People & Places

Numerous former public officials in two South Florida towns wish Fane Lozman would get a damned job. Because if he had one, they'd still have theirs. Lozman, a wealthy young guy who lives on a houseboat, has made the government's business his business and has turned North Bay Village and Riviera Beach upside down in the process. Most recently, he sued Riviera Beach over its $2.4 billion redevelopment plan because it would have privatized the municipal marina where he lives. The city — his landlord — retaliated by evicting him. Lozman fought the eviction in court and, serving as his own lawyer, persuaded a jury that Riviera had violated his First Amendment rights. The eviction was overturned. Ten days after the verdict came down, four incumbents, including Mayor Michael Brown, were voted out of office — and Lozman had no small part in generating the "kick the bums out" vibe that sent Brown and his chums packing. How did he celebrate the Riviera revolution? A couple of bottles of bubbly in the marina he still calls home.

Fane Lozman is walking proof that the Little Guy can beat City Hall. While Lozman is not especially small – he's 6-foot-5 – he was, in political terms, a kind of 95-pound weakling. We're talking about his lack of clout in his adopted home of Riviera Beach, where last year he quixotically took on a questionable redevelopment program that was being ramrodded through by powerful city officials. Lots of harassment at Lozman's city marina slip. An arrest. An eminent domain plan to turn the marina over to Fat Cats.

Long story short: Lozman sued to stop it. The development-mad officials were booted out by voters. And Lozman, a former floor trader at the Chicago commodities exchange, got some vindication in court: Representing himself, he beat back the city's pathetic retaliatory attempt to have him evicted from the marina.

New Times: What does it take to be an activist?

Lozman: You have to be prepared never to give up. They're going to try to intimidate you, to arrest you, to physically push you around. You have to be firm in your conviction that what they're doing is wrong and that they have to abide by the Sunshine Law and the Constitution.

You've been in other countries where people were being intimidated.

I was in Kosovo in 1999. A friend asked me to try to get her sister and niece out of a refugee camp on the border of Macedonia. I saw three F-16s fly over and blow the top off a hill nearby. Loudest noise I ever heard. In December, 2001, I went to Afghanistan to see firsthand how international charities were working. It was bullshit. There were people over there soliciting money for schools and pocketing the money themselves.

What's your favorite James Bond locale?

Well, Costa Rica is a beautiful country, with the rainforest, the beaches on the Pacific side. It's got some of the best surfing beaches around. I'm not sure about the Bond angle, though. Costa Rica's a good place to go to de-stress, whether you've been doing financial trading or fighting scum in Riviera Beach.

Spunky and sincere, defense attorney Bill Gelin is something of an oddity in the legal profession. He cares more about you than about being paid — he even gave back his law school-issued stopwatch and refuses to live his life in the standard six-minute billing cycles. Although lawyering is his living and he does charge for his services, this 40ish UC-Berkeley alum (Stanford Law) hasn't let years of practicing criminal law in South Florida totally jade him. Instead of throwing up his hands, Gelin got a bunch of other lawyers together and formed the Justice Advocacy Association of Broward County. He blogs almost every day about judges who aren't acting judgely and about the defendants, witnesses, and regular folk who may not be getting a fair shake over at the waterfront jail and nearby courthouse:

Rory J. McMahon is so good that he could've written the book on how to be a private investigator. Oh, wait, he did. It's titled the Practical Handbook for Private Investigators. Undoubtedly, this tropical paradise and the shysters the beachside landscape attracts is what provided both the inspiration and the knowledge base for McMahon's follow-up in 2004, Fraud Investigation, a textbook on how to conduct investigations into white-collar crime. He's a former federal probation officer in New York and Florida, and he's been private-eyeing since 1991. His client list is private, and his firm will conduct surveillance, background checks, and even fire investigations.

The best flacks know the best way to manage their message is simply to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Det. Kathy Collins of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department is as straight a shooter as they come in a job that requires an ability to control information. She's even-headed and always returns calls and e-mails, and she doesn't stop until she finds the answer — sometimes it's past deadline, but shit happens. Collins treats everybody the same — polite, professional, and as forthcoming with information as police-work permits.

