People & Places

If, by some minor miracle of the market, the new outpost of Miami's noblest booksellers manages to flourish in its home at the Museum of Art|Fort Lauderdale, we'll all be better for it. Books & Books does bookstores right — all the coolest authors come and speak (Greil Marcus! Bernard-Henri Lévy!), all the coolest books are kept in stock (books by Nabokov that aren't Lolita or Pale Fire!), and the people who run the floors have the bookseller's aesthetic down pat. Of course, the outpost at the Museum is artcentric, but oh well. Fact is, we need some good bookstores in Lauderdale, and it doesn't really matter what kind they are. Downtown isn't known for its appreciation of life's finer things, but here's hoping Books & Books can help change that image with a new, literary crowd.

Broward County power couples sure have been taking big hits lately. At one time, it looked like Broward County Commissioner Stacy Ritter and her lobbyist husband, Russ Klenet, were going to take over the world. Now she's the subject of multiple criminal investigations, and he's scooted off to D.C., as he lost a lot of his local business. Broward County Commissioner Ilene Lieberman was at one point Broward's queen of mean, and her husband was the legal czar out in Sunrise. Now she's as quiet as a mouse, and he's been booted from his cush government gig. But Drew and Dawn Meyers have the makings of a Broward-worthy power combo — and that means there are hints of a conflict of interest. Drew Meyers is an assistant county attorney. Dawn Meyers is a lobbyist with the law firm Berger Singerman, who, of course, lobbies the same Broward County commissioners for whom her husband works. When the County Attorney's Office produced a draft of the new ethics code that basically gutted it, there was some controversy for the Meyerses, but for the most part, they've been careful to separate their sometimes slightly intertwining jobs. The power duo took a hit when the hubby was passed over for the county attorney's job in favor of Joni Coffey, the wife of big-time lawyer and former U.S. Attorney Kendall Coffey. Uh-oh — we may already have next year's winner.

When recently criminally charged Tamarac Mayor Beth Talabisco was running for her seat in 2006, she tried hard to pretend she wasn't under the thumb of dirty developers Bruce and Shawn Chait, who were trying to get government approvals to build a much-too-dense housing development on two golf courses in her city. She went so far as to inform the Sun-Sentinel that she had returned some $2,000 in campaign contributions tied to the Chaits and boasted about the distance she was keeping from the developers in her own campaign ads. It seemed that Talabisco was taking the high road, and voters promptly put her in the mayor's seat. But the reality was that Talabisco may have been in the Chaits' pockets more deeply than anyone realized. According to state prosecutors, she struck a deal with the Chaits for them to secretly fund an electioneering committee that would put out a barrage of negative ads against her opponents on the final weekend before the election. In fact, she met with Sean Chait to talk about forming the committee just before the father-and-son bribers put $21,000 in cash into the committee via two subcontractors who worked for them. In exchange for the dirty political money, Talabisco voted for the Chaits' controversial development just days after her election. It took five years, but when state prosecutors learned of Talabisco's lies and corruption, they slapped her with bribery, unlawful compensation, and official misconduct charges. She currently awaits trial.

People know Beverly Stracher's name these days as a key cooperating witness for the state in what is perhaps the biggest corruption cases in Broward County history. Or they know her as the husband of Les Stracher, who was a key partner of notorious Ponzi schemer Scott Rothstein. But before the notoriety and political shenanigans, Beverly Stracher was just a Piper High grad and Broward Community College student who made her mark as a mediocre reporter for the mediocre Sun-Sentinel before becoming a government flack and, shortly thereafter, a Lauderhill city commissioner. She didn't last long in elected office, but she stayed in politics, becoming one of those shady behind-the-scenes "operatives." For years, she operated in relative obscurity before she struck a deal with Prestige Homes, owned by developers Bruce and Shawn Chait, to help them get influence with politicians with whom she worked — including Broward County Commissioner Ilene Lieberman and then-Tamarac Mayor Beth Talabisco. She took money from both sides — the influence peddlers and the politicians for whom she campaigned — in what was a sleazy arrangement. Now several of those politicians are awaiting trial, the Chaits have already pleaded guilty to bribery, and Stracher has become one of the county's chief canaries, giving one sworn statement after another to implicate her former friends. On top of that, her husband has filed for divorce. Don't cry too hard for Stracher, though; she's got a cush job at the county now, courtesy of Lieberman.

A vocal group of parents and teachers had been calling for Art Johnson's head for a year, blaming him for a new cookie-cutter curriculum many detested. Johnson canned his reviled chief academic officer, Jeffrey Hernandez, but he couldn't quell the uproar. Parents soon discovered that Hernandez had been moonlighting in Memphis while still on the payroll in Palm Beach County. They asked to see emails from Hernandez's last six months on the job and learned that the emails had disappeared. The possibility that Johnson sanctioned the moonlighting and/or had a hand in destroying the paper trail turned out to be the end of the superintendent's career. Before the board could publicly discuss firing him, he stealthily began crafting an exit plan that gave him a $428,000-plus golden parachute. It all happened so fast that even his worst enemies were surprised. Ordinary citizens ousting a powerful politician over a public records scandal? Only in the Sunshine State.

