¨ to ¨I have all his other movies on DVD. Do you want to watch them at my place before or after we see this one?¨

Sunday Tea is a venerable tradition in the gay community: fresh from their post-Saturday-night-partying naps, hordes of good-looking people, mostly men -- but usually some women as well -- consume cocktails, live it up on the dance floor, and loll poolside with come-hither looks. Where the boys are, indeed. Most of the legendary South Florida venues for such frolicking (Tacky´s, the Marlin Beach Hotel, Club Caribbean) are long gone, but the tradition lives on in several incarnations, including the Sea Monster´s Tea at Sea Cruise. What better subtropical twist than to turn Sunday Tea into a cruise to nowhere? Beginning again in June, on the third Sunday of the month, the Monster primes cruisers with a free buffet and two-for-one drinks before dispatching them onto a yacht at 6 p.m. Next comes a two-hour Intracoastal excursion, complete with one free drink onboard, several cash bars, DJ music booming from a state-of-the-art sound system, and occasional contests (¨Best Tanline¨ was a recent category). All of this is hosted by dragster-about-town Rickie Lee. And it costs a mere $20. A bonus is that you get to make catty remarks about the estates of the rich and famous along the way, as well as a chance to look down upon all the little people in their little boats.

Whether you´re stuck in southbound I-95 gridlock or whizzing by on a Tri-Rail train, these twin neon beacons prove that racial harmony is attainable for South Florida; it just takes a large FPL bill.

You can take that ill-mannered wench from down the street raiding the fridge while watching the kids for only so long. Eventually, you have to break down and call the professionals. Sitters in a Second employs more than 100 baby sitters in Palm Beach County to keep track of the brats while you´re out on the town. The company screens potential sitters and checks references before it dispatches the people who will help you enjoy your first night on the town since God knows when. Sure, you´ll pay more for the pros: Sitters in a Second charges a membership fee of up to $200 per family and then as much as $16 an hour. The baby-sitter conglomerate, in its ninth year in business, mostly employs folks more than 18 years old and lays down some Ward Cleaver-style rules. Among them: Sitters are forbidden to bring over sweethearts, meaning you won´t have to worry about her (or him) locking braces with a boy/girlfriend on your couch.

Cheesy, cheap, sleazy, slutty, whorish. It would take a linguistic surgeon to discern the fine line among the terms. Still, you know cheap when you see it. At the Budget Inn on Federal Highway, they have two rooms of Austin Powers-like, circa ´70s, dirty, disco-queen fantasy. Slip into a pair of platform heels, slide into a vinyl mini, and don giant, tinted, rimless sunglasses, then rendezvous with your inner bad girl. For $99 a night on weeknights or around $125 on weekends, you can rent a room with a heart-shaped bed that has sides upholstered in red vinyl. There´s a red, heart-shaped Jacuzzi for two nearby and XXX movies on the television 24 hours a day. The whole room is lighted with warm, red, slut-seeking spotlights. It´ll make you feel cheap, guaranteed.

One of the best things about living in South Florida, if you can afford it, is having your own boat. Another of the best things is, well, having a good friend who owns a boat. But what about the in-betweeners, those with a few bucks -- if not enough for their own yachts, enough for some self-indulgence? That´s where the Anticipation IV (110 feet long) and Anticipation V (80 feet long) come in. Day trips run from noon to 4 p.m., and four-hour evening cruises can begin anytime after 6 p.m. There´s a dizzying array of combination packages to choose from: young adult and bar/bat mitzvah, corporate, and wedding packages, not to mention silver, gold, and platinum upgrades. All include an open bar, hors d´oeuvres, and dinner. For entertainment, there´s a DJ and an MC. Floral arrangements are included on all tables, and the pilot house is open for tours. Of course, you´ll pay dearly for such lavishness, but isn´t that the point? Top-of-the-line corporate and wedding packages start as low as $5,687 (a silver upgrade for 50 guests) and go as high as $13,249.50 (a platinum upgrade for 100 guests), while young adult and bar/bat mitzvah packages with upgrades range anywhere from $5,989.50 to $10,829.50, also depending upon the number of guests and the kind of upgrade. And what, you may well ask, does all this include? A $200 fuel charge, $250 dockage charge, 6 percent sales tax, and 20 percent service charge. If you want extra time on the water, it´s prorated by the hour, and you can throw in a second DJ for $200. Oh, and did we mention the $2,500 deposit required to reserve the charter, plus $2,000 as a damage deposit on some charters? Kinda makes the $3-per-car parking fee seem insignificant, doesn´t it?

The burgers are beef, but the hogs are beefier. On any given Friday night, this Fuddruckers´ parking lot swells with dozens of Harley-Davidsons, Triumphs, Indians, and just about every other chrome-plated two-wheeler you can imagine. For the boys and girls astride these growling, porcine behemoths, it´s a chance to show off and shoot the breeze. For the rest of us, the Friday-evening spectacle is a spicy condiment to a half-pounder.

