Subtropical

The Broward County library system offers a zillion free resources in its one main, five regional, and 33 branch libraries. There are also three reading centers and four bookmobiles. If you're not into, like, reading, man, then try the 35,243 DVDs and 184,539 VHS tapes, which give you a selection that makes Blockbuster a real bust. Then there're the CDs -- everything from Frank Zappa's Jazz from Hell to a recording of Dr. Phil's Self Matters. And the guys who run this joint have balls. They recently turned down thousands of dollars in federal aid that they might have received if they had agreed to install pornography filters on computers with Internet access. Library Director Bob Cannon claimed that doing so would block users' access to sensitive material on abortion, gay issues, and safe sex. Then there are the librarians, who often double as babysitters and therapists. "I have regulars," says one librarian from the Hollywood branch who talks about her workplace with evangelical zeal and carries library card applications in her purse when she goes out. "I can tell when people have had a bad day, when they're falling in love, when they're heartbroken." One persistent customer calls almost daily for help with her crossword puzzles, and the librarians oblige. And don't even get us started about the free computer classes, puppet shows for kids, art exhibits, and the Small Business Resource Center at the main branch. The only thing this place lacks is beds; otherwise, we'd suggest you move in.

We know that a lot of guys, including mayors, enjoy some Internet porn. And there's nothing wrong with that as long as you play by a couple of rules. First of all, you gotta keep your wanking rate below that of the average zoo monkey. And second, you need to hide your tracks. Everybody knows it's going on, but that doesn't mean anybody wants to see evidence of it. And it's that second part where long-time Pembroke Pines Mayor Alex Fekete screwed up in a big way. He sent his personal laptop computer to the city techies to have it repaired for a virus and left, oh, about 23,000 pornographic photos on there for all to see (which makes us wonder if he also didn't break rule number one, as well). And see the smut, city employees did. Then they sent it to the State Attorney's Office for an investigation. Thankfully, there were no charges, since there was no child porn in the mix. I'm not sure, but if you've got 23,000 dirty pictures on your computer, it's no wonder you picked up a virus. Fekete, in his defense, insinuated that some saboteur had infected his computer with the porn. Yes, the dreaded evildoer Pornman struck again. Now this was all a major-league F-up, but it's not even his biggest gaffe. Hell, it happened three years ago, and somehow Fekete escaped media scrutiny. No, where Fekete really whacked himself, so to speak, was by bringing up his little pornodrama at a political function in February. To a group of retirees, no less. It was a pathetic attempt at damage control, since the Herald and Sun-Sentinel jumped on the story. Well, to make a long story a little longer, Fekete isn't the mayor anymore. The disturbed retirees voted him right out of office in March. The good news: Now he has plenty of time to pursue his other, um, interests.

Fort Lauderdale's Catalonia has been through many names and lineup changes over the past seven years. Despite their missteps, they definitely got the music right this time around. Comparisons to the Smoking Popes, Weezer, and Reggie and the Full Effect are apt, but the band possesses something truly unique -- maybe their revival of the Keytar? The quartet's latest release is a promising, self-titled EP featuring four originals and one remix. The only way to accurately describe this record is with a completely nonscientific, track-by-track analysis of the songs. So here goes: Track 1, "Does Your Momma Wanna Be?" My toes start a-tappin' as soon as Evan Rowe sings, "Does your momma wanna be collateral damage..." Track 2, "Nasty Rabbit." My toes team up with my feet and legs, bouncing me off the couch and around my living room. By the second chorus, I'm singing along. Track 3, "Perfect Poser." I'm now knocking various knick-knacks off the shelves with my considerable derrière as I launch into a raucous indie-rock booty shake. Neighbors are peering through my window, and I don't care. Track 4, "Hiding." The neighbors have busted down the door and joined the party. Track 5, a remix of "Nasty Rabbit." Repeat as desired. Conclusion: Catalonia pulls off what so many bands have spent years trying to do: dance-friendly, fun indie rock with intelligent lyrics, excellent composition, and amazing harmonies. -- Maggie-Margret

Not even those overwrought 1980s prime-time soap operas -- like Dallas and Falcon Crest -- ever came up with a better script than what's been happening at our public health system. It begins with Austin Forman, the scion of the county's most powerful family. J.R. -- I mean Austin -- rigged a sweetheart deal with the tax-subsidized North Broward Hospital District to build a medical office building. With the help of district CFO Patricia Mahaney, he and a couple of partners stood to make $100 million on the public's dime. But then Alexis -- I mean Mahaney -- who'd gone on an exotic vacation to Africa with Forman, got too greedy and was busted by the feds for embezzling NBHD money. A federal grand jury has since convened to investigate the deal -- and the scandal leads all the way to the governor, who happens to be the president's brother and heir to the White House in 2008. This one hasn't played out all the way yet, so we can't wait for the next episode. Readers' Choice: Miriam Oliphant

Um. Oh. Well. Uh. Shit. You're younger than you think you are.

You don't so much listen to Jim "Mad Dog" Mandich as you rubberneck him. He's a loud, obnoxious, full-of-himself, loutish, often-wrong boor. In other words, he's perfect for that abrasive medium called radio. What's more, Mandich is perfect for sports, especially since he's a former jock himself, having played several seasons as a mediocre tight end for the Dolphins. With his sports pedigree, Mandich has a special insider quality that somewhat tones down the repulsive nature of his character. (Though he could never touch the smarm level of his WPLG-TV (Channel 10) television partner Jimmy Cefalo, another former Dolphins receiver). Mandich doesn't just talk about sports; he's liable to ramble on about the hangover he has from freebie cocktails he drank the night before or provide an anecdote that reveals his lecherous nature. You never know what this train wreck of a man is going to say next -- and that's what really makes him hard to ignore. Readers' Choice: Neil Rogers

Pretty much the Sentinel's bite-size version of Jim DeFede, Mayo's heart is in the right place. The former sportswriter has a conscience and a Jimmy Breslin-like way of reporting issues rather than just commenting on them. He zeroes in on controversial topics and provokes meaty debate. Willing to cast a withering sidelong glance at the folly of our ways, Mayo pisses people off, and that's good. A recent misguided letter-writer complained that the columnist "should be more objective," because, "after all, honesty and objectivity are the only things that distinguish you from the tabloids." Hey -- we resemble that remark! As a columnist, Mayo is paid to spew his opinion hose over anyone who gets close to it. You know you're soaking in it.