This fair-haired son of a preacher man seems determined to save Fort Lauderdale from itself. Proving wrong the axiom that South Florida's native sons grow up to either chase money or leave, he taught himself to play guitar, and now he tours local bars and art venues with his one-man act, Alexander. When he's not making ladies' knees wobble with his wholesome serenades, Alexander takes on ambitious projects: He was an unofficial partner in the now-shuttered Collide Factory, where he helped build a recording studio inside a graffiti-clad shipping container. And you're right, you do recognize him from somewhere: As a co-owner of Brew Urban Cafe in Victoria Park, he may or may not have drawn a heart in your latte. [Photo credit: Janelle Proulx, via the Museum of Art|Fort Lauderdale]

There will come a time when the social contracts that bind society will fall away. Blood will run, and chaos will rule. People will organize in small packs of roving marauders, pillaging what's left of humanity, perpetually searching for the next meal. The skies will be dark, the waters darker, and safety will be scarce. Then one person shall lead us and protect us from the circling storms. One prognosticator, one seer, one man who knows the unknowable — he can predict when it will rain! — will emerge from the gargling mass of unwashed humanity and guide us back to a civilized way of life. That man could very well be Steve Weagle, lead meteorologist at WPTV (NBC-5). Yes, he's won this award before, but Weagle — and maybe only Weagle — has the cool head, the charm that we will almost certainly need one day. Also, he's pretty tall.

Try this: Next time you're driving home superlate on a Saturday night, just grazing the legal alcohol limit, tune the radio to 91.3 (yes, South Florida's NPR news station) and turn the volume up, way up. Suddenly you're part of a family of late-night wanderers united by a love of Caribbean music and a subtropical nighttime bliss that stretches over silken airwaves from Homestead to Grand Bahama. "The Man Inside Your Radio," Davis lays down a backing track at the top of the hour (the toppa the arr, in his lullaby island brogue) and devotes his voice to shoutouts: Late-night wanderers, partygoers, newspaper deliverymen... cabdrivers... Good morning to ya. Listeners call in to request tracks, tell stories, or just say hello. Your ears are ringing and your friends have left and the drive-through is closed while they're changing over to breakfast, but the man inside your radio plays on in the electric dark.

Welcome back to Topical Currents. I'm your host, Joseph Cooper. Today's guest is, well, it actually doesn't matter who today's guest is, because he has long ago fallen asleep. Apparently he has listened to our show before, because he brought his own pillow. He's spooning with it now on the floor of the studio. Anyway, I'll be taking your calls for the rest of the hour. Hello, Pembroke Pines, you're on the air. Pembroke Pines? Asleep, I'm guessing. Seeing as that was our only caller, I'll be taking my own nap now. By now, I assume you are all asleep and nobody will notice. So stay tuned at the top of the hour for NPR News, or as we call it here on Topical Currents, our alarm clock.

For political climbers eager to win big on the national stage, the general rule is to hide the crazy — the KKK enthusiasts, the anarchists, the fringe lunatics. Allen West never got that memo. In November, before setting foot in his congressional office on Capitol Hill, he nominated Joyce Kaufman, who hosts an ultraconservative talk show on lowly WFTL-AM (850), to be his chief of staff. Within hours, all hell broke loose. Rachel Maddow unearthed a video clip of Kaufman telling a Tea Party crowd, "If ballots don't work, bullets will." An unhinged woman in New Port Richey saw the clip, got angry, and emailed a threat to Kaufman's radio station that led to a lockdown of all Broward County schools. Overnight, Kaufman and West's peculiar brand of right-wing insanity became national news. Kaufman promptly quit the chief-of-staff post and enjoyed a brief flicker of infamy before fading back into talk-radio obscurity. Turns out, Allen West is plenty crazy all on his own.

In the gritty spring-break bars by the beach in Fort Lauderdale, they call him a "fixture," a "landmark," the man who comes around to put all the regulars in a cheery mood. In what seems like another life, he taught art at Harvard and fronted one of the country's first punk bands. But now he roams these bars. For a dollar or two, he draws delightfully crude caricatures in crayon. Hundreds, maybe thousands of Mickey Clean's drawings dot the walls of drinking establishments all over town. Perhaps more than anybody, though, Mickey personifies this part of Fort Lauderdale: He's a bit dirty and vulgar but also a special kind of charming, and he's as reliable as the morning tide. He offers his artistic services and a moment of companionship to the happy and the sad alike, to the tourists and the locals, to the drunk and the sober, to the lost and the wayward. He isn't beloved by all, and he won't be around forever, but we're lucky to have him while we do.