The young Companion was a pure Hollywood boy, the half-Irish son of a cop. And, bless him, he stayed Hollywood right up until the moment the feds slapped the cold cuffs on his wrists. Hollywood has a long history of organized crime, dating back to Meyer Lansky and a who's who of other Mafia figures who liked to chow down at Joe Sonken's Gold Coast restaurant. And the other half of Companion's heritage, Italian, was the one he favored. He had an Italian flag in his car, idolized Frank Sinatra, and was fond of quoting comic Andrew Dice Clay. In short, he was a goombah — and when he met a mobster named "Big Jack," he damned near fell in love. Soon, he was running a protection racket for Jack and his Mafia buddies and recruiting friends in the force to do the same. It wasn't until after he was hit with bribery, extortion, and drug-trafficking charges that he learned Big Jack was really Joaquin "Jack" Garcia, an undercover FBI agent playing the role of his life. Hey, he might have fallen hard, but he did it his way, baby.

She came into office as a breath of fresh air, beating Bill Griffin, the terribly corrupt former Pompano Beach mayor who tried to transfer the last of the public beach to developer Michael Swerdlow. She helped kill that deal and brought what seemed like common sense and a kind of blue-collar decency into the halls of Pompano power. In a mere four years, though, she became political roadkill, mainly because the public perceived her as a pawn of those same developers. Instead of fending them off, she put her hand out to them — and walked away with fistfuls of cash (something close to $20,000 worth). The voters smelled a rat and in March knocked her out of office in favor of Charlotte Burrie, a former city clerk who refused to accept any money from developers and beat her in a true grassroots campaign. The good news for Foster is that, while she has fallen, she might be able to get back up. Just so long as she remembers that it's the voters who decide who stays in office rather than the deep pockets.

It's a sad trajectory, friends. If you follow local politics, you know the routine: Young and promising politician goes after a tired, ethically compromised old-timer, rides a wave of electoral energy into office, and, after a few years of learning the terrain, becomes a tired, ethically compromised old-timer. But man, it's fun to go along for the ride at the beginning, and Keechl's victory last year over veteran Broward County Commissioner Jim Scott was thrilling. Add in the fact that he's the first openly gay man to hold that position and, well, it's hard not to get a little hopeful that there's a bright spot on that generally bad dais, no matter how jaded we've become. Godspeed, Keechl — and, for goodness' sake, stay away from that sad trajectory.

When his city's CRA overpaid for a piece of land purchased from a Boynton insider, Mayor Taylor didn't try to defend it. He called the city on what he termed a huge mistake in the Palm Beach Post. That's Jerry Taylor. He calls it as he sees it, and while Boyntonians may not always agree with the mayor, they know where he stands. The drive that's consuming Taylor now is moving his city along in its long-term plan to redevelop the downtown area. Some say he wants to go too fast, but after years of waiting, the 70-year-old political vet is supported by the people of Boynton who are sick and tired of their town being an ugly sideshow between Delray Beach and Lake Worth. Taylor is also spearheading an affordable-housing plan in the city, so it looks as if the coming year will be exciting for Boynton and its leader.

The Van Horne voice is radio. As he calls Marlins games, his tightly controlled yet strangely melodic voice conveys volumes with the slightest change of intonation. The man is a master whose virtuosity has come with a lifetime of practice. Consider that he called his first Major League game in 1969 on the day the Montreal Expos were born. Now he's in his 39th year, the past seven of them with the Marlins. During the span of two generations, he's called Willie Mays' 3,000th hit, Pete Rose's 4,000th hit, and Steve Carlton's 4,000th strikeout, among other milestones. But during baseball season, he's just Dave Van Horne, the guy with the smooth pipes who guides you through game night.

This Caribbean-formatted station is a one-stop shop for all things pertinent to the West Indian community in South Florida. From intelligent talk radio in the morning to reggae throughout the day, it may not be as youth-friendly as other radio stations in the area (which spin only dancehall tunes), but the one-drop and rockers-style reggae that's broadcast here is family-friendly. As a result, Lynks is the perfect blend between community and contemporary radio. The music isn't necessarily old school; it's true school. This is the only local station where you can consistently hear legends like Augustus Pablo, Dennis Brown, and Steel Pulse. That may sound funny in a market like South Florida, where every form of Caribbean music is on the airwaves, yet somehow, foundation reggae is often excluded. The political conversations of on-air personality Sir Rockwell during the talk radio segment are always engaging, but they could focus on other regions of the Caribbean instead of just Jamaica. Still, if you're searching for a station with good music, good vibes, and an irie attitude, Lynks-FM is all you will need.

