Sports & Recreation

White beaches and crystal-clear water are staples around the Palm Beach area, but sprawling Jupiter Beach kicks it up a notch. The streets and city are hidden by a thick barrier of foliage that makes it feel as if you've stumbled onto a secluded tropical island. A wide sand-stretch makes for plenty of perfect places to sun without having to plant your chair so close to some pasty tourist that you can read every word of his John Grisham novel. Jupiter Beach also allows dogs — providing you pick up a doggie bag at one of the beach's boardwalk entrances (and isn't Fido a great way to protect yourself from the pasty tourist's awkward come-on lines?). Sun? Check. Sand? Check. Surf? Check. A sense of seclusion? Check. Sunning on warm shores in solitude? Paradise.

The beaches of Broward County are so densely developed that it's hard to find a strip of sand that's not swarming with sunburned tourists, sand-kicking kids, and football-hurling college students. If it's privacy you prize, come to the beach by 11 a.m., when it's still cheap to park your car in Fort Lauderdale's public lot, just across from the Oasis Café on the beach side of A1A. Drive to the south end to park, near the Yankee Clipper hotel. Grab your lounge chair and start flip-flopping south. You may encounter a few hotel guests, maybe a couple residents of the high-rise condos, but the farther south you go, the more privacy you'll find. Stop before Port Everglades, though, unless you want to swim to the John U. Lloyd Beach State Park across a channel full of zooming boats and crazy-big cruise ships.

Every Wednesday evening, starting around 9:30 p.m., the she-men at Lips host the raunchiest bingo game in South Florida. If you're not up for the 7 p.m. dinner drag show, but want to get your bingo on, then slide into a seat at the bar and order up some drinks. There's no cover charge. Host Misty Eyez starts the competition by informing the after-dinner crowd that if they're approaching bingo, they'd better moan like porn stars. Otherwise, Misty Eyez won't validate the winning cards. "No silent fucks," she informs. Three games commence, with prizes like free brunch or dinner for two at, you got it, Lips. The crowd votes on which bingo patterns they want to play, ranging from the sedate "X" to the suggestive "Inside Square" — at Lips this pattern is renamed "Glory Hole" — to the self-explanatory "Cock-and-Balls." If you can take the bawdy jokes and insults, this just might be the cheapest bingo match around.

With the charming sound of crashing pins, eight plasma-screen TVs, a video game arcade, and nightly family specials (because if a cheese pizza, soda, and two hours of bowling can't make your kids love you again, nothing can), Pompano Bowl is what sweet childhood memories are made of. It's full of families every night of the week, all wearing ugly shoes and lounging on the black couches (you know it's a good bowling alley when it doesn't have those hard plastic chairs). When bowling's appeal wanes, head over to the lounge side — the dark part of the bowling alley, with the red couches instead of black —and grab a beer or something stronger from Joey's Bar & Grill. A beer or two can only improve your game, right?

When FAU decided to create a football program in 1998, the first thing university officials did – before they had a single player or a football field – was hire the team's coach, the face of the program. And who was more qualified to build a team from scratch than Howard Schnellenberger, who had already rebuilt blue-chip programs at the University of Miami and the University of Louisville? The Owls didn't start playing until 2001, but the coach was not shy about his ambition: he wanted a national championship. This year, at 73 years of age, Schnellenberger, who also once coached the Baltimore Colts, proved FAU brass made the right choice. In only its third season in Division 1, the team went 8-5, winning the Sun Belt conference. The Owls became the youngest program ever to be invited to play in a bowl game, a berth they celebrated with a 44-27 victory over Memphis in the New Orleans bowl. Schnellenberger, named conference coach of the year, had done it again.

You're bored with the gym: All you do there is run on the treadmill. You're not a gerbil, dammit. At the SLC Dance Factory in Hollywood, you can sculpt your sexy self without dying of repetition. Ever noticed how ripped most dancers are? That doesn't happen from lifting weights or running in a straight line. Dancers tighten and tone key zones while building endurance. Isn't that what you want? Get your cardio up to speed with SLC's intense Breakdancing class, where you'll grunt, gyrate, and shake whatcha momma gave you to a fly rap soundtrack, featuring jams by Flo Rida, Soulja Boy, and Lil' Jon. On the more titillating side, try SLC's Pole Dancing classes, where the instructors keep you spinning and climbing until your abs look like a frat boy's and you only answer to your new stripper name (that's "Destini," with an "i"). Need to take some junk out of your trunk? Go for Stiletto Cardio night. Have you neglected your core? Swivel your hips to authentic Cuban rhythms in the Azucar! class. After your workout, admire your budding muscle groups while you suck down a drink from SLC's juice bar or munch on a vegan snack from the raw food bar. Take a moment to say goodbye to the treadmill — then scoot your ass over to SLC.