When Gypsy fortuneteller Gina Marks was swindling vulnerable and desperate people out of their life savings, nobody seemed to be able to stop her. She walked away from numerous criminal allegations, often after paying off the victims with some form of restitution. It happened over and over again — and to add insult to injury, HarperCollins, a major publishing house, put out her bogus book, Miami Psychic, which she wrote under the fake name Regina Milbourne. It wasn't until her victims found a dedicated Palm Beach PI named Bob Nygaard that Marks was brought to justice. He worked the case for several of Marks' victims and then handed it to law enforcement on a silver platter. Nygaard didn't go the easy route and try to work out an off-the-table restitution deal that would have kept Marks on the street to find more marks — he fought for justice and put her behind bars.

More specifically, the Fort Lauderdale Riverwalk just west of the railroad bridge, where looming trees and a gazebo provide discreet and scenic respite. But don't take our word for it: On certain evenings, as lulls of conversation rise from groups of shadowy friends, the brackish air is ripe with the smell of smoke, both marine-grade and more organic. And if anyone in blue should inquire about that steaming wad floating seaward, of course you have — cough — no idea.

The celebrities here are of a... different sort. Hollywood is filled with the nation's down-and-out second-starters who settled here because they thought the name sounded nice. They mix with those of us who revel in that kind of diversity. The locals include rednecks, trannies, yuppies, hipsters, addicts, professors, urban pioneers, and everything in between. Find a chair outside on the tree-lined sidewalks, order a drink, and enjoy downtown Hollywood's star-studded fishbowl all its own.

Moving in South Florida can be a scary endeavor. Locals are ready with stories of "bad neighborhoods" that wildly contradict each other; luxury and crime coexist block by block. Well, nut up and shack up in one of the few truly historic neighborhoods Broward County has to offer. Rich, poor, black, and white coexist along the quiet, walkable streets lined with live oaks north of the New River. Housing ranges from 90-year-old studio apartment buildings with hardwood floors to charming cottages and modern condo flats, all within walking distance of downtown (any closer and you'd hear Himmarshee on a Saturday night). Head east to the Broward Center or west to the Sailboat Bend Artist Lofts, hosting a gallery with frequent exhibitions; walk the pup down to Cooley's Landing Marina to chat with boaters at the site of an Indian massacre. If it weren't for all the lovely dappled sunshine, you might forget you live in Florida. Oh, and don't worry: The Fort Lauderdale police headquarters abuts the neighborhood.

As it should, a zombie apocalypse would start out at a bar called Laser Wolf. Housed in a budding arts district called FAT — which stands for Flagler Arts & Technology — Village, there is irony here. As soon as Fort Lauderdale finally gets a regular, walkable art event, let's destroy it with zombies who run amok. Drab-dressed zombiefolk are so yesteryear; pretty, tatted, indie trendsetters who know how to drink real tasty microbrews at Laser Wolf are in! And no zombie apocalypse worth filming should start at any other time than Saturday at dusk, the fourth one of the month at that — for that FAT Village Art Walk. So the zombies torpedo through warehouses, which are converted into artist studios, theaters, businesses, galleries, a puppet workshop. The zombies are munching on artists (and who wouldn't?). We told you warehouse partying was unscary; not tonight. We said that it was fun, that you would like it. But you're a zombie now. Yes! Cameo! And what other place should the new-zombie-you ransack and eat everyone? Of course, downtown Fort Lauderdale — where there is now no Coyote Ugly, the natural enemy of a profitable movie, to hurt our sales.

Two blocks from the Clematis Street debauchery in downtown West Palm Beach is a Key West-style cottage with a white picket fence and a courtyard bar. There are tiki torches, palm trees, and a koi pond. Patrons graze on Brie-and-raspberry tarts and crab cakes while sipping melon martinis. Yes, there are plenty of gay men here but also straight women and the obligatory drunk in the corner. Most important, the TV screen is displayed near the French double doors. So when your crew starts to swoon over Matthew Morrison's abs or jeer at Lea Michele singing Liza Minnelli, you'll have plenty of good company.

Mention to someone in the know that you're planning to stop by the Boys for the first time and he'll likely let you in on two things: 1) The meat, cheese, bakery, and produce sections are out-of-control good; and 2) watch the hell out. The Tetris-like parking lot is overflowing with land yachts commandeered by people who are far too focused on getting inside for a hunk of fresh mozzarella or lamb steaks to pay attention to such trivial matters as rear-view mirrors, strollers, pedestrians, or how to avoid a low-speed collision. And heaven help you if you get between one of those vehicles and the last remaining spot in sight. You're better off parking elsewhere and hoofing it to the entrance. Once inside, you'll be facing a similarly hazardous situation as shoppers wield their carts like battering rams through the tight aisles, with the occasional appendage acting as collateral damage. A harrowing ordeal, yes, but that cheese selection really is quite divine.

Boca Raton was recently named the 12th rudest city in the world, and there's a pretty good shot that every Boca resident will end up on Glades Road. It's a stretch of road where you're most likely to hear obscenities being hollered at the passing elderly. Don't be fooled by the Whole Foods, monstrous Barnes & Noble, and tree-lined campus of Florida Atlantic University. This is a stretch where the middle finger is the appropriate "I'm sorry" gesture.

