Besttropical

It's damned hard to find a decent politician in Broward County. They all seem to be getting their greedy pockets stuffed, often by unscrupulous developers (yeah, that means you, Ilene Lieberman and Josephus Eggelletion). But Ben Graber, a doctor by trade, has not only resisted the big money from special interests but has had the guts to criticize those who accept it. That didn't sit too well with Lieberman, who earned hundreds of thousands of dollars while shilling for Miami-based Pinnacle Housing Group. Last year, when it was Graber's turn to be vice mayor, she led a campaign against him, remarking in the unquestioning Sun-Sentinel, "The vice mayor needs to be a team player who understands the importance of being part of a collegial body." Here is what she meant: "Shut up and let us be the corrupt pigs we are, Benny boy, or we'll shut down your ass." Though Lieberman threw her support behind the abysmally unethical Eggelletion, Graber was named vice mayor anyway. Hopefully the good doctor will remain steadfast against the swine in office, especially since Lieberman's team is one that no decent, self-respecting homo sapien would ever want to join.

In five years on the Broward County Commission, Ben Graber has developed a reputation as a fresh-air guy. When the room stinks, Graber's usually the one to open the window. That goes all the way back to his outspoken criticism of the commission's choice of an inept company to run the county's 2002 election (resulting in widespread goof-ups and cost overruns) to his attack on the sleazy practice of awarding "minority" contracts to politically connected companies who simply take a cut and funnel the work elsewhere.

Graber loves a circus or a carnival. "Shooting galleries, clowns running around, food that gives you heartburn," he revels. "It's a vast stimulation of the senses in one place. You can't seem to get enough, until you get exhausted and go home."

Come to think of it, there are similarities to his job as an elected official. "Sometimes it reminds me of the old song: 'Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right...' Yeah, sometimes you feel like you're stuck in a carnival. Sometimes it becomes a circus. It's not necessarily good or bad. It's just theater."

Appointed in 1985 by then-Gov. Bob Graham, Sylvia Poitier -- a cousin by marriage to actor Sidney Poitier -- was the first African-American to take a seat on the Broward County Commission. She served several terms and then made the unfortunate decision to vote for a deal that forced Broward taxpayers to purchase land worth $40 million from developer Michael Swerdlow in 1997 for $120 million. And that's not all. One year later, when Poitier sought reelection, she accepted $2,250 in contributions from Swerdlow... before even opening her campaign account. Ultimately, Poitier lost her seat to political neophyte Kristin Jacobs. But as Poitier's political career illustrates, you can't keep a bad girl down. This past January, she announced her candidacy for Deerfield Beach City Commission. During the campaign that followed, more of Poitier's dirty laundry aired. It was reported that Miami-Dade Community College had no record of an associate's degree Poitier claimed to have and that she owed $9,000 in county back taxes. But Deerfield Beach voters nevertheless elected the 69-year-old politician on March 8, rejecting the challenge of 52-year-old political novice Wendy Knowles, who happens to be (no joke!) another of Sidney Poitier's cousins. The good news in all this is that Poitier should make Deerfield Beach politics interesting again. One of her first actions as a city commissioner: threatening to pull the plug on the popular Mango Festival if a political rival, former Commissioner Gwyndolen Clarke-Reed, didn't resign from the festival committee. "As far as I'm concerned, it's a new regime, and she's not a part of my team," Poitier told the Sun-Sentinel. Ah, welcome back, Sylvia! All hail the new regime!

Help Wanted: Top administrator for Fort Lauderdale, a city plagued with millions of dollars in debt, poor worker morale, and overgenerous pension plans. Qualified applicants should have more brain cells than former City Manager Floyd T. Johnson, the ability to brush off criticism from the press and cops, and a willingness to do dirty work. Salary is not competitive. In fact, this is a volunteer position.

That's pretty much the job description Alan Silva accepted in October 2003, when he agreed to become Fort Lauderdale's interim city manager. America's Venice had amassed millions in debt during some of the hottest economic expansion the region had ever seen. A 54-year-old former director for the U.S. Agency for International Development, Silva worked more than 80 hours per week for ten months as Fort Lauderdale's top bureaucrat. He cut expenses, slashed services, made layoffs, and changed the culture of incompetence at City Hall. Silva wasn't interested in playing the popularity game. By the time City Manager George Gretsas took over in June 2004, Silva's voluntary hard work had paid off. Fort Lauderdale was well on its way out of debt. "It was time to give back to the community," Silva says of his volunteer post. And he's not finished. He continues to volunteer for the Broward Democratic Party and the gay and lesbian Dolphin Democrats Club.

One of the greatest acts of bravery in South Florida is to say no to a developer. This is a real-estate-brokering, condo-tower-building, home-razing madhouse, and standing between the wrecking ball and the next doomed edifice isn't an easy -- or common -- stance. That's why Diane Smart, a founder and vice president of the Broward Trust for Historic Preservation, is such a standout. She's become the face and voice of the trust, which sprang up a few years ago in response to the demolition of Fort Lauderdale's Art Deco and mid-century modern architecture. Smart led the battle to save part of the Art Deco-style Lauderdale Beach Hotel, which the Related Group intended to replace with a condo tower. Under pressure, the company last year agreed to preserve the north, east, and south façades of the building. Smart certainly has her work cut out for her, but perhaps she'll inspire fellow residents to join the fight.

