Shopping & Services

When it comes to finding safe activities for kids, parents are in a major bind these days. What's that, you say? Go to the beach? In this 100-degree heat? Snoogums will get a sunburn. The indoor play place? Those rackets charge $20 a pop. A private babysitter? Sigh... they're probably pedophiles. There is an oasis in this swamp of iniquity. At Calvary Chapel's flagship 75-acre campus in Fort Lauderdale, there's a massive playground with a state-of-the-art seesaw, an athletic field, and an entire skateboarding park. Four on-site eateries include a gourmet restaurant with table service (try the portobello steak; it's divine) and a Starbucks-like coffee shop. Should you want to explore this resort-like paradise sans kids for a while, browse in the bookstore or take a Tae Bo class at the sports complex — or catch the sermon; that's an option too. While you do, young'uns can be dropped off for free childcare. Infants and toddlers play with toys, albeit biblical-themed, in the nursery, and school-aged kids act out plays in the theater. Sure, your precious pumpkin might come home with a little Jesus on his play clothes, but is there really any harm in it? Just make sure the kids don't get too addicted... next, they will be asking you to shell out $2,550 so they can spend spring break with the high school missionary team in Uganda.

Millions of years from now, when archaeologists are trying to figure out how we lived circa 2012, they need only unearth the site of the Sawgrass Mills Mall. Our entire culture can be deduced from a Marshalls, a Best Buy Mobile, and a SuperTarget, plus a 23-screen theater with IMAX and some fossilized Chick-fil-A. Although the mall is a legendary draw for tourists — easy to recognize because they're pushing three shopping carts apiece — we locals would go mad and broke if we came here habitually, because the place is so massive that it triggers sensory overload. But once in a great while, when the skies are gray and you've gotten a good night's sleep, come here to shop — and shop hard. While the prices in many shops aren't hugely discounted, you sure as hell can't beat the selection. Among the 350 stores are a TJ Maxx, a Burlington Coat Factory, and a Bed Bath and Beyond — seriously, it's like Sawgrass Mills eats a box store every morning for breakfast. Be strategic. Try not to get sidelined by the tower of gumball machines or the SpongeBob pajama seller, and save your energy for the real deals at Last Call by Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom Rack.

Sincerity is an increasingly endangered species. When someone earnestly tells you to "prepare to rule the world" after performing a few hip-opening stretches, its tempting to roll the eyes or, at the very least, stifle a laugh. But just one muscle-melting session inside this cocoon of a studio will cure that cynical knee jerk. Pick a class — seriously, any class; all of the instructors are fantastic — and see what you've been missing at your atmosphere-free corporate gym. Hot or warm, Vinyasa or raja, easy or seemingly death-defying, this recently expanded space caters to yogis of all ilk. Don't try to fight it: The passion and positivity exuded by the staff and classmates are catching. Just get your ass in the studio, chant a few "oms," and admit that you actually like feeling this good.

Once upon a time, massages seemed like fairy-tale creations available only to Condé Nast-reading, spa-going rich men and their trophy wives. But then a friend tipped us off to this cool studio that puts massage in reach of us little people. Owners Frank Velaz and MaryLou DiNicolas use massage to alleviate real injuries — from accidents, sports, baby-making, stress, and carpal tunnel — so they accept insurance. One arm of the business caters to pregnant ladies whose backs are aching from the baby weight; specially designed massage tables have cutouts that make room for a big belly and two bloated boobies, and MaryLou doubles as a doula. The therapy is not just physical but emotional too. They'll talk like new best friends if you're chatty and need to vent, but if you're jonesing for some quiet time, they'll shut up and let the darkened room and aromatherapy work their healing magic. Thai massage, couples massage, cupping, and yoga classes are all in their repertoire too.