Several years ago, the "last house" was built in Coral Springs. In other words, every lot big enough to hold a house had been used. Even this western suburb's parks are well-developed, highly engineered centers of human activity, from the carefully manicured baseball and soccer fields to the running trails with workout stops every tenth of a mile to the chlorinated pools with Crayola-colored plastic slides and watchful lifeguards. But tucked behind one such bustling public pool at Cypress Park on Coral Springs Drive (known everywhere else in Broward County as Pine Island Road) is Cypress Hammock/Orchid, a small but breathtaking nature trail. You won't find any pictures of it online. You won't even find a description of it on coralsprings.org — though the site will tell you all about the eight tennis courts, the playground, concession stand, grills, tables, restrooms, meeting rooms, and picnic areas that make up most of the park's 16 acres. But if you can avoid the pool and keep on the sidewalk, walk right on past the tennis courts on your right and the pro shops on your left and go just past where you think the park ends — and you will find something special. A boardwalk seems to hover a few feet above a prehistoric jungle of ferns. The pop and squeak of people playing tennis can't be heard here. The roar of the pool slides and swimming kids does not penetrate. Other than the call of the occasional bird, you are suddenly in a silent primeval oasis in the middle of Coral Springs. If you stop halfway along the trail, stand perfectly still, and let the humidity soak into your clothes, hair, and skin, you can imagine what this area was really like before we came along. And if all that nature freaks you out, don't worry — there's a concession stand 30 feet away.

There are about a hundred miles of beautiful sandy beaches stretching from the northern border of Palm Beach County to the southernmost point of Broward County. But alas, no dogs are allowed. Sure, sure there's that stretch of beach in Fort Lauderdale that allows dogs three days a week, but that just doesn't scream "We love dogs!," does it? If you're sick of the scene at Canine Beach, you will find a doggy water paradise on 24th Street in Pompano Beach. The city officially calls it Exchange Club Park, but you won't find signs pointing your way in to this secluded, locals-only spot. The small city park meets up with a bend in the Intracoastal that flows with crystal-clear water from the inlet nearby. Here, your furry friend can splash out into the water at will — no hourly restrictions, no special registration fee. Just mind the park hours, make sure your dog has all her shots, and be a good canine neighbor.

Heritage Park, all 88.5 acres, used to be owned by Fred Peters, the shoe scion who basically designed Fort Lauderdale's original western suburb, Plantation. Then it was an agricultural testing ground for the University of Florida. But in 1984, it became what it was always meant to be — a beautiful oasis in the middle of suburban Florida. It's there that nearby residents can jog or walk around the huge lake — which is always stocked with plenty of birds to watch and paddleboats to rent. Numerous and huge picnic areas dot the lake and are popular for large family reunions and company retreats. For the kids, there's a huge playground that'll keep them happy for hours. That's the beauty of Heritage Park — everything there is big. Mostly it's just a big open space in the middle of bustling suburbia. And that's a heritage that Plantation and its founder, Fred Peters, can be proud of.

Despite what seems like developers' best efforts, there are still a few great, open stretches of land in South Florida, and one of the true gems of southeast Palm Beach County is this expansive wildlife playground. In no other context but in referring to the Everglades could the word primordial become a cliché, but how else to sum up a flat, unpolished parkland where visitors are allowed to wander out into the marshes with nothing separating them from the cold reptilian clutches of a gator but their own wits and a good pair of running shoes? Nature is a fickle beast, and there's no guarantee you'll always spot a gator, but the chances are better than good. There are no tourist-trap bells and whistles, just a fascinating and (occasionally frighteningly) up-close look at the way our state looked before "progress" moved in.

Walk out the fifth-floor glass doors and into the pool area at the W Hotel on A1A, and euphoria is the only way to describe the sensation. The enormous pool expands in all directions, and if you squint, it's hard to decipher where the pool ends and the panoramic ocean view begins. The best part is that in the offseason, the W opens its doors to the public for "Salvation Sunday" pool parties, weekly from 12:30 to 8 p.m. It's the ideal location to sip a bloody mary and mingle at the white, shiny bar with others who feel living in South Florida calls for at least an afternoon per week of vacation-like activity. Curl up on one of the world's cushiest lounge chairs, bake in the sun, and then take a dip in the pool. Ahh, that's better.

The public parking ends quickly on Palm Beach. In front of Charley's Crab, the parking trails off, and to the south, ocean access is blocked from the road by a formidable seawall. Start on the beach south from the parking area and a secluded beach stretches for five miles, all the way down to Lake Worth. Only the mansions across A1A have access from locked gates, so it's rare to find anyone on this wild beach. Less maintained than the public-access beaches, here the sand juts in and out, pulled naturally by the tide. Eddies form, and natural pools swirl. Limestone rocks sit exposed, asking for someone to step carefully across their spiny surface. Pick sea grapes from the trees that line the road, and on summer mornings, watch sea turtles hatch. It's just you and a seemingly endless stretch of sand, just like it used to be.