Be sure to pack your macaroni strainer when you set out for a day of canoeing on the Peace River. Here, it's not just the live oak trees and hawks that are the attraction — it's the camel teeth! Yes, that's right — scientists say that from the Eocene Epoch (50 million years ago) to the Pleistocene Epoch (11,500 years ago), our home turf was trampled upon by sharks, dolphins, mammoths, mastodons, and yes, camels. The limestone earth in Central Florida made a comfy resting ground for lots of their dentures, not to mention the occasional giant armadillo part and a whale ear bone or two. During your canoe ride, take some time to set down your beer (yes, you can bring coolers) to hop in and out of the boat and sift through the bottom-dirt to see if you find any such treasures. Because Arcadia is just a three-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale, a two-hour, five-mile canoe trip or a ten-mile half-day paddle can be easily done in a day. (A 16-mile trip is best enjoyed with an overnight stay; Canoe Outpost rents tents, and you're allowed to have campfires on the riverbank.) What's that, you ask? Gator teeth? Although our scaly friends do call the Peace River home (and yes, you'll probably see some), the folks at Canoe Outpost swear you can make them keep their distance by donning "gator beads" — gator-shaped Mardi Gras beads. They're available for sale at check-in.

Billed as "the park dogs ask for by name," Bark Park is two sprawling acres of fun for you and your pooch. There are shade trees for owners to relax under and perhaps read the Sunday paper while keeping a lazy eye on their furry friends. And there's an exercise course so that if Spike doesn't want to play with the other Chihuahuas, he can soar over little fences and pretend he's a horse for the day. Importantly, the acreage is split into two fenced areas: a large space for big dogs which need to run far and wide, and a smaller area for those diminutive guys that might get trampled or attacked while trying to romp with the heftier breeds. Everyday East Lake at Snyder is open for dog swimming, and Labrador retrievers are the unofficial stars of the show. While some dogs only splash around the lake's edge, those yellow, chocolate, and black labs plunge into deep water, pounce on tennis balls, and proudly carry their prizes back to the humans waiting on the sandy banks. And they all know: Life off the leash is good.

December 16, 2007. Overtime. It's third down and eight, and Dolphins quarterback Cleo Lemon is lined up in the shotgun with four receivers stretched wide. Little-known third-year player Greg Camarillo goes into motion, crossing left in front of Lemon. The ball is snapped — Camarillo shoots forward off the line and drops an almost imperceptible stutter with his left foot that freezes Baltimore cornerback Jamaine Winborne just long enough for Camarillo to turn up the field into a short post route. He has two yards on Winborne, nothing more, but it's a sufficient window for Lemon to squeeze a dart right into Camarillo's waiting hands, perfectly in stride. In a moment, Camarillo — the undrafted nobody from Stanford, who never caught a touchdown pass in college or the pros — is gone, zinging down the field 64 yards and giving the Dolphins their first and only win of the 2007 NFL season. It was a gorgeous play, and no one, not even the vaunted Baltimore defense, saw it coming. Long after the Dolphin's horrid '07 season is just a ruddy splotch in the annals of pro football history, fans will look back at that game and remember Camarillo's brilliant performance.

When the FAU Owls earned their first-ever conference championship and bowl game appearance in the 2007 season, sports pundits praised coach Howard Schnellenberger for his return to form and flawless bowl record. Respect to "Old Schneller" is definitely due (see Best Couch), if for nothing other than his hand in developing sophomore quarterback Rusty Smith. In just his first whole season, Smith's stats were godly: 3,688 yards, 32 touchdowns, and only nine interceptions, posting a near-perfect quarterback rating of 141.6. In the New Orleans bowl, Smith absolutely manhandled Memphis, picking apart their beleaguered secondary for 336 yards and five touchdowns. Yes, his stats are impressive, but what makes Smith scary is his poise in the pocket and his game intelligence. He learns fast and seems to improve from mistakes almost immediately. Considering Smith is only a sophomore and has at least two more years of college ball left to continue to develop, he could be bound for a few more bowl wins with FAU — and someday the NFL.