Remember Jim DeFede's journalism heyday, when he was making beautiful journalistic music at Miami New Times? That was DeFede Raw. Then he went to the Miami Herald, where we got DeFede Lite (if there can be such a thing for a man of his considerable girth). And now, after his famous firing from the newspaper, he's doing radio on WINZ-AM (940) and regular commentaries on CBS (Channel 4). Call it DeFede Plugged. And we're happy to report that he's a natural on the air. DeFede can talk about the Iraq War, local politics, Tom Waits, and women all with equal aplomb. Does he have the deep impact he used to have with his trenchant newspaper reports? Maybe not, but he brings intelligence, knowledge, and wit to the airwaves of South Florida, a rare feat indeed.

There aren't many radio DJs around the country who can lock down an entire time slot the way 99 Jamz DJ Khaled can. He's been bulldozing the competition during his weekly show, The Take Over. Lovers of urban music tune into him faithfully between 6 and 11 p.m., and there might as well not be another hip-hop DJ on the airwaves during those hours. He's known for dropping exclusive tracks during his sets and is able to use his industry connections to break music that's unavailable to most other radio DJs. Of course, The Take Over is a tandem show, and the affable personality of K. Foxx can't be overlooked. But the fact is, most listeners stay glued to 99 Jamz because of Khaled. His credentials run deep: He dominated the pirate radio scene under various aliases such as the Beat Novocain, he's an affiliate of Fat Joe's Terror Squad, and his mixtape series is respected throughout the country. That's a lot of skills to bring to one radio station.

Newcomers could be forgiven for believing that Fort Lauderdale is actually named after Dwight Lauderdale, a dude who seems to have been here since time immemorial. (Actually, it's 1976.) For folks who've lived in the area for 30 years or more, Lauderdale is more than just a local institution. Unflappable and classy and one of the few TV journalists who doesn't abuse his title, he's a rarity during these dumbed-down days of endless infotainment. The guy's so trustworthy and well-respected, he could probably run for office and win strictly on the strength of name recognition. Mustache or no (Lauderdale's facial-hair status is the topic of tons of water-cooler discussions), he's the one anchor we'll turn to when we wants facts instead of fluff.

He's earned a Peabody and two Emmys and has eked his way out of local newsdom to reach the world with his stories on the uniquely weird news of hurricanes, South American dictators, and the violent conflicts that pop up from time to time with our neighbors down that way. Sanders is officially listed as a Miami correspondent for NBC Nightly News, the Today Show and MSNBC, and he contributes to Dateline NBC, but we all know that ever since Anna Nicole died north of the Golden Glades interchange, the real South Florida news is happening up in these parts. Hell, even CNN moved its Miami bureau to Broward County earlier this year. But back to Sanders: If Fidel Castro does ever actually die, Sanders will be prepared. He's been in Iraq for the Gulf War and Operation Iraqi Freedom. In-country this last time, Sanders brilliantly illustrated Iraqi children's attitude toward America when he showed them a world map — and they couldn't find us. Now, that's good TV!

Hurricanes will certainly hit South Florida again, and the question is: With whom would you rather weather the storm? An avuncular South Florida institution like Channel 10's Don Noe? Or an almond-eyed vixen like Channel 7's Elita Loresca? Poor Don doesn't stand a chance. Elita Loresca... her very name sounds dulcet to even the deafest ear. And on a visual plane, she manages, somehow, to distinguish herself among the TV news fem-bots who rule Today in Florida, the top-rated South Florida morning show, which scores highest in those crucial demographics of drooling men 18-49 and fashion-critical women aged 25-39.

Everybody loves a good hidden-camera bust. Sometimes it's dirty dining. Sometimes, as during November sweeps on CBS 4, it's dirty politicians — who just happen to be dining, and wining, on the taxpayer dime only moments before showing up at a City Commission meeting! These Cooper City commissioners were so drunk with power (if not with wine) that on one occasion, they had the audacity to vote to double their own pay! Are you furious yet? And if not, are you at least entertained? Whatever the case, this is TV-news "gotcha " journalism at its very best, and considering what a den of iniquity South Florida politics is, we oughta have a lot more of that. Just don't bring that hidden camera into the sauna with Hollywood Mayor Mara Giulianti. There are some things we don't want to know.