It's an old standard in the news business that any reporter on the same beat for more than a few years is probably a hack. That's far from true for Pat Moore. She's in her 25th year at the Palm Beach Post, covering nothing more significant than the courthouse in the paper's Martin County outpost. Despite job offers in the Post's main office and loads of journalism prizes, including a Scripps Howard Foundation award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment, Moore has insisted upon continuing to cover the same old beat. After all that time, Moore still relishes routinely scooping the cub reporters thrown at her in droves by the Stuart News. Some of her competitors, who typically last no more than a couple of years, include: Janet Weaver, now dean of faculty at the esteemed Poynter Institute for journalists; Tim Roche, Southern bureau chief for Time; and a staffer for New Times. Her competitors have coined nasty nicknames for the matriarch of Treasure Coast reporting (we don't dare reprint them), but sources still routinely go to her first. Now, after all these years, Moore is contemplating retirement. "Well, I'm getting tired," she says in a rare moment of self-deprecation. "I mean, at this point, I can cover a trial almost blindfolded."

Best Herald Writer Carol Marbin Miller The Miami-Dade Regional Juvenile Dentention Center is a dreary place. Lots of kids have hated it over the years, and the Herald has done some pretty good, aggressive stories. But when 17-year-old Omar Paisley died last year of a ruptured appendix, Herald social services writer Carol Marbin Miller picked up the challenge. Soon a grand jury, drawing heavily on Marbin Miller's plethora of stories on the incident, charged two nurses with manslaughter for ignoring the boy when they should have saved him. Later, officials made significant changes at the lockup. Just the latest strike for justice by Marbin Miller, the bane of the state's Department of Juvenile Justice, who has been the champion of every abused kid in the region for several years now.

A story in The Palm Beach Post Wednesday on the history of cross-dressing included a reference to former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover as 'a closet cross-dresser.' Most historians have concluded that Hoover was not a cross-dresser, despite the rumors that have circulated for years. The story appeared on the front page of the Accent section."

That's pretty darn good. But check out the original text from the October 1 article, which -- we swear -- actually read: "J. Edgar Hoover: He gave a whole new meaning to the word dragnet when declassified documents showed that the FBI chief was a closet cross-dresser. Makes you wonder who 'America's 10 most wanted men' really were."

Best Journalistic Restraint Sun-Sentinel Travel editor Thomas Swick Swick described this delicious scenario on March 28 in a story titled "You Can't Hop a Jet Plane": The editor is late to catch a plane to Thailand. A delay at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport means he has only a narrow window to make his connection. When his jet touches down at LAX, he tries to push past the other passengers to the front of the plane. Some let him through, but one man refuses to move out of the way and says, "We've got a plane to catch too." Swick whines that he has only 20 minutes. Then the other guys responds: "I wish we had 20 minutes." Our itinerant master of modesty doesn't just snap back, "Do you know who I am?" Oh no. "I hold back the fact I am a travel writer and that there are dozens of people (at least) back home waiting for my stories." (Actually, our sources report, the true number of interested parties is 16.)

Eye Doctor Helped Blind Patients."

All we wanna know is, did he hold 'em down or actually poke out the poor bastards' peepers.

Reality shows became so ubiquitous there for a while that it became second nature to ignore them. And that would have been the case with The Surreal Life, an utter time-waster starring Ron Jeremy, Tammy Faye Messner, Vanilla Ice, Erik Estrada, and some other losers. Above their mugs, brief descriptors floated, identifying Jeremy as "the Porn Star" and Tammy Faye as "the Evangelist," etc. In a January issue of City Link, until it was corrected, the item provided an interesting description of Davie's own Vanilla Iceman, the one-hit Wonder-breader whose real name is Rob Van Winkle. For seven glorious days, he was "The Vanilla Raper."

There's no doubt that carrying a gigantic cross on your back makes for a damn good workout. And it's undeniable that Jesus Christ had a handsome physique. Need proof? Check out the life-size statue of him at 6007 Garden Ave. in West Palm Beach, which clearly shows the benefits of his workout regimen. It has rock-hard abs and a Lou Ferrigno-esque chest. The statue -- standing under the awning of a pink, Key West-style cottage -- seems to lend credence to the Dead Sea Scrolls' claim that Mary Magdalene introduced the J-man to the Galilee Gold's Gym. In addition, the able-bodied Savior displays details from the lost stories of Christ. While many portrayals of Christ show him in white, on this statue, he sports a loincloth painted a handsome lilac. And the Savior is supported by two crutches to illustrate the days after an injury ended his run as a point guard for the Messina Messiahs. Animal lovers will admire the accompanying two brown mutts, which are clearly a rebuke of the blasphemous claims that Christ was a cat person. And his forlorn expression, head cocked slightly to the side, implies that Jesus is reciting that famous verse, John 3:17, in which he promises disciples, "Thou will gain naught without pain."