He downed Ray Mercer in one minute, 10 seconds. Bo Cantrell fell in 18 ticks. He skewered Tank Abbott in just three quarters of a minute, and that was with the ref stopping the fight twice. Yep, Perrine's own Kimbo Slice is a fighter like no other; a brutish, hulking Neanderthal with a preternatural aptitude for beating ass and scaring the bejesus out of folks with his trademark bald pate and hobo-style beard. Whether it's in the ring for his heretofore-short professional career or in the street where he brutalized suckers for cash, Slice (real name Kevin Ferguson) transforms into a machine of war once he lifts those giant pendulums he calls fists. He's grown a loyal and equally rabid following that pines for Slice's furious flailing like crackheads jonesing for a fix. Slice needs to battle some tougher opponents before he ascends to the upper echelon of cage fighting, but we'll certainly enjoy seeing him continue to pulp faces on his way up.

Oh, this is a tough one. They're all so good! Blake Ahearn, Alexander Johnson, Joel Anthony, Kasib Powell, Stephane Lasme — what a stellar group of ballers. Nope, the Celtics have nothing on these guys... OK, kidding aside: there's only one winner here and it's Dwyane Wade. There isn't another Heat player that can even be considered. In the past, Wade played with marquee-worthy guys like Lamar Odom, Gary Payton, and Shaq. Now there's...Who? Please don't say Udonis Haslem; love his heart, but he's no star. Frankly, Wade hasn't played like a star lately either. Some games this past season he had more turnovers in the fourth quarter than points. You wondered if he spent so much time acting in commercials that he forgot how to play the game. Or you blamed it on the injuries. Whatever the reason, you can bet all that embarrassment has Wade motivated for next year. Expect big things from D-Wade. You can't keep a good man down forever.

You could drive right by the Richard Giusti jogging path without noticing it. It's not much to look at — benches, trees, and a big wall dividing it from the neighboring apartment complex — and it certainly isn't sprawling. But upon closer inspection, you'll find that it's genius. The path is a self-contained, gravel-paved mile that winds around itself like a giant snake. Signs and 20 workout stations are positioned along the way, encouraging joggers to stop and do chin-ups, sit-ups, and any other kind of -ups you can imagine. Strategically planted pine trees shield joggers from the scorching sun. Simple in design, the place offers an easy way to measure your exertion ("You fix dinner — I'm exhausted from the eleven-and-a-quarter miles I ran today!") and stay safely visible at all times. Bonus: Check out an eclectic collection of speed-walking regulars, like the tiny woman who walks with a bag of trail mix and feeds the squirrels. Fitness and entertainment, what could be better?

There's an obscure little footnote in baseball called the "Rule 5 draft." Let's say a Major League team has a promising player toiling away in its minor league system and never calls him up to the bigs. Opposing teams, salivating over the guy's potential, can draft him under Rule 5 — but there's a catch: they have to use him in the majors right away, making him active on their elite 25-man roster. It's a gamble. Most athletes called up this way can't handle the leap. Then there's Dan Uggla. The second baseman had been underused by the Arizona Diamondbacks (and their minor league franchise, the Yakima Bears) when the Marlins swiped him away under Rule 5. In his very first year on the team (2006), Uggla made the All-Star game and placed third in Rookie of the Year voting. Teammate Hanley Ramirez beat him out, but that's OK — the blue-eyed, 28-year old Uggla isn't the guy who hogs the spotlight; he's the workhorse who, almost daily, hammers in three runs or doubles in the bottom of the tenth to win the game. Last year, he finished the season with 31 homers, 113 runs, and 88 RBIs. This season he started off struggling, but began posting strong numbers after sportswriters slagged him off. (Haters!) And you gotta respect the way he deals with the drunken fools (Mets fans) who inevitably show up heckling, "Hey Uggla! You're Ugg-lay!" Unshakable, he usually responds by smacking a ball over the fence.