Ye gods! Who designed this clusterfuck? Whoever it was, they should be dragged out into the street and shot as an example to other fast-food-chain architects. Anyone who approaches this benighted Wendy´s from the opposite side of the street will find he must drive around the building to order, somehow slipping past the cars picking up food at the window. But you can´t! A line begins forming out in the streets. Another line at the ordering area. Another at the pickup window. Cars circling the whole mess to try and find a way in! Aiiieeeee! It´s enough to make a fellow reach for his .357. I just... want... a burger!

Ask how this eye-catching joint along a particularly butt-ugly stretch of Route 441 got its name. Go ahead. You´ll probably be compensated for your time with a withering stare and a stern reply: ¨Through marriage, OK? Next!¨ If that´s the truth, fine, but ETF Co. must attract customers hoping it´s really a wedding chapel, makeup warehouse, or place for Michael Jackson to unload stolen goods (on consignment).

Recession, reschmession -- it´s still not easy to find good pool cleaners. How else to explain Guardian Pools´ motto -- ¨We Show Up!¨ -- which is proudly displayed on the company´s trailers. Is this how they stand out from the crowd?

The 1,900 employees who pamper the rich and famous at the Breakers receive some royal treatment themselves at noon-time. Florida´s fanciest hotel serves a first-class lunch to its workers at the below-ground Breakaway Cafe. The price: just $2. Those who fluff pillows for celebrities can have chefs prepare specially ordered pizzas and stir fry. There´s also a salad bar, pasta station, carved meat to order, and make-your-own sundaes. Then there are the main entres, which include a much-loved angel-hair pasta with Hawaiian chicken. Often, employees dine in the basement cafeteria on the same grub being served in the ballrooms overhead. Breakers Public Relations Manager Margee Adelsperger declined to say how much the hotel shells out to feed its employees. ¨It´s the Breakers,¨ she says, ¨so the quality filters all the way down.¨ A gourmet meal that´s cheaper than an extra-value meal can´t be beat.

One-hundred-and-ten-pound Miss Tootsie stands only a foot tall. She keeps no set hours. She provides no assistance whatsoever as you choose a hibiscus or some pond stones or a Bismarck palm to take home and plant in your front yard. Yet the jovial, Vietnamese pot-bellied porker will happily bound over to you, snout quivering with delight, to see if you´re carrying pig-friendly victuals. Actually, Miss Tootsie will eat just about anything, say the fine folks at the Florida Nursery Mart. With free reign to roam across the nursery´s green acreage (which includes a large pond and fountain frequented by iguanas) Miss Tootsie´s disposition is so cheery and she´s so cute in that bristly, gut-dragging-the-ground kind of way that you´d have to be a real animal hater (or bacon lover) not to come away smitten. The way she contributes aromatic, organic fertilizer (for free!) -- whenever and wherever she pleases -- is no less special. Just wear old shoes.

Word to fashion divas: You´re not worth your Vogue subscription until you´ve seen a poodle in purple sequins work a runway. Those style credentials ain´t worth doggie-doo until you´ve seen a dachshund don Harley leather. And you just haven´t lived until you´ve caught a Chihuahua in a bikini. For 20 years, the Pet Therapy Dog Foundation of Boca Raton, a nonprofit group, has presented free canine couture shows at hospices, nursing homes, and the like in hopes of bringing smiles (or at least smirks of disbelief) to those who most need ´em. ¨People get a real kick out of it,¨ says founder Lynn Hunt Hoffman, who, by the way, also organizes animal weddings and bridal shows. ¨And the dogs love the applause.¨ Hoffman´s glam pooch posse includes 30 unbelievably well-trained, trick-performing models. Fashion shows include casualwear (dresses, smocks, skirts), a fantasy collection (hula girls, firemen, strippers), and formalwear (evening gowns, tuxes with tails and top hats). ¨Even the men laugh with the dogs,¨ Hoffman says, ¨not at them.¨

Psyched about your two-week vacation but dread boarding your kids, er, pets at the vet? Then don´t. Instead, put them up at a resort where dogs, cats, and other critters are spoiled rotten (only the best for little Spanky). For as little as $25 a day (plus a mandatory $31 bathing charge), the kindly folks at Clint Moore will dote on your four-legged family members. Upon arrival, pet guests are led to spacious, air-conditioned quarters. Next come the perks: private yards for dogs, squishy toys for cats, personal valets, special menus, and three daily play sessions for all. And did we mention that a vet actually lives on the premises? It´s like a friggin´ Providence episode. White picket fences surround the place while a side pen makes a cozy home for a ragtag group of abandoned animals including Porky, a 300-pound pig; Stormy, a miniature horse; and goats Milo and Daisy. The best thing to ogle at this place, though, may be the endless parade of pampered pooches and their well-heeled owners.

