People & Places

Being a very green mode of transportation, bicycling tends to appeal to the same people who believe in recycling. So why is it so damned hard to find a used bike? Well, it's not anymore — at least not for those who've discovered the Bicycle Fix, a little shop at the corner of Federal Highway and NE 26th Street that opened late last year. Behind this venture is Jason Deal, a young mechanic who can bring a bike back from the grave — at considerable savings for customers, to boot. But that's not nearly Deal's greatest act of heroism. The young entrepreneur donates a large number of refurbished bikes to humanitarian groups, which in turn distribute the bikes in poor nations. Long before the earthquake struck Haiti, Deal was sending bicycles there; some of his wheels have also made it to Africa. So while the Bicycle Fix doesn't have a slick interior, it does have passion and purpose — and that makes cyclists want to reward it with their business.

Rock 'n' Roll was the most complex play of the season — a serious meditation on the intersection of politics, ideology, music, and freedom at the end of the Soviet era. Basically: Velvet Underground, meet Velvet Revolution. Set in both crumbling Soviet Czechoslovakia and the home of a jaded English Marxist, Rock 'n' Roll followed numerous people through 30 years of upheaval and argument and in some moments seemed as big and full of mystery as the era it documented. A hyperwordy play, Rock 'n' Roll was made accessible through a loving, whip-smart, and bottomlessly sensitive production that found two brilliant actors — Antonio Amadeo and Laura Turnbull — doing their best work in several seasons, and one brilliant actor, Gordon McConnell, boiling all of Marxism's bright dreams and grim failures down to a low, angry growl.

You've figured out this much about Sawgrass Mills Mall: By the time you exit the mall, your discounts must outweigh the pains. Sure, for bargain shoppers, Sawgrass Mills Mall is mecca — more than 300 stores. But when the discounts are dismal, when the only clothes on sale are size XXXL, you'll need a three-day recovery from this four-hour trip. The potential pitfalls are many. Your trigger-happy wallet can force you to haul heavy dishes around a retail space of 2.3 million square feet. Sure, you can land three new T-shirts, but you have to park essentially in Boston. You may save 100 bucks on designer jeans, but the mall is crowded, the restrooms sparse, and four people run over your feet with shopping carts. And not one apologizes. You have sore limbs, stubbed toes, and the emotional suffering that comes from when you almost pee your pants. Is it worth Nordstrom, Saks, BCBG, Neiman's, and Barney's? Or Guess, Nike, American Eagle, Ralph Lauren, and Reebok? Time to count the discounts. Before leaving, you may try to unwind at the Rainforest Café, where the fake rain droplets don't mask the screams of children.

Gotta give it to the big fella this year. DeFede, the former Miami New Times and Herald columnist, is one of the few TV reporters still doing real investigative work. He's also about as up on local and state politics as anyone you'll meet. But what he'll best be remembered for this year isn't so much his scoops or his in-depth reports but the questions. When Ponzi wife Kim Rothstein gave a planned speech after her husband, Scott, pleaded guilty to overseeing a $1.2 billion scam, DeFede asked her, "When did Scott tell you he was a crook?" He followed that with, "The money he stole — did you have fun with it?" Some might find them mean-spirited, others might question whether they were fair or professional, but they were exactly the questions a lot of people following the Rothstein affair wanted to ask. And they were pure DeFede in all his rabble-rousing and populist-leaning glory. Alas, DeFede's moment was a bit overshadowed by what happened next: A fight broke out between Kim's bodyguard, Joe Alu, and WSFL/Sun-Sentinel reporter Jack Hambrick during which the much smaller reporter slammed the muscular and tattooed Alu into a planter. Ah, just another day covering South Florida.

The first time we spotted that guy in the chicken suit on 17th Street, it was August. It was a diabolical way to lure customers, really, by exploiting this desperate soul in such heat. Stay strong, Chicken Dude. Some time later, he was minus the chicken head, leaning against the Harbor Shops water fountain, smoking. A pack of scruffy, mean-looking kids ridiculed him with cruel laughter. But Chicken Dude just smiled, Zen-like, enjoying the last few drags of his cigarette and the cool air on his sweaty brow. More recently, he has taken his smoke breaks at his work station — the sidewalk in front of the Embassy Suites — and in that mode, he does not wave. Lately, the chicken head has come off as often as on; perhaps the stress of the job has made him a chain smoker. And there's no trace of that Zen spirit at the fountain months ago. His expression is twisted with disgust and despair. Don't begrudge him; he's entitled to every bit of it, poor fellow. Violent and ingenious methods to avenge his humiliation have certainly occupied those smoke breaks. In one possible scenario, the Chicken Dude, in full costume, takes offense to a remark by his boss and throttles him, in full view of the Chicken Grill surveillance cameras. By the time he's out of jail, the Chicken Dude has become a YouTube celebrity and a hero to recession-ravaged Americans. Police would find the chicken suit, still reeking of sweat, on the shoulder of some road, and the Chicken Dude would be free at last.