After 15 years at the Broward Public Defender's Office, Assistant Public Defender Bill Laswell -- whom many people refer to simply as "Laz" -- is this month giving up a profession that has made him among the best-respected barristers in South Florida. A gruff, no-nonsense 65-year-old with a gray, grandfatherly beard, he ran a lucrative private practice in his native Indiana and then in South Florida for more than two decades before taking a comparatively low-paying job at the Broward Public Defender's Office. "I came here to die," he admits. "My kids were out of college. My folks were dead. When you're in private practice, you're too hesitant to take time off." Laswell has defended some of the area's most vicious murderers, including serial killers Lucious Boyd and Eddie Lee Mosley. But he remains a fierce critic of the death penalty and an ardent protector of constitutional rights. "Guys like me, when they get up in the morning to defend a Lucious Boyd, generally look themselves in the mirror and say, 'Damn, I shouldn't have drunk so much last night,'" Laswell says. "But then they look again and say, 'It's another day where I'm going to do what needs to be done to make the constitution work. '" But Laswell, an unpretentious lawyer who generally prefers four-letter words over Latin, finds himself increasingly frustrated at the twilight of his career. Overworked judges, trapped in a judicial system cash-starved by legislators, now push complicated cases through as if they were working on a production line.

"What I do and the way I do it are passing history," Laswell says. "I'm like an old range bull with nowhere to turn. The law is going right out beneath me."

For now, Laswell will trade killers and courtrooms for lines and lures. But even in retirement, a hardened criminal defense attorney can't shake his cynicism. "As long as I don't have to deal with lawyers and judges and sociopathic, homicidal assholes, I'll be pretty happy."

Joe Major is on top of things in Broward County's black community. He's keeping an eye on county commissioners and their developer friends, who are intent on cashing in at the expense of the people who call the area home. He also works tirelessly to convince city commissioners to annex less fortunate areas, which is desperately needed. And, like any activist worth his salt, he sometimes goes too far. His e-mails are rife with accusations that certain officials, including Josephus Eggelletion, have "house slave" mentalities. He believes that some black people are literally bred to be peons to the corrupt white power structure. And if you listen to him long enough, you start to believe it. What's beautiful about Major is that he's a free thinker who goes where his mind takes him. Sometimes he's wrong, but he's always interesting. Unfortunately, people like Major are an increasingly rare commodity in America. So we should celebrate Joe. Nobody has ever accused him of being too quiet. Thank goodness.

Before we begin discussing this 21-year member of the commission, who has pushed purchase of beachfront land for the public, let's get one thing straight: If the Scripps Research Center goes where the commission wants to put it, Palm Beach County is screwed. Putting Scripps, which ultimately will be the equivalent of a small city of about 50,000 people, way out west will create sprawl, cost taxpayers some $1 billion for little in return, and sully the $8 billion Everglades cleanup project. Marcus recognizes that fact, and unlike the majority of the commission, she's not a moron or a greedhead. Few listened to her, though, as she tried to save the county by moving the project eastward to the urban core. But even when it's hardly heard, a sane voice in the wilderness is nice to have. Besides, Marcus has been a big advocate of schools. And in 1999, she received the Nature Conservancy's Grassroots Leadership Award.

Yes, you can spend hours discussing the ins and outs of South Florida's escort business on here. Many do. Indeed, this is a site you should keep away from junior. It's rich with porno. But for those who do not choose to partake, the IndiBoard is still the best way to take our area's pulse, to see exactly what condition our condition is in. Hours before the daily newspapers' websites had the story, this page broke the sordid Bill Kamal tale and kept it buzzing for days. Hunter S. Thompson's suicide and the South Asian tsunami all generated threads that unspooled for weeks, revealing our region's great and miniature minds thinking and typing. Bitching about local real estate prices, the produce section of the neighborhood grocery store, the horrendous hurricane season... it all happened here. Of course, if you just want to dive into man's oldest, most important debate (blond, brunet, or redhead?), there's no better cliff to jump from. The busiest place in regional cyberspace (one typical Monday afternoon's traffic -- 6,788 topics generating 137,094 replies), rest assured that the IndiBoard has something you want to yammer about, be it making fun of conservative dumbasses, skewering lefty liberals, or off-topic rants like "Surgeons Reattach Severed Penis."

Generally, the word huzzah is in short supply these days, its usage replaced by other exhortations of good will that tend to impart a more, shall we say, modern resonance. But for one glorious month each and every spring, the verdant glades and cool brooks of Quiet Waters Park resound with hollers of "Huzzah!" As you traipse around all day, buying tie-dyed T-shirts, pottery, and pewter while gawking at wenches in their tight bodices or strapping knights changing out of their shining armor, this Medieval exclamation of joy, triumph, and encouragement rings from the wood. Mud-beggars shriek it, jousters scream it, wizards and magicians whisper it, minstrels sing it. And ale-wives shout it as you buy tankard after tankard of cider, beer, and mead. Yes indeed, mead -- the honey wine from ancient times that dudes would quaff while sitting 'round the Round Table. Visiting the Ren-Fest is just about the only way to find the golden nectar in the whole state. And that sure calls for a round of huzzahs. In 2005, the event is scheduled for May 13, 14, and 15. Tickets cost $20 for one day and $35 for the weekend.

The art of providing an effective political quote lies in the ability to say the opposite of the truth and make it sound good and earnest. George W. Bush (a.k.a. Karl Michael Rove Gerson) is a master of this art. How brilliant was it when he kept referring to starting the war in Iraq as "securing the peace"? George Orwell couldn't have dreamed up anything more beautiful. Nixon had a bit more trouble -- his "I am not a crook" line failed to shine. Ken Jenne, who has had a very bad year, is somewhere between the two. He's surviving the crime-stats scandal but just barely. On the front page of the February 13 Sun-Sentinel, he was quoted as having uttered, "I'm the sheriff, I'm in charge, and I'm responsible for what happens on my watch." Of course, that couldn't have been further from the truth, since two deputies have already been charged with crimes linked to the scandal and four top commanders are on their way out the door, but Little Kenny remains at the top of the dysfunctional department. Might have been a smart move, though, since a lot of voters in Broward County probably believe he has, actually, taken responsibility. As Dilbert creator Scott Adams (who is not a politician) has said, "Never underestimate the stupidity of the general public."