Watch a dog´s nose burrow down into a bed of seaweed and then spiral into it, whole body writhing in joy, and you´ll understand what Anita Lankler did for dogs on Jupiter Beach. In 1994, Jupiter was set to follow most other waterfront cities and ban dogs from the Atlantic. Lankler and a couple of her friends asked the town council to reconsider. They promised to clean up after the animals. The Friends of Jupiter Beach grew from 30 volunteers in 1994 to more than 5,000 in the next nine years. The group organizes regular monthly cleanups (of human and animal litter), publishes a code of conduct for dog owners, and patrols the beaches to issue gentle reminders. It works. The week before Anita Lankler died of cancer in January of this year, Gov. Jeb Bush named her a recipient of a Points of Light Award. And some lab or beagle or bull mastiff is still on the beach in Lankler´s town reveling in the seagulls cawing, the waves breaking, and the living, breathing multifarious stench of it all.

At the beginning of Galt Ocean Mile, where a condo canyon screens Fort Lauderdale Beach from public view, there is a monument, a marker really, to Arthur Galt, the man who once owned this land, the land that became the condo canyon we now call Galt Ocean Mile. That´s a circular sentence. An off-putting sentence. And that´s the way those 24 condo towers appear to the people who drive or walk past them who don´t live in them and so don´t enjoy the spectacular view. These behemoths repel. Fort Lauderdale Beach is unusual in this subtropical neck of the woods because so much of the beachside of A1A has been left open. So why honor Galt? We don´t know, but maybe it harkens back to a time when any development was good development. Maybe it was seen as Fort Lauderdale´s coming of age. Someone wants to build a wall of condos on the beach? Great! Wait a minute... That sounds an awful lot like what´s going on in Fort Lauderdale today. Galt owned the land, and he sold it to developers in the 1920s. So maybe we should rethink this as a cautionary marker. When developers breathe down your neck and flash money and throw around big ideas, take a step back, breathe deep, and think what will make Fort Lauderdale a more livable place in 20 or 40 or 80 years. Is it more condos, or more parks? Wider roads, or wider sidewalks? More Arthur Galts selling to developers? Or more Hugh Taylor Birch´s giving to the public?

The early-morning conversations at Skinner´s Grill are like a river. Sometimes the talk is smooth and graceful, eddying around a twig of thought that slips from person to person. And sometimes it roars -- with laughter or what sounds like rage but is more like passion, but passion that turns to laughter. At the L-shaped counter, Frankie reads the sports section. He´s not talking to the waitress just now, so she is unable to get his order. ¨What does it take to get some food ´round here?¨ he finally hollers out. ¨Oh, you´re talking to me now?¨ she responds. Bragdon sits in the corner, orders toast, and often brings tomatoes from his garden for Ms. Skinner to slice. ¨How much does an order of toast cost?¨ one of the guys asks one day when he decides it´s time to prove that Bragdon is probably the cheapest man on earth. Another day, Frankie and Bragdon discuss the war in Iraq. Basically, Frankie says if we are going to go in there, we got to go to win. And Bragdon argues that we should throw all our technology at them so a minimum of our soldiers dies. But Iraq is only one subject. There´s also Serena Williams. There´s the weather. There´s Jay-Z. There´s the slave revolt in Haiti. There´s Osama. ¨He´s Cisco,¨ one woman keeps insisting every time the subject returns to bin Laden. She thinks he has had plastic surgery and is now living in the United States. And then there´s the question of whether anyone should bother trying to properly pronounce Bragdon´s name. It´s respectful to do so, Bragdon says. ¨That´s just the point,¨ Frankie answers.

Sure, it´s a labyrinthine building with drab hallways and floor plants -- and, yeah, those stairwells look like they belong in a federal penitentiary (Alternate title: ¨Best Place to Film a Shank Scene¨) -- but don´t forget the Broward County Governmental Center as a summertime destination. Hey, how else you gonna take advantage of government handouts? That cold air is free, man. What´s more, entertainment waits behind almost every door. Public hearings (every second and fourth Tuesday in room 422 at 2 p.m.) are a good place to meet your community´s angriest and most vocal critics, and zoning board meetings will put you to sleep faster than those tapes of whales singing. So if you want to cool down this summer, go to the center´s front desk and get a visitor´s sticker. Or don´t. It doesn´t seem to matter. New Times strolled through the center without one, poking our nose in different rooms, eavesdropping on water-cooler chatter, taking smoke breaks with public employees. Ah, government in the South Florida sunshine.

Only the hardiest of butterflies ever ventures north of South Florida´s subtropical zone. Oh sure, temperate-region dwellers may get a colorful eyeful during visits to museums of natural history, but those lepidoptera are impaled and quite, quite still. Butterfly World, on the other hand, has created screened, outdoor gardens alive with fluttering brilliance. The plants and flowers that grow in the 240,000-cubic-foot habitat replicate the flora that butterflies depend upon in the wild. There are also more than 5,000 butterflies representing 80 species from South and Central America, the Philippines, Malaysia, Taiwan, and other Asian countries. If you´re motionless, some will light upon you. For the jaded out-of-towner from the tropics, hundreds of species native to Florida also swish about the outside gardens.

