People & Places

Jim Leljedal has weathered a lot in his 25 years with the Broward Sheriff's Office. Working for Nick Navarro, the egomaniacal former sheriff who battled 2 Live Crew and teamed up with the Cops TV show, could never have been dull. Then came the tragedy of Ron Cochran's death, followed by the highly political tenure of Ken Jenne that ended in disgrace and a prison term for Jenne after a federal corruption conviction. Through all that turmoil, BSO has had one calm and steady voice in Leljedal. He's an understated pro who came from the TV news ranks, became a bona fide deputy sheriff, and actually gives a little respect to the ink-stained wretches who come to him for information. His fundamental decency stands in sharp contrast to a few of his peers over the years, some of whom seemed to have gone mad with the power they held over newspaper and TV stations (Elliot Cohen, we're looking in your direction, wherever you are). Leljedal is one of the good guys. Here's to another 25, Jim.

The Palm Beach Post has kicked some major ass this year, taking down a cadre of corrupt local officials, covering the hell out of the Dunbar Village rape, and producing an admirable series of investigative reports. (While we're at it, let's give a shoutout to the staff photographers, who have done some mind-blowing work.) But as we slog through the fact-heavy, front-page pieces that we know we ought to read (like the complex tale of Palm Beach Aggregates), we're jonesing to get to Page Two — Jose (pronounced Jo-zay) Lambiet's column. Is it gossip disguised as news? Or news disguised as gossip? One could easily mistake Lambiet's breezy writing for the paparazzi-style reporting that is causing the downfall of the collective American intellect. That's if it weren't so well-researched. At night, Lambiet charms his way through Palm Beach mansions and celebrity fundraisers; by the next morning, he's in the courthouse getting the dish on the Next Big Divorce. Sure, he gave us dirt on Rush Limbaugh's 30-something girlfriend and Greg Norman's hookup with Chris Evert, but his stories often go beyond that. Lambiet illuminated how disgraced commissioner Al Lamberti's wife was affected by her husband's scandal, and he kept tabs on rumored-to-be-gay Governor Charlie Crist's dalliance with a local lady. Lambiet tracked the voting problems of Ann Coulter ("The blond Democrat slayer," he called her) and took a Marlins player to task for hunting animals from a helicopter. His scoops often end up repeated in New York papers and national magazines. Because A-listers flirt with Palm Beach. And Jose owns it.

Around the New Times office, she's known as "The Wife of the Pulp." But just because she's married to New Times' own muckraking columnist Bob Norman doesn't mean we should keep Brittany Wallman from claiming a title she's due. Take it from writers who constantly try to get a crumb of fresh news out of Fort Lauderdale bigwigs: it rarely happens. Brittany, it seems, has already banged out every story worth breaking. As City Commissioner Christine Teel once said when begged for news tips or brewing scandals, "Brittany's got us pretty well covered. She doesn't miss much." Take for example last year's big local brouhaha: Mayor Jim Naugle's anti-gay stance that made national news. His comments about needing to buy $100,000 public toilets to curb homosexual sex were so subtle they probably wouldn't have been noticed except by someone who'd been the mayor's watchdog for years. Wallman's biography on the Sun-Sentinel's parenting blog, to which she also contributes, says the reporter "covers Fort Lauderdale City Hall, which is filled with almost as much drama as the Norman household." When Wallman's 5-year-old daughter Lily expressed shock that animals had died during an oil spill, Wallman asked her, "If you're so sad about animals dying, then why do you eat hamburgers and hotdogs?'' That's what we like — a reporter who lets no quote go unchallenged. No matter who you are, Lily.

Folks in the radio biz have been waiting – maybe that's begging – for SoFla radio stalwart Neil Rogers to retire for years. Some of them are jealous, no doubt; even more are flagrantly insane. Some wise listeners, however, are simply holding for the day when Rogers' man-at-arms, Jorge Rodriguez, will take over the show and ascend to the throne atop the airwaves. While Rodriguez may not have always been the best sidekick, over the past year ol' Jorge has solidified into a personality we'd love to listen to for a couple hours each day. Imagine Rodriguez as a character from a Kevin Smith movie: A true student of pop culture, sort of geeky but with just the right amount of grounding in reality, delivering slightly off-kilter rants about his take on religion and '80s freestyle music or just eulogizing the death of a proper Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich. In other words, Jorge allows us the space to vent about the sort of mundane, workaday topics and mere-existence philosophy that fills life in this gonzo patch of swamp we call South Florida. And while it doesn't look like Jorge will be sticking around WQAM after Uncle Neil moves out, we can only hope he lands his own show somewhere on the dial soon after.

The white, arciform lines and teal glass move up from the beach like a giant, 24-story wave summoned by Neptune himself. Designed by the Miami-based architectural firm Arquitectonica, the St. Regis is marked by tiered walls of opulent windows looking out over the 29,000-square-foot pool deck, past A1A to the sea. While the shape of the building mimics the waves, the interior calls to mind the heyday of ostentatious ocean liners, with Italian marble floors, mahogany desks, oak walls, and leather accents put together by the interior design firm Hirsch Bedner Associates. The building is the epitome of the new, luxurious Fort Lauderdale, bringing the opera crowd (or anyone willing to shell out $500-plus per night) to what was once the most hedonistic part of the beach. St. Regis spares no technological advance from the wi-fi-equipped cabanas to the state-of-the-art health club to the wireless, hand-held devices carried by all the on-site butlers. And a skywalk connects the pool deck to the beach, so guests won't have to brush against the disgusting common folk. True, regular people can't afford to stay here, but we can still stare at the beautiful building for free.

This award is unabashedly being driven by our economy. With gas prices at ridiculous levels, the days of the $20-$25 car wash aren't feasible for a lot of families anymore. If you have a multi-car household, it's even less realistic. If you've still got an automobile that needs to be cleaned, check out Carwash Lube on East Oakland Park Boulevard, where you can get an oil change (up to five quarts) plus a car wash for $20. Most oil changes alone cost more than that, and a detailed car wash can top that price at a lot of places. At Carwash Lube, technicians check all your fluid levels, change filters, put air in your tires, while washing your car for you, vacuuming it out, and toweling it down — all for 20 bucks. That's hard to beat.

