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.

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