¨I´ll give you two dollars for that bag of forks.¨ Well, that answers the question of ¨where´s the bargain?¨ But the Swap Shop, that wonderfully entertaining theater of human tragedies and oddities, offers more than good bargains. Behold a sea of mullets, Camaros, mullets in Camaros, Rastafarians, girls in thongs, guys in thongs, crying children, midgets. And this is just in the parking lot. On any given weekend, you can browse a plethora of goods. But even better, you could possibly overhear people haggling over the price of transgender porn; watch tourists take photos in front of the somewhat-sad circus; see a young woman argue with her significant other on a cell phone while buying a Twister mat; and witness a young man dressed in a goat costume, complete with hooves, play Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade. (DDR is a Japanese game in which you pre-program a song and have to follow the dance steps on a lighted board. Goat-boy was damn good. The hooves didn´t impede his desire to dance. Yes, it really happened.) Up next: Survivor: The Swap Shop? We can only hope.

Sure, you almost always feel all warm and fuzzy after doing volunteer work. But it´s not bad if you can learn a thing or two in the process. The Guatemalan-Maya Center is a great place to help new immigrants adjust while learning about one of America´s oldest civilizations. Every month, the center serves about 450 families chosen from a population of 30,000 Guatemalans living in Palm Beach County. Still, the charity has no regular volunteers. Managers say they´re looking for folks to mentor Guatemalan kids, help run two after-school centers, and translate for recent immigrants. Spanish is helpful, but the center is desperate for volunteers who speak Mayan. Many of those aided by the center are expectant mothers in need of translators for doctor´s visits. Guatemalans are one of South Florida´s fastest-growing minority populations, so the center is a great opportunity to learn a little about your new neighbors while helping out.

Moviemakers just can´t get enough of Broward County´s little honky tonk by the sea, Hollywood. Indeed, several big-time moguls have in recent years become enamored of the picture-perfect beach and Broadwalk, the cozy downtown, and the ´40s-era homesteads. And they have brought the stars with them. During the past two years, alert stargazers could have caught Denzel Washington filming Out of Time, Julianne Moore in The Hours, and Brian Dennehy taking the lead in Three Blind Mice, a made-for-TV movie. Music groupies got to gaze at Ice Cube in All About the Benjamins and Ludacris during filming of 2 Fast 2 Furious. Keep your eyes open for Matt Damon, who just might end up filming a bit of the Farrelly brothers´ Stuck on You in our Hollywood.

Let´s make a list of things we adore: a lemony-colored, wafer-thin omelet that practically dissolves on the tongue; a gooey slab of camembert with a nice Chardonnay; an eclectic, visually appealing range of hors d´oeuvres served just before dinner; chanteuse Edith Piaf; and artist Claude Monet. After French President Jacques Chirac had the gonads to refuse to endorse the U.S. invasion of Iraq, some very rude people, who likely think themselves patriots, called places such as Alliance Francaise to complain. For Pete´s sake, people! This Francophile club gives French lessons and little parties to promote the culture! Could you be more rude? And then Palm Beach County Commissioner Burt Aaronson, sensing the pulse of our emotionally gung-ho electorate, called for a boycott of French wine and cheese. Hey, Burt, kind of selective on your French imports, aren´cha? Send back egalit! Out with fraternit! ¨No, operator, I need to clarify your return policy on 227 years of libert. Operator?¨ Oh wait, never mind, Burt; that was the Patriot Act.

Since 1969, this family-owned, ten-acre naturist park on the edge of Davie has been home to the bare-assed -- those who want to feel the breeze blow and the sun warm their skin without interference. Used to be a happening place, before Miami-Dade officially allowed nude sunbathing at Haulover Beach, before Europeans started going topless on South Beach, and before places like Paradise Lakes on Florida´s West Coast in Pasco allowed well, you know. This place doesn´t have lots of pizzazz. It´s just a circle of mobile homes surrounding a swimming pool, a small restaurant, a community center, and tennis courts. It´s not the least bit intimidating. Your local gym has more body self-consciousness. This is about r-e-l-a-x-i-n-g, not mirror-gazing. Single women or couples are allowed a couple of visits to check it out. The cost is $20 per couple and $10 for single women. After those initial stays, you have to join the club to partake of this slice of public nakedness in the midst of more private suburbia.