We're yawning over Mara Giulianti's obfuscations. We're asleep before somebody can finish the name Ken Jenne. And while we're still cackling over Mitch Ceasar's abomination of a standup routine, we can't bear to repeat lines so unfunny. So this year, we're ignoring all the corrupt, lying, and downright stupid politicians and keeping it simple. We've selected a quote from a widely known man with a clear, concise message. We're talking about former Heat superstar Tim "I Hate Gay People" Hardaway, who apparently didn't get the memo: Gay-hating means you're gay, dude. Didn't you see American Beauty? For those of you who managed to miss this gem, it went down in February, just after former NBA player John Amaechi became the first former pro basketball player to come out. It was Dan Le Batard of 790 the Ticket who solicited Hardaway's feelings on the matter. "First of all, I wouldn't want him on my team," Hardaway said of a hypothetical gay player. "Second of all, if he was on my team, I would really distance myself from him because I don't think that's right and I don't think he should be in the locker room when we're in the locker room... I'm homophobic. It shouldn't be in the world, in the United States. I don't like it." We don't like much about you either, Tim — except, of course, that you made the Heat P.R. shit their pants.

As the name suggests, this is a Miami-centric blog. But the duo behind it veers into lots of other South Florida territory, only getting caught in the Castrophobic sludge once or twice a day. Among its most redeeming qualities is a knack for picking up interesting — and abundant — local news about life in stucco-filled, traffic-jammed, sometimes sunny South Florida. And it's mondo-user-friendly. Alex and Rick — first names are enough disclosure in this realm — artfully snip down news highlights so that they're palatable while weaving in select quotes from the actual articles. Keywords link to source material for those wanting to know more. The duo's comments are typically pithy and witty, so it doesn't feel like they're preaching from the pulpit. Bonus points: Each blog entry is spruced up with some sort of art, be it a photo or a graphic, giving tired and overexposed eyes a break.

It's surprisingly easy to beat the biggest daily in Broward into the ground on a big story. Let's face it: At least 80 percent of the Sentinel's reporters aren't exactly newshounds. They're more like harmless yuppie puppies. But no one relishes going against the Boston-bred Holland. When he gets his nose into the news, he's relentless — a veritable robo-reporter. He's shown that during the past year in his coverage of Hollywood corruption (though it was New Times that broke the story that led to the Keith Wasserstrom indictment that started it all) and his reporting on the Seminole Tribe. Now teamed with Sentinel Investigative Editor Joe Demma, Holland is more dangerous than ever. And, believe it or not, we're grateful for his game.

Here's the problem with a lot of big daily newspapers: Their top executives are part of the same Chamber of Commerce clique they should be ripping apart in their pages. The Sun-Sentinel is a shining example of this, with V.P. and General Manager Howard Greenberg chumming it up with the political leaders and the Broward Alliance at every turn. All that access leads to a soft editorial product that often acts as a booster for special interests. Not so the Palm Beach Post. This is a newspaper that hasn't lost its cojones, and if there's one reporter who needs a wheelbarrow to carry his own around, it's Dubocq. He's been busting big investigative pieces about local politicians, knocking over the apple carts, and being a general pain in the ass to the powers that be. In other words, he's doing good. His biggest story has involved lifting the veil on then-Palm Beach County Chairman Tony Masillotti's connection to dirty land deals, leading to federal charges and the politician's exit from public office. More recently, he's made similar findings about PBC Commissioner Warren Newell, whose projected political lifespan has been dramatically reduced as a result. When he's not nailing corrupt officials to the wall, colleagues like Thomas R. Collins, Tony Doris, and Hector Florin are. (Hear the ones about West Palm Beach commissioners Jim Exline and Ray Liberti?) Together, they all show what a good newspaper can do when it's not schmoozing with the same people it should be investigating.

OK, Cenziper has one of those cushy, glory-filled journalism jobs where you spend a year investigating something and then bust out with a report that's sure to win awards. Investigative reporters like her often have years-long lulls where they don't do anything all that special. But Cenziper has proven she's right where she belongs. Last year, her report on hurricane tracking was named a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. It was a very good series, to be sure, but nothing to make one's heart go aflutter. This year, though, Cenziper really outdid herself. The nicely titled "House of Lies," her series on scandals plaguing affordable housing in Miami-Dade County, absolutely rocked. It led to reforms of the system, firings of lax housing officials, and the arrest of a developer. The series has already won the prestigious George Polk Award and has been named a Pulitzer finalist. The question hanging in the air: What will Cenziper come up with this year?