Turn off your iPhone. Cross the long boardwalk to the beach, and enjoy a rare stretch of sand unblemished by condos or highway traffic. Slip a kayak into the gentle, cool water of the Lake Worth Lagoon. Paddle softly past the mangrove trees, keeping your eyes peeled for the spindly, regal body of a blue heron or an egret hiding in the branches. In the luscious quiet, you can hear the buzzing insects and spot the occasional silver fish jumping out of the water. The trees look prehistoric at low tide. White trunks and branches, wild and tangled, give a glimpse of an era before humans soiled this place.

A neighborhood park shouldn't be an all-inclusive, Disney-like affair, a city unto itself; it should be a stopping-off point, a quick breath of fresh air in the heart of a community. It should be good for a few hours of reading, some basketball, or as a place to tie your kid's shoe while the dog tries to knock him over. Riverside Park isn't fancy. It's a neatly maintained strip of old trees, a playground, a basketball hoop, and tennis courts encircled by leisurely one-lane roads. Approach via the restored Palm Avenue swing bridge at one corner; all around are residential neighborhoods to explore on foot when the park has served its purpose and it's time to move on.

At Pine Crest, Brandon Knight was one of the most celebrated high school players ever, with two state titles and two Gatorade National Player of the Year awards. But when he chose to attend the winningest college basketball team in the country, nobody could be sure how he would handle the transition. Sure, he had a sweet and simple jump shot and more ways to score than Heinz had ketchup recipes. But sometimes it takes a while to adjust. Not for Knight. He started strong and finished with a magnificent run through March Madness, leading a team as a rookie to the Final Four. His clutch shot to beat the top team in the land, Ohio State, is one for the ages — and it was a heck of a national coming-out party. How could a freshman do this? Well, Knight wasn't a freshman; he was technically a sophomore. Not in basketball but in academics. You see, when Knight is on the bus, his head isn't buried in videogames but in books. He's a scholar — and a prodigy.

Now, perhaps Carl Hiaasen is the easy pick for the finest Miami Herald writer because he's a nationally known novelist who has worked as an investigative journalist and columnist for the paper since 1976. Or perhaps he's the only pick. Here's a guy who has a love-hate relationship with the sleaziest side of the Sunshine State. He isn't afraid to take a hard stance on the sickening flow of oxycodone pills, Gov. Rick Scott's disgusting policies, and the crappy new stadium that awaits the Marlins. But he's also not afraid to profit off all of this muck and turn it into a compelling read. Shrewdly played, Hiaasen. And now you write children's books too?

Is there anything in this world better than a large group of people spontaneously breaking into song and dance? No, there is nothing better. So on the rare occasion that it happens, you better hope there's a camera on. This time, it was during a rain delay last season in the middle of a game against Western Kentucky. Words can't adequately describe all that went on that afternoon, but it involved the FAU Owl baseball team marching in step, to the beat, in a West Side Story kind of way, and ultimately concluded with one shirtless young man standing in the center of a circle of kneeling teammates, Shake Weight in hand, dancing his ass off.

He's big-headed, stubborn, childish, and most certainly a mama's boy. On Pardon the Interruption, an ESPN show he occasionally guest-hosts, he's known as "the hatable Dan Le Batard," and he introduces himself with varying forms of the word bam. But Dan Le Batard can also write like rain, like the purest form of nourishment pouring from the sky. His ideas are often counterintuitive, his notions unorthodox. He cares about the athletes he covers, about the people, and those are the stories he tells. From a Le Batard column about the downfall of Bernie Kosar, the great college and pro quarterback whose success on the field could not prevent failure in every other aspect of life: "The game was fast and muscled. He was neither. He was always the giraffe trying to survive among lions. Still is, really. He has merely traded one cutthroat arena in which people compete for big dollars for another, and today's is a hell of a lot less fun than the one that made him famous. More painful, too, oddly enough."

Half the club is a decadent and delicious buffet, a strobe-lit dance floor, lots of plush seating, and a sprawling bar. The other half is composed of several private rooms, beds, special contraptions, and a sexy, outrageous fuck-fest that is second to none in the state.

Recipe for debauchery: 1. Mix equal parts class, decadence, and people dressed too well to stay downstairs at America's Backyard.