In the 1950s, that famous buttoned-down, Eisenhower-era stiffness let loose in the phenomenon of the tiki bar. At the time, they were ubiquitous. All things Polynesian seemed foreign, so it was OK to delve into a world of rhythmic hips and almost fleshy tropical blossoms. Even in the backyard, tiki torches burned. Since 1956, Mai-Kai has been serving this Polynesian fantasy on a deluxe plate. While other spots on the tiki circuit slowly went under, this one persisted. Tiki culture lives on there underneath thatched roof huts, surrounded by lush tropical vegetation, with rain falling over the windows while you sit inside transported. The 51 tropical concoctions, with names like the Zombie, Black Magic, and the Jet Pilot, served by sarong-clad, as they say, maidens, helps set the mood. The stage shows are awesome. Pricey at about $45 a person for the whole shebang, but check out the special drink nights, and call for floor-show-only nights. If you´re there for drinks and they have room, you can sometimes be seated for the show for an extra $9.95.

There is better food, films, coffee, and scenery here than on any other stretch of Broward County road. This strip offers a full night of refreshments, entertainment, and nature. Best of all, there´s no need to burn a lot of gas, even if you drive a monster SUV that seems to get feet rather than miles to the gallon. Start on the south side of Sunrise at the Federal Highway intersection for an early-evening treat at Fantasia´s of Boston. The coffee drinks are good, but it´s the desserts that tantalize, calling out in sugary ecstasy from the glass case that lines the counter. After you feast, go next door to see an independent film at the Sunrise Cinemas at Gateway. The Gateway specializes in great movies that no one else shows, like the latest by Pedro Almodvar or My Big Fat Greek Wedding. After you´re done at the theater, go a block east to the Gateway Shopping Center, where you can choose between Sukho Thai or Heart Rock Sushi for dinner. Before you leave the parking lot, stroll to the back corner for a cappuccino at Archives Book Caf, a combination bookstore/coffeehouse/antiques shop. Then venture a couple of blocks east and read a little next to the New River on the back patio of Borders Books and Music. Next, cross the Intracoastal Bridge, but drive slowly so you don´t miss the raccoons that line up in front of Birch State Park. In a couple more blocks, you´ll arrive at the beach. Swim, walk, or just stare out at the breaking waves. Now that´s a South Florida night to remember. And you can do it as often as you want.

It wasn´t long ago that downtown Lake Worth´s only positive attribute was that it was near to West Palm Beach and Delray Beach. Now the downtown nestled around Lucerne and Lake avenues draws from the areas that used to look down their municipal noses at little Lake Worth. The past six months are indicative of its progress; a couple of headliner businesses have opened, and plans have been germinated for more activities. New to town is Brogue´s on the Avenue, an upscale pub with mahogany and brass delivered from Ireland; and Lake Avenue Chocolates, which retro-designed a pioneer storefront to its original splendor. Downtown hops twice a month for Evenings on the Avenue, and there are plans for a Saturday-morning green market and brown-bag lunch lecture series.

The Hugh Taylor Birch State Park makes a day at the beach, well, a day at the beach. The entrance fee is $3.25 per carload and $1 for bikes and pedestrians. That´s cheap for a shady respite from the sun and access to a tunnel that crosses beneath busy A1A to the beach. There´s a mile-long loop on the paved road through the park and a couple of trails through hammocks and a new tidal wetlands area that is being restored. Pack a picnic, grill some meat, go for a walk, and when you feel like a swim and a spell in the sun, you can cross A1A from the park on the west side through a tunnel and emerge onto the beach. On the Hugh Taylor side of the tunnel are bathrooms, snack machines, and an ice-cold water fountain. And hey, if you´re feeling pummeled by the heat, you can spend some time underground.

Developers salivate over this small neighborhood just northeast of downtown Fort Lauderdale. So naturally, home values have skyrocketed, which has led to a feeding frenzy. Cozy bungalows have been torn down to make way for McMansions or, worse yet, crammed parcels of townhomes. Strip malls are pressing in from the west. Still, there´s one forward-thinking development smack in the middle of this transfiguring hell: a new traffic circle at the intersection of Sixth Street and 14th Avenue. Maneuvering east-west through this neighborhood requires dealing with a quagmire of pointless stop signs, but this roundabout is a sane idea to keep traffic rolling. Now if we could just send the speculators packing down this unconstrained road.

The key to proper scenic motoring is the absence of other vehicles. Think about it: If you´re concentrating on defensive driving and cursing the typical maniacal South Florida driver, how can you enjoy the scenery? The Heritage-Park excursion is a five-mile pastoral loop off the beaten track -- in fact, most of it´s off the tar. Part of the fun is navigating the water-filled potholes that dent graveled Park Lane. This is, after all, agriculture country and home to Clintmore Heritage Nursery, Heritage Farms, Indian Trails Native Nursery, and Lions Nursery. Old Florida growth abounds here, but the nursery fields provide a floral fullness that Mother Nature didn´t have time for. Heritage Boulevard intersects Highway 441 about a mile south of Lantana Road.