Few things are more depressing than the steady deterioration of the sportswriting craft. The best writers in the business used to congregate on the sports page, where the lighter subject matter allowed for a bit more creativity and whimsy than, say, business coverage. But those days are gone. Now you have sportswriters who treat the games as if they're city commission meetings, who write about X's and O's with little passion or wit, who treat the blessed calling of sports coverage as if it were insurance sales. Not Capozzi. His work might not quite hark back to Ring Lardner or Red Smith, but you can count on the guy to make it worth your while. On the Marlins beat, he's true as Miguel Cabrera's swing. Want to know something about new manager Fredi Gonzalez? Read Capozzi's piece on the "Bagel Boys," a "southern-fried fraternity" of Gonzalez buds that meets at an Einstein's bagel shop to "solve the world's problems." He conjures Fellini in a retrospective piece on Mark McGwire. When the slugger arrived at the ballpark, Capozzi writes that "morning calm gave way to desperate chaos" with " faces pressed against the black gate — kids, mothers, grandfathers, all reaching between the bars for an autograph from the man..." Takes you back, doesn't it?

It seems that actors spend a lifetime trying to become famous only to resent fame the moment they achieve it. Not Eddie Barbanell. The Coral Springs resident became a celebrity after he starred alongside Johnny Knoxville in The Ringer, and he hasn't stopped enjoying it since. Knoxville plays a reprobate who pretends to have a disability so he can compete in a Special Olympics decathlon his uncle is wagering on. Barbanell, who in real life has Down syndrome, plays Knoxville's roommate and steals every scene he has, racking up quotable catch phrases at a rate Will Ferrell would admire. "Oh Mylanta! You are my woman," gasps Barbanell's character at the hair-netted lunch lady he adores. At actual Special Olympics events in South Florida, Barbanell is a hero to fellow athletes and instantly recognizable to the mostly adolescent volunteers who have seen the movie. Barbanell signs autographs and poses for pictures, plus he never turns down a request to deliver one of his famous lines from the film, like, "You scratched my CD, you know!" He's not one of those movie stars who feigns modesty. Barbanell, in fact, has a habit of declaring to a group of strangers, "I'm a celebrity!" Just don't ask Barbanell for the cell phone numbers of Knoxville and fellow co-star Katherine Heigl (of Grey's Anatomy fame). They're friends, and friends don't give your digits away to complete strangers.

For an infant child abandoned in a public restroom, dropped in a Dumpster, or thrown from a car along the freeway, there's no such thing as a soft landing. But Kids in Distress is a South Florida nonprofit agency that cushions the blow. The main campus near Wilton Drive and Dixie Highway stays open 24 hours to receive abused children. Since those under the age of 5 are most often the victims of abuse, Kids in Distress is equipped with the necessities of child care: pampers, Baby Wipes, formula, etc. Kids have a place to sleep, and the staff does its best to captivate children with games and toys. The agency recruits foster parents and adoptive parents while also offering a range of preventive services, from parenting classes to therapeutic preschools for 270 children who are victims of abuse or at risk of being so.

There's not enough room on a church signpost to print the Sermon on the Mount, so a pastor must beckon passersby with a punchy phrase, chock full of thought-provoking biblical wisdom. The kind of message that knocks around one's brain for a few days. That's the effect of the marquee in front of the First United Methodist Church, just south of Young Circle in Hollywood. "If you're beside yourself, now you can pray twice as hard." Get it? "God is like bleach," another sign said. "He gets out stains no one else can." Amen! And the devil, then, is like a red sock that lurks in a pile of whites, plotting to put his imprint on the purest white fabrics.

Sister Faith learned the ancient art of "sweating" from the Navajo Indians of Big Mountain, a reservation in Northwest Arizona. She builds her sweat lodge with limbs that have fallen from trees near her home, which sits on a half-acre of countryside outside Loxahatchee. It's a small oblong structure, no more than six feet by eight feet. But within that elevator-sized space, Sister Faith fits as many as 16 people — or "souls," as she likes to call them. As if body heat alone weren't enough to make this a sauna, she places heated rocks in the center, then pours water over them to create steam. The ceremony starts around dusk and often lasts till 3 a.m. Drumming, chanting, and prayers for Mother Earth help sweaters to transcend the heat and, says Sister Faith, lead sweaters in their "journey into the spiritual realm." She takes particular delight in winning over the curious-but-skeptical people who, by ceremony's end, profess to have left behind all their negative energy and want only to hug.