The folks who don Statue of Liberty costumes and dance the day away for all the cars on Hallandale Beach Boulevard are so reliable that they should be reference points in local traffic reports. Jesus Abikarram, manager of Liberty Tax Service (get the costume reference?), says he employs a steady flow of dancers on the sidewalk from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. during tax season, rotating them through four-hour shifts. All the dancers have their own approach to get through a shift. One, who wished to remain nameless, was jamming the Bee Gees and lip-synching into a water bottle on a warm March day. "I get a lot of honks and a lot of whistles," he said. "I get a lot of middle fingers too."

Chelsea and Fred Marando opened their place in 2009 as a hub for local, organic produce. In a few short years, they've grown so much that the farm is supplying restaurants in addition to families. Grab a bag and a pair of scissors at the entrance so you can clip your own herbs and lettuces. Browse the baskets of bright fruits and veggies. Pop inside the general store for beautiful pumpernickel breads, marbled rye, and olive loaves, plus raw milk, homemade preserves, locally roasted coffee, and a vast selection of organic pet food. Want more? Buy into the community-supported agriculture program and get a weekly supply of star fruit, oranges, tomatoes, and such. Or go a step further and get your hands dirty by participating in the community garden on-site. Bring the kids — pigs, chickens, billy goats, and geese (all once abandoned and adopted by the farm) make a miniature petting zoo of sorts.

It's 6 p.m. on a Monday at Publix. Armed with shopping carts, 20- and 30-something men dressed in their work attire stroll through the various aisles. You can learn a lot about a man from his grocery cart. It's sort of like the real-life version of a dating website profile. The grocery-store choices reveal if he's healthy, if he can cook, and if he's got a job. The grocery store also provides for an assortment of simple conversation starters: Ask a guy to reach for something on a high shelf, or offer advice on something that he's considering dropping in his cart. Meeting over Coco Puffs is infinitely better than meeting some drunken fool who's pounding cheap beer at a bar downtown.

Most white-collar criminals 'round these parts are in it for the money — in the case of former Lauderdale Lakes Finance Director Larry Tibbs, however, the achievement isn't in how much he stole but how much he invented. To hide just how bad the city was at the whole "having money" thing, Tibbs used every trick in the book and several that weren't: He said the city was going to make money from sources that didn't exist, made up numbers for sources that did exist, and pilfered cash from sources that belonged to other people, according to an investigation by the Broward Office of the Inspector General. An all-star effort; any town looking to lie to taxpayers and bounce checks to the sheriff's office would be lucky to have him.

When he's not rapping onstage — or on top of a bar — Jacques Bruna, AKA Bleubird, can be found distributing ice pops and hosting local Record Store Day events, saving kittens from trees, and organizing area happenings with the creative collective Black Locust Society. Impossible to miss, the wildly charismatic Bruna is usually seen driving around in his multicolored ice-cream-truck/music-playing RV, the Freeebird. Regardless of the rhyme or reasons, this dude certainly makes Fort Lauderdale a bit more colorful.

Any disgruntled citizen can hurl insults during a school board meeting or launch a NIMBY crusade. Rita Solnet is the rare activist with powerful allies inside and outside government. Her diligently researched arguments prompt policy changes with far-reaching implications throughout the state. The Boca Raton mom helped found the national, nonpartisan group Parents Across America, which rails against privatization and high-stakes testing in schools. This year, she helped prevent a for-profit company with a dismal track record, Mavericks in Education, from opening three new charter schools in Palm Beach County. Then she took the fight to Tallahassee, successfully protesting a "parent empowerment" bill that would have allowed public schools to be converted to charters. Solnet saw the measure as an attempt to privatize schools and drive a wedge between parents and school administrators. "This bill no more empowers me than it does the gecko on my patio from taking over my home," Solnet wrote in a letter protesting the bill. Try arguing with that.