You have a lot of old stuff you don't want: clothes, couches, kitchen utensils. You like to find good deals on all sorts of items. And maybe you are a hopeless drunk or drug addict who let life spin out of control. Faith Farm, the Christian-based furniture store and rehab center, has something for you, no matter what you need. Since the early 1950s, Faith Farm has accepted money, food, clothes, and household items, and used those things to straighten out the lives of men (and more recently, women) struggling with addiction. They take people off the street, feed them, give them training and jobs, and try to re-introduce them to society as productive, upstanding citizens who no longer depend on chemicals to deal with the pangs of life. If it's not salvation you need but rather a few things for the apartment, you can get new furniture at a substantial discount or sort through the bric-a-brac that includes books, dishes, and just about anything else you can imagine. And as you redesign your pad, you'll feel so good about yourself you might even want to celebrate.

A rule of thumb: If your ol' buddy Pain has come for an extended stay, it's time to knock on the chiropractor's door. Still, with chiropractor signs leaping out from every other shopping plaza, finding the right one can be grueling. Check out A Place of Health. You'll go for a spinal adjustment after that sports injury, or that bad fall, or that car accident, but you'll find a doc who wants you to live well. Donna Watson will put every bone in its place, but she'll also take care of you. This is what Naturopathic medicine is all about. The goal is to get your body as healthy as possible so it can heal itself. She'll also educate you on nutrition, and vitamins and herbs, that'll help give your body the balance it needs. Besides chiropractic care, Dr. Watson also performs one of the oldest healing arts in Eastern medicine: acupuncture. This process isn't as scary as you think, and the benefits are limitless. It has the power to alleviate pain, put your body in harmony, and stop a nasty cold dead in its tracks, all with a few thin needles. She also has a massage therapist on hand.

If hatred lies at the ice-cold heart of terrorism, then it's up to the next American president to make this nation less hate-able. The old white dudes we've put in the Oval Office these last few centuries have not fared well, what with their record of condoning slavery, nuking civilians, and fudging intelligence reports for the sake of a disastrous military campaign. Obama is the only candidate who actually anticipated what's since become conventional wisdom: That as foreign invaders hunting for terrorists, American soldiers would not be greeted as liberators, and that for every terrorist they slew, they created several more. Sound judgment and diplomacy are needed, and if these qualities come from a younger candidate of color who happens to have a Muslim name, they're that much more credible.

Scented candles, ambient lighting, big comfy chairs, and a plasma widescreen... Is this a dentist's office or a health spa? Dr. Nadja Horst's space in downtown Fort Lauderdale is a bit of both, which distinguishes it from those sterile, fluorescent torture chambers that haunted your childhood. But the real proof you're in good hands is a glossy trade magazine in the waiting room, bookmarked to the page that contains an article about Horst. The Q & A section asks what book she's reading, and she answers, "I hate to say it, but mostly dental journals." Kinda nerdy, Nadja, but for us clients it's nice to know we've entrusted our chompers to a real pro.

Sure, the concept might not seem all-inclusive at first blush. These annual gatherings are organized by a bunch of folks celebrating their Scottish ancestry, and to some extent their families' early arrivals in the U.S. of A. (Case in point: The Daughters of the American Revolution sponsor a booth and hand out lengthy questionnaires to women who might be eligible to join because their great-great-whatevers fought the British.) But, really, this festival is about a bunch of folks, many with Scottish surnames, donning funny outfits and playing ridiculous games. Ever see a 6-foot-tall Japanese man wearing a kilt and hurling bales of hay over what looks like a high jump bar? Yeah, didn't think so. Most clans will be happy to take on honorary members, so pick out your favorite tartan and march in the clan parade. (Word is Clan Campbell is always looking for recruits.) There is also, of course, lots of beer, whiskey, scones, and haggis to be consumed. And bagpipe players! The festival takes place over an entire weekend each January, and advance tickets can be bought for $10 at just about any Irish or British pub in Broward County.

You'd think it would be hard sitting in Khaled's shadow. The loveable and highly lauded DJ Khaled is the biggest name in South Florida radio. He's been at it for numerous years, and with his albums, connections, and new record label taking off, it's hard to think of anyone that's doing it bigger in the radio game. But if there's one thing that history will teach, it's that beside every great man is an even stronger woman who's probably not getting nearly enough credit. That's definitely the case when you break down the weekly show The Take Over, where Khaled's bark is the loudest but K. Foxx's alluring personality carries the most bite. She's always on cue, she's got the sexiest voice in radio, and she has a persona that can counterbalance Khaled's sometimes overbearing ego. She's also easily the best urban radio reporter/DJ in South Florida.

Call Wooley the thinking man's activist. The native Miamian has a B.A. in economics from the University of Chicago, an MBA from Harvard, and a doctorate from the University of Chicago. He spent a career as an executive in the freight industry before retiring in 1997. "I didn't like what I saw," he says. "I didn't like the deep interests of the developers and real estate interests. Looked to me like the town was in the iron grip of those people." He's a fixture at city hall meetings, where he's lent an intelligent and decidedly dissident voice to the proceedings. He ran for mayor of Cooper City last year and lost in a three-way race. But he's far from done. "I'm going to keep going," says the 66-year-old Wooley. "And I think we keep gaining converts."

If the photos on her backpage.com ad are any measure, Broward-based Destiny belongs in that elite milieu of strumpet with the chick who shtupped Spitzer. She makes a credible claim to "incomparable beauty," favors lacy black lingerie, and describes herself as "Columbian," a misspelling that gives her true ethnicity an air of intrigue, as does her claim to being both 21 and 25 years old. But check your age prejudices at the hotel door, gents — Destiny rejects the "preconceived idea that I am 'young and dumb.' " While she concedes that she has a "hot body," her true beauty lies in a "thought process that is simply more advanced than the typical young woman." So bring a rubber, boys, and brace yourself for a post-coital dissertation on nuclear physics.