Polo is a classy sport. No wonder Americans haven't really taken to it. But add alcohol and motorized vehicles, and voilà! At the International Polo Club, you can customize a company outing featuring a polo match with an announcer explaining the rules, food and drinks, and a "divot stomp," at which participants (champagne glasses firmly in hand) march onto the field to flatten out turf that's been kicked up by ponies' hooves. But the best part: After eating, grab a mallet, get in the golf cart (the polo players drive), and tear ass around the field for a match on four wheels. What's that sound? Ralph Lauren weeping with jealousy?

The tradition of kitsch is unique to our region, and the Mai-Kai is the king of kitsch. This tropical time warp has been owned and run by the same family for more than 50 years and boasts the amazing Molokai bar. Built out of an old movie set's pirate ship, this plank-floor rum factory is quickly disorienting. Water runs down the exterior of the submarine-style windows, and the lighting is always dark and warming — soon the outside world is just a hazy memory and your new, much funner, life revolves around tiki-tacky drinks served in hollowed-out coconuts and pineapples. If you go at the right time, you can catch the bar band playing Don Ho covers next to an archaic drum machine that we can only imagine was salvaged from Gilligan's Island. If you're feeling flush with cash, make a reservation for the floor show. You'll hardly notice the mediocre cuisine when you become hypnotized by the gyrating, fire-throwing Polynesian dancers on stage. In between sets, take a stroll through the tiki gardens and pay homage to the statues placed throughout — most of which resemble large-scale versions of the "bad luck souvenir" from the famous "Brady Bunch Hawaiian Vacation" episode. When you pick up your car from the valet, your guests will say, "Screw Disney!"

The trains make a helluva fuss as they pull into the station. And they show up only once an hour. But for car slaves in South Florida tired of sitting in north-south traffic along Interstate 95, Tri-Rail is a good alternative. Flying into the Miami Airport and not sure how to get to West Palm Beach? Hop on the train. Rather than slogging behind the wheel of a car for 70 miles, possibly through bumper-to-bumper traffic, you can sit back and arrive in a cool 101 minutes. On the way, you can read the paper, watch a movie on your iPod, or — heck — take a nap. And the cost? On a weekday, that sort of one-way ticket goes for $5.50, $4 on a weekend. Although the Tri-Rail isn't the perfect solution for our commuting dilemma, it's a good start.

Living on a peninsula is awesome — until you want to get out of town. From South Florida, driving north or west will only get you more of the same scenery. Going east will just get you really wet. So it's no secret that the Keys are the most obvious and most charming destination — it's just that the drive sucks. U.S. 1 for 200 miles? Ugh. But about three months ago, Key West Express, a company that's been offering trips on a high-speed catamaran from Fort Myers and Marco Island to the Keys for more than a decade, added a Miami-Key West route that runs daily Thursday through Sunday. You can leave your car at the dock at the Miami Seaquarium — it's free, and yes, there's security. The 155-foot-long vessel has two hulls (for a stable ride), massive engines (to get you there in about four hours), indoor and outdoor decks (bring sunscreen), and a full bar (so you can get started on the margaritas before you get anywhere near Margaritaville). Round-trip tickets cost $98 for adults, $66 for kids.

If the sprawling, luxurious Breakers Resort is the famous grand dame of Palm Beach hotels, the Brazilian Court is its sexy little sister. Instead of welcoming guests through an ostentatious lobby with a two-lane valet, the Court seduces them through three discreet entrances. Instead of dressing up in formal, palatial, and immaculate lawns, this place flaunts its tantalizing assets: a heated pool, a wine butler, and an intimate, flower-filled patio. The Spanish-style compound has attracted diplomats, movie stars, and Kennedys since opening on New Year's Day in 1926. In the past couple of years, the hotel has upped its chic factor with celebrity power by adding Café Boulud (the menu was designed by Chef Daniel Boulud), opening a Frederic Fekkai salon (Mr. Fekkai won't be your hairdresser, but his products and techniques are used here), and starting a breakfast series with bestselling authors (so you just might bump into Gay Talese or Nora Ephron in the library). But besides being a nice place to sleep (for $550 to $950 a night), it's not a bad spot to gold-dig. Tuesday- and Saturday-night parties draw businessmen in blazers as well as 20-somethings in tank tops, and the scene is so hot right now that even the grand dames can't resist coming in for a peek.

