Nightlife

A "traditional" Irish bar located smack dab on the corner of Sleazy Street and NE Drunk Avenue in Pompano. Really doesn't sound like it should work, right? But the clientele that packs the Briny every night (especially Saturday night, when Rob Rage, the Briny's own rock 'n' roll cover band, plays) doesn't give a shit. They're just there to drink, shout incoherently, and hope the room stops spinning before they get thrust out upon the beach at 2 a.m. Actually, it's easy to think the room's spinning even if you're not drunk, since the bar is cluttered with kitschy Florida décor (mounted fish, thick ropes, life preservers, photos of people holding mounted fish and life preservers) and other assorted oddities such as encyclopedias. A word to the bar fight-inclined: The Briny has an extra-long bar top, perfect for throwing the raving lunatic hitting on your girlfriend down the bar, where your friend will have hastily set up a pyramid of beer bottles for him to smack into. Readers' Choice: Poor House, Georgie's Alibi (tie)

So there's Fast Eddie, the balding barfly. He always tries to sell his blood for money. He drinks Honey Brown. He has track marks up and down his arms. He has a nervous twitch. He has an itch he just can't scratch. He performs at the open-mic night down the street, and he always sits at the end of the bar. Then there's Mary, who, quite contrary to popular belief, has never been with Eddie, or Freddy, in the back of her Chevy. She guards the jukebox and plays the Jam. She drinks Blackbeard Ale in flipflops bought at a yard sale. Then there's Bobby and Jenny, with their skinny jeans and thrift-store shirts, talking to Shelly and Tracy, with their high-pitched laughs and vintage skirts. They're all drinking Tsingtao and mussing their 'dos, tapping their toes and talking about the Who. Another beer? Make that two. These are the various characters who inhabit the tables, barstools, and dark corners of the Billabong Pub, an unassuming joint nestled in a strip mall behind a strip club, next door to a "massage parlor" and a Mattress Giant. Sound intimate? It is: The lighting is low (and most of the time, this is a good thing), and the crowd is forced to stand eye-to-eye with the band, as there's no stage. And if you happen to be lingering after the pub's 2 a.m. closing time on Fridays and Saturdays, you can spot Indie Rock Rob chatting up Carl the Car Salesman with the lazy eye, over a delicious flute of Lambic Frambois ($5 per glass, $10 per bottle). Readers' Choice: Culture Room

The lights are low. The clinking of silverware and hum of conversation, mixed with anticipation, swirls around the room. Tonight is someone's lucky night -- you can feel it. The large book is passed around the table. They must make the right decision. And then, it's go time.

"When I was young, I never needed anyone/And makin' love was just for fun..."

You listen, the sound filling your ears.

"All by myyyself... don't wanna be... alll BYYYY MYYY SELLFF."

Things have taken a turn for the worse, and it suddenly sounds like a dying cat has lodged itself in the speakers. But you can't leave; you still have a plate of food. It's just another night at Sushi Toi. The restaurant is named after owner Sushi Boy's wife, but he's the master of ceremonies. Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, it's Boi's job to coerce patrons, preferably those tanked on 15 glasses of sake (but then, they really don't need coercion), to the Sushi Toi stage to belt out tunes picked from the massive songbook. And if the stars happen to be aligned just so, you might be able to hear Boi himself sing "Lady in Red." If that doesn't drop a tear in your Kirin, you're dead inside.

Ladies who dig ladies are throwing lipstick across their smackers on Friday nights and heading to Wilton Manor's Five Points to experience the 7-month-old lesbian hot spot, Martini Cabaret. Resident DJ Daddy spins Latin and dance mixes for a crowd that's thick till 3 a.m. The digs are upscale, and martinis run around $8.50. Happy hour is 4 to 8 p.m. Monday through Thursday.

Cathode Ray is the standard gay bar in Broward County. Described by co-owners Larry Wald and Scott Belding as an S&M club -- stand and model, that is -- the three-room bar draws a large crowd on the weekends. But if there is pretension at the 20-year-old Cathode, it's overshadowed by the ready-to-go-crazy crowd that doesn't take itself too seriously. Smokers and shmoozers pour through the door onto the sidewalk and bust sensational moves to music that ranges from Madonna and Whitney to '90s booty mixes. Formal fun includes Wednesday night's Pick-a-Trick contest hosted by Larry and live drag performances by Monica Moore every Thursday at 10:30 p.m. There's always a drink special during the relaxed happy hours, and it's unlikely that you'll go home without a new number in your cell phone. The new madness at the club is a 4-month-long drinking contest called "Cathode University, The Institution of Higher Drinking," which includes a two-tiered mock fraternity system and cash prizes to be handed out along with mock degrees at the September graduation.