You can't drive along the best mile of Palm Beach County; you have to walk or ride your bike. The town of Palm Beach is located on a barrier island, and tucked behind the mansions on the Intracoastal side, you'll find the Lake Trail, a paved path where you might bump into trust-fund kids on rollerblades or island residents walking immaculately groomed poodles. Pick up the trail from any of the cul-de-sacs that branch off North Lake Way and head north. To your right, you can catch a sneak peek into the backyards of fabulous estates; to your left, see captains parking their yachts and get a panoramic view of West Palm Beach's sherbet-colored skyline. If you follow the trail to its miles-later end at the Sailfish Club and zigzag along the residential streets, you will reach a small dock overlooking the Palm Beach Inlet; you can't go any farther without swimming. Drink from the water fountain that greets you like an oasis, have a seat on the dock, and watch ships roll past Singer and Peanut Islands.

A handsome man with a slim figure and kind face, Dean Trantalis in many ways represents the new Fort Lauderdale. In a city where the mayor is openly homophobic, Trantalis in March 2003 defeated the wife of County Commissioner John Rodstrom (also homophobic) to win a seat on the City Commission. He became Fort Lauderdale's first openly gay commissioner. He won, thanks in part to his career of fighting for gay rights. In 1990, Trantalis successfully lobbied the Broward County Commission to pass a human-rights ordinance protecting gays from discrimination. Seven years later, he coordinated an unsuccessful effort to stall the passage of a Florida law banning same-sex marriages. Yet Trantalis stands up for more than gay rights. A successful attorney who has studied in England, Eastern Europe, and Russia, the commissioner has proven in his first year on the job to be a thoughtful, deliberative man unwilling to make rash decisions. He refuses to sacrifice natural beauty to fatten developers' wallets, frequently voicing his belief that Fort Lauderdale Beach, in particular, should be protected from overdevelopment. And when every elected official in Fort Lauderdale seemed to want to blame former City Manager Floyd Johnson for the fiscal crisis, Trantalis kept his blade sheathed, loathe to strike the wounded scapegoat. But maybe that also speaks to Trantalis' greatest political fault: He's too kind. In the rough-and-tumble world of politics, nice guys don't last. But we hope Trantalis does. Readers' Choice: US Rep. Clay Shaw

Best Mile of Broward County Hollywood Blvd. between City Hall and Young Circle Wings n Curls and Burger King; billiards, spas, and realty

CPAs for income tax; suitcases for luggage racks

Firestone glows neon red; wheelchairs and Murphy Beds, limos and Argentango; karate and aikido...

Subway, Kodak, Papa John's; dinette sets and Fancy Paws. World World Corp. is fun to say; as is Ginger Bay Café...

Sushi and upholstery; Melina's has lingerie

Zombie Café, magic shops; it's even where the Greyhound stops, Harpoon Harry's, Texaco; check cashing, OXXO.

Young people come out at dark; tykes dig Annivers'ry Park

City Hall to A1A reads like a mismatched Yellow Page with nothing cooler there to see than Young's huge, gnarly baobab tree.

Best People-watching Worth Avenue, Palm Beach See Dick leave his mansion in a blazer, a bow tie, and velvet slippers! See Jane in her Botox and new nose! See Spot drink from the Spanish-tiled "Dog Bar" (water fountain) that's built into the street. See Don King, Rod Stewart, Rush Limbaugh, Jimmy Buffett, Donald Trump, and Venus and Serena Williams flit from Tiffany to Nieman Marcus to the yacht broker's office. See the pale little tourists who haven't realized that jeans and fanny packs in Palm Beach are wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Readers' Choice: Las Olas Riverfront

Best Scenic Drive Riverland Road between State Road 7 and Davie Boulevard Apologies to the good people of this central Broward neighborhood, for they don't deserve gawking motorists puttering around their sleepy side streets. They clearly have invested well in old, varied houses. And they have resisted the conventional temptation to eradicate all vestiges of nature along the way. They have let their 40-foot live oaks ease and stretch and rise and billow above beds of Boston ferns in front lawns. They cherish shade, drawing it from sleek sabal palms and bristly Norfolk island pines and banyans overhanging slender streets. They have fostered massive royal palms and gumbo limbos and cypress trees in an unassuming jungle that would make a landscape architect swoon. This is a neighborhood engulfed in overgrowth yet untouched by overdevelopment. Proceed with care.

If those dumb-ass kids from Bully had known about this place... well, Brad Renfro never would've had occasion to steal that boat, put it that way. Trust me, this is the place. Unless you own an airboat, this is as remote and inaccessible as it gets. Take Alligator Alley (I-75) west. Go past the Miccosukee Reservation into Collier County and exit at Highway 29. Go south about 14 miles to Wagonwheel Road until you reach 841. Go north on 841 about three miles until you reach 837. Turn right on 837 and go about three miles to 839. Turn north on 839 and proceed on what is one of the most desolate and unforgiving patches of pavement in all of South Florida -- a place where, should you run out of gas or break down, you are most certainly fucked. This road actually passes back up underneath Alligator Alley (though there is no way to access it) before it just disappears in a morass of muck and sawgrass. You're in the East Hinson Marsh, somewhere north of Deep Lake Strand. You're outnumbered by alligators approximately eleventy-zillion to one. It gets so dark at night. Anywhere around here will do.

If bombs start falling or an asteroid strikes Topeka, it may be time to head to Peanut Island. The man-made stretch of sand between Palm Beach and Singer Island hides a presidential bomb shelter built in 1961. The Secret Service built the shelter during the Cold War. Then-U.S. President John F. Kennedy's aides figured he could make it to the state-of-the-art hole in minutes from the former Kennedy compound on Palm Beach and continue to run the country via radio technology. The plan was to save the Kennedys so that Teddy could repopulate the Earth in the event of an attack, so you can bet it'll save your sorry ass when the sky starts to fall. The Palm Beach Maritime Museum conducts three tours daily of the shelter. Cost: $7 per adult, not including the ferry ride from Phil Foster Park to Peanut Island. Hell, it'll be even more of a bargain in the near future: The place is undergoing a major renovation into a county park. There's a presidential seal on the floor of the shelter that was installed in 1997 but no sign within the shelter of the Kennedys' charm. So if you plan to ride out Judgment Day here, bring your own board games.