It's Friday night at 11:30 or so, and the first of the alcohol-induced quarrels is under way in downtown West Palm Beach; a feuding 30-something couple causes a small commotion outside O'Shea's Irish Pub on Clematis Street. Just as the conflict looks as if it might get physical, a third party intervenes and a truce is called. But the mediator isn't a bartender, bouncer, or even a cop. He's a bum. Not just any bum -- he's the colorful street character known as Flippin' George. Proudly boasting a name most people won't say aloud in public (he prefers the n word as a middle name and insists on hearing it repeated), the short, stocky, would-be gymnast has been a fixture of downtown street life for more than half a decade. George is one of those bums with a gimmick -- front flips -- and he's got it down to a science, performing just the right number of flips and moving on before his shtick gets old. Since his debut six years ago, George has turned lots of heads and, not surprisingly, earned a few bucks along the way. But even if the money stops flowing, George says he'll continue flipping. And Clematis Street will be a more amusing place because of it.

Citizens, beware! Even teenie-pop hack fame cannot protect you from the dangers of Florida's Turnpike! Witness the fate of young Aaron Carter, the auteur/snot behind such schoolyard hits as "That's How I Beat Shaq" and "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)." The 17-year-old was piloting his Escalade to Orlando shortly after midnight on January 8 when a mattress reportedly blew off the back of a delivery truck near Sample Road, became lodged under Carter's Caddy, and ignited a fire that engulfed the vehicle. Carter and a companion escaped the blaze unhurt. According to some random teen-heartthrob websites, this is not Carter's first experience in tight spots: He simultaneously dated former Nickelodeon jailbait Hillary Duff and barely legal bombshell Lindsay Lohan, infuriating both of them. Also, he was once sucked into quicksand up to his waist before his family pulled him out. The Reaper grows frustrated.

Hey there, hipster, did you just wake up? No? It sure looks like it, what with that scraggly, disheveled hairstyle. It's hard to imagine that you actually spent half an hour trying to look like you didn't spend half an hour on your hair. Oh, but that's the latest craze around here. The Jackson Pollack of hairdos, bedhead once was the style of the emo crowd. But now everyone has it, even punk rockers (Billy Joe, what happened?). The funny thing is that, like its trailer park predecessor -- the infamous mullet -- bedhead is something you can sport without thinking too much about it. But unlike the now-popular parody culture surrounding the mullet, bedhead has yet to be defined, categorized, and mocked like the mullet, which has garnered its own websites and even calendars. Of course, that won't happen to the bedhead for another ten years or so. Just wait till VH1 airs I Love the '00s. Oh what fun we're having now.

First, a disclosure. This Sentinel writer is married to a New Times writer, who shall remain unnamed but who had nothing, nada, zip to do with this. Hell, her choice of spouse means this lady had to go above and beyond for this honor. But the fact is, she rocks. Sure, Sally Kestin is a crack investigator, but she won in 2003, and you can't keep giving the same person the prize. And Michael Mayo's recent stuff on Sheriff Ken Jenne's ethical lapses has been nothing short of a knockout punch. But we like our reporting municipal, tough, and unrelenting. During difficult times in the city, as the budget deficit has soared and city managers have sunk to new lows, Wallman has plunked out hard-as-nails daily copy that has exposed Broward's county seat as a mangled, mismanaged mess. Our favorite example of her reporting was a January story about City Commissioner Dean Trantalis violating code standards and getting away with it. The lead sentence: "The city is enforcing its code rules with unprecedented vigor, but not in the case of the vice mayor." Go get 'em, Brittany. But don't try to compete with your hubby.

He could win this honor simply for one of the ballsier obituary leads you're likely to see in a daily newspaper: "Deid sah Milk Yelnats." That's "Stanley Klim has died," backward, beginning a farewell to a hilarious bartender who liked to reverse his name. It highlights Spangler's ability to produce stories for the newspaper that (blessedly) do not sound like newspaper stories. Spangler stories do not assume the reader is in a hurry to turn the page. Spangler stories do not waste time pleading to be considered relevant. Instead, Spangler stories tell genuine stories and often suggest he has joined the lineage of Herald writers who strike hard with that critical first sentence. Examples: "God is too wise to make mistakes and too just to do wrong, the minister said, but Shantel Christina Johnson was lying in a pink coffin in front of him when he said it." Another: "Randy got lucky around midnight, in a giant Dumpster behind a sporting goods store near South Miami, with his girlfriend watching." Or even: "The killer has considered the possibility that God hates him. In this last year, the killer's brother choked to death on his own vomit. The killer's first and best-loved dog was run over. The killer's wife left him. 'I love you, but I'm not in love with you,' she said." After a stint covering North Miami Beach, Spangler has for the past two years cranked out hundreds of tales about bowling nights and spring break and waterless urinals for a running column called South Florida, U.S.A., a hell of a territory to cover. It's the sort of gig editors bestow only upon writers capable of understatement, and it is in understatement that Spangler shines most brightly. So let's leave it at: The dude flat writes.

Obits offer the dual ghoulish fascination of rubbernecking and peering ahead into your own future. Will you be the great-grandfather who expires at age 92 surrounded by loved ones? The gone-too-soon 60-year-old whose heart explodes as he walks out of his favorite deli? Or the 24-year-old hit by a train? The page normalizes death and dying by treating them like stock quotes or a Marlins box score. But even in the practiced death mill that is South Florida, there had to be some scattered cringes when this item appeared tucked on the obituary page earlier this year: "DeJoseph, Theresa, 75 of Plantation, FL died on January 19, 2005. $595 Cremation, Coral Springs." The cost of the final trip is always free, but at what price the ashes to ashes? About as much as a new flat screen TV, roughly.