Whether you're on the hunt for Madame Bovary, a Maurice Sendak coffee-table book, or the latest Twilight saga page-turner, Bookwise probably has a gently used copy tucked where you can actually find it — no small feat, considering there are more than 75,000 volumes in stock. If the store's plain exterior and humming fluorescent lights don't scream "you never need to enter a Barnes & Noble again!," half-off paperbacks and autographed Walker Percy novels might do the trick. As in a collector's home, the titles are organized lovingly and with attention to detail, with sizable sections devoted to classics, film, business, politics, New Age, children's books, and more. The "Granny's Bookcase" is worth a look for rare, old finds. Sorry, neat freaks — some overflow is piled in aisles, but Bookwise is spacious enough to accommodate, even providing some comfy chairs so you can take that tome for a test read.

Just a two-hour drive from South Florida, Everglades City would be a one-horse town if it had a horse. But the preferred vehicle of locomotion here requires a paddle, not spurs. This "city" — made up of a couple of small hotels, a few restaurants, and a hell of a lot of water — doesn't resemble a city in anything but name. It's essentially a launching-off point from the world as we know it: Step off dry land and float along on aquatic highways winding among the 10,000 islands the place is famous for — hummocks of oyster shell, coral, and mangrove with names like Rabbit Key, Osprey Nest, and Sandfly Pass. Adventurous kayakers can download a GPS map and get semi-lost for days; the less intrepid might settle for a leisurely half- or full-day guided paddle courtesy of Everglades Adventures (with a stop for lunch), which also leads moonlight, fishing, and naturalist tours. But even committed landlubbers feel pleasantly estranged here: sipping a gin and tonic over the antique pool table at the Rod and Gun Club, diving into a bowl of stone crab claws and plates of grouper fingers at City Seafood, or pondering what's in the spice mix that fires up Camellia Street Grill's deep-fried corn on the cob. Whatever's got you tied up in knots these days, you'll find easy instructions here for slipping free of your bondage.

In the sportswriting game, features and profiles are always nice, but nothing racks up points like breaking news. And by this standard, the Miami Herald's Jeff Darlington is South Florida's leading scorer. Whether it's who the Dolphins are going to trade (starting center Samson Satele), which coach is joining the staff (Mike Nolan), who's about to get cut (Joey Porter), who got an offseason DUI (Ronnie Brown), or how Bill Parcells negotiates with Ricky Williams (via Post-It note in the middle of the practice field, apparently), Darlington gets the story. And he usually gets it first. His sources — both named and anonymous — are widespread and accurate. His reporting is efficient. And his writing is effective. He's also a regular on local radio (The Joe Rose Radio Show) and several national television shows (ESPN's First Take, Outside the Lines, and NFL Live), so Darlington often delivers South Florida's most important sports stories to the rest of the country. In our fantasy sportswriter draft, Jeff Darlington is a guaranteed first-round pick.

Well, you just about have to be rich to eat at the swank, over-the-top eatery at the Galleria Mall on Sunrise Boulevard. It ain't cheap. That's probably one reason Scott Rothstein, the big-spending lawyer who turned the town upside down with his $1.2 billion Ponzi scheme, liked to eat there so much. It was one of the many ways he showed people that he was the man who should be given sums of money from well-heeled investors. Rothstein, you see, surrounded himself with gaudy things like gold toilets, matching $1.5 million sports cars, and ridiculously expensive dinners with friends at the Grille to create the illusion that he was Midas himself. And it was at the Capital Grille where he wined and dined some of those investors who handed him great sums of money that Rothstein promptly stole. And that's the thing: Just about all of Rothstein's victims are extremely wealthy, so wealthy that it seems most people don't feel sorry for them. In fact, the greed from not only Rothstein but his victims is so monumental that there is clamoring for them to trade in their truffle fries and wagyu beef carpaccio at the Capital Grille for the fine cuisine served in our federal centers of detention.