Don't hold this bar back because its name is as inventive as a Sun-Sentinel headline. Yeah, and ignore the classic rock advertised on Friday and Saturday nights. That's not why you should come to Cheers. This large watering hole, with two fully stocked bars, three pool tables, and a stage, offers a neighborhood feel, friendly clientele, and an escape from the elbow jockeying needed to get a buzz at Riverfront. This joint's happy hour runs every weekday from noon to 8 p.m., with wells, domestic beers, and house wines priced at $2.25. After nearly two decades in north Fort Lauderdale, Cheers should be considered an establishment. It lacks the pretense of new Fort Lauderdale but caters to the urge that made the city famous: bottoms-up drinkin'. After all, the bar's motto is: "Music and mayhem till 4 a.m." Make of that what you will. Just call a cab when you're done. Readers' Choice: Max's Grille

Think you're pretty experienced at bending the elbow after a long day's labor? Then maybe it's time you tip one with the boys and girls of HHH. For more than 20 years, Bo Zaza has gathered the Happy Hour Crew on Fridays at 6 p.m. at bars in and around greater Fort Lauderdale. These are not spur-of-the-moment choices. As Zaza notes on his website, the selection is made "after weeks and weeks of extensive research, intensive analysis, careful scrutinizing, and painful soul-searching." In other words, this selfless man spends the other six days of the week locating the very best watering holes for mankind. And he invites each and every one of you to join him. Destinations for 2004 are laid out on the website, except for a few Fridays, which are slotted as "mystery picks," for which Zaza solicits votes for a handful of candidate bars. If you prefer to drink by yourself with nobody else, then check out Zaza's list of Broward County bars, which must be the most complete compilation of saloons, pubs, package stores, holes, and dives online.

I tell them, 'Get the fuck out!'" says Ugandan-born owner Ashok Patel (a.k.a. Pat), demonstrating how he clears his sophisticated cigar shop/bar of rowdy clientele. A sign in front of the toilet in the storage/bathroom reads, "Gentlemen, it may be smaller than you think, so stand closer. -- Pat." The walls of the tiny bar that he runs with his wife, who goes by Kit, are lined with cigars that range from $3 to $30. And if, after downing a pint or two of Spaten Dark or Light or Warschteiner ($5), you get too close to the cigars, spill a drink while lounging on the chairs by the window, or get loud, well, then, you might as well be skating with Tonya Harding on pond ice in April. Any combination of these behaviors will definitely get you tossed out on your ass. When you come back, they'll let you in, but they will not hesitate to talk about your uncouth antics within earshot. If you've got a masochistic bone in your body -- and, come on, we all do -- you'll love the challenge of staying in their good graces.

Amsterdam. Just hearing the name of the Netherlands' famed capital city elicits images of people lounging in a marijuana café, happily toking away the hours. But we live in America, where antiquated marijuana laws treat pot-smokers as if they're violent criminals. For the grass-loving Yank, the only chance of getting a legal dose of doobage is to get hospitalized or contract glaucoma. But there are other ways to lawfully mellow out, such as drinking kava, a plant from the South Pacific popular for its mellowing effects. While you can find kava products in supermarkets -- most commonly as processed capsules or in iced teas -- the Nakamal serves only pure kava juice. Servings range from single shot ($3.75) up to a one-kilogram home kit ($63.60). For those who dig the relaxing atmosphere but would rather stay alert, the Nakamal's menu includes dozens of flavorful teas ($1.25) and juices ($1.75), as well as sodas and cocoa. And for the aspiring poet, the Nakamal hosts an open-mic night every Wednesday. Either way, it's the right environment to peacefully meditate while your body loses coordination. Call it Zen and the Art of Motorskill Malfunction. The Nakamal opens every day at 5 p.m.