The new Fort Lauderdale has no shortage of luxury resorts. Determining the best hotel is akin to choosing the hottest Playboy centerfold. The Atlantic is like the busty blond twins who'd be willing to show you a thing or two after everyone else leaves Hefner's grotto. Located on the beach and just a stroll from Las Olas, this is old-school Florida class with new-school amenities, offering sundecks, outdoor dining, and rooms that look out on the ocean. From the 24-hour concierge and room service to the European spa and fitness center to its fine restaurants, the Atlantic is lavish and majestic, but never too elite to be comfortable. Get a martini at Trina, the hotel bar, and a massage from some of the finest masseuses in town. Then sit on your balcony, stare at the beautiful water, and ponder how grand life can be.

The mosaics and marshmallow curves on this 8-story circular building lift many a commuter's spirits at the busy intersection of Oakland Park and Federal Highway. How can you not smile at geometric renditions of herons, sea horses, and marlins? Fort Lauderdale architect Louis F. Wolff designed this piece of fabulosity in 1964 for Ken Burnstine, a local drug smuggler and pilot. Burnstine disappeared 12 years later during an air show in the Mojave Desert. A single thumb was recovered from the wreckage, prompting some to speculate that he faked his death (Burnstine was scheduled to testify for the prosecution in a number of drug cases). The Kenann building's billowy white circles were inspired by — no joke — The Jetsons. Inside, the design wonders continue, with blue granite circles and mirrors cutting Art Deco shapes across the lobby and weighing down the elevators. Architect Dan Duckham updated the building in 1992. Today, Kenann tenants include doctors, lawyers, Citibank, and Muvico Theaters.

That's right. We're going with Bogenschutz, the shrewd advocate for damn near every lousy public official in Broward County (Ken "Jailbird" Jenne, Al "Urinal Man" Capellini, and "Weepy" Larry Seidlin are three recent clients). Sure, you can condemn him for representing high-rolling sleazebags. Many have. But whatever you think about his defense of officialdom's scum, it's hard to argue that he doesn't perform his odious duties with shrewdness and stealth. He doesn't grandstand and make outrageous claims. Bogenschutz just works doggedly to either try to keep his clients out of trouble or hammer out a deal to get them as little of it as possible. The lack of excess has been a key to his success. He's a damn good man to have walk through your door when you're in a jam.

Every town needs a resident freak to make life interesting and keep the gossips in business. Unfortunately, Britney Spears lives in California and former sheriff Ken Jenne is incarcerated. So it was our luck when the Iceman himself moved his digs to Wellington. Every fan of The Surreal Life knows that Rob Van Winkle once resented being known as the world's first solo white rapper and serving a brief stint as the laughingstock of the music industry. But with the help of TV legend Ponch Poncherello and porn star Ron Jeremy, Ice learned to count his blessings ("Ice, Ice Baby" will remain an awesomely catchy song until the end of time). These days, he's mellowed considerably. (The domestic violence charges were dropped, people!) If you see him out — say, hanging with pal/Aventura resident Dennis Rodman, or racing one his 50 cars at Moroso Motorsports Park — he will most likely be happy to indulge you with a picture and a smile. In fact, the last time we bumped into him, he asked good-naturedly, "Remember when my pet wallaroo escaped?" (The wallaroo, Bucky, was eventually found wandering with Ice's pet goat, Pancho.) Ice has managed to extend his proverbial 15 minutes of fame. This coming year, his itinerary includes filming a reality show with racecar driver Emerson Fittipaldi and playing a Kappa Sigma frat house with the Ying Yang Twins. Last December, when he held the Vanilla Ice House Party at the local Polish Club, he was sure to include human bowling, pudding wrestling, and a real live giraffe — all while collecting toys for tots. Long live Ice!

Yeah, she's made lots of porn movies. Yeah, she has several times made a mockery of the democratic process in California, running for governor of the golden state on her "Porn for Pistols" campaign. And yes, she showed up for the first day of her celebrity rehab reality show on VH1 so shitfaced she could barely talk to counselors. But now Fort Lauderdale's own Mary Carey — a product of Pine Crest School — has turned over a new leaf. Kind of. Since her mother attempted suicide, Carey (whose given name is Mary Ellen Cook) has aimed to set her life straight: No more porn. No more drugs. No more of the generally self-destructive behavior out of which she has made a career. And while she hasn't exactly reverted back to the pleasant ballerina princess she was as a child (rehab didn't take and she still dances at strip clubs), simply showing the American public some of the horrors of addiction from a young, white, wealthy woman's perspective may have saved innumerable lives.

In light of the economic downturn, the story of Frank Stranahan is both instructional and apropos. Long before the land boom of the early 21st Century, there was the high-flying 1920s. Broward was growing and the Ohio-born Stranahan was at the center of it all. A rather stern and extremely determined fellow, he built the county's first bank and opened a trading post on the New River. But then fate dealt Stranahan and the area two crushing blows — a devastating earthquake in 1926, and the Great Depression in 1929. Whatever the natural disaster didn't wipe out was taken from him by the economic tumult. Stranahan not only lost all his own money but the fortunes of relatives and friends throughout the area. So on the morning of June 23, 1929, the 64-year-old Stranahan tied an iron grate to his leg and jumped into the New River, drowning himself. Left behind is the home he built on the river, which is now a historic landmark — and a favorite on the haunted house circuit.