So you're feeling stuck in the city. Unable to think because of the swarms of people, cars, and corruption. Well, get thee to America's most famous watery park, where you'll be able to feel the kind of isolation that most of South Florida only dreams of. And try it in the summer, when even veterans often avoid the Glades. Rooms go from $68 to $98 a night, and whole families can stay in cottages with kitchens for $92 to $138 plus tax. You'll be able to paddle a canoe and leave all humanity behind on the bay. You can take boat tours too. And if you want to venture into the river of grass, try the back-country boat tours. If you must walk, rent mosquito netting. Though the restaurant is closed during the summer, you can bring your own food. And boy, is it romantic. Or head into Homestead, enjoy some tipico Mexican chow, then drive across town to Biscayne National Park, where you'll find some of the best snorkeling Neptune could have imagined. Readers' Choice: Key West

Forget Las Olas and Fort Lauderdale Beach. Give those out-of-towners a taste of the real grit-in-your-teeth, mosquito-in-your-ear, 'gator snappin' Florida. Here's the Sunshine State without the convention-and-visitors-bureau crapola. The village is a little bit of modern-day, Native American life in a clearing in the middle of the Everglades. Sure, there are guys who wrestle alligators for your entertainment (look for scars on the rasslers' faces, if you doubt the danger) and air boats to take you skimming through the marshes. There are foodstands with fry bread and Indian burgers, too. But the centerpiece is the village's classy Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum ($6 for adults, $4 for kids), with artifacts, full-size models, and a mile and a half of boardwalk nature trails that give you the up-close skinny on the wilderness that's ready to move in when your back is turned. On your way out of town, pull over to the side of the road, turn off the motor, and watch the surface of the still water that laps against the berm. Those log-like things floating out there -- those are alligators ready to snap. (Take I-75 to Exit 49, drive north for 17 miles.)

You gotta love a hotel that encourages you to get busy between its luxurious sheets. The Chesterfield offers a "Sex, Body, and Soul" package that includes a one-night stay, a bottle of massage oil, chocolate truffles, bath salts, a spa treatment, and -- dig this -- energy bars. It also comes with "a romantic book that offers ways to maximize you and your partner's enjoyment of each other," according to the hotel's website. Uh, could the title of that book possibly start with a "K" and end with an "ama Sutra"? Of course, you'll have to pay for this fabulous service. The intimate, English-style hotel -- located just two blocks from chi-chi Worth Avenue -- rents rooms for $200-plus a night, and the aforementioned package costs $395. During the summer, however, when the hot, hot weather sends plastic surgery survivors scurrying, you can check in for just over $100. Hotel guest or not, you simply must come hang out at the bar. The Leopard Lounge is campy and classy at the same time. Decorated from its leopard-spot carpet to its hand-painted ceiling, you're not sure whether you've wandered into a fabulous mansion or into a velvet painting. Every night of the week, a jazz band or Spanish guitarist plays. Elegant ladies dance with cigar-smoking men in dinner jackets while the bartender (in his leopard-print vest and red bow tie) mixes another round of martinis. This is the life, man.

By the age of 5, most South Floridians would rather watch their television flicker than have a close encounter with nature. But perhaps because of the popularity of Lord of the Rings, it "Ent" impossible to get those kids interested in the gigantic Lofty Fig at Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. How could they resist the opportunity to hang out with the shaggy monster that so resembles their beloved Treebeard? The 70- to 85-year-old giant -- like those pesky invasive Australian pines that got hacked away a few years ago -- is non-native, according to rangers at the park, but has historical value because it was likely planted by Mr. Birch, who donated his estate as a public park (opened in 1949). Since the tree is located next to a covered picnic spot ($80 to rent for a day) and a playground, you can admire its winding, cavernous trunk while you drink cold beer and play volleyball. Of course, there's always the option of sitting around the house watching Billy and Jenny's soft little arms maneuver Playstation controllers while you try to figure out how to pay for their ADD meds, but it might be nice to try natural light -- and we don't mean the beer -- for a change. The beachside park with winding trails and preserved natural habitats opens at 8 a.m. and closes at sundown. Entrance is $4 for a carload and $1 per person for walk-ins.

You'd think being landslid out of office might end the average would-be author's hope of writing a how-to on becoming a political success. But that didn't stop Tim Smith, who was routed by Jim Naugle in last year's Fort Lauderdale mayoral race. The former city commissioner didn't let the sudden and bitter end of his political career stop him from coming out with a vanity book called Politics 101, subtitled The True Story of the Life of a City Commissioner. Now if that tease doesn't prompt lines at the local Barnes and Noble, what will? "Required Reading for the Inspired Citizen," boasts the cover. What the hell does that mean? To give you an idea of the depth of the 176-page book, consider that it is virtually all in italics and contains more exclamation points per page than a 16-year-old girl's diary. It's actually kind of fun, though. Smith suffers from a severe case of inflated self-importance, but he also comes across as a naive, almost boyish fellow who thoroughly enjoyed every single minute of his six years in office. The problem is that the book doesn't deliver. Smith promises in the forward that he will tell tales, but either you already knew most of what he's telling or the stuff's just not all that interesting. For instance, he alleges that his arch-enemy Naugle, an out-of-the-closet homophobe, once inferred to him that he'd had a gay experience. Now, this should be quite scintillating, especially since guessing the mayor's true persuasion is one of Fort Lauderdale's great pastimes. But even that anecdote lacks a good punch in the saccharine way Smith tells it. (Naugle, of course, denies it). "I'm guessing that my experience was stranger and more unique than most elected officials," the washed-up pol writes in the forward. The problem is that it really wasn't.