The rooms are, let´s say, intimate, and the plumbing has a clunky, antique, pre-war look, but the Colony has ambiance in spades. The buttery yellow building with burgundy trim almost demands that passersby on Atlantic Avenue step in for a look around. Have a house-specialty Bloody Mary on the shady front porch as a ceiling fan turns lazily and you view the passing crowd. (The redhead in the cool white linen top and slacks over in the corner -- could that be a Rita Hayworth apparition?) Then chill out for a few moments in the rattan-furnished lobby, or wander into one of the vividly painted meeting rooms, where bougainvillea-pink walls and an aquamarine ceiling can put anyone in a party mood. Guest rooms may be small, in the 1920s style, but they´re damn comfortable, looking more like a guest room in somebody´s well-kept old house than a hotel. The dresser is mahogany, floors are the original polished Dade County pine, the beds are covered in soft bedspreads and comforters, and the watercolors on the walls are originals. The walls of the bathrooms are white ceramic tile, and the shower and the pedestal sink, lovingly preserved, work as well as they did when the place was built in 1926. You could say the Colony´s beach club, a couple of miles away, is inconveniently located, but it has the same Jazz Age elegance as the hotel, along with a footstep-shaped saltwater swimming pool. And unlike the beachfront hotels in town, the Colony is right in the midst of Delray Beach´s bubbling dining and nightlife scene. Rates range from $75 off season to $245 for a suite in season.

You´re tired of living in a place where the oldest architecture is a strip mall built in the 1950s? Well, soak up the past and shed this use-it-up-and-run South Florida culture by hopping on Alligator Alley and heading to Everglades City on the other coast. And we don´t mean the Pacific. There, you must stay in the Rod and Gun Club, which was built back in 1840 by fur traders. In the 1920s, mogul Barron Collier bought the place and turned it into his own private club, where he hosted a few obscure fellows like Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harry Truman, and Ernest Hemingway. Now, nobodies like us can stay there for a mere $105 a night plus tax. As you sit on the grand veranda or in the restaurant with its rich, polished wood as the Barron River (yeah, the guy had an ego) flows nearby, you can feel the history. That´s right, Dorothy: You´re not in Sunrise anymore.

This scandal seems almost too good to be real. You have the last decent public park on the beach slated for massive condominiums by a greedy, unscrupulous developer (Michael Swerdlow). There´s the sleazy, glad-handing mayor (Bill Griffin) who sells out the beach and his town (Pompano Beach) for political and financial gain. You have a do-little state attorney (Michael Satz) pretending he´s investigating the mayor´s corruption, including a new job that the developer helped him get at one of the country´s largest construction firms. And there are hordes of concerned citizens clamoring for all their heads. That´s just the first episode. In the second one, the mayor is voted out of office, then leaves the job. And the project is given the boot by the new city commission. Can´t wait for the next installment.

What you are about to read is true. And it has never before been published. Last year, a teacher asked third-grade students at the prestigious Lighthouse Point Academy a seemingly innocuous question: Can you name your favorite food? Surprisingly, sushi surfaced as the preferred chow for several savvy members of the Sponge Bob set. Not to be outdone, the young son of Boca Raton Mayor Steve Abrams thought hard. Then the boy, whom New Times is declining to name to protect him from animal rights wackos, piped up. ¨Caviar,¨ came his response. After a pause, the stunned teacher asked, ¨What kind of caviar?¨ ¨Sturgeon,¨ the boy replied confidently. Three words: Only. In. Boca.

Peter Sheridan isn´t just a local boy; he´s a mama´s boy. Mom Joan Sheridan is a long-time Fort Lauderdale political activist who has been involved in litter pickups and neighborhood watches. But she should have been watching her son more closely. Pete, when he was assistant city engineer for the City of Fort Lauderdale, got a little too cozy with a company called Recreational Design and Construction. While he oversaw RDC´s contracts with the city -- and steered the company hundreds of thousands of dollars in public business -- its workers built a $13,000 spa in his home. Funny thing: Pete didn´t pay for it. When his underhanded dealings were made public, his mother quickly wrote a check. An ensuing criminal investigation found that both Pete and Joan were unethical, but no charges were filed. Pete resigned with dishonor, but bless us all, he landed on his feet. Local engineering firm Keith and Schnars -- which also has numerous contracts with the city -- hired him tout de suite. It just goes to show that in Broward County, everything´s upside down. As Bob Dylan told us: ¨What´s good is bad, and what´s bad is good/You´ll find out when you reach the top.¨

A year ago, Broward County Supervisor of Elections Miriam Oliphant was one of the brightest stars in the South Florida political firmament. We said so ourselves, naming her Best Politician in our 2002 Best of Broward-Palm Beach issue and concluding, ¨Seems the woman in charge of the political process in Broward knows a thing or two about politics herself.¨ She was young, gifted, and black, not to mention photogenic and a liberal Democrat with a lofty vision for an office that had been held for a gazillion years by the uncharismatic, if reliable, Republican Jane Carroll. Oliphant seemed destined for success -- until she actually had to do her job. Now beleaguered and botched elections are the words that seem destined to cling to her. She may have pulled off the February and March 2003 elections without major problems, but it could be argued that she did so by scaring voters away from the polls. Regardless of how Oliphant fares in the future, her legacy, alas, will almost certainly be allegations of cronyism, nepotism, financial irregularities, and incompetence.