When Bill Di Scipio heard that officials were trying to land a contract for an immigration detention center in the quiet, low-tax town of Southwest Ranches, he went to a few meetings to investigate. What he thought he saw was a handful of bumbling and conspiratorial city officials bent on sealing a deal behind the backs of residents. The proposal — still in the works — calls for a contract between the town and U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, with a majority of the proceeds going to Corrections Corporation of America, which wants to build the 1,500-bed jail. Di Scipio launched a torrent of public-records requests for everything from emails to receipts, focusing on the shadowy work of Town Attorney Keith Poliakoff, who told council members, "The less we say, the better off we will be." When his requests went unanswered, Di Scipio started writing new ones, in broken English under the nom de plume of Frank Nurt. His name now elicits an audible groan from the city clerk in charge of public records, and Poliakoff smacked down a lawsuit from Di Scipio and his rookie lawyer over the $1.25 that he was incorrectly charged for copies of records. Di Scipio's tactics may be unorthodox, but his work has resulted in important information seeing the light of day, and his activist group persuaded Pembroke Pines to oppose the facility, opening that city to a big lawsuit from CCA.

When an ambitious state attorney resigns his post as the top prosecutor in Palm Beach County to become a lawyer for a fossil fuel company, eyebrows will inevitably rise. But it was an especially strange move for Michael McAuliffe, because the Democratic litigator left to work for Bill Koch, one of Mitt Romney's top fundraisers and brother of the famed Tea Party backers Charles and David Koch. What could Palm Beach billionaire Koch want from McAuliffe? Koch is known to be litigious, having waged famous court battles against a wine broker and a former mistress. In the '80s, he sued his brothers, alleging corporate mismanagement of the family's oil company, Koch Industries. Last year, Bill Koch's company, Oxbow Corp., sued Warren Buffett's railroad companies, alleging that Union Pacific and Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad companies were conspiring to drive up costs for shipping coal. None of this explains why McAuliffe decided to join his legal team. It's the kind of political mystery that will keep tongues wagging for months.

Bob Norman is adept at pissing people off. In February, the Broward Sheriff's Office labeled Norman as "cocky" in an incident report suggesting that the Channel 10 reporter was creeping around and filming illegally at the Pine Hollow Equestrian Center. A month later, Norman found himself in a pushing match with a mustached foreman at the Sun Recycling plant in Pompano Beach. In that instance, BSO actually had to come out to the scene to get Norman's microphone back from the foreman, who ran back onto private property when he seized the stick. This bulldog mentality and a ridiculous level of insider knowledge combine to make Norman tops when it comes to South Florida television reporters. Yes, Norman is a former New Times columnist. And no, we're not above playing favorites, but this award comes courtesy of Norman's old-school, shoe-leather-burning reporting.

Ryan Phillips isn't just some cloud-talking mimbo telling you whether it's going to be hot or hotter. The 34-year-old NBC weatherman has been geeking out on cold fronts and low-pressure systems since he was a kid in rural Ohio. "While I was in high school, I actually went and interviewed for a meteorology program at Ohio University," he says with a healthy hint of self-deprecation. He ended up studying tropical weather — not a bad skill set for this market — then bounced from Nebraska to Naples before landing in Miami in 2005. Soon after his arrival, Hurricane Wilma graced South Florida with her presence. "Hurricane season busts your ass," he says. "I was in the hot seat for a while on that one. It was just an amazing meteorological event, and to see your community get ripped up in a matter of hours."

Police say 29-year-old Patrick Davis attempted to rob a man in a McDonald's in early March. The victim resisted, but for some reason, Davis stuck around — long enough for a Broward Sheriff's Office deputy to arrive and attempt to arrest him. Davis responded with "super strength," according to police, and broke free — until Finch and Ramos, white-haired homeless guys who happened to be in the restaurant, helped the deputy get Davis under control long enough for backup to arrive. Somebody get these guys some free McNuggets.