Ignore the text-only design that seems a throwback to the early days of the World Wide Web. The Miami section of craigslist.org -- which includes browsers from across South Florida -- is arguably one of the most dynamic in the online subtropics. Craig Newmark founded the nonprofit online community in San Francisco in the 1990s at the urging of friends. Over the past decade, the website has expanded to cover more than 30 metropolitan areas, including the website for South Florida, which launched in October 2002. What has made South Florida's craigslist.org so successful is its decidedly local edge. It's a communal bulletin board designed for neighbors to exchange opinions, advertise services, discover new loves, find an activity partner, or locate an activity partner for whom you have to, well, uh, pay. The site receives several hundred posts per day; a good number are from Broward and Palm Beach counties. Posting a message is free since craigslist.org is noncommercial. It costs money only to post a job advertisement, and the revenue is used to operate and maintain the site. Of course, you can be completely anonymous when you post, even if you're the 25-year-old straight dude who recently advertised for "someone to give me a prostate massage." So log on and talk politics, give away your old couch, adopt a pet, breed your snake, sell your car, find a job -- it's all possible at miami.craigslist.org.

We've often thought of starting a weblog to dump all of our mad, misplaced, and most brilliant thoughts, but the need isn't pressing as long as we have Steve Koppelman around. Koppelman, who lives in Fort Lauderdale, runs the wonderfully named www.hatless.com, a website where he unloads his mind on readers lucky enough to find him. Also called "Steve Koppelman's Catologue of Poorly Catologued Things," the blog basically serves as a condensation of one man's existence in South Florida and the world. The 34-year-old real estate agent by trade writes without a trace of pretense about whatever is inside his hatless head, whether it be the most recent crop of Indian River grapefruit or the time he vainly waited for a Broward County bus at the airport. He writes about music, film, media, politics, and barbecue joints. In the past few months, he's sounded off on the FCAT, Vladimir Putin, Haiti, the BSO crime report rigging investigation, Everglades restoration, and Halliburton. The relationship is simple -- he writes, we read. But we want to give Koppelman one bit of advice/encouragement: Keep that hat off, brother.

If you can't beat science, join it. Or at least appropriate its patois, as this institute has done. The brainchild of Tom DeRosa, an acolyte of D. James Kennedy's Coral Ridge Church of Intolerance, CSI wants to prove the Bible is fact using science; this is a somewhat inverted notion of how scientific discovery works. "Without Creation, then God's Word is not true," DeRosa has posited. "Without God's Word, there is no foundation for the Gospel." (Wait a minute, would that mean no more Mel Gibson films?) Anyway, that kind of logic can lead only to the conclusion you've already decided upon, which in this case includes a major role for Noah's Great Flood in laying down fossil deposits. DeRosa and gang have concluded that the seven-day creation scenario is the most difficult part of the Bible for nonbelievers to accept. Why? "Satan has deliberately vested huge amounts of effort in an attempt to cloud and/or obscure altogether its true significance," DeRosa wrote on CSI's website. Of course, the countless fossils layered in sediment over several hundred million years don't help the institute's case either.

Parking on Las Olas Boulevard is a renowned pain in the derrière. The finicky, quarters-only meters prompted one restaurateur over the holidays to hire an 18-year-old fellow on a full-time basis to stand around a side lot making change for customers. The ravenous meters on the street slurp down spare change like Pac-Man gobbling power pellets. Fail to feed these steel sentries and your reward is a $25 ticket, which, come to think of it, would buy you a mere 20 hours of street parking anyway. The only chink in the system is to hit the meter spots on the side streets after dark, when those meters aren't monitored. Maybe it's the fear of parking a $60,000 SUV slightly off the beaten path that keeps the gentry coming back to the expensive spots along the main drag. Whatever. If you're hitting the Floridian for a slab of pie after a night of wine-fueled suck-face, you deserve at least the option of gratis parking on somewhere south of Las Olas. Because you, dear friend, are keeping it real.

Imagine God giving you his blessing to play a practical joke. That's what it feels like -- even if it's clearly not the case -- when you give the kids in the youth group at St. Joseph's 30 bucks and the street address. They'll arrive at your buddy's abode in the middle of the night with their truck full of two-foot-tall plastic flamingos and spread them throughout the front yard. Thirty flamingos for 30 bucks, 60 flamingos for $60, 90 for $90, and so on. Your friend wakes up to find that his home is a major source of rubbernecking. Since your money helps the junior God Squad organize church-related events and the kids even come pick up the flamingos after a few days, you get all of the amusement and none of the guilt. Besides, how many times will your friends fall for "Pull my finger!"? This particular St. Joseph's fundraising occurs only in the fall. Set up a prank with the youth director, Steffi, in November.

You just spent three months chipping ice off of your front steps and hunching your shoulders against the frigid north wind, which keeps coming like a sumo wrestler. Those Anglo-Saxon, winter-resistant genes are wearing thin. So jump in the car and drive the 2,500 or so miles to Hollywood Beach, mate. See what a doughty little Florida city can do for your battered Northern soul. Well? For starters, stick your bony white feet into the Atlantic. It's the icebreaker. It's also the only thing that comes cheap. That and the free playground and a few pizza joints, where the pies are thin and acidic. Hell, if you're Québecois and speak French, greet thousands of your pale fellow countrymen, who dominate the Broadwalk seven months a year. Au revoir, you locals. This place is ours!

Remember when you were 10 years old, sitting in a pizza parlor with your parents as the large video games in the corner beckoned you with their bells and flashing lights? You'd get a quarter from Dad, your hands greasy from pizza, and then slide that silver coin into Centipede. It would light up; the sounds would blare. You'd wrap your hand around that joystick and -- beep, beep, beep -- you were destroying that fast-moving creature. Forget today's Grand Theft Auto and Final Fantasy. Centipede was a real video game. But don't get too remorseful. In the age of $2 arcade games, a place still exists where you can slide quarters into such classics as Centipede, Donkey Kong, and Pac-Man. At Boomers! you'll find an impressive collection of the kind of video games that will remind you of pizza parlors, greasy quarters, and (yuck)... girls!