Keeping up with Broward County's alternative nightlife scene is a huge undertaking; the posters, the flyers, the drag divas, the circuit boys — it's enough to make you pass out while cartoon thongs spin overhead. The fact that Mark's List (www.jumponmarkslist.com) thoroughly tabulates and organizes every major gay and lesbian event from Miami to Palm Beach — and now also those in the Central Florida/Bay Area — is befuddling. The fact that it also accounts for all of the smaller ones (drink specials, karaoke nights, bear bowling, etc.) is what makes it a necessity. The only problem you might discover while navigating through this collage of to-dos and nearly naked men is that every click leads to another. It's a party planning hydra. Soon you'll realize that you've spent a whole afternoon learning about the ins and outs of gay beaches when you should have been doing "real work" (you scamp, you). Don't feel bad, the website is just that good. Without it, our local nightlife would lack cohesion, our city would be less fabulous, and, worst of all, we would never know what our favorite porn stars were up to these days.

In October, an out-of-shape, 30-something accountant named Gary decided it would be a smashing idea to organize a weekly volleyball match for folks of all skill levels. It would be casual, friendly, and non-competitive. Nobody would have to fret about getting spiked in the head by a hard-bodied beach bully. Heck, they wouldn't even bother to keep score! It took Gary a while to assemble a core group of regulars for the Saturday beach matches. Busy schedules, hangovers, and the harsh Florida sun made for spotty attendance in the fledgling, loose-knit group. But several months in, he has attracted enough faithfuls to warrant a weeknight match as well. The locations vary, as Gary seeks to lighten the commuting burden on members whenever possible. After playing, the group usually grabs a drink and maybe some grub together. Members have awarded the Meetup group with an average approval rating of four-and-a-half stars (out of five).

Its name lined in globe lights, the Entrada stands as a final vestige of old Florida motels. From Federal Highway you might mistake it for another piece of crumbling Floridiana, but inside the cocktail lounge around 2 a.m. you'll find it's ever so much more. Grab a seat in one of the stackable metal chairs that fences in the sunken bar and order a dirt-cheap drink from a plastic cup. Don't worry; this bar is grandfathered in with a 6 a.m. liquor license — all you have to do is be patient and wait for the magic to happen. Phase One: Sex workers fresh off their shifts pile in to commiserate about their nightly ordeals over $3 gins; their pimps loiter menacingly in the room's smoky corners. Phase Two: friendly neighborhood businessmen (i.e., dealers) swing by to drop off and collect from the underbelly's graveyard shift. Phase Three: If you've waited this long, you've now officially entered "Crazy Hour." This is when the order of operations stops making sense. Here's what you recall the next morning: the police came, repeatedly; prostitutes were passed out on the bar, the floor, your friend's lap; pimps got angry; there were fights; more cops; distant gunfire was heard; your friends vanished; you left a twenty on the bar — it was enough to buy a round for everyone in the room; you had new friends; the cops came and took your new friends away; you went home amazed.

Their skin is wrinkly, colorless, and dry, and sometimes covered with white powder of non-illicit origins. They have the money but sometimes can't read the sign or hear the price as the tattoo artist shouts it into their hearing aids. But oh boy do older folks love getting tats these days. In the past, new trends have included young people going to clubs with bed-head (thinking it looked cool) and women walking around in thick fur boots, despite the year-round tropical climate. But this year it's seniors cruising around with freshly crafted, technicolor art covering all parts of their bodies. Whether it's a Harley insignia on an arm, an elegant rose on an ankle, or a full-color recreation of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel fresco spread between melanoma-covered shoulder blades, local retirees are splashing into the body art scene like a bratty grandchild at the community pool. One thing, though: if the ink isn't done by early-bird special time, it's a definite deal breaker.

When it comes to playing Caribbean music, South Florida radio stations have a lot of competition. It's not like rock or urban formats where anywhere from 2-6 solid competitors exist in the market place at any one time. There are a slew of Caribbean radio stations here (some legal/some illegal) and staying on top of the game is always that much harder. But Riddims 94.5 FM is a station that you can consistently count on to have the top selectors and the best jams. Their DJs like Louie Rockaz of Jah Cuban Sound System know how to smoothly shift between Jah Cure, Tony Rebel, and Beres Hammond without being afraid to throw newer acts like Gyptian and Turbulence into the mix as well. If you can't catch their feed in your car, you can also listen to them online. For lovers of real reggae, soca, bashment, and dancehall, 94.5 FM is definitely the best pirate station in South Florida by far.

Fort Lauderdale has long been called the Venice of America, but even folks who live there hardly ever see it by water ('cept for the ones with boats). This is dumb, because water is romantic, and so is Fort Ladida. Especially in December. The Carrie B. Evening Holiday Light Cruise brings visitors up and down the New River and parts of the Intracoastal while the wintertime pageantry of the town's many rich people is on full display. The boat's got a bar, some snacking options, and a low-key narrator to tune in on when the conversation hits a lull — but the goings-on are so mellow that you can ignore the patter and chat among yourselves. It's breezy out there on the waterways, so sitting close together is a swell idea. The Evening Holiday Light Cruise is a December-only thing, but the Carrie B. runs daytime sightseeing cruises all year — through historic Tarpon River, past the mansions on the Isles, past Pier 66 and into Port Everglades, and then past hundreds of yachts docked near 17th Street. These waterways were the reason Fort Lauderdale was built, and the city's soul still thrums in them. Checking it out is a way more inventive first date option than dinner and a movie. First dates on the Carrie B. tend to lead to second dates elsewhere.

As a franchise, the zombie flick is brainless and relentless, much like the zombie itself. So we may as well make money off them, and that means alerting Hollywood, California, to the marvelous zombie film locations available in Hollywood, Florida. Specifically, the whole downtown. There's an ample supply of zombie-esque transients to work as extras. Half the storefronts are vacant and the other half will close on the cheap rather than suffer another slow night. The condo towers around Young Circle are pitch-black at night, as if their owners had already been gobbled up. Come to think of it, are we sure that real zombies haven't already struck this luckless berg?