So a bunch of naive folks in Broward County thought they voted this past September. So a few months later, investigators turned up a tray of unopened ballots in a file cabinet in county elections supervisor Miriam Oliphant´s office. So those ballots were never time-stamped and apparently forgotten. So the clerk responsible for picking up the ballots from the post office, Glen Davis, was allowed to continue in his job despite reprimands for being drunk and arriving late. So Davis had a relationship with Robin Darville, Oliphant´s sister. So what?

He wants to enforce sodomy laws against gays. He believes the world would be a better place if more of the right people carried handguns. He wants God in the classroom and counts the Christian extremists at Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church as some of his most important supporters. He´s a Republican who calls himself a Democrat for the most cynical of political purposes. Yes, there are lots of things not to like about Jim Naugle. As a mayor, though, he can´t do much damage on those counts. And as far as mayors go in Broward and Palm Beach counties, he is simply the top of the heap. Naugle is the most accountable elected official in Broward County, a fiercely independent man who doesn´t schmooze and isn´t in developers´ pockets. He´s not afraid to speak his mind, and he´s been a first-rate steward for the city. So we had to cheer when he routed the untested Tim Smith in the February election. But don´t get any big ideas, Jim. If you run for Congress, we will have no choice but to out you (politically speaking, of course).

The category this year would better be titled Best Reporters. Kestin and O´Matz do kids better than anybody in the country. The Sentinel´s finest story this year came on August 11, when Kestin and O´Matz, along with Diana Marrero, located nine kids whom the state Department of Children and Families couldn´t find. One of the families was listed in the phone book. Just three days after the story was published, DCF chief Kathleen Kearney resigned in disgrace. (There was, of course, the little matter of Rilya Wilson, who vanished long ago, to give the story zing.) Then, in November, the Sentinel filed a lawsuit that eventually forced the state to release a list of missing kids. And in January, despite DCF stonewalling, our top-rated pair of journalists learned the agency wasn´t following its own rules about quickly notifying cops when kids disappeared. The pair´s dogged street reporting and political savvy, as well as their ability to win support from their bosses, deserves praise. Let´s hope they don´t run off any time soon.

OK, so Bill Rose is a deputy managing editor at the Post. He´s not working a beat, day in and day out, not out shaking the bushes, not crunching big stuff (that would fill a book if they´d give ya´ the time and space) into bite-size portions. That´s a tough biz. Still, in the course of three days in October, this former editor of the Miami Herald´s literate and legendary Tropic magazine showed how it´s done, how daily journalism can be layered and leavened with tragedy, humanity, humor, and grace. Rose covered the arrival of Hurricane Lili to southern Louisiana, an area he called a ¨wind-swept world of salt water, mosquitoes, and hurricanes¨ inhabited by people who ¨tend to wink at pending calamity and shrug off storm warnings with the practiced air of those who have seen this many times before.¨ That first sentence of his October 3 story was a mouthful, so he threw in a short sentence afterward that gave the whole thing dramatic punch: ¨But this time, they´re running,¨ Rose wrote. And then, when the storm didn´t cause the anticipated Hurricane Andrew-like devastation, Rose burrowed into his own urge to dismiss its effects. By following the inner voice that told him this storm was nothing, Rose discovered the heart of the tale when he found himself moved by ¨one small shred of Lili´s detritus.¨ He described a broken child´s plate inscribed with a boy´s birth date and a mother holding it in her hands while tears made her shoulders shake. The family´s trailer had been blown 25 yards and sat upside down in the mud. Everyone in that family survived Lili, but Rose showed in that moment how tragedy is individual and specific, and he made the reader feel it too. He also showed the wisdom of trusting one´s self and following the thread where it leads. It was some nice work.

OK, so they both write too much. Sometimes two stories per day. He's all over the place -- libraries, cloning, astronauts. And all she can really do is cops. But his prose is straight-ahead. No bullshit. None of that Carl Hiaasen sarcasm. More of a Gene Miller type, really. And, when it comes to cultivating cop sources, she's in the Edna Buchanan mold. These soldiers of South Florida's biggest, um, best, um, most perspicacious newspaper do a hell of a job of nursing reality into a tale. It was he who recently described the case of a baby sitter who forced a 3-year-old to drink so much water that she died. She´s followed cell-phone bans, anthrax scares, and more. But the pair´s most important contribution to local journalism came in December, when they reported that 38 murder confessions elicited by Broward County Sheriff´s storm troopers had been thrown out by judges, juries, and prosecutors since 1990. Just a few months later, at least partially in response to the bad press, BSO agreed to start taping interrogations. Justice, indeed, was served.