Like we'd imagine heaven's very own dive bar to be, Curly Sue's Hideout is directly across the street from a McDonald's. Why it's located only feet from a middle school, well, we don't know. Here's what we do know from a recent reconnaissance mission to the Hideout: Ol' Curly Sue herself sees us dawdling outside and says, "What's the matter, you fuckin' scared to come in?" Her tattered T-shirt reads "Fuck You, You Fuckin' Fuck." That's a friendly enough invite in this part of town, so we grab a well-worn stool in the dark, narrow room. You will not be using your debit card here, Mr. Yuppie, so bring cash. Or a roll of quarters. And it's beer and wine only, but you'll look like a complete doofus if you don't choose a ($2.25) Bud longneck. Handwritten signs everywhere insist "No Tabs," but they're followed by more hastily scrawled lists of patrons who either have tabs running or have skipped 'em. Whatever you do, don't miss the tear-inducing memorial to a dead biker named Scumbag. As a romantic backdrop for that special occasion, the barbed-wire back patio faces a water-treatment plant's massive tank. Hey, kid, run across the street and fetch me a Quarter Pounder, will ya? Readers' Choice: Le Tub

It's early afternoon on a Saturday, and there aren't any posers here. These bikers are the real deal, the long goatees, the black vests, the black halter tops. Twenty-odd men and women with faces as lined as floodplains. The hogs are out back, not far from the barbeque grill made from 50-gallon drums. This two-wheel haunt's in a backwash of a neighborhood, an aging industrial ghetto just west of I-95. Near the door stands an enlarged photo of a long-haired blond, model-pretty, dressed in black leathers, smiling like an open road. Kimber is her name. Was her name. She died not long ago astride her machine, up in Pensacola. Beside her picture is a flier: a memorial service at a nearby chapel later this afternoon for the 39-year-old. Party at Mickey's afterward. These are real bikers. How'd it happen? a bartender asks a brooding man at the end of the horseshoe bar. She made a mistake, he says, thought a four-way was a two-way, went down the wrong way. Hit a car head-on. "She probably never knew what hit her," the bartender offers. She turns to walk away, then stops and calls back, "I hope so, anyway."

This small, hidden gem off East Sunrise Boulevard sits in the shadow of the newly erected mammoth condos on Seminole Drive. The narrow, dimly lit bar packs in an assortment of interesting characters on a nightly basis. Imagine being at a family reunion, but a really surreal one; the soundtrack is Foghat's greatest hits, and everyone in attendance -- crazy Uncle Charlie with the wooden leg, your grandma, and your keg-tapping cousins home from college -- all put aside their differences for the love of the drink.

Ex-pats can be the most refreshing people to come across in South Florida's suburbs, reminding us, with the very tones of their saucy accents, that there is a world beyond marathon satellite television consumption in our 60-mile spread of four-bedroom cement blocks. There is no more intimate environment west of I-95 to mesh with the Brits than this master bedroom-sized pub and eatery. The menu of pub fare, which notes, "We pride ourselves on bland food, warm beer, and bad service," declares the take-us-as-we-come charm that makes unwinding at the King's Head a reality check in a culture run amok. Stuff your gut with some fish and chips ($8.95) or chicken curry with spices on a bed of white rice ($9.50). Down a pint of Fullers ESB, throw some darts, or just sit on the plastic chairs outside, puff a fag, and watch the crazy Yanks roll past in those cars that they can't afford. Readers' Choice: Bru's Room

Gary Santis' antiquity-themed, multilevel brainchild, the Coliseum, consistently draws world-class DJs and performers to entertain music-savvy clubgoers. Unlike most local dance clubs who don't give a shit about anything but selling drinks, Coliseum has spent the past three years setting a new standard for nightlife sophistication in the area. Jet-setting DJs like Victor Calderone and Manny Lehman don't just pop in to Fort Lauderdale without serious wooing. The club is hugely popular because it's a venue with theme-threaded, moody beats and hot crowds worth talking about. Coli is a needle aimed right at the local straight clubs that are still untz-untzing in their bubble of recycled pop-culture hangover barf. When is it going to pop? Cover ranges from $10 to $20 depending upon who's spinning and the time of your arrival. Readers' Choice: Voodoo Lounge

Robbie is like a dad. He has a round, friendly face, a warm, infectious laugh, and a firm handshake. He also loves Tom Jones and pours the most perfect glass of Stella. So, he's really like a dad who gets up on the bar to dance to Tom Jones and likes gettin' sauced with his kids. A decidedly younger crowd has infiltrated this British pub in the last year, namely the rock 'n' roll DJ collective known as Blowtorch, which turned the Fox into a monthly house party of sorts. But Robbie, who is a Brit himself, is still on a first-name basis with most of his regulars, and when 1:58 a.m. rolls around, Robbie will let you order one more pint, just 'cause. But if you try to get in your car with it, Robbie might just give you a shoeing, soccer hooligan-style. And you'll like it.