Face it, there's no such thing as a painless bikini wax. But the folks at Bliss, the W Hotel's super-chic spa, deserve credit for getting close. The wax they use is aromatherapeutic (betcha didn't know that word existed!), melts at a low temperature, and can be used on even really short hairs. Plus it's a cool shade of blue, so at least there's something amusing to distract you from the inevitable. Kudos to Bliss for also eliminating three major downfalls of waxing: 1) redness, 2) the ruining of fancy panties (they give disposable undies to everyone), and 3) the embarrassment of describing what we want done. (A "Look Out Down Below" menu tastefully lays out every option from "The Love Triangle" to "My Bare Lady." Prices range from $35 to $70.) The best part is the relaxation room loaded with snacks; there's nothing like a smorgasbord of brownie and blondie bites to make a bikini wax bearable.

Sure, all you biceps-curling, muscle-loving junkies could break a sweat at any old gym in South Florida — but at Gold's Gym on Commercial Boulevard, every cardio machine will not be taken during rush hour when the business day ends; the sauna always works; and the gym contract isn't as binding as a marriage certificate. This facility has all the requisites — new cardio machines, complimentary classes in Boot Camp, Cardio Kickbox, and Zumba — plus a few extra-special touches. For instance, the staff is friendly (no frowning desk clerk hovering over you when it's ten minutes to close). The spinning room has black walls with neon decoration (how awesome is riding in the dark?). The agreements are reasonable (you pay your last month with your first, so simply give 60 days' notice and you're out). On top of all this, the cardio machines have iPod hookups (so your battery will never go dead again), and Gold's understands the ladies (there's a women-only workout area).

The 1.5-mile elevated boardwalk that winds through 100 acres of man-made wetlands in western Boynton Beach is a rare example of the philanthropic trumping the acquisitive. Rather than sell out to developers, Ted and Trudy Winsberg, owners of Green Cay Farm, who ran a thriving pepper farm on these grounds before they retired in 2000, came up with an alternate plan. They leased 15 acres to Farming Systems Research (producers of Green Cay Produce), which still grows tomatoes, squash, beets, carrots, turnips, lettuces, cucumbers, eggplants, and more — for research and to sell to subscribers. The Winsbergs sold the remaining land to Palm Beach County at a rock-bottom price for use as a park, bird-watching attraction, and water reclamation project: The wetlands act as a natural filter and replenish groundwater. That's the backstory, but the tale being told daily around that boardwalk is constantly evolving — dozens of species of glades-loving birds, mammals, and reptiles congregate, and many get active when the sun sinks behind the pines and local photographers arrive to set up their tripods. The muted sunsets here are spectacular even on cloudy days; there's so much life skimming between the stray gold and pink threads reflecting off these aquatic surfaces. Metaphorically, the sun may be setting permanently on scenes like this in South Florida — and that only makes an evening stroll more poignant.

Once, at a Jamaican resort, a man asked artist Georgette Pressler to paint his "downstairs business" to look like Dino the Dinosaur from The Flintstones. She politely refused, but only because of the "creepy glare" in his eyes. To Pressler, the human body is a worthy canvas, no matter what its permutations. She has painted Playboy bunnies and pregnant bellies, all with an eye toward making the subject adore herself a little more. "Self-love, that's what body art teaches," she says. This art isn't just for half-naked girls in a cage. For around $125 an hour, you can get a unique painting, plus hairstyling, makeup, and a photographer to capture the moment. And don't worry, it doesn't tickle — much.

Alu, a Sunrise commissioner who doubles as a state prosecutor, had one hell of a year. First, we learned that she helped the FBI in a criminal investigation that netted Broward County School Board member Beverly Gallagher and County Commissioner Josephus Eggelletion, among others. She also blew the whistle on Broward Circuit Judge Ana Gardiner for having ex parte communication with a prosecutor during a death penalty case; now Gardiner is facing charges by the Judicial Qualifications Commission not only for the ex parte but for allegedly lying about it. Why did Alu do it? Because she wanted to put a dent in the rampant corruption that pervades the county. Imagine that. On the dais, Alu spearheaded the winning effort to kill a dirty garbage deal being pushed by her colleagues (most notably Mayor Roger Wishner and Commissioner Don Rosen). When lobbyists from the firm Ruden McClosky started pouring money into commissioners' campaign accounts to gain backing for a monstrous office park west of the Sawgrass Expressway, Wishner et al. fell into line. Not Alu, who stood up to fight against it. Some call her courageous, some call her crazy, but it's hard to deny she's compiling a track record unlike any other politician this town has ever seen.