If you're going to crash your yacht on a sandbar somewhere, do try to avoid Bermuda (gotta travel through the Triangle) and St. Barth's (the euro is so expensive right now!). Aim instead for Peanut Island, located in the Intracoastal Waterway off Riviera Beach. The 86-acre playground was built in 1918 when the Lake Worth Inlet was dredged and workers needed a place to dump all the dirt. Nowadays, the south side of the island is a family-friendly outpost, known for snorkeling and manatee sightings. The 20 campsites here come with grills, showers, and picnic tables and can be rented for $16.50 a night. The north side, meanwhile, is often jammed with so many boats and beer kegs that it's affectionately referred to as the "Redneck Yacht Club." After receiving 78 calls in a two-month period last year, the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office led a crackdown on the normal weekend gatherings, hoping to reduce the number of topless chicks and cases of alcohol poisoning. But the party carries on! If it's all too much fun in the sun, you can duck into the on-site bomb shelter, built for President Kennedy just in case World War III broke out while he was vacationing in Palm Beach, and now open for public viewing. Then again, you could always find refuge on your lido deck... or just head home via water taxi, which dutifully runs seven days a week from the Riviera Beach Marina.

It's a shame Hunter S. Thompson didn't postpone his suicide long enough to write a sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas set in Hollywood's Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, which as money-glutted monuments to human depravity go is second only to Vegas itself. If it's people-watching you prize, best to arrive around happy hour on a Friday for the spectacle of those droves of elderly gamblers who make a shuffling migration to the parking lot, squinting up at the sun or glancing sideways to monitor the aggressions of the boisterous teens and 20-somethings who come roaring in on tricked-out Toyotas, flashing ersatz bling and reeking of Axe Body Spray, head on a swivel for the coked-out skanks from their Bang Brothers-inspired fantasies. After midnight, revelry careens toward riot, and in the midst of this mess of unholy humanity, a celebrity may materialize. One may even perish. Surely Anna Nicole won't be the last...

It's hard to be a tourist. From the Internet or the information booth on the turnpike, one Everglades tour looks just like the next; one alligator rassler looks no different from another (they each have nine fingers). Holiday Park's fleet of airboats is unique because all the boats have covered passenger compartments. That means you get all of the high that comes with hovering at warp speeds through the river of grass, and none of the wetness that makes you look like you peed your pants doing it. Furthermore, Holiday's guides are mostly local roughnecks who love this land like John Ashcroft loves eagles — and they seem to have a symbiotic relationship with the gators here. Besides being hip to all of the gator nests and hideouts, the guides do a bang-up job during the shows, where they sit on their friends' scaly backs and spread their jaws to basically do an up-close dental checkup. (The gators like it! See? They're smiling!) Beyond these feats, the folks out here on the western edge of BroCo will be happy to rent you a little fishing boat of your own and hook you up with camping trips. The site even has a nifty little general store where you can pick up some trinkets and snacks before you swashbuckle your way through the sawgrass. Mmm, alligator jerky...

When we want to impress visitors, we show them a slice of Florida the way Juan Ponce de Leon encountered it 500 years ago. The beaches will never be the same, of course, but the Everglades have the same silvery light they always had, the same towering clouds, the tropical birds, and, yes, the glowering gators. Best place to get a feel for it is the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation, 17 miles up Snake Road from the Alligator Alley midpoint (Exit 49). First the gators: They're right beside the road, dozing in the shallows that lap against the berm or sunning themselves on the banks. Sometimes they'll even wander onto the two-lane road. Don't be afraid. Alligators are a low-energy, slacker breed who'd rather stay in a sleepy stupor than chase tourists. But don't get overconfident, either — they are carnivores, after all. If you're expecting chickees and bonfires, the reservation may be a bit of a downer. It's more of a modern outpost, with a school, a meeting hall, and a little cafeteria where you can eat fried alligator bits in a rocking chair on a veranda. Best of all is the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum ($6 for adults, $4 for kids), with historical displays and artifacts and a mile-and-a-half boardwalk that takes you right into the wilderness while staying safe from the predators below.

A day in South Florida can be stressful: Billboards. Traffic. Hooters girls who haven't updated their uniforms since 1983, still wearing bright-orange shorts and pantyhose. You need a place where you can go to chill out and catch a sunset. Enter the Loxahatchee River Historical Society: You've got them to thank for maintaining the Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse, a 105-foot-tall landmark overlooking the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the wilds of Jonathan Dickinson Park to the west, visible from 18 miles away. A venture up the stairs and a look-see from the 360-degree platform is breathtaking any time of day, but on the last Wednesday of the month they offer sunset tours.

A 1998 charge of disorderly intoxication didn't stop Fitzroy Salesman from winning election to the Miramar City Commission in 2003. And a 2005 DUI charge resulted in just a 20-month suspension from his official duties. So it's stunning that this battle-scarred politician would have his career toppled by a single brush with 18-year-old Lazavius Hudson. Last Thanksgiving eve, Hudson and his friend were buying sodas at a Winn-Dixie market when they heard Salesman's threats to "shut this bitch down" if management didn't open an express lane. Not to be intimidated, the young men refused to move to the express lane, which triggered Salesman's temper, Hudson's invitation to settle the matter "outside," and, finally, Salesman's pulling a .45-caliber pistol from his waistband. The commish found himself charged with aggravated battery and suspended from his post, which has since been filled by an unarmed commissioner. Maybe it's time Hudson considered a career in politics — he's already proven he's willing to fight official corruption.

A few years ago, selecting Bober as the best anything would have seemed unthinkable. He was, after all, just a weak Hollywood city commissioner ebbing and flowing with Mayor Mara Giulianti's political tide. But a funny thing happened to Bober on the way to mediocrity: He grew a pair. First he got the upper hand over Mara with his ethics reform crusade, and then he took her seat away from her in the January elections, knocking off Hollywood's reigning queen of mean and jolting her lobbyist-led political machine. Instilling hope in his beaten-down city earned Bober big respect, but the real question is what he'll do with his new powers. Too often political upstarts have come in with grand promises only to disappoint mightily (recently ousted Pompano Mayor Kay McGinn comes to mind). Along with the people of Hollywood, we'll be watching.