Roger Dean Stadium is all about spring training. It's known for its up-and-coming ballplayers (see next year's Marlins now), its cheap seats, and its famous Dean Dogs (hot dogs almost as long as your forearm). This place gets a lot of things right — even down to the men's bathrooms. Although the facilities manager and his workers deserve most of the credit for keeping the porcelain spiffy in there, they do get a lot of help from an unlikely sponsor: pest control company Nozzle Nolen. Not because Nolen sprays for insects but because the company decorated the urinals. Complete with, um, paintings of little bugs down at the drain. What are those for? Stadium General Manager Rob Rabenecker explains with a laugh, "Gives guys something to aim at." The decorations are offered along with gentle reminders like "Nozzle Nolen says ÔAim high in life; aim low here.'" Sorry, ladies — no word on when NN's coming out with a home version.

"Nipple laws and genital laws are in effect," one regular says, describing the Fetish Factory's monthly Alter Ego parties. "So women have to have the electrical-tape X's covering stuff up, and for men, a banana hammock is perfectly acceptable attire as long as the banana stays in the hammock." Funny but not quite accurate. Although there's a good dose of near-nudity at Fetish Factory parties, the company's point of distinction, actually, is its dress code. That's precisely the thing that keeps out, say, the pervy tourist in Spandex but brings in the young professional who just likes to walk around in a (rather tasteful) ball gag from time to time. In fact, Fetish Factory parties are more like fashion shows. They have themes such as "Apocalypse" or "Tribute to Bettie Page," and attendees take the dress-up requirement seriously. It's not uncommon for someone to have dropped $1,000 on a latex outfit or to show off her new customized catsuit. So the great thing about people-watching here is that the people don't mind you watching, especially the performers — like the two dancers who showed up in matching gas masks connected by a tube, or Rubberella, who might make an appearance wearing a clear plastic outfit and goggles. "The crowd is the most respectful and friendly crowd, better than sports bars or anywhere," the regular says. "You know, if somebody wants to have a threesome, they'll just come up and ask you — politely."

You can make fun of the $5,000 boob jobs and the codgers hopped up on Viagra, but while you've been sniggering, Boca Raton has thrown open one fantastic restaurant after another. Unless you're dining in Boca these days, practically the only eating of any consequence you're going to be doing is swallowing your own bitter words. The roster of restaurants that opened in the past year or survived their first couple of seasons is practically freaky, from classy additions like Bova, Opus 5, and Café Joley to Bogart's at the Muvico Palace Theater. Brit celeb-chef Angela Harnett is opening Cielo at the Boca Resort this year, and two excellent coal-fired pizza ovens — Red Rock and Coal Mine — are practically within spitting distance of each other. Bucky's is purveying serious barbecue, MoQuila has a list of specialty tequilas, and there's some of the best Asian fusion around at Fah. Respectable chains like Nick's Fishmarket of Hawaii, Seasons 52, Trulucks Stone Crabs, and Chops Lobster Bar are setting up shop. And the old favorites — Johannes, Saporissimo, Fran's Chicken Haven, and Gary Woo — along with a bunch of gourmet markets from Whole Foods to Kings aren't going anywhere. They recognize what paydirt looks like when they see it: It's driving a silver Beemer heading right toward them.

Wilton Manors was not always a fabulous place to live. In the mid-'90s, it was just another neighborhood of the kind that flourished throughout South Florida in those days: brown lawns sporting the occasional junker car, houses from the '60s and '70s that would have been pretty if only somebody had painted them, mom-and-pop businesses flashing in and out of business along Wilton Drive — and, for some reason, two Bible/Christian-paraphernalia stores. All of this changed with the Great Homosexual Takeover of 1997 (and '98 and '99 and so on). Wilton Manors has been blooming for the past decade. Crime rates have plummeted, and the funky businesses on Wilton Drive have stabilized into a mix of stellar restaurants to suit all budgets (Rosie's at the low end, Food Amongst the Flowers up top), one-of-a-kind clothing boutiques (Edgardo's, Zoo Two), community coffee shops (Stork's, Java Boys), and a massively friendly bar scene (Alibi, Boom, Big Dog, Scandals, and so on). The town has morphed into that rarest of communities that actually feels like a community. Nighttime in Wilton Manors is unlike anything else in South Florida: You can see the denizens of the neighborhood walking slowly along Wilton Drive, chatting with one another, drifting into the occasional wine bar or exotic candy shop and then out again, happily digging the vaguely upscale, exquisite downhominess of it all.