By any other name -- say Coral Sky, MARS, the Snuggles Fabric Softener Bear Arena -- this gigantic outdoor shed now called the Sound Advice Amphitheatre would still sound as sweet. However, unlike the big, open-air venues on the nation's northern tier, ours is available year-round. Music seems to sound better out-of-doors, and Sound Advice provides plenty of room to mill about, plus massive video screens so concertgoers won't miss anything. Among the acts that played there last year: Peter Gabriel, Radiohead, and Pearl Jam. Who can beat that? Sure, the slightly sterile mall-like environment isn't exactly the most rock 'n' roll aspect of this experience, but Sound Advice is our shed, and we can go see a show there in the middle of December, so nyah-nyah-nyah. Readers' Choice: Office Depot Center

What makes a good local show? Is it the bands? The crowd? Or how about the bartenders? Or the beer? While those are all necessary ingredients, a good local show is more than just the sum of its parts. There has to be that special vibe -- that shared feeling between the band and the audience, when both are consumed by the music and to hell with everything else. It's the camaraderie upon which all healthily functioning scenes are built. Central to this principle is the right venue, and the Red Lion British Pub is the perfect home for local artists, such as Timb or the Freakin' Hott, as well as for out-of-town bands, like the Stud Dogs (Orlando) or the Beatings (Boston), who need a guarantee that they won't run out of gas on the way back home. (Unlike other clubs, the entertainment gets an upfront fee, whether they pack 'em in or not). Though the Red Lion's lack of a stage would send some of the more whiny, ego-challenged bands into conniption fits, it actually serves to enhance the show, bridging the gap between performer and audience. And being a British pub, the Red Lion has plenty of choice imported beer to go with its fresh-cooked chicken pie. Shows start around 9:30 p.m. and are free for 21 and over, $5 for under 21. Readers' Choice: Culture Room

The self-described "owner/manager/resident bass player/bottle washer/toilet cleaner/you-name-it" of Alligator Alley keeps his doors open not because he makes any money but because he is an otherworldly creature from Planet Rock Star, sent here to deliver us some serious tuneage and keep the scene alive. The walking, talking music encyclopedia purposely keeps his club free of televisions, darts, and pool tables so you focus on the badass sound system. With Kilmo here to nurture them, great, mysterious, awe-inspiring sounds come from these parts. Listen up.

Until recently, seeing the name of a DJ on a club flier invariably meant you were in for a night of house, hip-hop, trip-hop, techno, or pretty much any non-rock-related dance music. The past few years, however, have seen a resurgence in guitar-driven music at local nightclubs. Though just a year old, Popscene, spun out by DJs Mana (Jon Wilkins) and Sloan (Steve Copeletti), quickly earned a place in the local indie scene, garnering attention from an enthusiastic crowd of regulars, as well as the scores of bands -- both national and local -- that perform most nights. Popscene spins only indie rock, pop, and soul, mixing the old (Big Star, the Who) with the new (Sloan, Jason Falkner, Wilco). And as Wilkins himself notes, "It's one of the only nights you'll hear Sondre Lerche, Sufjan Stevens, the Radio Dept., Stevie Wonder, and Pavement in a single hour." Popscene takes place at 10 p.m. every Saturday at Dada (52 N. Swinton Ave., Delray Beach), though the venue might eventually change to accommodate larger national acts. Readers' Choice: DJ Bobby Buzz at the Porterhouse Bar & Grill

It's not just anywhere that you can walk into the restroom and see an extinguished, five-inch cigar resting in the urinal. What Freud would determine about Gatsby's based on this image is open for speculation... and snickering. At the very least, it's a peek into the restaurant/cigar bar/pool hall's true identity. No matter how many guys with Yonkers accents pull up in Escalades, no matter how tall the chairs in the dining area, no matter how many mammals died to make that couch or how many brands of fine cigar are available for puffing and urinal christening, inside Gatsby's beats the heart of a sports bar. Depending upon which Gatsbys you head for, there are as many as a dozen tables in the main pool room. Eight big-screen TVs and a gaggle of smaller screens orbiting them like moons. Yes, the lush private party rooms look like they belong on the set of Clue (ooooh, red felt on the pool tables). But upon closer inspection, those TVs are Super Bowl gigantic -- and, yo, are those Reader's Digest condensed books on the shelves? You're not fooling anyone, Jack. Ditch that tie, toss back another longneck, and grope a waitress already.