Pardo is one of those rare politicians who has done more good before gaining elected office than most officials do in their entire careers. Pardo, of Riviera Beach, basically saved the municipal beach at Singer Island from developer Dan Catalfumo and his giant Ocean Mall project: She led the signature-gathering effort to bring about the referendum for a five-story height limit on the beach. The people passed the measure, dooming Catalfumo's plan, which had been approved by a rubber-stamp commission. After beating the commission, Pardo decided to join it; she was elected over incumbent Jim Jackson in March. If she's half as effective in office as she was on the sidelines, great things are in store.

Out in the open, on the dais, is Stacy Ritter, a powerful Broward county commissioner. Slithering behind the scenes is her husband, Russ Klenet, a well-heeled lobbyist who is most famous for selling the commission a lousy touch-screen voting system that wasted millions of taxpayers' dollars. Together they are pretty darn powerful. And awfully damn corrupt. Ritter voted for Vista Health to receive the county's health insurance contract. At the same time, Klenet's firm was working for Vista. While Ritter publicly favored the county's airport manager, URS, Klenet counted them as a former client and internal company records showed he continued to assist the company in its lobbying efforts even after his wife was elected. It's so romantic, really, the way they take care of each other at their respective workplaces. It may not be a priceless marriage, but it's worth something.

The best public restroom in South Florida is a marvel. It's got a gorgeous view of the ocean and is very near to all of Fort Lauderdale's best beach bars. It's a quick walk from both BeachPlace and Las Olas Boulevard. It's also robotic — self cleaning, if you can dig it — and runs on a timer to keep the pissers on task. Also: it doesn't exist. The Fort Lauderdale city commissioner's harmless toilet scheme was derailed last year thanks to a series of harebrained comments from Mayor Jim Naugle, who claimed that the timer-equipped toilet would be used to keep gay men from shagging in the loo. This naturally raised the ire of the non-loo-shagging gay population (which is, you know, pretty much all of them), who were quick to recount all the times their own psyches were irreparably damaged when they stumbled upon heterosex in the city's many non-robotic stalls. And so a debate was had, ugly viewpoints were aired, and Mayor Jim's ceaseless fanning of the flames finally exposed him in public for the attention-hogging, dirty-minded parasite he is. Which means Fort Lauderdale Beach's non-existent toilet is maybe the single greatest shitter in the land — with the possible exception of a very real john in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

This year we have a quote that not only deeply impacted South Florida, but was heard 'round the country. It came from Fort Lauderdale Mayor Jim Naugle, via the Sun-Sentinel. What would you expect from a raving right-wing nut-job who calls himself a Democrat? The man once told New Times that he welcomed high housing prices because poor people could make a living taking care of wealthy homeowners' pets. Here, let's play a game. Guess which of these actual Naugle quotes we chose as the very best:

1. "Who's against tapping someone's phone if they are talking with al Qaeda? Only a crazy, wacko liberal."

2."I'm supposed to subsidize some schlock sitting on the sofa and drinking a beer, who won't work more than 40 hours a week?"

3."I don't use the word 'gay,' I use the term 'homosexual.' Most of them aren't gay. They're unhappy."

And the answer is... Number 3. And the reason it's at the top of the list is that, along with his crusade against the phantom menace of man-on-man bathroom sex, it created such an outrage that Mayor Jim got national attention and has become officially marginalized. Any hope of a decent legacy is dead. Naugle will forever be remembered as "that homophobic mayor." Hope he's happy (or "gay," if that's his preference).

This year we have a quote that not only deeply impacted South Florida, but was heard 'round the country. It came from Fort Lauderdale Mayor Jim Naugle, via the Sun-Sentinel. What would you expect from a raving right-wing nut-job who calls himself a Democrat? The man once told New Times that he welcomed high housing prices because poor people could make a living taking care of wealthy homeowners' pets. Here, let's play a game. Guess which of these actual Naugle quotes we chose as the very best:

1. "Who's against tapping someone's phone if they are talking with al Qaeda? Only a crazy, wacko liberal."

2."I'm supposed to subsidize some schlock sitting on the sofa and drinking a beer, who won't work more than 40 hours a week?"

3."I don't use the word 'gay,' I use the term 'homosexual.' Most of them aren't gay. They're unhappy."

And the answer is... Number 3. And the reason it's at the top of the list is that, along with his crusade against the phantom menace of man-on-man bathroom sex, it created such an outrage that Mayor Jim got national attention and has become officially marginalized. Any hope of a decent legacy is dead. Naugle will forever be remembered as "that homophobic mayor." Hope he's happy (or "gay," if that's his preference).

South Florida is the perversion capital of the nation, and life here is never boring. Our bungled elections have thrown the entire universe into a death spiral. We kill fat and aging widows with no talent and send them to the Bahamas to be buried. We are blessed with a giddy Democratic party that responds to the plight of yesteryear's disenfranchised voters by guaranteeing that the voters of tomorrow will all be disenfranchised equally. We sell more sketchy human growth hormone than any other state in the union, and our mayors are shameless shills for corporate developers. One of the few that isn't corrupt is a blatant homophobe who presides over one of the gayest cities in the nation. Soccer moms' Yorkies are eaten by alligators as the world's ugliest homes and strip malls encroach on the most biodiverse ecosystem in North America. And while all of these weird historical currents mosey along, the biggest newspaper in two counties devotes its front page to the cuteness of puppies and minor consumer skirmishes. If it were a movie, South Florida would be a dystopian laugh riot with the subtlety of Idiocracy, the self-awareness of Pleasantville, and the denouement of Soylent Green. We live in interesting times.