While you're speeding down State Road 84, you might be too busy honking at that idiot in the red sedan to notice the simple sign for Secret Woods Nature Center. Then you'd never know that there's a surprising glimpse of beautiful wilderness nestled right at the heart of urban South Florida. Weave your way out of rush hour traffic and explore one of Secret Woods' nature walks. New River Trail is a 3,200-foot boardwalk exploration of the south fork of the New River. Laurel Oak Trail is a 1,200-foot, ground-level, wood-chipped trail through an oak hammock. There are informational signs with snippets of wildlife info on each trail, and plenty of benches, in case you didn't get your fill of sitting at the office. You can also cool your heels on Butterfly Island, a flora-filled alcove that baits a colorful array of the winged things.

It might be the only hockey clip you saw all year, from February 10, in Buffalo, as the Panthers took on the Sabers and Olli Jokinen was speeding down the wing toward the corner. Right winger Richard Zednik was coming from behind the goal to the same corner. Jokinen got hit and flipped upside-down. By horrible chance, one of his skates caught Zednik across the throat, slicing his external carotid artery, spewing blood onto the ice like the famous elevator scene in The Shining. Zednik, one tough Slovak, stood up, covered his potentially fatal gash, and skated to the bench. He was rushed into surgery, where doctors saved his life. Zednik missed the rest of the season, but the Panthers missed the playoffs anyway, and his single act of badassery was enough to ensure him the New Times pick for best Panther.

Poor picky picnicker picking a picnic place! Fret no more — John U. Lloyd is clearly the picnic capital of Broward. Just look at the numbers: In addition to seven pavilions with running water, electric outlets, and barbecue grills, the park's got 300 picnic tables. But then there's always the Picnicker's Dilemma: what to do after we eat? How about... build sandcastles on the 2.5-mile beach? Watch cruise ships come and go through the inlet? Take a 45-minute hike on the nature trail? Fish from the jetty? Shore dive or snorkel? Look for manatees hiding out in Whiskey Creek? (You can walk throughout this sea cow sanctuary, or rent a kayak if you please.) Is that enough for ya? Oh — we forgot to mention the most convenient part about picnicking: You don't even have to pack your own lunch — hot food, beer, and wine are sold on-site at the Loggerhead Café.

At the extreme eastern extremity of Oakland Park Boulevard, the street terminates on the water with a roundabout surrounded on one side by an attractive stand of trees and on the other by an overpriced monstrosity of a condominium complex. Though not exactly an eyesore, the decadent L'Hermitage is still a building where no building should be. If the huge, Borg-ish edifices all along this part of the Atlantic hadn't shrunk the beach to its current 20-something-foot state of abject puniness, the flora that could thrive here would open onto the most idyllic piece of shoreline in Fort Lauderdale. As it is, the beach looks hopelessly forlorn; an ever-shrinking sandbar that gets no help from either the ocean or this unnecessarily baroque concrete behemoth. The inconvenient truth is that the whole ugly business will be underwater soon enough. But as consolations go, that one's bittersweet at best.

Whenever you hit the courts at Central Park in Plantation, you can expect a showdown on the main courts. The competition at this West Broward park is fierce — folks that come out take their basketball seriously. It's not exactly the Rucker in Harlem, but dunks, olly-oops, and high-flying theatrics happen here all the time, and if you find yourself on the center court playing at night under the lights, the ante is upped considerably. Starting around 5:30, the after-work crowd begins to show up and mix in with area teenagers. By 6:30, the courts swell as the skilled big boys appear and fast-paced ball begins, with plenty of smack talk and highlight-reel style action. It's just as fun to watch these games as it is to play. Participants can expect to get a little banged up, but as long as you're smart, it should be an essentially injury-free experience.