The best thing about discovering woodsy Riverland Road on foot are the secrets you'd never see from the street. Huge homes, old homes, ultramodern-homes, and slender waterways you never imagined existed. Doctors, lawyers, and college professors hide out down narrow, canopy-covered dead-end lanes that lie shaded from the sun and prying eyes. On the south side of curvy Riverland Road, the streets cut between the finger canals coming off the New River, and sailboat masts rear behind stately if staid homes. But on the north side, the jungle appears ready to swallow the sunlight itself, and exploring the verdant streets reveals a laid-back lifestyle with an Old Florida feel that's largely been chased out of downtown by development. Here, lots are large, the trees (tons of live oaks) are tall, and the houses just feel fat with history and mystery. Walk around long enough and you may see a manatee lolling in a canal, a huge iguana eating hibiscus flowers, even a pink pineapple sprouting from a pot. And if you find the right street, you may discover the heavily fortified back door of the secret island visited by the Jungle Queen tour boat. Just listen for a loud horn.

Don't have anywhere to be for a while? A long, long while? Then go ahead and make a late-afternoon appointment somewhere in Weston or Southwest Ranches. Try to get on any westbound 595 on-ramp — go ahead, just try it — and see how long it takes before you've ripped hair from your scalp by the fistful. Once you finally gain entrance to the crowded east-west artery, you'll watch as time seems to literally stand still. It's just an illusion, though, since that's actually you standing still, along with the rest of the cars littering this godforsaken road. Tempers flare like trousers on That '70s Show, because creeping ahead at 2 mph like cattle approaching the blood-letting room apparently brings out the very worst in people. In the time it takes to get from University to Pine Island, some drivers actually have two or even three birthdays; some get married and divorced; babies are born in back seats as their parents' cars trundle upon this westerly wasteland. Oh, and that 5:30 appointment? You'd better reschedule, bub.

When Rachael Ray makes a special trek to your annual food fest, you know you've hit prime time. The 2008 bad-breath bash will herald nine years' worth of celebrating the stinking rose, as it were, and it's finally come into its own. Once an unabashed novelty — and let's all pray that garlic ice cream stays a novelty — Delray's Garlic Festival has blossomed into a chef-driven cooking competition bringing South Beach/Palm Beach culinary stars to town. Some of the creations go full-tilt boogie on the crazy train, like Roasted Garlic Covered in Chocolate. But the best part of the festival is going overboard with your own bad self, devouring a Garlic Portobello Sandwich and the Grilled Garlic Argentine BBQ and the Roasted Garlic Bruschetta and the Garlic Vegetable Tempura. Nobody's kissing you tonight anyway, so just go for it.

Rino's is one of the most expensive restaurants on Las Olas Boulevard, and for good reason: Chef Rino Balzano serves some of the most mind-bogglingly savory fare in the world. Though the meats get a lot of attention — and it's a pitiable beast who hasn't seen what the man can do with a lamb shank and some risotto — budget-conscious gourmands should be aware that Rino's is not exclusively for folks willing to shell out $70 for a veal entrée, an appetizer, and a glass of wine. You can eat here for under $30, if you're willing to go semi-veggie. Here's how: When you arrive, order the Funghi di Bosco appetizer. Defer ordering your main course for a moment. Your server will soon bring you a mound of hollow, golden bread, crackly in places and soft and pliant in others, brushed with garlic, cheese, and oil. Eat this. By the time you're through, the appetizer will emerge from the kitchen: Twin mounds of soft, fresh mozzarella, sitting in a veal reduction with piles of wild mushrooms of various geographical derivations, accompanied by mixed greens. The reduction and mushrooms are warm and earthy, the cheese is cool and impossibly light, and the combination is shockingly sensual. You'll likely close your eyes as you chew. Just as the Funghi di Bosco arrives, place an order for more bread and a second appetizer, this one a half-order of Tortelli di Zucca Alla Salvia e Pinoli, which translates from the Italian as "an orgasm disguised as pumpkin ravioli with pine nuts." And so it is. Tender tortellini stuffed with fresh sage and pumpkin, in an oil-parmigiana sauce and dotted with pine nuts, the dish has a flavor that isn't comparable to anything. Unless you've had pumpkin ravioli before, the Tortelli di Zucca is truly something new under the sun. A half-order of this stuff is a measly $10, the Funghi di Bosco is $12, and the two orders of bread are free. You have just saved a lot of money. Tip well.