While it feels strange to bestow a 'zine award upon glossier-than-thou Closer, it's indicative of the fact that those hand-typed, mimeographed, fly-by-night 'zines are pretty much gone for good. They have the Internet on computers now, you know, and that's where most 'zines exist these days. Sure, you half-expect a big honkin' whiff of expensive perfume to accost you when you open one up, and the dichotomy between upwardly mobile haute couture ads and far-left-wing editorials is a tad off-putting. But this pint-sized mag, which is available free at trendy locales and is published by West Palm Beach nightclub owner (and enemy of the mayor) Rodney Mayo, still tackles issues like terrorism, gun control, election fraud, and racism. One piece we particularly liked last year was Gabe Laszlo's feature about 2004 being the year in which George Orwell's prophecies truly blossomed. Those other glossy, fashion-spread magazines don't touch stuff like this. Closer's design is cutting-edge, its music coverage is generally spot-on, the models wearing the fancy threads are pretty fun to look at, and the whole enterprise is certainly a lot more "alternative" than a weekly competitor we could name. Plus, you have to give Closer props for hanging around so long. We even heard they named a movie after it!

NBC 6 reporter Patricia Andreu's background is as diverse and interesting as South Florida's. Born to Cuban parents in London, she studied politics in France before coming to Washington, D.C., to serve as an associate producer for CNN. She traveled the globe covering stories, including the 1992 coup in Haiti and the 1991 Middle East peace conference. In 1995, NBC 6 lured her to South Florida. Since then, Andreu has made a name for herself as an aggressive reporter with an appreciation for South Florida's diversity and complexity. Andreu won an Emmy Award for her series "Habla English?" and an Edward R. Murrow Award for an investigation of personal injury fraud. Most recently, Andreu (with the help of investigator/producer Scott Zamost) exposed long delays associated with the 911 emergency line operated by the Broward Sheriff's Office. If more TV reporters were like Andreu, South Florida viewers would be seeing less blood and guts on TV news and instead hearing more about problems with the law and government agencies -- you know, uh, real journalism.

We could go cheap here and talk about Yarbough's being the Foxy Brown of local TV news. But we won't sink to that level. TV news is a serious business, and Yarbough is a serious journalist. Last fall, for instance, she was a "celebrity judge" of a reality show called America's Most Eligible. There, she bore the critically important responsibility of determining whether any of the contestants was "the next big thing." And she is one heck of a news personality, highly professional and smooth as silk. She's the finest anchor out there, and even at 39 years old, she's still soothing to the eyes. But the window is beginning to close, people. At this late date, she's the little-watched 5 p.m. anchor (and she also does the 10 p.m. news for NBC's sister network, the WB, on Channel 39). Somebody has got to wake up and see that Yarbough deserves the 6 and 11 slots. She's prime-time, baby. The judgment is in: Yarbough is the next big thing.

It's hard to say that this Broward County commissioner has gone bad because that would mean he suddenly changed. But Eggelletion has been just plain bad for many years. He still deserves this distinction because this past annum has been an especially horrendous one for the man called Joe. Let's see, he's been exposed as a paid shill for developers. The Florida Ethics Commission sustained a complaint against him for improperly lobbying for a garbage company. Lauderdale Lakes, the base and birthplace of his political power, basically came to hate his guts after he hurt the city's attempt to annex several neighborhoods. A paternity suit was filed against him by a woman who claims he had a sexual relationship with her when she was a teenaged high school student and he was her teacher at Dillard High School. And other out-of-wedlock children are being discovered to have been sired by the commissioner (that's why we call him the Egg Man). So he's an unethical, profiteering, disloyal, sleazy, predatory poon hound. He might just become our next president.

WPLG didn't win just because Dwight Lauderdale is the smoothest MF-er in the history of news broadcasting. No, Lauderdale may be suave, but that doesn't change the fact that his material is sometimes as shallow as the royal gene pool. No, the real reason WPLG is the highest-quality TV station in South Florida is Michael Putney, who has for years kept burning the flickering flame of local political television journalism. His Sunday show, This Week in South Florida, is practically the only place you get to see debate among local candidates. His take on politics is usually pretty astute, the product of more than a quarter century of reporting experience in South Florida (he wrote for the Miami Herald back when it was worth a damn). And he's something of a Renaissance man as well, having recently played the title role in the theater production of Trumbo, about the blacklisted writer. Putney, if one must find a fault with him, could learn a little something from Dalton; he needs to crack the hypocrites and liars populating South Florida politics over the head a little harder. It's in him -- he just needs to do it on the tube.

When local weather babe Jackie Johnson left the Sunshine State for a gig in Los Angeles, WSVN-TV (Channel 7) had some purdy shoes to fill. Instead of going the tried-and-true route of replacing Johnson with another bubbly blond, the TV station chose exotic bombshell Elita Loresca, whose oval-shaped eyes and glistening black hair give her a cat-like beauty. To top it off, Loresca seems as comfortable in front of the camera as imprisoned weatherman Bill Kamal was at chatting to young boys on the Internet. A former weathercaster in Fresno, California, Loresca has proven in a short time that easy-on-the-eyes Johnson is all too easy to forget.

Yeah, the Heat's play-by-play man has a radio voice as polished as an FBI agent's loafers, but he's the real deal -- a genuine sports aficionado. Though he promotes his team a little too much at times (and is paid to do it), Reid has a rare exuberance. He knows the game without talking his head off about it (unlike, say, Dan Dierdorf, whose inane, never-ending blather makes one grateful for the invention of the mute button). And the voice of the Heat, while he must have an ego, hides it well (unlike, say, Bill Walton, whose presence on national television is, to use his favorite expression, inexcusable). Reid works in service to the game. He respects the fans, turns an interesting phrase almost every night, and, even when you're just wasting more of your life watching pro sports, makes you feel like you're doing something worthwhile. Enjoy him while you can; he's so good that it can't be long before ESPN or some other national giant steals him away.