In the halcyon 1980s, our parents would ditch us kids after eating at a Chinese restaurant by saying, "Whoops! Locked our keys in the car!" Whereupon they would send us on a mission to walk two miles home, break in the window to fetch a spare set of keys, and walk back. This allowed them a full child-free hour or two of sipping mai-tais at the bar. Although this dirty trick may still come in handy, it would behoove you to remember that today's savvy kids know how to file child abuse complaints on the Internet. Hence, our parents' other maneuver: dropping us off at the Rapids Water Park — then a simple manmade hill with four yellow water chutes that dumped into a pool at the bottom. This glorified Slip 'n' Slide, was to us a perfect universe, fueled by adrenaline and ruled by an army of 18-year-old lifeguards. Now 30 years old, the Rapids has morphed into a serious aqua playground, with 29 water slides, including Big Thunder (sit in a four-person tube and drop into a giant funnel, much like being flushed down a toilet bowl) and Black Thunder (same concept, but in the dark). True, the $31.95 admission price sure isn't chump change, but Disney water parks cost $71 these days and babysitters are basically miniature extortionists. Besides, this way, your kids need not be "ditched" — they will joyously abandon you to frolic in the wave pool, cross a river on "ice floes," and take a seven-story drop on the Pirate's Plunge. Oh — did you actually want your kids to come back? Good luck with that!

All you hear is the constant barrage of gunfire. All you see is insurgents. Their faces are covered with handkerchiefs; their hands clutch black rifles; ammo is stashed on their belts. Reball Madness looks a lot like Iraq... if Iraq featured a snack bar that sold Hot Pockets. Inside this massive warehouse, opposing teams shoot reballs — like paintballs that don't break and splatter — at each other while trying to avoid gunfire by sliding on squishy green turf and hiding behind inflatable pyramids. Referees keep an eye out for fairness and safety, so you get all the adrenaline-pumping excitement of battle without any of the pesky death and destruction. Awesome! Reball is perhaps most challenging during a game of Battle Ball, when there's a mission that needs to be accomplished — say, one team has to move "the President" to safety. For this, organizers will set up gunner forts and wooden barricades and even unleash fog in the room. (I know! We said it was awesome!) Although reball, at $45 for a four-hour session, works out to be cheaper than paintball, a word to the uninitiated: getting hit hurts just as much!

There are poker rooms all over South Florida where wannabes can grind out flops, rivers, and turns as the hold 'em craze spreads to all walks of life. But one casino beats the others like Johnny Chan beats the donkeys who believe a chip and a chair are all they need to be the next World Series champ. Pompano Park is just a nice place to sit and gamble all day. It has comforting wooden walls that make it seem more like a captain's lounge than a poker room, large televisions playing every sport on earth, and top-shelf drinks available from a bar that could stand on its own merits. The food is good, the dealers and most players are friendly, and there are attractive young ladies in red jerseys who will massage your back for luck.

Think fast: Who was the only Apostle to die a natural death? Antifreeze often contains what common food item? Which popular facial fashion accessory in the 18th century was made out of mouse hair? If you answered John, honey, and false eyebrows, in that order, you could probably clean up at "pub quiz," a quaint British tradition that involves booze and general knowledge questions and perhaps a round of "name that tune." Every third Sunday of each month, shortly after 7:30 p.m., the tiny King's Head Pub in Sunrise hosts a brilliant pub quiz. A saucy Brit named Neil reads the questions, and he's even kind enough to repeat them. Teams are limited to five people (and text messaging for help is NOT allowed). There's space for about a dozen teams. Grab your favorite science geek, newshound, sports addict, and pop culture maven and go early to stake out a spot. Winners get a $100 tab good for drinks or food.

It wasn't just a bad year for the Miami Dolphins, it was the worst in the storied franchise's history. Although every pro sports team in South Florida had a bad year (all but the Panthers finished dead last), no team was as pathetic as the lowly Fins at 1-15 with their only win coming at home in overtime against the almost-as-bad Baltimore Ravens. The two highest-profile rookies, quarterback John Beck and wide receiver Ted Ginn Jr., had more blooper-reel moments than breakthroughs, but the draft class of 2007 was not a complete waste. Center Samson Satele, from the University of Hawaii, was one of the team's silent stars. He became the first rookie in team history to start every game at center, and before running back Ronnie Brown went out for the year with a knee injury, the team was having some success running behind Satele's flowing dark locks. The Dolphins may not make a huge turnaround this year — they still have to play the Patriots twice every season — but at least they have a solid center to build around. Now if only he had someone to snap the ball to.