2. Sprinkle in some immaculate white VIP couches, glittering chandeliers, and anything-goes stripper poles.

3. Add a pinch of smut.

4. Blend in liberal amounts of champagne, Lady Gaga tunes, and drunken party girls in mile-high heels.

5. Now throw it all on a crowded dance floor and jump directly into the middle. You won't stay sober. Or celibate.

The Chinese discovered it. The Japanese made it ceremonial. The Indians made it a latte. And the Brits, well, they took it over and made it seem like their idea. Typical. But it's merry old England we have to thank for afternoon tea as we know it. Probably the most perfect place in the world for a traditional cream tea is the Orangery in Kensington Palace at the west end of Hyde Park in the heart of London. Since that would require an eight-hour plane ride and an updated passport, TeaLicious Tea Room in Delray Beach is the next best thing. Patrons will find themselves in a perfect re-creation of a posh English parlor, free to reenact their favorite scene from a Jane Austen novel. Surrounded by porcelain and silver, vases of roses, and pastries piled three tiers high, diners can choose from a simple repast of tea and scone or a lavish spread of croquettes and finger sandwiches. Brits wouldn't consider getting through the day without stopping for a cuppa, and frankly neither should you. So reread a few chapters of Northanger Abbey, find something floral and flowy to wear, and treat yourself to the great Chinese/Japanese/Indian/British tradition that is tea.

A vast selection of varietals, wallet-friendly prices, an informed staff, and delicious catered eats — wine snobs don't expect anything less from a shop. At Wine Watch, proprietor Andrew Lampasone believes "you should have between three and five glasses of wine a day." In that case, we better get sipping. Good thing his shop features more than 3,000 wines, with tastings offered regularly. Sample a great-tasting weekday bottle, then procure a celebratory champagne from a few shelves away. Oh, did we mention that Wine Watch also offers an informative email listserve announcing upcoming winetastings and online shopping? Wine Watch, how helpful.

Like the miles and miles of our sun-drenched beaches, there are miles and miles of (seemingly) sun-drenched (flatironed) blond hair. But if you're not afraid of big, bold curls, then head to Donna Pascoe Salon. Curly girls — and lads — this is your new hair home. Aside from all the usual posh salon services and the fact that they've recently switched to organic products, Donna Pascoe has Katrina Rodriguez, curl specialist. She's a Color & Cut Deva Specialist trained at the Devachan salon in NYC. She's a curl educator, and she will not only teach your curls to behave but she'll teach you how to let them be free. So be brave. Put down the flatiron. (And walk away from the Sun-In.) Walk in to Donna Pascoe's, and let your curls be free.

Judge a building by its cover, sure. If you're in Dania Beach, taking a gander at the Design Center of the Americas is a must: It occupies 775,000 square feet. It turns colors at night, with shades of pink and yellow and green that light up the east side of I-95. This squarish white building is not a bank or a grand hotel. It's a campus — for trade design — the largest of its kind in the world. So you better believe you should get out of the car and explore what's beyond the front walls. The building is open to the public. You can meander throughout more than 100 showrooms. Yes, you got that right: somewhere around 150 rooms, displaying interior and designer showrooms. Folks spend a whole day inside this building — not just the internationally renowned designer suits trying to lock in clients, but those guys are there too. You're inside a giant swatch. Discover different types of flooring, lighting, window treatments, every style of furniture, every type of paint and fabric. This turns Rooms to Go into a yucky kiddie Fun Zone containing plastic tunnels and pits of balls with spit on them. Ikea, shucks, it's nothing but a Charlie Brown playpen.

A well-funded city library, the Delray Beach Public Library has all the usual modern media amenities in spades. There are quiet study rooms, large meeting rooms, and youth activities. There's ample free parking, a café, and row after row of shelves containing more than 250,000 books. There's free Wi-Fi throughout the building, with no pesky registration and login system, so even visitors and tourists can get on the web. But this library's main attraction, what it really has going for it, is the location. Two stories of airy openness and bright, sunny windows, the library sits smack in the middle of the growing downtown scene. After spending the morning at the green market, having some lunch on Atlantic, or even lounging on the beach, the library serves as a retreat; grab a book or a laptop, a cup of coffee, and watch the parade on the avenue go by.

One trip to the asbestos-laden, flooding, disorganized, corrupt, stinking, harrowing, overcrowded, labyrinthine, and depressing Broward Main Courthouse (if you can even manage to find a $10 parking spot) can sour one's very concept of justice. After this experience, a trip to West Palm's Shangri-la of law makes even the most hardened Browardian feel like he's arrived at God's golden door. Clerks are responsive. Records are easily accessible. And the place is almost... pretty. Keep that in mind when choosing a spot to commit a crime.

We're proud to give graduation announcements when it's for a plethora of brand-spanking-new drag queens. The nonprofit Drag It Out mentors, inspires, fundraises, and teaches the art of drag. After ten weeks of free workshops, coached by professional drag queens, these draglings learn how to walk in six-inch heels. They create personas. They get real tools on how to enter the professional drag world — like how to create a "super sweet stache." Many students attend the workshops for fun — to learn the art of drag — but once in costume, some alumnae want to perform. All proceeds of their shows go to the Pride Center at Equality Park, Animal Aid, and Safe Schools of South Florida — for what Drag It Out nicknames "the Kids, the Queers, and the Animals."