Ah, the twists and turns of Slick Rick's broadcasting career. He gained local fame and fortune at WSVN-TV (Channel 7), the local Fox affiliate, where he often made fatal car accidents sound like the end of the world. In 2002, Rick made it to the big time at MSNBC, where he took corporate shilling to a new level, once uttering the phrase "here at MSNBC" a record 79 times in 24 hours. But alas, he was more popular for his embarrassing gaffes than for anything else (like the time he referred to Jesse Jackson as "Mr. Sharpton"), and the network mercifully canned him in 2003. Then the local NBC affiliate, WTVJ-TV (Channel 6), hired him for a daytime show, which was kind of like The View, only with Sanchez playing the role of Meredith Vieira (beats Star Jones, huh?). That horrid experiment only proved that Rick, while perhaps a serviceable corporate tool, should never, ever be left to his own devices. Then CNN made a surprise move and brought him to its network this past September for its daytime slot with Daryn Kagan. His fake intensity has been replaced by a nauseating fake smile. The man appears to be getting desperate -- he recently allowed himself to be zapped by a stun gun on camera. He froze in pain for a Lee Harvey Oswald moment before flopping around like a giant Cuban-American flounder. But don't worry, the shock only made Sanchez -- the Frankenstein of American broadcasting -- stronger.

It costs only around $10,000 to buy a transmitter, wire an antenna atop the Norfolk Island pine in your front yard, and transmit your jams to the world. But the FCC will hit you with a $100,000 fine if they catch you. So you've got to admire the tenacity of our local pirate/underground stations, whose proprietors risk ruin to bring you the finest in gangsta/crunk. When your boy Mark T. and his crusty partner-in-crime, Smiley, start kickin' it, good times follow. Listeners from the nine-five-fo', the three-oh-five, and the five-six-one flood the station's telephone lines nightly, calling to participate in a "freestyle session" in which amateur rappers test their flowage. Mark either gives participants a thumbs-up ("You were fingerin' the beat; it sound good!") or shuts 'em down hard ("Aw, you got played! I ain't feeling that. Keep your day job!"). It's unmediated, raw, and totally live.

Dry like a martini in the Sahara, WLRN-FM (91.3)'s Andy Wagner has become a local favorite thanks to his unflappable British calm and quick wit. A world traveler and ten-year veteran of the BBC in London, the Bristol native landed in Miami on assignment in '99 and started with the station in late '02. As local host and producer of the daily All Things Considered program (4 to 6 p.m.), Wagner typically elicits laughter from his cohosts by tinkering with the segues from news to traffic reports from the "D.O.T. 5-1-1 Traffic Center." One of Wagner's recent transitions came after a story on keeping livestock safe, which he followed by asking traffic guy Mike Millard to "take stock of the afternoon commute." Droll, innit? It seems Wagner's goal is to get Millard -- a salty old cur, by the sound of him -- to burst out laughing while delivering the traffic report. Balanced by an affable trustworthiness as he delivers the news, Wagner's sense of humor makes a normally dull, frustrating part of the day a little more tolerable.

Thousands of Caribbean expats know and love the man born Denver Silvera and rechristened with an acronym for Jamaican Artists and Music United with the Sound of America. Part roots-reggae disc jockey, part comedian, part motivational speaker, Jamusa fills his drive-time show (Wednesday 4 to 6 p.m., Thursday and Friday 3 to 6 p.m.) with laughter, high jinks, and loads of great music. His love for Motown ballads and the romantic stylings of some of reggae's more genteel artists -- Freddie MacGregor, Luciano, Beres Hammond, Maxi Priest, Dennis Brown, Jimmy Cliff, Cocoa Tea -- gives the afternoon a dreamy glow. And Jamusa doesn't skimp on the "adaptations" -- reggae versions of pop songs like "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" or "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." Hilarity ensues during Jamusa's call-in segment when listeners share home remedies for everything from diabetes and hypertension to whooping cough ("Vinegar an' honey!") or just laugh, reminisce, and swap stories about favorite songs, high school teachers, or childhood games. As a dispenser of sage advice --"A chicken dinner cya'an make up for broke eggs, yuh know!" -- Jamusa has no peer on talk radio or any other radio, for that matter.

Take it from us. The best public relations specialists aren't the shrillest or the ones with the most free goodies (don't expect a story in New Times just because you sent an unsolicited gifty) or even the ones who call you the most. The best ones are, like Jan Mitchell, the ones who deliver the goods. Mitchell, one of the movie industry's mainstays in South Florida, started out 20 years ago in partnership with her dad, Jack Mitchell; the father-daughter combination handled accounts for most of the major studios, repping movies like Dances with Wolves and Silence of the Lambs. Since she started her own agency four years ago, Mitchell has gone indie, representing a wide range of flicks, recently including everything from the ground-breaking The Brown Bunny to the blockbuster The Passion of the Christ (if you know the movies, you know the stretch doesn't get any wider). But she's been most visible as a spokesperson for both the Fort Lauderdale and the Palm Beach international film festivals. It's not as easy as it sounds. Doing public relations in the film biz means getting the word out quickly to reporters about unexpected events, throwing together well-crafted press packets under impossible deadlines, and keeping touchy, egotistical reviewers happy. "You gotta be prepared to wing it," she says. "You can have a film pulled at the last minute or have one fall into place and it's so good you can't turn it down. Things happen." Mitchell's secret is, it seems to us, her likability. The easygoing Mitchell, who sometimes volunteers her services for charities like the National Family Caregivers Association, knows how to make conversation without edging into the awful what-are-you-going-to-do-for-me territory. Like she's a normal human being. A flack? Who woulda thunk it?

As some of our long-time readers might remember, Rowe holds the dubious distinction of having been the very first staff writer for New Times Broward-Palm Beach when it was launched back in the last century (circa 1997). But after about 18 months on the job, he decided to leave the sprawling madness of South Florida for the sprawling countryside of a North Carolina farm to write fiction. Before heading out, though, he showed his own personal flare for stunning plot twists. Rowe was hit by a train on the night of his going-away party in the Himmarshee district. It was a bizarre accident, and, though he suffered serious injuries, Rowe lived not only to tell that tale but the one he spins in Fever, a novel he completed in 2003. Little, Brown and Co. gave Rowe a two-book deal and a sizable advance, making our little hearts quiver with pride (and, yes, not a small amount of jealousy). Fever is a "blood-soaked Florida potboiler," as he gamely describes it, about a heist on a cruise ship. And it will sail into bookstores this October. We haven't had the pleasure of reading Fever yet, but rest assured that Rowe, who worked for the Miami Herald before New Times, is a uniquely talented writer with one very sharp, irony-laced eye for Florida-baked pulp. If you don't believe it, go to the New Times website and check out some old clips, starting with "Big Chief Moneybags," his 1998 cover story on former Seminole leader James Billie. Then mark your calendar to buy the book.