For fans of marksmanship, the right gun range is a necessity. We've all been through this: You're new to town, or to firearms, so you pop into a local range. What you expect to find is a friendly dude who wants to take your cash in exchange for lane rental. What you actually find is painfully snarky, buy-a-gun-here-or-we-don't-care-about-you attitude. Well, those days are over. For purists, stepping foot into a corporate range feels wrong. At first. But take a private lesson at the Bass Pro Shop's Redhead Range and you'll be a changed soul. In addition to being refreshingly friendly, their shooting staff is outsourced, so they don't care if you buy a gun on location or not. They just want to correct everything from your breathing to your posture by the time you leave. Also, as long as you bring factory-issue ammo (no re-loaded or steel core/steel case) you don't have to purchase your bullets on site. (Plus it's really fun to use their digital target distance devices — you feel terribly high tech.) Maybe best of all, Bass wasn't grandfathered in under old codes like most neighborhood ranges in Florida, so they have a top notch ventilation system; you'll breath easier knowing that lead and other ammo byproducts stay at the range when you leave. And if you're not in the mood for your pistol or rifle — bring your own weapon, there are no rentals — you can try your luck at archery in the fully automated bow and arrow room. Competitive lane pricing ($10) and inexpensive eye/ear protection ($1, or bring your own) top off this joint's credentials; what keeps us going back is the friendly staff.

Amidst all the embarrassment and frustration that Dolphins fans felt in 2007, no individual was a bigger letdown than Joey Porter. He came to town with a mean snarl and a Super Bowl ring that he won with the Steelers. It cost the Dolphins $32 million to snag the loud-talking linebacker after Pittsburgh cut him, but it sounded great in theory: bring in a dominant outside force to line up opposite Defensive Player of the Year Jason Taylor. Well, lots of things are good in theory and end with good people getting ripped off; see Reaganomics. Porter was like that, and the Dolphins defense ended up abhorrent despite the work of Taylor. And Porter was involved in a few off-the-field controversies: he jumped a Bengals lineman at a blackjack table in Las Vegas, he passed out offensive slurs like Christmas cards, and his pit bulls got loose and killed a horse. Still, Miami fans could have lived with all that if he'd just helped the team win.

He's a legend — and a loser. Subtract the championship year, when he took over the Heat from Stan Van Gundy, and Pat Riley has had an atrocious decade. Subtract Dwyane Wade's heroics in 2006 and Riley hasn't won a playoff series in this century. He's coached some of the best players the world has seen, yet he makes amateurish personnel decisions (Ricky Davis? Jason Williams? Are you kidding?). With all his early success with the Lakers, Riley earned the right to relax, yet he seemed to get tenser each season. And with good reason: This year he managed to put one of the worst teams in league history on the floor. It was so bad that he fired himself (for the second time). Yet even as he showed his flaws as a coach, he earned our respect. Night after night he was courtside coaching his terrible team like the playoffs were at stake. He went down with the sinking ship. And for that we give a tip of the hat to a man we'll never quite understand.

Its coaching ranks are loaded with former college players, and the games can be as intense as anything you'll see on Sunday television. The American Youth Football League has 14 traveling teams and hundreds of players in seven age and weight groups, ranging from 75-pound peewees to high-school-aged unlimiteds. And since it's in South Florida, which produces a ton of gridiron talent, it's got some of the best youth football in the country. You think Little League baseball is exciting? Please. AYFL kids work twice as hard, and so do the coaches and parents. Football moms (and dads) put their more publicized counterparts on the soccer field to shame — and it shows at Saturday game time.

Before you moved to Florida, you caressed travel guides. They showed exotic, beachside locales with magical tiki bars and plush lounge chairs. There were waterfalls pouring into swimming pools and legions of non-opinionated cocktail waitresses just waiting to bring the imaginary you another splendid blended concoction. So you moved here. Then you found out that those picturesque brochures were just bait. Being a resident doesn't give you the privilege to hop into those multi-million dollar resort settings; you're supposed to use the city pool, just like you did back home in Scranton. Phooey on that. Now we at New Times don't support trespassing, breaking and entering, or any other form of illegal act. But if you happen to stay at the Harbor Beach Marriott Resort & Spa and then lose your room key, we suggest that you enter its luscious pool paradise from the beach entrance. And tell folks who ask that you've just arrived from a city with a familiar but boring-sounding name, like Des Moines. Nobody wants to pester people from Des Moines with questions. They are certain that you have it hard enough already. This frees you up to explore the best celebrity-grade amenities in Broward and Palm Beach, like the 8,000-square-foot tropical lagoon pool — you can't miss it, it's conveniently situated between the waterfall and the open-air bar. Stake a claim on any of the ultra-squishy, sun-worship-worthy lounge chairs while you flag down a waitress. (Insist on paying cash and tip generously.) And when you're ready for a change of scenery, tuck yourself away in one of the many secluded Jacuzzi oases, make friends with folks who rented a private cabana, or grab a snack from the upscale cafeteria. Finally, you're living the Florida dream.