This small jeweler on the corner of Sunrise and 20th Avenue looks like a modest mom-and-pop joint, but if you've ever been stopped at that light and let your eyes drift to its marquee, you would see hilarious phrases like "We Accept Visa, AMEX, and Sugar Daddies" and "Buy Her a Diamond or Someone Else Will." Who says romance is dead?

Hockey at this hot spot is played in several forms. One, the ice version, which requires skates that may be rented for a couple of bucks on top of the $6 rink admission. The others, of the dome and air varieties, require quarters. But you're here to beat heat -- why sweat? Grab a beer from the snack bar, prop up the bladed dogs, and watch some ESPN on that mammoth big screen. At midday, the Zamboni evicts skaters to take a turn around that frozen cement pond. The air inside the arena settles and thickens. Walking in feels like the blank, brisk frost blast when a freezer door first opens. But this is full-body, a chill you can swallow in and wallow in. Exhale slowly, from the deepest, hottest pits of your lungs. Breath looks cool in summertime. Free skate is Monday through Friday 9:20 to 11:50 a.m. and 1:40 to 4 p.m.; Friday night from 7:30 to 10 p.m., Saturday from 1:30 to 4 p.m. and 8 to 10 p.m. And Sunday, it's 1:30 to 4 p.m. Readers' Choice: The beach

When it's Florence Henderson's birthday, everyone knows it. At least, everyone at the Cheesecake Factory on Las Olas, an eatery the former Brady Bunch mom frequented while she was performing in the Florida Follies down the street at Parker Playhouse. Back in February, she was spotted by several hungover 20-somethings enjoying a sensible salad with a group of girlfriends. After the waiter brought out a piece of chocolate cake with a candle (just one, of course), her gals began singing "Happy Birthday," making sure to put extra emphasis on the "dear, FLORENCE." Heads turned; people whispered. As Flo got up to leave, she approached the table next to the hungover patrons. "Hello," Henderson said, handing a girl a rose, "did you ever watch the Brady Bunch?" Everyone looked a tad confused. The Brady what? Yeah, in reruns on Nick at Nite. But, hey, Henderson gets an "E" for effort! According to a waitress at the Cheesecake Factory, Flo came in quite often while she was in the play. Scottie Pippen and other celebs, come in too, as well as others who "are usually a bit... older." Readers' Choice: South Beach

She attended her first North Broward Hospital District meeting in 1993, angry about what she felt were bloated salaries for officials. Back then, Jane Kreimer, a native of Pittsburgh, was a 69-year-old grandmother who lived in Pompano with her retired husband. Since then, she's become a most dogged watchdog of the controversial -- and utterly corrupt -- public hospital system. While the Sun-Sentinel and Miami Herald often failed to do their jobs, Kreimer would be there, criticizing sleazy land deals, crooked business propositions, and bad medical practices. Even though Kreimer is an inveterate critic, she's always done it with style. When she attends monthly board meetings -- which she almost never misses -- she wears fine dresses and hats, as if she were headed for a skybox at the Kentucky Derby. She also keeps up a steady discourse (and believe us, Kreimer can talk with the best of them) with commissioners to maximize her effectiveness. Back in 1995, the board even allowed her to vote with the seven commissioners on whether to hire Wil Trower as CEO. Though Kreimer cast her ballot against Trower, he was approved by a majority. Well, Trower has proven to be a monumental disaster as district leader. Maybe Kreimer hasn't been able to clean up the district altogether -- nobody could -- but she's investigated and done more than just a little good while she's been at it. We tip our hat to the grand dame of the district.

Searching for that elusive Big O, only to be stopped cold by a 40-foot dike? Or maybe you've tried to take a gander at Lake Okeechobee, the second-largest freshwater lake fully in the United States (the Great Lakes are half in Canada, eh), only to gaze upon marshy islands or grassy shoals instead of the open water of the 730-square-mile inland sea. The earthen levee built to protect us from floodwater makes it impossible to see the lake from the road that circles it, and the southern and western sides provide few vantage points to see it at its best. The eastern shore is far better, and Port Mayaca (about two miles north of the Palm Beach County line on Highway 441) offers the best view of the entire "liquid heart of the Everglades." Drive to the top of the dike and hike down to the water's edge, where you'll certainly see wading birds, alligators, and maybe a manatee or two. If your timing is good, you'll see a variety of small boats pass through the lock system that connects the lake to the St. Lucie Canal and into the ocean. Bring a fishing rod and you'll probably snare a load of bass too.

Remember when the downtown skyline of Broward County's largest city was just a scattered handful of high-rise office buildings? If you've lived in South Florida for more than a few years, of course you do. And if you go back more than two decades, you'll remember a skyline distinguished largely by the edifice widely known as "that big brown building with the neon that looks vaguely like an outline of the state of Florida." No more. The accelerating construction boom has led to an increasingly dense mass of big buildings downtown, including a surprising number of residential towers. One of those, the unfinished 42-floor River House, is already the tallest building in the greater metropolitan area. Now, when you approach downtown Fort Lauderdale from almost any direction, the looming skyline provokes roughly the same reaction you get heading into Miami -- this is a real city. Best view: from the sweeping arc of the flyover from eastbound I-595 to I-95 north. You probably don't want to be down there driving in it -- the construction and all it entails continues -- but it's great to look at from afar. Readers' Choice: Pier 66

Craving hot buns? How about a big, fat sausage? The Publix at Five Points can satisfy just about all your needs. Sure, it's got food, but it's also got men -- gay men -- and lots of them. Just about every Tom, Dick, and Harry cruises the aisles at "The Gay Publix," conveniently located in the heart of Gayville (that would be Wilton Manors, as if you didn't know). If you're tired of the bar scene or just shopping for a taste of something new, you can't do much better than this place. Strike up an innocent conversation with that hunk on the way home from the gym and see where it leads. Quick snack? Romantic dinner? Buffet? Maybe even a lifetime of good nutrition. We all gotta eat, right?