Have you ever craved a brew at 7 in the morning? Haven't we all? It sounds so inviting, especially because you're drunk. If you're not quite ready to go home, you've been kicked out of the last beach bar at 4, and you're hungry, look for the bright, sparkling lights (the sign out front is in giant letters spelling Cocktails, a beacon for the inebriated) of the Tipperary Pub. It closes every night at 2 a.m. but reopens at 7:30 a.m. with a full bar of liquor and beer to wash those eggs down with.

Let's face it: You're not going to meet the girl of your dreams -- the articulate, sweet, rub-your-shoulders-after-a-hard-day woman you'd take home to Mom -- slumped over a bar on Himmarshee, three empty shot glasses in front of her. That chick ain't gonna help your momma with the Thanksgiving dishes, buddy. You need to head a few blocks east, to Joe Picasso's Interactive Studio & Cafe on Las Olas. This happening coffeehouse-cum-pottery studio teems nightly with creative, well-educated, and pretty young women you've been ignoring far too long. Grab a cup of coffee and head to the pottery studio ($7 per hour for singles, $10 per hour for couples) to make yourself a vase, a bowl, even a coffee cup. But here's a tip: Don't make an ashtray. It's predictable, and besides, not many of today's thoughtful, engaging Velmas are smokers.

Strip club rookie mistake number one: You pick the most gorgeous honey in the joint, the woman with the magazine-model face and porn-star curves, and slap down $20 on a lap dance. She straddles you, parting her lips in a smile as fake as her breasts, and provides you with one of those famous let's-get-this-over-with-quick pelvic grinds. Ah, dear reader, it's the curse of the beautiful stripper. You need a girlfriend experience, a topless seductress who could be your next-door neighbor by day. That's the specialty of Jiggles Cabaret in Fort Lauderdale. Sure, the neighborhood off Broward Boulevard is a little rough, and the dancers are a little worn. But with its friendly staff and hands-on (operative modifier) ladies, Jiggles is likely to be much more pleasing than one of those Champagne-and-valet strip joints on Federal Highway. Just hope your car is still in the parking lot when your wallet is empty.

Given name: Carlo Pacilla

Age: 48

Hometown: Hollywood

Claim to fame: Runs Alligator Alley, a homey Oakland Park blues and jazz bar.

What he's done for us lately: Kilmo's no-crapola dedication to warmth and spontaneity attracts the likes of legendary rap progenitor Blowfly, twin-brother funk act Way of the Groove, and hippie funksters the Psycho Daisies. What about the Alley? It's a modest-looking joint in a Commercial Avenue strip mall with Creole tasties like buffalo gator nuggets popping out of the kitchen and Kilmo himself often sitting in with the band on guitar. This is, as Kilmo likes to put it, "the real Florida."

What it takes: "I guess you need a short attention span. I'm a stimulus junkie. If something doesn't stimulate, I'm on to something else. I was never an in-between guy. You either love me or hate me, and, believe me, there are factions on both sides."

On the south side of the main dance stage at Solid Gold, one of the few strip joints with a world-renowned reputation, is a pole that stretches skyward from the middle of a gleaming white piano. On any given night in this gentlemen's club, visitors can see a buxom woman, her breasts exposed and smooth, clean-shaven legs splayed around the pole, as she gently slithers down from high above. Surrounding her is an array of glass tables, where scantily clad cocktail waitresses and male hosts dressed in tuxedos circle ceaselessly to satisfy every customer's needs and whims. Widescreen televisions hoisted 25 feet high display tastefully done stripteases. It's this type of swank meets sleaze that has made Fort Lauderdale's Michael J. Peter a wealthy man. Nearly 30 years ago, Peter changed adult nightlife by transforming many of the state's titty bars into "gentlemen's clubs." Gone were the knuckle-draggers and seedier elements; in were corporate suits and expensive bottles of sparkling wine. A Fort Lauderdale resident, Peter remains a consultant to the popular Federal Highway operation. Although good strip clubs abound in South Florida, Solid Gold created the mold and remains at the top of its game.