Oh sure. You got a killer deal on that home in Sunrise — so good that it was a little easier to endure the long commute back and forth from the job that lies east. Then gas prices hit $3 and headed for $4. So now you can't afford to circumnavigate this quagmire. Besides, I-595 is a parking lot. The westbound roads on either side are clogged with commuters from Margate and Coral Springs. No, the least of all these traffic evils is to get off at Oakland Park Boulevard and venture straight into the belly of the beast, inching through intersections that during prime time take 15 minutes apiece. Which is why if you're not one of those poor schmucks and you have the choice, you must avoid this street after five; and if you don't have the choice, well...you have plenty of time to sit in traffic and calculate whether you spend more at the fuel pump than you do on the mortgage.

The best sports writing in any anthology is inevitably about the losers. Nothing beats the passion and drama of an athlete or team working ceaselessly toward a dream and falling just short. So South Florida, with our cornucopia of incompetent contenders in virtually every major sport, should be a sportswriter's paradise. The tragedy, the poetry, the cruel irony. And nobody frames the pathetic ineptitude of this once-great region with more heart and optimism (even the strongest optimism runs into realism eventually these days) than Sun-Sentinel columnist Dave Hyde. Hyde's writing also has a passionate curiosity. It might have been this curiosity which brought about one of his best pieces, "Jake Scott: Where's Jake Scott? We Found Him." For the story, Hyde went to Hawaii and tracked down the former Super Bowl MVP Dolphin who is a notorious recluse, living, as Hyde puts it, "In the last state. On the last island. Down the last road. At the last speck of a no-stoplight town before the United States drops into the Pacific Ocean." Actually, Hyde should get an award just for figuring out an excuse to fly to Hawaii on the Sun-Sentinel's dime.

Miami's DJ Irie is the industry standard for what arena DJs are supposed to sound like, and he's the NBA's official DJ, which puts a lot of pressure on our other arena DJs to step their game up. One local jock stands out above the rest of Irie's competition. When the Florida Panthers brought in music director Brian Lenihan two years ago, they thought hiring a house music DJ would be the key to getting fans on their feet. Last year, Lenihan DJ'd and mixed tracks during Panther home games, but fans wanted a more traditional sound. Instead of staying the course, Lenihan has found middle ground and brought back the old-school organ rock. What he still brings from his days as a house DJ is being able to read the energy of the crowd and cue up different rock tunes depending on the situation. Of course you'll hear "Rock, n' Roll Part 2" by Gary Glitter after goals are scored, and Zombie Nation's "Kernkraft 400," the annoying club anthem that's only appreciated in a hockey setting. But he's not afraid to throw in some Tool or Soulja Boy, or some Top 40, which is unheard of in most hockey arenas. He's relatively new to the field but as he stays on top of cutting edge music, Lenihan is already developing a sound that's making him one of the top DJs in hockey.

Miami's DJ Irie is the industry standard for what arena DJs are supposed to sound like, and he's the NBA's official DJ, which puts a lot of pressure on our other arena DJs to step their game up. One local jock stands out above the rest of Irie's competition. When the Florida Panthers brought in music director Brian Lenihan two years ago, they thought hiring a house music DJ would be the key to getting fans on their feet. Last year, Lenihan DJ'd and mixed tracks during Panther home games, but fans wanted a more traditional sound. Instead of staying the course, Lenihan has found middle ground and brought back the old-school organ rock. What he still brings from his days as a house DJ is being able to read the energy of the crowd and cue up different rock tunes depending on the situation. Of course you'll hear "Rock, n' Roll Part 2" by Gary Glitter after goals are scored, and Zombie Nation's "Kernkraft 400," the annoying club anthem that's only appreciated in a hockey setting. But he's not afraid to throw in some Tool or Soulja Boy, or some Top 40, which is unheard of in most hockey arenas. He's relatively new to the field but as he stays on top of cutting edge music, Lenihan is already developing a sound that's making him one of the top DJs in hockey.

With those huge tigress eyes, that expressive yet low-key voice, and her girl-next-door smile, Laurie Jennings is the mother of all news anchors in South Florida. She's also the mother of twin boys, as all the veteran news watchers in Broward and Miami-Dade know. That's what really makes Jennings stand out — she's got a story behind her and she's been around long enough for people to know it. The young star left WSVN-TV after five years for New York City and MSNBC, stayed for a year, and returned to WPLG because she loves South Florida and wanted to start her family here (that's the story, anyway). And who wouldn't want to hang with Dwight Lauderdale, the coolest dude in South Florida history (may he retire in peace)?

We're convinced: before you can become a female news anchor, you are required to attend robot school. Here you and other news anchors are trained to look and act exactly like one another — the same highlights, the same shoulder-length haircut, the same vapid, monotonous voice, which you will then use consistently to describe forces as varied as hurricanes, Iraq, and Diddy's wardrobe. The question is: how did Channel 7 anchor Belkys Nerey escape this evil institution? (We know, she probably charmed her way past the guards; plus, she was probably wearing a really cute outfit to distract them!) Whatever; we're glad she got away, because with her unique tough-Cuban-pixie aesthetic, she helps make WSVN the most watchable newscast in town. Reporters like Carmel Cafiero ("Carmel on the Case") and Howard Finkelstein ("Help Me Howard") bring it home with just the right formula of hard news and kitschy "We're-here-to-help-you-Neighbor" kind of stuff that TV audiences slurp up. The station hit a grand slam with Deco Drive, its locally-produced entertainment show — kind of like Inside Edition with South Beach as the backdrop. Furthermore, as a FOX affiliate, Channel 7 brings us the best national show on network TV — The Simpsons. And we hate to admit it, but it gives us what we want (and want and want): American Idol two nights a week.