Shaq had a decent run in Miami. It was just a bit longer than it should have been. The guy generally played half the season and didn't exactly shine come playoff time, but he brought victories with him and the Heat might not have won a crown without him. Still, by the end of last season, when the Chicago Bulls crushed the Heat in the opening round of the playoffs, it was obvious that Shaq wasn't the team's future anymore, and certainly wasn't worth his $20 million-plus salary. Ideally, Pat Riley would have unloaded the big fella and started rebuilding afresh this year, but instead Riley waited until midseason, when all was already lost, to send the Diesel to Phoenix for Shawn Marion. Better late than never, though. At least now the team is looking at a lottery draft pick — start praying for Michael Beasley — and some salary cap space to help it get out of the gutter.

Throughout history and film noir archives, there are hundreds of creative ways to dispose of that most awkward bit of evidence, a body. Just as the Mob is synonymous with the cement-shoe swimming lesson, the Everglades drop-off is a South Florida staple. There are many more things you can do with dying flesh in a region with access to oceans, swamps, landfills, and Rush Limbaugh, but for the killer with pride — the kind who likes a trophy to show what a big man he is — there's only one place to go: Gray Taxidermy, the world's largest marine taxidermist. Just as Captain Bill Gray did more than 50 years ago, Gray's will turn your dead body into a work of art that you'll proudly prop up in any den, dining room, or dorm. Whether you killed a tiny, colorful character or a gigantic monster with man-eating jaws, Gray's will give you a reproduction that looks like it just came from the water. Note: For readers looking for the best way to dispose of a human body, the answer is definitely feeding it to Rush Limbaugh.

Some people want a yoga class that will make them sweat buckets or work their muscles so hard they'll be walking like a bowlegged cowboy all week. But if you're just looking to relax, mentally and physically, while getting a moderate workout, Yoga Warehouse has the formula. The yoga style is Hatha, which means there's emphasis on breathing exercises (that's pranayama to the yoga elites). The classes take place in an airy warehouse space that's cooled by fans. The vibe is friendly and intimate, with room for only about a dozen students. Most of the regulars are focused on enjoying the practice rather than showing off with complex strength postures and tortuous balancing poses. That is, until a train comes rumbling by on the tracks just outside.

If a middle initial in your name does, in fact, make you classier, Stanley C. Panther, the mascot for the Florida Panthers, is the classiest cat you'll ever meet. As he works the crowds at BankAtlantic Center in Sunrise with his permanently wide eyes and frozen grin, he's the silent type. He lets his six-foot-six (on skates) frame, furry brown coat, and Panthers sweater do the talking for him. And whatever he's doing, it seems to be working at least a little bit: though the Panthers didn't make the playoffs, they were the only major pro franchise from South Florida that didn't finish dead last this year. Now Stanley opens up to New Times about what it's like to stalk the arena every night and his thoughts on the rough times sports fans have had recently.

NT: You're constantly interacting with South Florida sports fans; how would you describe them overall? 

South Florida sports fans are by far the best in the business!  I've visited many other cities in my travels and I can honestly say that no one holds a candle to our fans!  Though not all South Florida sports fans are native Floridians, it is quite comforting knowing that those who truly are diehard fans would stop at nothing to show their support.  As for the folks who put on that "other jersey" once or twice a year... no comment.

Do you have a favorite B-movie or horror movie or sci-fi flick? 

I must say that being from the Everglades, SuperCroc was quite the thriller! 

Do you have any guilty pleasure movies? 

The movie Zoolander never gets old... plus, I can relate to being "Really, really, ridiculously good-looking!" 

 And finally, Stanley, if you were to star in a B-movie, what would it be about, and what would it be called? 

It would probably be in the form of an independent documentary that chronicles my daily activity in a single week.  Due to my demanding work schedule, I would foresee it being a three-part series comparable to the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Star Wars, and The Godfather...only better.