A skinny young man stands chained to the wall. Tight leather covers his torso and upper legs like a second skin. A large rubber ball gags him, allowing the man to breathe but restricting his speech. This ain't everyone's fantasy, but for thousands of gay men and women throughout the United States, sadomasochism is as sexy as it gets. And queer Fort Lauderdale is among the capitals of the S/M craze. Enter the not-for-profit Leather University, a Fort Lauderdale school that since 1995 has been teaching the gay and bisexual community how to satisfy its wildest fetishes in a safe environment. Regular classes include Breath Control, Fisting 101, Flogging 101, Paddling/Spanking, Shaving, and SM in the Real World. Additionally, Leather University hosts two SM events annually: Dungeon 901 (October 15 to 17) and Men's Academy (April 1 to 3, 2005).

Bahia Cabana has that Hotel California feel to it. This makes sense, because Bahia Cabana is the hotel bar for the Days Inn Bahia Cabana Resort, which overlooks Bahia Mar Marina. But once you walk through the lobby into the tiki-fied confines of the bar, something happens. Though technically you're still in Florida, you're transported to some parallel universe where Hawaiian print shirts are required, Rum Runners and Piña Coladas flow freely, up to 20 people can fit in the bar's hot tub, and everyone's doing shots of Red Death (orange juice with shots of about six other liquors, $5.50). You can't really pinpoint what time period it is or even what time it is, but let's just say the atmosphere lies somewhere between Elvis' Blue Hawaii and David Lynch's Blue Velvet.

Hollywood just ain't Hollywood anymore. The old mom-and-pops that catered to retirees along Hollywood Boulevard have been displaced by hip new restaurants with -- gasp! -- valet. The old slumlords who rented 300 square feet with a wall-unit air conditioner for $500 have competition in towering luxury apartments around Young Circle. Hollywood has somehow become hip. But no matter how many $1,200-per-month apartments developers build or how many coats of paint are slathered on those overpriced cement-block igloos surrounding City Hall, Hollywood will always be Hollywood. That is to say, Hollywood will always be just a little bit ghetto. The diehard holdout to municipal gentrification is Stratford's Bar on Hollywood Boulevard, so close to I-95, you can almost read those child-abduction alerts from the bar. This two-story landmark with three televisions, a pool table, and eight dartboards serves up beer for Hollywood's working man. With prices at $2.25 per bottle and the clientele always ready for a conversation, Stratford's is the place to go when you're looking for the true Hollywood experience. Like the city itself, the bar is just a little ghetto.

The idea seemed simple enough: Get a few guys together who had varied tastes in music, find a good bar, and put on a monthly dance party for the kids. And what started out as a simple Wednesday-night party at the Fox and Hound in Fort Lauderdale (4812 N. Dixie Hwy., 954-491-8869) last May turned into a monthly event local scenesters actually got excited about. Suddenly, Wednesday wasn't just Hump Day; it was an excuse to get rip-roaring drunk, bust a move, and possibly break something. And that's a good thing. Over the course of the summer and into the fall, Blowtorch, which is essentially a revolving-door DJ collective of anywhere from five to seven guys from the local music and art scene, lit up the Fox with R&B, punk, glam, metal, hip-hop, prog, industrial, Rod Stewart, Prince, 2 Live Crew, and Golden Earring. Yes, Golden Earring. If you can't find your dancing shoes the last Wednesday of the month, at least invest in a pair of drinking shoes.

i>New Times sent an operative to Dakotah 624, but reports that followed were clouded in a hangover. Apparently, the night began at this hipster bar, which seems plucked from the shores of South Beach, with a "Dakotah's bonsai pineapple" martini. It's one of those trendy cocktails made with coconut rum and vodka soaked so long in fruit that the concoction tastes like it came out of a Kool Aid pitcher. Things got cloudy after that. There was apparently a round of "the Jake" martinis, a gut-busting brew of tequila and Tabasco served in a glass dipped in Cabernet and frozen to look like an odd-shaped popsicle from hell. Then came the "twisted sister," which, unfortunately for our inebriated taster, did not feature Dee Snider. Instead, it's a tart blend of lime gin and lemon vodka. About this time, the bar crew came by to clear out dinner tables, making way for a dance floor that materialized SoBe-style. It's not clear what came next, but from the bill (martinis range from $8 to $12) and the chocolate stain on the reporter's notebook, it appears the night ended with a "white chocolate martini." That's a mixture of orange Stoli, amaretto, Godiva white chocolate liqueur, and powdered sugar, all in a chocolate-rimmed glass. It's enough to make any hangover a little sweeter.

Nibbling on nachos, watching muchachos,

20 kinds of tequila behind the bar,

Marg's by the bucket, stick a straw in and suck it,

No bartender will tell what the ingredients are.