So "Harley" is revving his motor in your face, and you don't know whether to laugh or laugh. For a not-so-small fee ($10 for ladies age 21 and older; $15 for ladies 18 to 20), you can witness a crowd of strictly women hootin' and hollerin'. Why is it that men sit at titty bars in dumbfounded silence while women -- when they visit their own version of the clubs -- fall off their chairs laughing at the teabag-o-rama? It's because, to women, places like La Bare are hilarious and not that sexy; sure, Dirk's got those dreamy eyes, and you can't keep your eyes off Paolo's huge... pecs. But these joints are filled with single and/or married women who are really wondering what it would be like to make out with another chick. Hooray for the converting power of the penis! La Bare is open Wednesday to Sunday, but Friday and Saturday nights are best.

People say that you find love when you're not looking for it. But most people are idealistic morons who blow every chance at love by using other people to validate their narcissistic delusions. So, who cares what they think? The peeps at the nonprofit Humane Society of Broward County started a young professionals social group called PetSet, which puts the desire to be partnered to good use: raising awareness about responsible pet ownership and money to help abandoned animals. A yearly membership of $25 gets you discounted admission to monthly socials at the area's most exclusive bars and restaurants, like the River House and Johnny V's, and invitations to yearly events like the Halloween Masquerade Ball and Pajama Jam. These parties are packed with well-dressed, confident people looking to meet a furless friend like you.

Back in October of 2003, ten friends in West Palm Beach met in the back room of an Irish pub in the hope of organizing the city's growing community of young professionals. The group they formed -- including lawyers, teachers, and even a few politicians -- became West Palm 100. It holds regular happy-hour parties and organizes monthly volunteer work, including helping out on Habitat for Humanity houses or simply painting homes for those who can't do it themselves. In just a few months, the club attracted more than 160 members, who receive e-mails about upcoming events. Some day, West Palm 100 may become an official charity and have a membership list, dues, and even a phone number. But for now, it's simply a loose-knit collective, says Michelle McGovern, one of the founders and an employee of Democratic U.S. Sen. Bill Nelson. Says McGovern: "We really have big dreams for this."

This midrange strip club in suburban Sunrise has everything a hard-working gentleman needs: two computer terminals with high-speed Internet connections where you can take a break from lap dances and leering to check your e-mail and stock prices. Or you can just send a nice note home to the old ball and chain: "Hi, honey. I'm swamped at work! Be home in two hours. I think I'll stop by the gym to take a shower. Kiss, kiss." The computers are free with the club's $10 cover charge. Everything else will cost you a pretty penny for a pretty lassie.

Instead of bustin' your hump for The Man, you could be the man humping a bust for a livin'. Or a woman. You'll find work aplenty for both sexes posted on www.adultstaffing.com. The help-wanted postings are conveniently listed in categories such as bartenders, dancers, sex video performers, escorts, sales/marketing, and webmasters. And judging by some recent help-wanted ads, South Florida is certainly a land of sex-for-cash opportunity. One SoFla auteur wrote that he "needs girls who can handle taking an extreme blow job (throat fucking, gagging, etc.)" A Fort Lauderdale adult video production company was "looking for hot, fun, kinky girls for video-only shoots. High pay per shoot, 30 minutes of work (approx 5-7 mins. of actual anal intercourse.)" If you're not willing to wait around for the right job, you can post your own résumé highlights, such as that by a flowing-haired blond who recently offered her services for "girl-on-girl video work" as a "lactating model." How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm now?

Just north of the island of Palm Beach, smack dab in the middle of the Lake Worth Lagoon, sits a 169-year-old cabin plucked from the shores of Cape Cod. Just looking at it will sober you up. The cabin arrives every winter from its former home up north thanks to Capt. Pete Mason, who dropped the building onto a catamaran platform three years ago. Now, Mason rents out the monstrosity to party planners looking for a location that seems, well, barely afloat. The two-story structure looks straight out of Mark Twain, like a hunting lodge made of long-leaf yellow pine. A pilot house upstairs looks pulled out of a tugboat. The gregarious Mason says it's the perfect spot for a soon-to-be groom to usher in his vows, although it isn't cheap, at $1,800 for an eight-hour bash. "They bring the food and girls," he says, "and I provide the platform." A recent bachelor party, outfitted with six dancers, lasted till nearly sunrise. "That was a bit too long," Mason says. "But I didn't have the heart to kick 'em off."

Given South Florida's subtropical climate, it's summer nearly 11 months out of the year. And about seven of those are so hot and muggy that your T-shirt is soaked with sweat the minute you walk outside. So it's no surprise that it's not the most popular destination for camping trips. But that doesn't mean our region is unsuitable for the practice; it's just that all the naysayers are going about it the wrong way. There's no need to fret about the heat. Just grin and bare it. That's right, take it off! After all, isn't camping supposed to be about freedom? And there's no better place than Sunsport Gardens Family Nudist Resort to release your inner Adam or Eve. The place is appropriately situated in the rural Loxahatchee Groves and includes all the amenities you need for a refreshing night of clothes-free camping. Wanna play some nude volleyball? No problem. The approximately 40-acre resort offers plenty of recreation, from tennis and fishing to a nature trail to even a spa and sauna. To quell your appetite, Sunsport Gardens has its own full-service restaurant for meat-eaters and veggies alike. So, if you're gonna spend the night with Mother Nature, there's no need to do it half-assed; do it bare-assed.