That´s right, we´ve actually chosen an employee of chief media evildoer Rupert Murdoch. And it surprises us more than anyone. But perhaps it´s the company Craig Stevens keeps that makes him look so good -- kind of like the one dog at the pound that doesn´t have mange. Stevens, after all, is a successor to Rick Sanchez, who will be remembered as the Jerry Lawler of television anchors -- big, loud, and never mistaken as bright. (Sanchez recently -- and mercifully -- was booted from his MSNBC morning anchor chair.) Stevens is kind of the anti-Sanchez. He´s an understated nerd with a microphone. His little wire-rimmed glasses give him the proper bookish look; the guy is a dead ringer for Jeffrey Toobin, only without all the smarm. All in all, Stevens doesn´t really seem like a Fox personality; he actually seems like a human being.

Before you rip us for placing Johnson ahead of her more seasoned competition solely on the basis of her appearance, ask yourself this: What other local weather wonk could have so distracted professional golfer Fuzzy Zoeller that he agreed to hit practice shots on a course after his round was over? This is what Jackie did at the Royal Caribbean Classic in February. The result: Zoeller was disqualified from the tournament. OK, maybe Brian Norcross could have done it, but only on a good day.

Since the 2000 presidential ¨election¨ was stolen from Al Gore and our current administration has waged a holy war on ¨Terra,¨ the schism between the left and the right has gotten wider and wider. What´s worse, the so-called ¨liberal¨ media, including TV news programs and talk radio shows, have become all-too-eager cheerleaders for the right wing, uncritically gobbling up whatever morsels of misinformation Karl Rove dishes out. And talk radio? (Sigh.) Yes, it´s entertainment, and most of its listeners are people who don´t have anything better to do with their time during the day, and talk-radio hosts take on extremist viewpoints merely to keep the phones lighted up. But frankly, it´s disconcerting that so damn many of our countrymen find bilious hatemongers like Limbaugh, Savage, and Schlesinger to be ¨entertaining.¨ Luckily for left-leaning types, there is hope: Neil Rogers, the self-proclaimed ¨fat fag,¨ is the most effective liberal voice on the radio (not that there´s much competition), despite a brand of humor that many critics decry as racist. Case in point: Last October, after singer/activist Harry Belafonte slammed Secretary of State Colin Powell, likening his fellow Jamaican-American to a ¨house slave,¨ Neil launched an attack on National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice, calling her the ¨resident house Negro,¨ and played a song parody containing lines like, ¨Is you their black-haired answer-mammy who be smart?¨ and ¨Does they like how you shine their shoes, Condoleezza? Or the way you wash and park the whiteys´ cars?¨ Whew! Brutal stuff -- so harsh that the station decided to apologize after some right-wing media types (NewsMax, Fox News) applied pressure. And yet the NAACP was silent on the issue. Hmm. How could that be? Perhaps because this cranky old nonobservant Jew was giving voice to what many black people are thinking about that woman, Ms. Rice? Thanks, Uncle Neil.

Long-time Miami Herald news research editor Elisabeth Donovan maintains this meticulous blog on current events. Called ¨Infomaniac¨ for an award Donovan won several years ago, it´s chock-full of useful links. Most of the recent postings have been about the war in Iraq, but in more peaceful times, the site focuses on South Florida, Cuba, and other parts of Latin America. Make no mistake, though; this is Donovan´s personal site, and she doesn´t hesitate to post her opinions. For example, on March 20, 2003, she posed the question: ¨How big was the headline on your front page today? I was embarrassed by ours. It was huge and unseemly (I thought), WAR BEGINS. I´d have made it about a third the size and called it US ATTACKS. Project for today: I´ll be going to the Newseum to compare headlines.¨ Great links to fellow bloggers too.

On March 30, 2003, the Miami Herald ran a story that chronicled the adaptation of the 1980 movie Urban Cowboy into a Broadway play. In a lengthy feature filling most of the front part of the Sunday arts section, theater critic Christine Dolen described the difficulties with the production before and after its pre-Broadway run at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. What that article didn´t say, likely because the lifestyle section is printed several days before it is distributed, is that the play had opened its preview run at the Broadhurst Theatre in Manhattan, where it received negative reviews from New York critics. Though Dolen´s piece in the lifestyle section helpfully included information on where and how to buy tickets, her other story on page 4A that same day told readers there was no need to bother: The producers closed the musical on March 29.

¨An article published Friday on page 1A concerning bacteria in the ocean water off South Florida misstated the cause of various gastrointestinal diseases. Enterococci and fecal coliform bacteria are indicators of the presence of human or animal waste, which contains pathogens that can cause salmonella, cholera, shigellosis and hepatitis A.¨ Whew, that makes me feel better.