A cougar needs to hunt for young males, and the cubs are in need of some cash. (It's OK, cougars: Everyone agrees there's nothing wrong with being a sugar mama.) So, really, the natural location to find a cougar is Whole Foods. What young gent can easily afford a $15 bottle of jelly on his own? But to linger by the jellies would be uncouth for a cougar. She needs to be the lioness, royalty, even though she is wearing her yoga pants. Cougars need to be in the meat section. They sashay near the deli case. But they also need to smell good. Cougars need you to know that they do smell very good. Where the younger populace might leave it to Pantene Pro-V, the cougar goes exotic. That's what makes their prime hunting spot... the herbal soaps and shampoos area. She needs you little buckaroos to feel young, and you need your raw veggies and seeds to keep up your stamina. Rawr!

If you want to add dating and/or marrying above your income bracket to your résumé, Mizner Park is the glittery office park where you should be knocking on doors for an interview. The ostentatious nature of many of the downtown Boca visitors means it can be hard to determine who's truly loaded and who's just really good at playing — and looking — the part. Rest assured; there is gold that is ready and willing to be dug. Looking for an ice breaker? Offer to order up a bowl of San Pellegrino for the hairless dog peeking out of (and peeing into) her/his $6,000 handbag. Barring that, a bit of well-placed cleavage never seemed to hurt a candidate's prospects.

Congratulations! You snagged a date. You probably know nothing about this person. Does she like the Beatles? We won't go as far as to say that you can never trust a person who doesn't like the Beatles, but we will say you can trust a person — at least for one night — who does like the Beatles. Especially if that one night is in a bar. In a crowded Irish bar, where it would be natural for you to drink, to get that liquid courage to converse with an unfamiliar human. You can do anything to the backdrop of feel-good Beatles tunes! Ah, sounds relaxing already. At the Field, you have options: You can talk, but you don't need to constantly talk (no one likes filler). But this is better than a jukebox filled with nothing but Beatles songs: Every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., a Lennon/McCartney Beatles tribute band called 2ofUs plays. The guys are charismatic. They smile. During Christmas, they wear Santa hats. To boot, the ambiance at the Field is homey and romantic: There's dim lighting and dark wood everywhere you look. An actual big Banyan tree out front is so downright magical that you'd think some sort of Irish elves make the Field's delicious homemade cinnamon ice cream inside of it. So what happens when the duo, George VanDyk and Bryan Hinton, throw in a sad melody like "Eleanor Rigby"? Make out?

Themed, adult parties put together by Electrolust take place once a month at Club X-it, but it was on Saturday, February 5, at "A Clockwork Orgy," that a gang of friends who had never attended a fetish party before all got whipped together (not at the same time) — and that made for one helluva night. At this annual Stanley Kubrick tribute party, men who wore bomb gear and giant, buckled boots stomped on the dance floor, moving to hard-hitting, bass-thumping techno. There were attractive people there. There was liberation. Whips hung on the back wall. One man wore a mask and kilt, another a tail. Here, people approached and asked how they could please you. Did you want to get whipped? Leather Lee, the dom and the master who's been whipping people for 25 years, was here for you. You got your foot massaged, your shoulders rubbed. You got your neck sucked on, your ear lobes too — if you wanted, of course. You wanted to leave with bite marks? You left with bite marks. There was a man waiting on the floor in the restroom — he wanted to be spit on. He was spit on. He even got pissed on — and liked it. A very old man's desire was to be pulled by the string attached to the front of his black Speedo. He was pulled. Similar parties may happen once a month, but this night didn't just have an ending — it stimulated a million different nerve endings.

The Reef Road Rum Bar, located smack in the middle of downtown West Palm Beach, is like the Cheers of the reggae scene. Out-of-town reggae bands take the stage most nights. Local band Spred the Dub and DJ Highgrad host a weekly Monday-night reggae with no cover and Red Stripe on special. The huge windows behind the stage stay open during shows, and the sound takes over Clematis Street. When the crowd builds, the staff is quick to move a few tables out of the way to make the dance floor bigger. And don't be surprised if the owners, Alex and Tarik, remember your name.

There's poker and slots, just like at every other casino in our current golden age of gambling in South Florida. But the Seminole Casino in Coconut Creek also has the so-called "Vegas-style" games available only to the Seminoles — thanks to a table full of cash and a special pact with Charlie Crist. That means blackjack and Pai Gow and roulette and all the other sucker bets that seem incomprehensible yet irresistible. And unlike all the other casinos in town, Coconut Creek offers something more, the two sweetest words a degenerate gambler can hear: free drinks. Not all the time, but it happens. And when they aren't free, there are three different bars willing to sauce you right up and several different places to snack. Here's a secret: One of the snack bars offers deep-fried Oreos that are so damned good, you might even forget about all the money you just dropped at the tables.

Only at Lips will a six-foot-tall Marilyn Monroe bring you a dirty joke along with your RuPaul Rum Punch. The stage flashes, and the music blasts; the performers ("dolls with balls") are dressed to the nines and prettified with hours' worth of makeup application. They're rude, crude, and utterly hilarious; they lip-synch and dance in tower-tall stilettos and make sure you know from the get-go that anything does, and in fact will, go. Hips will swivel. Pelvises will thrust. Lines will be crossed. Wigs will be thrown across the room. Dollar bills will be wedged into bustiers. You will go home with glitter in your hair, frozen cosmo churning in your blood, and a smile on your face.