There are 637 guest rooms at this beachfront hotel, but you probably won't spend much time in yours. No, you'll be hanging out at 3030, its swank bar, or eating freshly cooked chocolate waffles at Riva, the award-winning restaurant. The massive $18 brunch is just enough fuel for your tour along A1A on a rented Segway. Oh, you'd prefer to rent a metal detector and fish for buried treasure in the sand? No problem; that's just $20 an hour. Or you can take surfing, scuba, or sailing lessons. Or rent a poolside cabana, complete with television. Other activities include fingerpainting, ceramics, water aerobics, and "bowling in paradise." Your room, should you choose to hang out in it, is PlayStation-equipped, offers "adult movies" on pay-per-view, and comes with a fully stocked mini bar. Eat, sleep, drink, shit, piss, screw -- anything you want, you can do at the Harbor Beach Marriott.

Not long after Palm Beach County landed the honor of becoming the new home of the Scripps Research Institute, Jeb Bush supporter Elizabeth Fago became chairwoman of the board that would oversee state funding to the project. Fago even gave a million bucks to Scripps as a show of support. But soon, Fago's two decades of problems were revealed; there was $100,000 owed to the IRS and a failed marriage to a major drug dealer. Turns out two states were also investigating her business, Home Quality Management, a chain of nursing homes headquartered in Palm Beach Gardens, for improprieties. Her company was even charged in 2004 with abuse, neglect, and Medicaid fraud by New Mexico's attorney general. The negative news forced Fago to make a hasty exit from the Scripps board's audit committee, which she chaired. But Fago, who has given more than $120,000 to Republican causes, was apparently not so embarrassed that she needed to walk away altogether. Still the top dog, the woman who has faced more than 35 lawsuits for unpaid bills in recent years helps oversee the expenditure of $310 million in state money.

Nobody's sure why, but Lake Worth has become the Haight-Ashbury of South Florida. It's a place where free-thinkers and hippie types have settled, run for office, and staged regular public protests. The center of this alternative universe in consumer-driven SoFla is Chief Sitting Bull Organic Garden. Taking up three lots behind a convenience store, the garden is run by a dozen regulars who have plotted out a spot for themselves and grow everything from bananas to radishes. This year's crop will be the best yet, says regular gardener and former Lake Worth mayoral candidate Panagioti Tsolkas. (The bumper crop comes thanks in part to a donation of horse manure that got things going, so to speak.) Aside from the veggies, the garden has served as the location for free movie showings and the occasional piñata contest for neighborhood kids. Without gates or get-out signs, the place works on the honor system. So far, it has survived five years with no greater losses than a few gardening tools and an occasional watermelon. Regular volunteers get their own corner of the garden, but lest you think otherwise, be warned: Plants of the five-bladed-leaf variety are prohibited.

The sign outside this dive bar is often a source of entertainment on that boring ride along Dixie Highway from West Palm Beach to Lake Worth. Its finest bit of humor came last year:

"Celebrating 30 years without some stupid slogan."

There's not a helluva lot to smile about when you're sitting in Fort Lauderdale's molasses-slow traffic during winter. The tourists and snowbirds swarm the city the way cattle egrets fill a barnyard at feeding time. Simple errands become lost days. So double-thanks to the gray-haired fellow recently driving his bright-yellow Land Rover through downtown with these two messages plastered on his back bumper: All of us are not here on vacation. If it's the season, can we shoot them?

Hands down, the most common directions requested on the street in east-central Broward County have been, "Do you know how to get to [random rental car return address]?" Truly it was a logistical nightmare, asking out-of-towners late for flights to Easter-egg-hunt for their rental agencies. And there were tons of out-of-towners. In 2004, Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport moved almost 21 million passengers, double the total of a decade ago. According to basic arithmetic, that shakes out to roughly 10.5 million spare lunatics speeding around unfamiliar streets in unfamiliar cars. With the January opening of that sparkling blue-and-silver, nine-story monolith near Terminal 1, shuttle rides to rental lots are almost forgotten. Ten car rental agencies are a three wood from the curb, and 5,500 extra parking spots await your (nonrental) vehicle in the cast-in-place concrete hive, which was designed by Miami architectural firm Spillis Candela DMJM. Goes to show, $247 million still buys a lot of garage.

The best new building in Palm Beach is 89 years old. And it's been on life support for 13 years. That's how long local preservationists have been struggling to save the 1916 County Courthouse on the corner of Banyan Boulevard and Dixie Highway. The neoclassical building was practically buried in 1972, when it disappeared inside an ugly "New Brutalist" wraparound expansion; Corinthian columns and gewgaws were chipped away, carted off, and in some cases scattered to the four winds (West Palm Judge Marvin Mounts scored the courthouse steps, which he kept in his garden). Still, the original building remained mostly intact beneath it all -- you could spot the old roof if you happened to be an airborne seagull. Last year, the Palm Beach Historical Society and the Palm Beach County Commission -- which kicked in $18.5 million for the project -- finally went ahead with plans for the great striptease: That nasty concrete shell has now been stripped away. The courthouse will be restored, columns, pediments, and all, to house county offices and an 8,000-square-foot History Museum. Stop by and see what the lady looks like in her skivvies. For an old broad, she ain't bad.