Greyhounds are fast, sure — but they're also so noble, loyal, and peaceful that ancient Egyptians considered them royalty. In modern-day America, however, they're being exploited for their speed. The moribund dog-racing industry processes these animals like commodities and spits them out tired, injured, and unnaturally aged. Stories of abuse, poor diets, unbearable living conditions, and dead dogs in cages have been whispered for years. Once these dogs are no longer profitable, they're often put down — but not always humanely. The nonprofit South Florida group Friends of Greyhounds tries to remedy this sad fact by taking the good-natured dogs after their racing careers have ended, finding them homes, and making sure it's easy livin' for the years they have left. The group — which holds adoption events from Boca Raton to Hialeah and is always in need of volunteers (hint, hint) — is so vigilant about the fate of dogs in its care that members personally deliver the dogs to adopters' homes as a final precaution.

Whether music is literally your hot, hot sex (Cansei de Ser Sexy — go ahead and Google it) or you're the one trying to remember that one band with that one song, it's almost impossible to walk out of Radio-Active Records empty-handed. Crate-diggers and collectors belong in the enormous backroom, where there awaits a surprisingly undusty stock of wax nostalgia that includes rock, jazz, R&B, salsa, and a Nancy Sinatra platter on the wall that'll make eyes with you every damned time. There's a stage back there too that props up an eclectic roster of local and national acts. Up front, find newer vinyl offerings from labels like Stones Throw, Matador, and Sub Pop and friendly staffers ready to hip you to it. For the obsessives, special orders are a cinch. But heck, if payday's too far away, just buy a cold soda and fulminate about the new MGMT album with someone who actually knows what you're on about. You can't hug that Joanna Newsom MP3, people!

Private clubs like the Boca Resort take their cachet seriously, and much of it depends on exactly who gets turned away at the gate. That would be me and you: variously known as the hoi polloi, the unwashed masses, the riffraff. Under normal circumstances, it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a poor man to stroll under the resort's Mizner-designed archways. Or to bask beside its private swimming pools or under its waterfalls, to pick at fish tacos and sip its bloody marys under a seaside umbrella. But we're in a recession, and even Boca Resort — which is owned by Waldorf Astoria — has felt the pinch hard enough to permit a thin stream of commoners. For an affordable price ($109 a night at presstime), you're entitled to every luxury the resort routinely showers on its members. That includes a staff for whom no request is too niggling (inevitably fulfilled with brisk friendliness); some of the best sushi in South Florida at Morimoto's casual little bar; eyefuls of nearly nude girls in their early 20s who sunbathe and flirt at the Resort's Beach Club in droves; a full spa stocked with excellent massage therapists, a Turkish-style bath, and lots of sweet-smelling products; and a tiny taste of what it would be like to be rich enough to spend $110 on a mani-pedi without blinking. One Saturday night is enough, unless you've just won at Lotto (arrive early and leave late on Sunday afternoon). A door to a locked and guarded room has temporarily opened a crack: Enter while you can.

Take an afternoon off. Grab some good food and someone you love. Park somewhere cheap and follow the beach north a few hundred feet from Anglin's Fishing Pier to a tranquil, hidden oasis. Just behind the brush, shielded by the dunes and the shade of the swaying trees, on a patch of bright-green grass, there are two round picnic tables. On a clear day, the only sounds you'll hear are the birds singing, some children playing in the distance, and the waves crashing on the beach. When you're done, walk to the edge of the brush and look out over the ocean. Feel the sun on your cheeks, the wind in your hair. Hold hands and forget about stress. For the moment, all is right with the world.

Anyone who says South Florida's dining scene is dead just needs to show up in downtown Delray on a weekend night and take notice. In that stretch of Atlantic Avenue between Swinton Avenue and the Intracoastal is a wealth of restaurants doing creative things with food. In the past year, Delray has attracted big names like Militello and Susser, whose talents were unleashed in creating cutting-edge gastropubs the Office and Taste. The city's got swank and then some, with posh joints like 32 East and Vic & Angelo's leading the charge. And for a high-end small-plates, beer, and tapas bar, Tryst delivers charming plates with easy-to-swallow prices. Even ethnic dining has made a big splash in Delray. Indie joint Bamboo Fire has drawn in gobs of foodies with its honest take on island food, while Cabana el Rey has earned fans for its homey Cuban cuisine. You could eat for weeks in Delray and never run out of options — breakfast at Atlantique Cafe followed by lunch at Jimmy's Bistro? Or maybe sushi at Yama before drinks and tunes at Dada? The options are wide open in this gourmet paradise.