Since 1941, Ta-boo has been a bar and bistro for the well-to-do. Sinatra, JFK, and countless socialites have dined there. It's even said that the Bloody Mary was born at Ta-boo, stirred up to soothe a hangover for troubled Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton. Considering its high-society credentials (and address), the fare at Ta-boo is refreshingly unpretentious — there are sandwiches, salads, and even pizzas. The prices, too, are surprisingly accessible: $17.50 for a salmon dinner entree; $12.95 for a bacon-topped cheeseburger at lunch. The decor is tasteful-Old-Florida-vacation-spot-meets-safari, with chairs upholstered in zebra print fabric and plants dripping leaves everywhere. Intricate woodwork adds a dash of Morocco or India into the mix. It's the perfect place to soak in the wealth of Worth Avenue without having to drop a month's salary on, say, a designer shirt.

Well, we've pretty much done it. Gone off and destroyed just about all the natural beauty of this place from the Sawgrass Expressway to A1A. That's why little oases like Plantation Preserve are so treasured. The preserve is an old golf course that was abandoned for years until the city recently renovated it. And give them some credit — they did it in style. Not only is the course one of the best in the county, the 1.5-mile linear park, routinely utilized by nearby residents, is a godsend. Suddenly, just a couple stone's throws from a Publix and strip mall across Broward Boulevard, the visitor is transported into the Everglades (it was all Everglades west of State Road 7 at one time). Herons, ibises, anhingas — you name the bird, it's there. And it's quiet. Whether you want some exercise or just a break from the storm of sprawl living, Plantation Preserve is a good place to do it.

A good weatherperson is so much more than a conveyor of information. He (or she, but in this case, he) should be even more than an expert meteorologist. Especially living in this sunny-one-minute-stormy-the-next part of the country, the best weathercaster should be an expert in the science of human emotion. And Phil Ferro, the main man at 7 News, is smooth enough to deliver even the worst weather news with the warm tone of an acceptable and agreeable stepfather — the kind of guy who might even understand if you told him you totaled the family car trying to impress a girl. Born in Cuba and raised in Miami, the Emmy-nominated Ferro started predicting precipitation in Spanish on Telemundo 51. To hear him call the clouds a couple times a night is to witness a world-class artist working his magic. Even if you're tuning in to learn a devastating hurricane is on its way to your front door, if it's Phil Ferro delivering the news, things aren't so bad.

We booked the last-minute cruise on a tequila-infused whim. But just as the credit card went through, the feeling of dread poured over us: OMG, the Vegas-style shows might be really cheesy! Grannies will surround us at the slot machines! Bartenders, holding us hostage on the ship, could get away with charging $20 a drink! We marched to the port as though it were a death camp. There, however, we saw that half the passengers were college girls in bikinis. Our jaded hearts defrosted when the lovely Romanian waitress brought us three desserts apiece. And we actually snorted with laughter when the on-board comedian did an entire set of jokes about snorkeling and beating his kids. If she'd had guts enough to enter, my sister would have won the Hairy Chest Contest, too. In addition to all that, the ship includes a water slide, a jogging track, a mini-golf course, and a gym. (Ever try yoga while a boat is rocking?) At press time, a two-day Bahamas getaway was going for $389. A five-day run to Jamaica and the Cayman Islands — with a window room — could be had for $479, what you'd otherwise pay in hotel costs alone. As we motored past Cuba, sitting in the hot tub while sipping piña coladas (only $5!), we admired our new luxury watches (bought duty-free!) and cursed ourselves for getting smoked at karaoke by those grannies.

Nobody expected Oscar the Featherless Bird to become a pheenom. When she arrived at the Broward County Humane Society 12 years ago, she was in bad shape (that's right, Oscar's a girl). She was sorely afflicted with what's known as "beak and feather disease," a grinding, degenerative condition that shortens the lifespan and strips an afflicted bird of its plumage. Veterinarians gave the struggling cockatoo an outside chance at living another six months.

The warm-hearted staffers at the Humane Society, impressed by Oscar's indomitable spirit, took her under their wings and made her the shelter's resident mascot.

TLC has done well by Oscar. By now, she has long since outlived all lifespan predictions, and she's become a celebrity. As far as Oscar is concerned, the Humane Society is a booking agency, and it's easy to see why the media flocks to her. Call her an embodiment of the Subtropical Life: she's quirky, often erratic, and she shows a lot of skin.

New Times stopped by for an interview recently and found Oscar exhausted. She had already chatted with another reporter that day, done some video of her latest dance steps for the Ellen DeGeneres Show, and turned down a television request for Jimmy Kimmel Live! But like the true classy celeb she is, Oscar (via her human interpreters) spent a few minutes answering our questions.

NT: In any great horror or sci-fi film there's always a hero and a villain; which character do you associate with most?

Oscar has always been an underdog of sorts, a true champion when facing adversity, so she feels a deep connection with the virtuous heroes of the silver screen.

Which movies do you most identify with?

Her video library is extensive. Oscar has always had a fondness for Hitchcock's The Birds, although she feels conflicted while watching it. And on rainy afternoons, she likes to pull out her old VHS copy of Treasure Island — she's always felt a kinship with Long John Silver's parrot. Had she been born in a different time and place, Oscar's certain that she, too, could have navigated the seas in search of fortune.

Christine Dolen is a busy writer with a busier mind. Her range is large: she can find a funky angle or a weird hook for just about any story, and she is always more interested in celebration than analysis. Maybe half of her writing constitutes real criticism; the rest is an attempt to get the Herald's readership in touch with what's vibrant, exciting, and alive about SoFla theater. To that end, she'll occasionally whip up a sentence that would look more at home in The New Yorker than in a SoFla daily, like this one about the big cheese at The Women's Theatre Project: "This is Meredith Lasher's life: planted atop a 14-foot ladder, she hangs theater lights as she talks about a grant application." No one else in the theater community would have bothered to check the ladder height, but that's Dolen. She doesn't miss a trick. In the name of comprehensive coverage, she began a blog last year (called "Drama Queen," which you can access from www.miamiherald.com) where she posts everything that's important. From dish about new plays or the goings-on at college theaters to a blow-by-blow on The 24 Hour Theatre Project and some righteous bitching about the Carbonells, Christine wants to tell you about it.