Prestigious Pine Crest Preparatory School has been sending academic overachievers to Ivy League schools since 1934. But no alum has been in the news in the recent year as much as the Class of 1998's (and Boca Raton's own) Mary Ellen Cook, better known as Mary Carey. The star of fine pieces of pornography like Grand Opening and Boobsville Sorority Girls, Carey used her double-D breasts to their fullest in her run for governor of California. Of course, we all know who won, but did you know that Carey's hole was punched on 16,174 ballots, landing her in tenth place of about 135 candidates, snugly between businessman George B. Schwartzman and pro-marijuana legalization attorney Bruce Margolin? Her platform contained novel initiatives, some of which might have succeeded (taxing breast implants and legalizing gay marriage included). But many think that her campaign was just a big publicity stunt for her career in porn. If so, it may have worked. The 24-year-old Carey has recently announced that she has begun to write and direct her own films and has just finished Mary Carey Rules! 3, the adult video world's version of a sketch comedy show, which should be out by the time you read this.

They draw constant derision, what with their silly accents, their tucked-in shirts, and their strawberry-shortcake tans. But who among us would truly banish the tourists? In a world without tourists, who aboard the Jungle Queen would we moon from the riverbanks? Who would patronize those delightful rickshaws? Who would keep the economy flush enough so that we don't have to pay a state income tax? Where would we find authentic French Canadians to jeer? And how would we justify all the goofball beach bars, the salt-smeared crab shacks, the lame-crap outlets, the insistence on covering "Margaritaville" for the umpty-jillionth time. Would we have to admit that this cheap pleasure culture is of our own making, not theirs? Moreover, tourists remind us that we are all but delirious guests on this mortal coil. Live each day in South Florida as though your flight for Sheboygan leaves in the morning, for one of these days, you'll be right. Readers' Choice: The weather

Not Dubya. Not Jeb. Delsa. The 43-year-old single mother of two was recently installed as the new chief of police for West Palm Beach. That makes her the first woman and the first African-American to serve as the city's top cop. Essentially the CEO of the largest municipal department in Palm Beach County, Chief Bush is responsible for overseeing a $40 million budget and a staff of 281 sworn officers, 111 civilians, and three K-9s. Bush, who moved to Palm Beach County from Mississippi at age 4, helped raise her six brothers and sisters while her single mother packed tomatoes in local fields. At age 14, Bush was inspired to become a law enforcement officer when her mother was shot by an irate lover in Lantana and sheriff's deputies responded to the family with remarkable kindness. She put herself through college and joined the West Palm Beach police force in 1983 -- becoming its first female African-American officer. This year, Bush's department is expected to process 42,300 police reports, recover 1,050 stolen cars, seize 803,448 grams of narcotics, and get 6,000 kids to attend police-sponsored talent shows on Saturday nights. When not out busting bad guys, the chief does her homework: She is pursuing a doctorate in educational services at Lynn University.

In the delightfully ephemeral world of television news, most female anchors rely on two God-given gifts: girl-next-door beauty and the uncanny ability to unleash a vacuous giggle on the male co-anchor's cue. A notable exception to the rule is NBC 6's Emmy-winning Jackie Nespral, whose dark good looks are rivaled only by her wit and drive. Nespral, a South Florida native who attended the University of Miami and Florida International University, started her journalism career in Spanish-language news as a reporter for Television Marti and later as an anchor for Univision's Noticias y Mas. That experience allowed her to become television news' Hispanic Jackie Robinson when, in 1991, she was chosen to anchor NBC's Weekend Today. Fortunately, Nespral's South Florida roots continued to tug at her from New York, so she returned and can now be seen anchoring NBC 6's 5 p.m., 6 p.m., and 11 p.m. weekday newscasts with the professionalism and charisma of a groundbreaker. Readers' Choice: Dwight Lauderdale, WPLG-TV (Channel 10)

Look, we don't want to rain on weathercasters' parades, but they are at the very bottom of the television news ladder. Half of them steal their forecasts from the National Weather Service, and they're still wrong a lot. Their greatest talent, generally speaking, is the ability to pretend they're looking at an imaginary map. And then there's the fine art of determining whether a particular day is "partly sunny" or "partly cloudy." Weathercasters are often relegated to clown status, like Al Roker, Willard Scott, and Brian Norcross. That's why we prefer weather babes. You know, beautiful blonds like Dale Gribble's wife on King of the Hill. Then there's Pamela Wright, a brunette. Raven-haired, really. The woman clearly has a very high heat index. And we'd really love to find her dew point. (You gotta love weather double-entendres, don't you?) Keep castin' Pamela. Only please, please, stay away from the sidelines of football fields. We like our sports analysts to know what the hell they're talking about, no matter how hot they might be.

Readers Choice: Jackie Johnson, WSVN-TV (Channel 7)

Daytime news broadcasts are often quite fascinating. Not for news, which they generally lack, but for the bizarre and unsettling combination of gruesome fatal accidents or murder stories with the cheery talk about other goings-on and weather. The juxtaposition can produce a disturbing effect that David Lynch can only envy. But Channel 10, the local ABC affiliate, takes its daytime seriously. Anchoring the show is the best name in television news, Diane Magnum, a polished veteran with a strong background in reporting. From the first moment, you realize you're in relatively capable and serious hands. Once past Magnum, the program has its secret weapon: Glenna Milberg, who may not be a journalistic heavy hitter but who knows her way around a story and almost always does a solid job. While Jildah Unruh plays the role of Channel 10's take-no-prisoners investigator, Milberg is its balanced professional -- and her touch especially feels right during those live daytime reports under the noontime Florida sun. What you end up getting isn't just traffic and weather but political news and, quite often, an in-depth report on the most interesting story of the day. It's good enough that you can barely believe it's only noon.