Remember LAN (local area network) centers of the past? Well, move over, bacon! Here's something leaner!: Phas3 Gaming. Finally, PC and console gamers can congregate in one place and play brand-new and even beta games for cheap prices. Phas3, pronounced "phase," currently has one PlayStation 3 (more coming soon) and 12 PCs, each with 2.5G Core 2 Duo processors and 8800GT video cards. On those PCs, you can play mainstream games like Counter-Strike, Call of Duty 4, or Half Life 2, plus newer games like Left 4 Dead 2 and Battlefield: Bad Company 2. Salivating yet? Wait till the owner of Phas3, Wilson, lets you get your hands on Starcraft II, which is still in a limited beta release stage and available to only 11,000 gamers. Since the center is new and still getting off the ground, it's offering special gaming packages to new players — $20 for ten hours.

The most amazing thing about Alfred Phillips is not that he has won at least eight Best in Show awards since moving to South Florida in late 2003, although that's pretty impressive. Nor is it that his cartoon of George W. Bush being sodomized by an Arab sheik landed him on The Daily Show With Jon Stewart a year later, although that's impressive too. (The image was for the Broward Art Guild's "Controversy" show.) No, the most amazing thing is that the artist didn't even begin painting until seven years ago. Before that, he worked in the ad business for three decades, first at agencies, then at his own graphic design firm, so it's not like he started from scratch. Still, the prolific Phillips has made the most of the past seven years, holing up in his studio at the Tarpon River Art Centre near downtown Fort Lauderdale and turning out painting after remarkable painting that demonstrate virtuoso technique and a broad mastery of styles and subject matter. He's highly competitive and enters lots of shows, hence the awards, but he's also supportive of fellow artists, showing up at their openings and offering encouragement and advice, such as this tidbit that surfaced in an interview a few years ago: "If you don't live and breathe it, don't even start. You have to be dedicated and willing to work hard. There is a glamorous side to art, but the work comes first." Strong words, but Phillips doesn't just talk the talk; he walks the walk.

Panagioti Tsolkas has his fingers in so many pies, it's a wonder he hasn't keeled over from diabetic shock. Tsolkas, who says he got his first taste of political activism in tenth grade, when he and fellow students stood on tables in a "spontaneous refusal" to continue taking the FCAT, has become an expert in the decade since at staging much taller stunts. He likes being up in the air: Acting with the Lake Worth Global Justice Group in 2004, Tsolkas mounted a giant tripod on Dixie Highway to protest a luxury condo being built in downtown Lake Worth. In 2009, he led an affinity group protest from the roof of a building on Dixie Highway and Banyan Boulevard in West Palm, where he hung a banner decrying FPL's plans for expansion into prized wetlands. Last year, he helped organize an action against FPL's West County Energy Center construction site that involved 25 activists tying themselves together to blockade Palm Beach Aggregates' rock mining operation. Tsolkas did 14 days jail time for his trouble (he still has more to serve). Now, Tsolkas is involved in a campaign to pass Slow Growth Amendment 4; he runs the Night Heron Grassroots Activist Center in Lake Worth, hosting lectures, art shows, classes, and afternoon tutoring sessions for kids; he plays key roles in the PBC Environmental Coalition, Everglades Earth First!, and the Green Party, with which he recently cowrote a green paper on Florida energy policy. How he found time this year to tangle with his Lake Worth Neighborhood Association, Tropical Ridge, is a mystery. But he managed to prod it into a new level of professional conduct: The association has a new set of bylaws and rules governing elections now, along with a renewed sense of the demographic it serves — association members had to shift their seats slightly left to make room for the radicals.