Picture this: You're driving north on U.S. 1 just south of the Henry E. Kinney Tunnel. Along with the little buzz you get from knowing that you're about to drive under a river, you have a pretty respectable view of the ever-changing downtown Fort Lauderdale skyline. Then you emerge from the tunnel, and there it is, a sight only slightly less sinister than Godzilla: the Waverly at Las Olas Condominiums. Even the website makes it sound like the monstrosity that it is: "From the pulsating downtown boulevards emerges a new landmark..." For those of us who have watched in horror as this architectural abomination has taken shape, it really is as if the streets have regurgitated something unsightly onto the northeast corner of Broward Boulevard and Federal Highway. Promotional materials for the complex of pricey units, which started out as rental apartments but quickly went condo, declare that it has a "Post Modern architectural theme with Victorian elements." That's just a fancy way of saying it's a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and ultimately not much of anything but a big ol' mess. Where to begin? From the needlessly busy color scheme to the hodgepodge of architectural elements (which the builders keep piling on), the Waverly is pretentious urban ugliness at its worst. And get this: It's not even at Las Olas but a full two blocks away from the trendy boulevard whose name it has desperately borrowed.

Relatives from Albany or Indianapolis or Pennsyltucky are visiting, and they ain't never seen an alligator, 'cept on TV. So you load 'em up in the car and drive all the way to Shark Valley and pay your $10 and start walking down that road where it's hot as hell and the bugs are out for blood. And you don't see any alligators, not a single one. The lady in the hat and the beige shirt with the nametag says it's the dry season, or some such nonsense, and that wildlife viewing is better at other times of the year. Blah blah blah. Dejected, you drive away, wondering where in this godforsaken swamp is a guaranteed real live alligator to show off to some out-of-towners. We advise a trip to the only gas station on 76-mile-long Alligator Alley, the Miccosukee Service Plaza, located at the I-75 turnoff to Government Road, exit 49. There, just south of the parking lot in a chainlink-enclosed pond, dwells Wally, who is about as regular as Old Faithful. Unfortunately, folks have probably been feeding ol' Wally, which is a bad idea. You won't be that dumb, will you?

The two-mile drive west from A1A along Dania Beach Boulevard -- mostly between two towering rows of unbroken treeline, with nary a strip mall in sight -- is one of the more relaxing in Broward County. Then, just past the jai-alai fronton, you encounter Federal Highway, Dania's boon and bane. By far the most visible strip in the town, the stretch of Federal between the town's northern border and Sterling Road is regularly plugged with traffic. Why? Well, there's the nearby airport, Interstate 595, a dead end on A1A, and a lack of roadways connecting Hollywood and Fort Lauderdale. It's a glut of humans and cars -- yet storefronts up and down the strip are shuttered or in mild disrepair. Why? For starters, the buildings are pressed this close to the highway, and a great many of the businesses are dives, antiques shops, and the like. The city has offered money for business improvement loans in the downtown corridor, and the expected windfall of slot machines at Dania Jai-Alai will no doubt alter the landscape. But some new pink paint and gambling traffic aren't going to fix the infrastructure problems of Broward's oldest, funkiest town. Money must be invested, buildings redesigned to accommodate pedestrian traffic, and other things as fun as Jaxson's Ice Cream Parlor and Restaurant opened. Otherwise, Dania Beach will remain an eyesore suffering in what ought to be a providential location.

Ladies, move on to the next category. This isn't likely to interest you. OK, now that it's just us guys, here's why Shuck's head is so fine: boobs. Big ones. Perky ones. Tanned ones. A couple of dozen framed photos adorn the wall above the two urinals and toilet stall. A few of them show the mammaries of professional football cheerleaders. But most display booberific Mardi Gras shots. These aren't, however, just crass titty shots; they show some real prowess in pictorial framing and composition. Consider one of the best, in which Shuck's owner, Daniel Stasi, and another man ham it up under a pair of 44 double Ds. A smiling young lady rests her bare mams upon the two men's grinning heads, which seem dwarfed in comparison. "Nice Tots" reads the photo's caption.

Even with its sparkling new condominium towers and rejuvenated downtown, America's Venice has nothing on its quaint little neighbor, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Billed as "The Prettiest Small Town in America," this burg is but a half-square-mile located between the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean. Its beach has somehow escaped the knickknack consumerism associated with Broward's other sandy, waterfront patches. And the city's 2,500-plus residents enjoy an extraordinary coral reef only 100 yards offshore. There are also happening bars and restaurants only feet from the pearly-white sand and a jazz concert at Pelican Square every Friday from 6 to 10 p.m.

Accused of abusing his fiancée, Dan Catalfumo followed the textbook defense taken by many a rich man before him. Catalfumo, who heads a $100 million construction empire, faced an aggravated battery charge for a November 2003 fight with girlfriend Heather Hill that could've landed him in state prison for 15 years. So he hired a high-priced legal team headed by Richard Lubin, brought in a cadre of friends to discredit his accuser, and then paraded a superstar list of expert witnesses to pick apart her story. Instead of being an indictment of Catalfumo, it became a three-week, 45-witness trial of Hill's credibility. Instead of choking and beating her, the story became that Hill was a messy drunk who fell into a glass picture frame on her own (don't you hate when that happens?). She caused the 53 stitches, not Catalfumo. And that ex-girlfriend who claimed Catalfumo had beaten her? She was deftly recast as a liar and backstabber who's nothing more than an ex-stripper. By the end, Catalfumo followed in the footsteps of O.J. and walked. A jury acquitted him March 1 on all charges. It was a victory for the justice sys... uh, no, a victory for rich men everywhere who have been accused of abusing their women. And in a court system in which everybody knows it's a waste of time to charge the rich with a crime, isn't Catalfumo the real victim here?