Wastin' away again in Margaritaville,

Searching for South Florida's finest saloon,

Some people claim all margaritas taste the same,

But we found the best at Tequila Cancun.

Don't need no reason; we'll drink here all season,

With nothing to show but these salt-covered lips,

All of us foodies love Cancun's Tex-Mex booty,

Drink up; have some chips and a dozen more sips.

Two-for-one margaritas, with signature fajitas.

Soccer matches play on the satellite TV,

Alberto the owner always comes over,

says, "If you're not happy, the drinks are on me."

The Big Bear Brewing Co. is an oasis of tasty microbrewed goodness in a wasteland of Anheuser-Busch and Coors saturation. Their Kodiac Belgium Dubbel won a gold medal at the 2002 American Beer Fest, and the brewery has also earned a half dozen other national awards for fermented excellence since it opened in 1996. Brewmaster Matthew Cox has covered all the bases, offering ales in wheat and red, pale and brown, even a root beer for the kiddies and a Polar Light for the carb-counting or calorie conscious. They also alternate specials, shifting from different fruity flavors to Irish Stout and even an Espresso Cream Stout for the caffeine-addicted. If you're hungry, there's a full menu with pub fare and yuppified steak-house faves; a little bit on the expensive side ($9 for a burger and fries), but tasty nonetheless. You can tell you're in a brew pub from the décor: antique beer posters and black-and-white photos of the brewing process from back in the day. The best part about the Big Bear is that the staff is friendly and knowledgeable and that all the beer is made on-site. No need for born-on dates here; the beer goes from fermenting tank to serving tank, on to the tap and into your glass, then straight down your gullet.

So it's the Lord's day and your only chance to be free from waiting tables for those obnoxious out-of-town jerks who always want more salt, pepper, and a chance to abuse your fragile sense of dignity. So you want to get drunk and get weird. Well, there's really only one place to do it, and that's Voodoo. See, the place will not only sell you any drink in the house for $4 if you can prove that you work in the hospitality industry -- think check stub -- after 11 p.m. But it has some of the raunchiest, funniest drag material you have ever had the lowbrow opportunity to sit through. It's been doing the show for seven years, since even before the founders moved to South Florida from Rochester, New York, so the material has had time to percolate. Daisy Dead Petals hosts two drag shows, one at midnight and one at 2 a.m. The second is the raunchier one, so stick around.

Let's face it. Fort Lauderdale is a suburb no more. Thousands of condos are on the cusp of opening downtown, which means that driving will be impossible. That's good, because piloting while potted can land you either in the pokey or the morgue. Fat Cat's, which has picked up the Best Hamburger award in the past, is located on the eastern edge of the Himmarshee strip in a refurbished spot (a fire did significant damage a couple of years ago) just a block or two from hundreds of new condominiums and our favorite Lauderdale neighborhood, Sailboat Bend. It's a loud, sexy joint that boasts live music most nights, dollar drafts on Thursday, and true urban ambience. So hoof on over. Later, you can almost fall over onto your doorstep.

There's an easy way to spot an authentic Irish pub. It's by the beer-to-donuts ratio. Back in June of 2002, during the World Cup of Soccer, the pints at O'Shea's Irish Pub regularly got sticky from Dunkin' Donuts. Soccer fans and regulars packed the place for early-morning football, just as they do every other time of the day. Owner Maurice Costigan, a soccer player himself, designed the pub with an atmosphere similar to a watering hole in his native West Cork, Ireland. After games, he lined up shots of whiskey to celebrate the Irish victories. And this ain't no sports bar: There's a single TV over the billiard table. But then, O'Shea's has never been about anything fancy. During downtown West Palm Beach's heyday, oh, five years ago, O'Shea's was always an oasis of normalcy among Clematis Street discos. Now it's become something real, not far from the Disney-like perfection of CityPlace bars. It's still nothing more than a comfortable place to get a beer poured off the back of a spoon, play nine ball on the cheap pool table, and dig into a pastry-topped Guinness beef pie. Test it out next time there's early-morning soccer on the telly -- and bring donuts. Readers' Choice: Dada

It is early, and the crowds have not yet gathered. It is what they call happy hour, but the old man sees little obvious happiness here. He raises his drink to his lips. For a happy hour, it is very quiet. Quietness is good. You do not want loudness. You want the place to be clean and pleasant. You want the bartender to be pleasant, but you do not want her to talk too much. The bar is clean, with its long laminated counter. It is well-lighted, with little hanging lamps and curled-paper shades. There are neon highlights along the ceiling. There are hightop tables with stools, but the old man prefers the bar. There is music -- something by an artist previously known as the Artist -- but it is not too loud.