For lease: 40,000 square feet of newly available luxury office space in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Equipped with high-tech security system, glass-walled executive corridor, and a secret elevator — great for those stressful afternoons when you just want to sneak away... to Morocco. There's ample parking for a fleet of luxury cars. Never mind that the entire building is named after the largest bank in the country amid an era of mass theft on the part of America's financial institutions. Never mind that the 16th floor was the office of the biggest fraudster in South Florida's history or that the walls of Scott Rothstein's inner sanctum were decorated with the same stolen funds that provided his jets and yachts and the Rolls-Royces that picked him up downstairs like the modern-day robber baron he is. Never mind that the posh accouterments epitomize the disgusting lust for wealth that has crippled this once-great nation, infecting every aspect of American life like a festering bacteria from which we may never recover. Never mind the heartbreak and rage caused by the evil perpetrated here or the injustices inflicted upon thousands of trusting individuals. The view of the ocean is to die for. Ponzi schemers need not apply.

During any other period in South Florida history, Sean Healy would have been a legendary crook. A big Ponzi schemer, Healy had the misfortune of being in a pond with much bigger Ponzi fish. He didn't swindle nearly as much as Palm Beach County's Bernie Madoff. Nor did Healy have the high-flying political friends of Scott Rothstein. But there was an elegant simplicity to Healy's scheme: The Weston businessman asked investors for their money; then he bought stuff with it. Although he was 39 when he got busted, Healy had a 15-year-old's taste in luxury goods. Rap-star bling. A trophy wife from Hooters. An automotive fleet that included a stretch limo, a Lamborghini, a Ferrari, two Porsches, and a Hummer golf cart. Toilets that operated by motion sensor. Statues of superheroes that stood seven feet tall. All told, a Pennsylvania court found Healy guilty of spending nearly $20 million in investor money, for which he was sentenced to 16 years in jail.

In this recession era of belt-tightening, nothing sounds sweeter than the word free. The new West Palm Beach Public Library, barely a year old, has taken its mission of providing free services to heart, so much that books seem almost an afterthought. On Saturday mornings, hordes of people ride the elevators to the third floor, where sunshine pours through generous windows to illuminate gleaming hardwood floors. In a carpeted auditorium, a free yoga class is taught cheerfully to children and gray-haired yogis alike. Other days, one can find free Pilates and tai chi classes and perhaps an Argentine tango performance. Here, seniors or the otherwise technologically impaired can learn to navigate Craigslist and PowerPoint — hell, even Wii Bowling! So go to the library, and take your Bubbe with you. She will be so proud.

Rising Action was homeless not long ago, mounting its productions in front of the big screen at the woefully ill-equipped Cinema Paradiso. It wasn't an arrangement that could last, and it didn't. For three seasons, Rising Action has made its home in a charming space at the edge of Wilton Manors; it's a place full of blond wood and cheer. It's a simple space but charmingly appointed: Cool art-for-sale hangs on one wall, and somebody in the rear is always serving up mimosas or wine. The real draw of the place, though, is the vibe: Something in the air seems to naturally invite conversation, and before every show, the audience is full of people chatting theater with perfect strangers. It's a good, communal, unpretentious kind of thing, and all theaters would benefit from having a bit of it.

William "Cobra" Staubs has a bouncer's build, with a ponytail, snakeskin cowboy boots, and a gold chain around his neck. His hands are enormous catcher's mitts, and he carries a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. "I'm a hillbilly," he admits. "You got to be crazy to do this shit." The Fort Lauderdale-based private eye should know. He made headlines for secretly trailing Tony Masilotti, looking for a whiff of the corrupt land deals that eventually sent the former Palm Beach County commissioner to prison. He chased down a fugitive drug dealer who was making bombs and hiding out near military bases. And he nearly sabotaged his career by searching for Haleigh Cummings, a 5-year-old who disappeared from her North Florida trailer home more than a year ago. After three decades in the business, it's tough to say just how successful Cobra has been. But one thing is certain, says his friend Jeff Poole, a Broward County sheriff's deputy: "He's after you, you're almost guaranteed to get caught."

Beverly Gallagher began her career in politics as the big-time PTA mom, that most wholesome if at times terribly annoying position. Then she was swooped up by lobbyists Neil Sterling and Barbara Miller, who took her under their wings and helped her win election to the Broward County School Board. Perhaps her fate was sealed right then and there. Sterling helped get her a job at the Community Blood Center even as she was steering projects worth hundreds of millions of dollars to his construction clients. Then she fell into an FBI sting and, in an image that will haunt (and entertain) Broward for years, she took illicit cash from an agent at a restaurant and stuffed it into her doggy bag. She ultimately pleaded guilty and will be going to federal prison for a few years. You can bet that Gallagher didn't join the PTA with the goal of one day taking bribes over lunch, but that's the way it worked out. And unfortunately for us, it says more about the culture of corruption at the School Board than it does about Gallagher herself.