Still looking for a nice suburban home in Broward County? Poinsettia Park and Wilton Manors will set you back at least $400,000 these days. Have your eye on something out west? You better like inflated prices, cookie-cutter adobes, and I-595 traffic jams. In Broward, where anything under $250,000 is considered affordable, the North Andrews neighborhood remains one of the few reasonably priced areas near Interstate 95. Located east of Andrews Avenue between Prospect and Cypress Creek roads, North Andrews is home to roughly 9,000 residents whose single-family houses are set back from tree-lined streets and recently landscaped medians. Built in the early 1960s and now home to an eclectic mix of families, young professionals, and gay couples, the neighborhood has quickly become a happening enclave only three miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

Broward County's eastern parts have been mightily colonized in the past few years. These days, condo skyscrapers are more common than thongs on Fort Lauderdale Beach. But there is a stretch of this God-forsaken sprawl just off the Intracoastal Waterway where you can let down your hair, lean back, and feel as if you are miles from civilization. The southern stretch of West Lake, just north of Holland Park and south of Sheridan Street, is a bucolic area of birds and trees. No motorboats allowed. The best way to access it is in your own kayak by following the secret waterway just west of Las Palmas Restaurant on Hollywood Beach. If you don't own a kayak, you can rent one. Try West Lake Park on a weekend and paddle south. (You can also rent at Anne Kolb Nature Center -- 954-926-2480 -- on weekdays, but it's a longer paddle.) A kayak goes for $7 an hour or $13 for four hours. There are also kayak trails nearby and a moonlight paddle.

This mile has two possible endings -- kind of like one of those interactive mystery stories. And you've got to hoof it. But it has only one beginning, the mansion built by G. Sherman Chides in 1925 at 1 Fifth Ave., the southernmost end of Bryant Park. You can't miss it -- "La Florentia, The Wedding Cake Castle," a fantastical confection decked out in turrets and chimneys, festooned with pineapples, and gates guarded by two stone lions (and, judging from the signs, at least that many German shepherds). Stand there gaping. Then take the path by the Intracoastal, feeling glad that the unbroken line of condos across the water is -- well -- across the water. Pass the Guatemalan boys playing soccer on the green and the teenagers groping each other on picnic benches. Tempting as it is, just walk on by the multilevel wooden playpark -- you're too heavy for that rope swing and too fat to fit through the tube slide. Pass the listing old cypress trees carved with lovers' names ("Alex and Amber," "J.D. loves Amanda"), the boat ramp ("Be a Better Boater! Watch out for Manatees!"), the fogies parked in their lawn chairs, the shuffleboard courts. Here's your crucial decision. Straight on takes you to the remnant of the old Lake Worth bridge, stinky with bait blood and spilled wine, populated by the most diehard group of fishermen you're ever gonna meet (no one has hooked so much as a boot there since 1975). Or if you're coming with us -- up the new bridge, puffing along that gigantic arc right to the top, queasy and giddy with the cars whooshing past and the slow river moving under you. Don't forget to turn around and look back! Those minuscule palm trees and baby park benches, all that glittering water, look like an architect's model, don't they? Now it's just a straight slide down to the beach. A cold beer's waiting for you on the pier at Benny's.

You can lay off the booze, renew your wedding vows, pay down your Visa bill, and apologize to your mother -- maybe that'll steer you clear of the gaping maw of hell. But if you've gotta get to work, there isn't much we can do to keep you from entering the inferno. Like most Floridians, you probably spend 100 hours a year commuting (tally that up against your yearly vacation hours, chump), and for 52 of those hours, you're stuck in gridlock. Recent estimates figure that's costing you $927 a year in wasted fuel and lost work time. The news isn't getting any better: I-95 has developed magnetic force fields (Broward-Hollywood, Lake Worth-Boynton) into which drivers mysteriously disappear, cell phones and all, never to be seen again. Don't get mad; get moving. At getfloridamoving.org, you can post your most vicious traffic rants, send indignant hate mail to your legislators, and cast your vote for "the worst road in Florida." It won't bring down gas prices, but it might check your blood pressure a notch or two.

Hollywood police do heinous things to patriotic American citizens, so just imagine what they would do to Middle Eastern terrorists if they got their heavy hands on them. There have been accusations of manslaughter, assault, and sexual battery -- and that's just one officer, Pete Salvo. How does the city respond to the brutality? It makes Salvo the Officer of the Year. For photographic evidence of just how much damage Hollywood cops can administer, check out the snapshots of Donald Baker, a 52-year-old construction worker who was beaten silly -- and quite bloody -- by officers after being detained on an open-container violation. Then there's Officer Joe Pendergrast, whose nickname "Heavy-Handed Joe" says it all. He was accused of beating a man and breaking his ankle. The man's crime: He was playing music too loudly in the vicinity of Pendergrast's father-in-law. Forget Texas, Osama. Don't mess with Hollywood.

Maybe Alan Silva, Fort Lauderdale's volunteer city manager at the time, didn't actually intend his new policy to become a gag order per se. But it sure looked that way when he decreed in late May that no city employee could talk to the media, neighborhood and civic groups, homeowners or businesses without clearance from above. When the city's communications director, Leslie Backus, then forbade those self-same employees from even commenting on the rule, some of them staged a fitting silent protest at a City Council meeting with stickers reading "employee" over their mouths. Newspapers tend to bristle when their sources are muted, and the local dailies threw fits. The Miami Herald editorialized: "[T]he get-permission-first, speak-with-one-voice policy smacks of party line spin." The president of the police union compared the policy to "Nazi Germany in 1940." Silva lasted eight days before he reversed field, apparently stupefied that he had thrown the city into turmoil. "The idea this was a tremendous change never occurred to me," the Sun-Sentinel quoted Silva as saying. "To compare me to Nazi Germany, my Jesus mercy! I'm a card-carrying member of the ACLU."

She's a long-time member of the Palm Beach County Board of Commissioners and a onetime chairwoman of the county's Republican Party. He's on the board of governors for the South Florida Water Management District and a bond underwriter for Bear Stearns & Co. in Boca Raton. Together, they oversee public budgets of more than $3 billion and lord over almost 11,000 employees. But their real power is acting as the eyes and ears of Gov. Jeb Bush in Palm Beach County, which is dominated by Democrats. Mary is among the staunchest supporters of Bush's plan to build Scripps' biotech research institute on Mecca Farms, environmental concerns be damned. As Bush's handpicked choice for the water district board, Kevin has worked in tandem with his wife as his agency approved the go-ahead for Scripps.