At 4 a.m., the world's a hard place for a hot mess. You're drunk; bouncers removed you from the bar over an hour ago, and all you've done since is send hysterical text messages to your ex. In the miasma of your alcohol-fueled mind, there's a fine line between "sleeping" and "passing out," and you're inclined to neither. Fortunately, a little inebriation won't prohibit you from leafing through a massive menu full of sandwiches, Greek food, breakfast wraps, diner fare, desserts, and basically anything edible you can imagine. Peter Pan's hearty late-night food will sober you up enough to people-watch: Give yourself one point for every young woman you see passed out at a booth, five points for any potential Mafioso, and ten points for anyone doing anything illegal in the bathroom (and 25 if it's at a table).

After a long day at work, sometimes the only things you have enough energy to do are crack open a cold beer and watch a movie. But considering they don't serve beer at most movie theaters, head down to Little Munich. Not only does it boast authentic German cuisine, a huge selection of draft "bier," and a friendly atmosphere but Little Munich also shows the best free movies starting at 10 every Wednesday night. Whether it's a guilty-pleasure flick like Rush Hour or something even more politically incorrect like Repo Man, this is the one place you won't be made fun of for your taste in movies (or wiener schnitzel).

Unless you've got a few Midwestern winters under your belt — with those five months of frigid, all-consuming solitude that push you just to your breaking point and then a hair more — you're probably missing out on at least a fraction of the appeal of the Lodge. Sure, it's an affable place no matter your geographic heritage, but for ex-pats from well above the Mason-Dixon line, the Lodge is like a little piece of the motherland. Though the varnish on the "log cabin" walls is a bit shiny and the beer selection far superior to what you'll find in the average deer camp, there's comfort in the familiarity of a steel pail nailed to a picnic table and filled with peanuts in the shell. And while you wax nostalgic with your "hunting" buddies about that time you ran your four-by-four off the two-track, a visit from a perfectly tanned waitress in short-shorts and a knotted flannel top reminds you that paradise is only a few safe steps away.

So what if the air-hockey table is so sticky that it works better if you dump a beer on it? If you're at Dirty Blondes beach bar, you're probably not sober enough to care. And that's fine, because the games double as side tables to lean against and rest your cheap drink on. But if you are inclined to game, the deceptively big space is a playground of pool tables, air hockey, arcade games, shuffleboard, and darts. "Blondies," as it's affectionately called, is like Chuck E. Cheese for the 20- to 30-something set. Competitive beach dudes can prove their manhood in a round of pool while using the games as a convenient excuse to hit on bikini-clad women. Self-serious folk are better off staying out of this place. It's packed on weekend afternoons and becomes more of a low-key sports bar at night.

Thanks to researchers across the globe finally making good use of government-issued grants, we now have sound arguments for ogling boobs and smoking cigarettes. Yep, some scientists have claimed that gazing upon breasts can extend a man's life, and others have said that breaking up the 9-to-5 drudgery actually makes smokers less stressed than nonsmokers. Stogie-grasping patrons who want to live a longer and more stress-free existence can seek solace with like-minded individuals at Greenbrier Smoking Lounge in Pompano Beach. A sea of cleavage, thick puffs of tobacco smoke, and a menu listing inexpensive noshings has us asking: Is Greenbrier a restaurant, bar, or a strip club? Whatever the answer, it doesn't really matter, because the therapeutic effects of frequenting here are obvious. So belly up to the bar to enjoy Buffalo-style chicken tenders and a frosty beer. Don't forget a pack (or two) of your favorite butts while you eyeball some bouncing twin peaks and add years to your life.

Bimini Bay is a drinking den for wayfarers who likely missed their flight at FLL — back in 1968. Both blue and white collars find leisure at this neighborhood bar, which isn't properly portrayed by simple descriptions like "dive" or "hole in the wall." No establishment from Belle Glade to Miramar holds a lit cigarette to Bimini — a place that embodies skankiness more than the skivvies dangling from the rafters. Slumped over the bar top, ashtray distance apart, buddies slur out conversations. But there is more to do than share nonsensical thoughts. If you're bored with playing darts, try your luck at a raunchy game of Cooter Ball. Is the game on TV not capturing your interest? Turn your attention to the adult film in the other corner of the smoky room. There is something for every tasteless customer brazen enough to graze a flat surface at Bimini. Here, everyone knows your name. It's like Cheers but with porno.

Palm-frond-shaped fan blades stir a slight breeze over the hordes of Red Stripe-drinking, khaki-wearing yachties who make up the usual crowd of this nautical-themed bar. If you get sloshed enough and squint, it even feels like you're aboard a huge, decadent vessel, without the potential seasickness. And if you can't get an actual boat owner to take you back to the (bed of the) yacht, you should at least be able to bed a member of the crew.