If you embark on a journey through Deerfield Beach's political jungle, you will arrive eventually at what appears a savage habitation, where the corpses of the city's past political rulers hang from trees like trophies. This is myactsofsedition.com, a domain ruled by a man whose myth strikes dread into the hearts of his enemies. They never see Chaz Stevens, but he sees them. His methods may sometimes be unsound — Stevens taunts his political targets for months, even years, before going in for the kill. But there's no doubting his effectiveness. In 2008, Stevens alerted prosecutors to corruption by Mayor Al Capellini and Commissioner Steve Gonot, both of whom were subsequently indicted and forced to resign. Both now face felony trials. In that endeavor, Stevens relied on Bob Norman's reporting in New Times, but this past year, Stevens has earned a much larger portion of the muckraking credit, having investigated a slew of nonprofit agencies that were loosely linked to Commissioner Sylvia Poitier, the former Broward County commissioner with a political career that spans three decades. Stevens has always had contempt for Poitier, whose photograph he once posted next to a shot of Jabba the Hut, noting the resemblance. But Stevens' investigation into Poitier's business dealings played a prominent role in convincing city commissioners that City Manager Mike Mahaney was not monitoring city spending as closely as he should have. In January, Mahaney was dismissed. Then an investigation by the new city manager, Burgess Hanson, into the city's Community Housing Division led straight to Poitier.

South Florida is the Wild, Wild West — in the East. You can't turn around without bumping into a crooked cop, a corrupt minister, an embezzler, or a child molester. Probably, that's because the daily newspapers have decided to essentially cease covering politics and crime in favor of school bake sales and spelling bees. Or maybe it's because we're in a region dominated by transients, with no interest in nor spiritual ties to our subtropical paradise. Regardless, nobody much cares about the doings of the region's pols, profiteers, and power junkies. And what's in it for you? In Florida, more than any other state in this great nation, you can get away with anything.

The Voysey Inheritance is set in an upper-class English household in the waning years of the 19th Century, and costume designer Albert Arroyo captured the visual essence of the era in style — for all dozen of Voysey's lead characters. Especially noteworthy was his work with actresses Lourelene Snedeker, Katherine Amadeo, Kathryn Lee Johnston, and Marta Reiman, who, in this male-dominated play set in a male-dominated era, didn't have a whole lot to do. Thanks to Arroyo, they could at least sit there and look fabulous.

Foraging for a glazed doughnut at 2 a.m. can bring unusual rewards. Stumble into this strip-mall joint and you'll find flat-screen computers, a couch, a leather recliner, and conference rooms for rent. But the most unexpected luxury appears in the women's rest­room, where, attached to the ordinary toilet seat, is... a bidet. For the uninitiated, bidets are a French invention designed to wash the areas that Americans generally clean with toilet paper. But according to Dunkin' Donuts manager Emad, they are common in the Middle East, specifically his native Palestine. He was thrilled when the owner of the shop, who is Muslim, installed a portable bidet in the restroom. Emad says the bidet complies with his religious ideals of cleanliness. "We always use these," Emad says. "It's a good idea. While you sit down, just clean up."

A hard-working teacher who pursued the American dream. A man who stood by his poor black constituents to help them create a better life. A smart and fair politician who did the right thing against the odds. These are some of the ways Eggelletion, the former Broward County commissioner and state representative, might have wanted us to describe him when he was gone. Instead, the words will be simple: Eggelletion was a crook. Snared in an FBI probe, Eggelletion pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit money laundering and charges that he sold out his office to a bribe-paying developer for about $20,000 and a golf club membership. What is sad about all this is that Eggelletion had the charisma and political gifts to be a great leader in a county that desperately needs one. Instead, he was just another crook on the take who pulled the wool over the eyes of the voters while padding his own pockets.

Reporters are a pushy lot, always demanding police reports and video, stipulating that these must arrive "before my deadline," an addendum that tends to sound like an ultimatum. And when the police departments' public information officers deliver those goods in a timely fashion, there's no guarantee that the reporter will produce a piece that's flattering to the department. The unflattering ones tend to get a spokesperson in trouble with his or her other constituency — the chief's office. Somehow, Stephanie Slater of the Boynton Beach Police Department manages to please both these masters. No one in local law enforcement is quicker to return a call or fire off a requested document. And Slater is adept at showcasing her department's investigative triumphs. When a SWAT team prepared to swarm the Platinum Showgirls strip club in Boynton, Slater made sure that television cameras could swoop in a moment later to watch the high-heeled beauties do a perp walk. Slater played a role in crafting one of the year's most memorable pieces of news footage, in which an officer informed Dalia Dippolito that someone had murdered her husband. The surgically enhanced gym bunny wailed ridiculously and collapsed in the officer's arms, only to be told in the moments to follow that the man she thought she hired to be a hit man was working for BBPD. Not long after, the video was available on YouTube and DVD, supplied by deadline.