"Another one?" asks the pleasant but not-too-talkative bartender named Angie.

A group comes in and orders drinks. The men order something called a cosmopolitan. A pink drink that should be consumed by women, the old man thinks. The women order rum and Coca-Cola. Not the smooth Puerto Rican rum but something called Captain Morgan. A harsh, masculine drink. The old man shakes his head. If the bar were not so clean, he would spit on the floor.

"Another?" asks the bartender.

The old man shakes his head. Nada, he thinks. Now, he will have nada. Two of the bitter mixtures of gin and quinine water ($6.75 for both, at the happy hour rate) are enough. He is sufficiently steeped in gloom. But he will be back. He will return when he senses the necessity of drinking quietly in public during the happy hour.

Just when you were about to pour your partying days down the drain like a half-empty can of warm beer, Sonar emerges like the black-leather-clad temptress from your dreams and hands you a glass of dark red wine. You have been initiated into the next level of partying. The 5-month-old club is owned and operated by Inbal Lankry and her siblings, who moved down from New York City this year and transported a pocket of urban sophistication to South Florida. The white walls of the minimal, vault-like space stretch up toward a red ceiling, and the darkly dressed cognoscenti meander through a club they can finally call home. At Friday night's Vamp Party, DJs spin industrial, gothic, and new wave, including Pet Shop Boys, NIN, New Order, and the like. A recent visit by DJ Monk exemplifies the underground tone of a club that leaves the pack far behind.

Two hundred folks, 20 cowboy hats. That's a ratio of ten-to-one, which is just about as country as Broward County gets. From the corralled-in dance floor packed with couples spinning together gracefully, circling the line dancers kicking their boots up together in time, to the tight-jean-clad groups of youngsters sinking shots on the pool tables, this is the stomping grounds of Davie. You can still hear Garth Brooks and the classics, but this is the spot where the heart of country hits a turntable and "Funky Cold Medina" spins off with a twang, announcing that the Deep South has arrived in the 21st Century with undulating hips.

Owned by Daryl Porter, local Catholic school boy gone pro NFL football player, this huge bar and restaurant has a lived-in, community feeling about it. At least a dozen television screens accommodate every seating angle in the bar, making it the perfect place to watch a game while downing a plate of baby-back ribs ($8.99 half rack, $14.99 full rack) or chicken wings ($6.50 for ten, $12.50 for 20) that come not only in hot but in varieties like jerk, teriyaki, and Hawaiian. When there's no game on, dance music and slow jams play from the overhead speakers, and regulars mingle at the bar top and around the pool table. Readers' Choice: Bru's Room

It takes ten minutes to squeeze through the dense crowd around the massive bar in Briny's Irish Pub (Pompano Beach) on a Friday night, when Crisis plays its regular gig. When you finally do get to the dance floor in the back, you find partiers bouncing to a pop cover of U2's "I Will Follow" and the 30-something foursome of Laz, John, Cory, and Paul jamming out on the platform above. There's something so deliciously average Joe, circa 1985, about the 3-year-old pop/rock quartet that it makes you feel like Jessie's girl secretly pining for the rockers who are serenading you. Your perspiring face, beet red from dancing, screams requests all the while. The boys are having so much fun that you can't help getting sloshed and letting them take you back to a time when rock music was more about cutting loose and less about hating your life.

Most bars fall into the tomb category. Black walls. Few windows, if any at all. Darkened booths. Low ceilings. Flossie's, however, is a paean to the open road -- and sky. First, it's tiki style, with additional benches and tables under a nearby oak tree where you can enjoy your $2.50 bottle of Bud or Miller or the like. The no-walls style is a hit with Harley riders, just the sort of clientele who never want to be too far from the smell of tar. Second, Flossie's is a stone's throw from I-95. The rush of traffic is reassuring to anyone with a get-up-and-go psyche, a constant reminder that there's a continuous black strip o' highway going from SoFla to NoCal, should the panic attack call for it. Last, this bar lies so close to the west end of the Hollywood-Fort Lauderdale Airport that you can smell the burnt jet fuel as the 747s take off. What might be nuisance noise to many is the welcome roar of wanderlust to some.