When the U.S. economy hits the gutter, Americans head to the movies. That cheap, clean fun turns into free depraved escapism at the back bar at the Poor House, the darkest, dankest watering hole in downtown Fort Lauderdale. In addition to strong booze, Poor House's back bar serves some of the most horror-ific and deliciously politically incorrect films, often from Lloyd Kaufman, director of cult favorites like The Toxic Avenger. Films here are not for the easily offended, but the selection doesn't skimp on variety for the sake of provocation. You're as likely to see the queasy-violent mainstream The Hills Have Eyes or cult classic Evil Dead as you are Rob Zombie's wildly politically incorrect monster-sex comedy The Haunted World of El Superbeasto or the Russian vampire film Nochnoy dozor. These films might not offer the feel-good element of crashing a wedding or masturbating in apple pie, but considering the economic climate, a car chase in a Ferrari may be even more fantastical.

Curious about Jeffrey Epstein's egg-shaped appendage? What about a father who's in the witness protection program for ratting out the Mob? Jane Musgrave is the veteran reporter who brings you these lovely news items, always with an air of tongue-in-cheek amusement. While most daily newspapers beg for fleeing readers with breaking news and bloody-crime headlines, Musgrave's stories remind us of what's fun about reading a fish wrapper. Her byline is inevitably attached to something intriguing or hilarious about life in South Florida: the woman who gave birth while driving on Dixie Highway, the UPS driver who alleged he was attacked by Joe Namath's dogs. And when Bernie Madoff's Palm Beach mansion was seized by federal agents, Musgrave was on the scene, reporting that the Ponzi schemer's house was filled with pictures of... bulls.

As a Plantation police officer responding in 1995 to a hostage situation, Joe Alu was blown up by a bad guy — and that was before his life became interesting. Alu was at the scene of another explosion in 2009, when the investments by his boss, Scott Rothstein, went up in flames. Alu, who has the tan and tattoos, the muscles and mullet of a professional wrestler, enjoyed a lucrative job as the Fort Lauderdale attorney's bodyguard. In the days after Rothstein bolted for Morocco with Ponzi loot, Alu defended his employer's reputation, declaring the allegations of fraud to be all "bullshit." Since that November, Alu has remained the soap opera's most colorful character. There was the falling-out between Alu and his fellow bodyguard, Bob Scandiffio, Alu's former best man, who was accused by Rothstein of extortion. Then there was the apparent tiff between Alu and Kim Rothstein, the pretty, diminutive blond whom Alu swore he'd protect from harm as long as he had a breath in his body and for whose sake he tussled with a pushy TV reporter after a January news conference. In February, Alu cryptically remarked that he wasn't going to be "baby-sitting" Kim Rothstein anymore only to reverse course yet again and insist that their partnership was hunky-dory. Alu also had a link to that other huge Broward news story — the federal sting that snared a county commissioner, a county School Board member, and a Miramar commissioner. It just so happened that an informant in that case was also named Alu — Joe's ex-wife, Sheila, a Sunrise commissioner. Somehow, one retired cop lingered near every major news story of the past year.

Weather is the great unifier. No matter who you are — young, old, white, black, Democrat, Republican — we all share the warmth and the cold, the sun and the rain. The weather is the only part of the news everyone cares about. So a good weathercaster must have the manner of an international diplomat — friendly but not sleazy, unusually upbeat but not obnoxious. The right weatherperson is like a pleasant parent in your living room, concerned you might leave the house in the morning without the weather-appropriate wardrobe. Here, that weathercaster is Steve Weagle, chief meteorologist at WPTV in West Palm Beach. Every weekday at 5, 6, and 11, Weagle delivers the weather with a precise mix of modest charm and polite swagger. He's the man we turn to when we want to know what the world will look like in the future. To top it off, he also takes an annual 120-mile bicycle ride across South Florida to raise public awareness of hurricane season — and he gives all the money he raises to the Red Cross.