For years, this stretch of U.S. 1 has sat empty and forlorn: vacant fields on one side, boarded-up retail spaces on the other. But this year, it began to turn around. First came construction of the Fresh Market high-end grocery store, and then cultural outpost Radio-Active Records moved onto the strip, forging a connection through the dereliction of Sears­town to the arts scene of nearby Fat Village. Then, this spring, South Carolina gym chain Pivotal Fitness opened a new facility in a formerly cursed location on the Sunrise curve. Judging from attendance, the area's economy is ready for a renaissance: Pivotal Fitness and Fresh Market are nearly always slammed, and Radio-Active's live shows fill the intimate space. With the opening of a new Whole Enchilada restaurant nearby, the residents of Flagler Village and Victoria Park may actually be able to walk to stuff. What a novel idea.

Regardless of your political leanings, it's tough to deny that Muslims in America are routinely stereotyped and vilified by the rest of society. For young people, being labeled an outcast can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Margate attorney Khurrum Wahid aims to prevent such alienation before it begins. In 2006, he founded Emerge-USA, a nonprofit group that aims to empower Muslim, Indian, Pakistani, and Arab-American people through voter registration, political polling, and a leadership training program for young adults. By getting more of Florida's 120,000 registered Muslim voters involved in politics, Wahid hopes to combat fear and bigotry. Helping young Muslims land internships at City Hall and introducing them to Tallahassee power brokers is a key part of his mission. If politicians grow accustomed to seeing a woman in a head scarf in the mayor's office, they will be less inclined to label her a terrorist. "Public perception drives public policy," Wahid says.

Sure, you could adopt a pet from the sparkling-clean shelter run by the Broward County Humane Society, but if you're intent on extracting a little soul from shabby misery, why not go all the way? Just down the road at the Broward County shelter, on the grounds of Fort Lauderdale Airport, the volunteers and staffers at the shelter certainly try their hardest, but the situation is grim: a large, un-air-conditioned shelter holds abandoned or lost pets for three to five days. If they're not claimed, they could face euthanasia. But a select few are transferred to the adoption section, where they sit two to a cage and listen to each other bark all day and all night. You can adopt from either section — and very well might save a life — but the real reward will come later, thinking about how much better your house is than a crowded, piss-filled cage.

He swam across Lake Ontario, played a mutant killer turkey in a movie called Blood Freak, and made national headlines when authorities raided his Loxahatchee home earlier this year to remove two tigers and a leopard. But the legend of Steve Sipek is rooted in the myth-like relationship he forged with a lion named Samson. Here's the CliffsNotes version based on interviews Sipek has given in past years: While filming one of his Tarzan films in Africa, Sipek saved a lion cub from being strangled by a large snake. He adopted the cub, named it Samson, and went on to star in several films with it. A few years later, while filming another movie, a special-effects mishap left Sipek engulfed in flames. All the humans on set ran away, but Samson somehow managed to drag the actor's severely charred body from the inferno, saving his life. And people wonder why the guy prefers the company of big cats over fellow humans.

Hidden among the abandoned businesses and empty lots on Andrews Avenue is a true book lover's secret paradise and a 40-year-old quirky Fort Lauderdale landmark. The space is tight, but you'll never notice. Every way you move, there's another page-turning gem waiting to be discovered. Whether looking for a banned book from the '60s, a magazine from a foreign land, or an artsy, fetish coffee-table book, you won't be disappointed by Bob's ceiling-high shelves. There are even a few witchy voodoo spell books for the broken-hearted. Don't let the mundane bodegaesque exterior fool you: This bookshop is worth losing an entire Sunday afternoon in.

Tucked behind an IHOP on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, Reggae Land Muzik isn't so much a record shop as it is a reggae museum. Meticulously organized crates of hard-to-find vinyl give way to stacks of epic dancehall mix CDs and carefully cataloged cassette tapes. Whether you're looking to venture beyond Bob Marley for the first time or you're an avid collector on the prowl for a Don Carlos release from back in the day, the affable and informed owner who goes by Juicy V or Jah V will be more than happy to weigh in and help you find what you're looking for. "I love this space; I love vibing with my people," Jamaican-born Juicy says. For more than 18 years, he has been slinging riddims both new and vintage from Hallandale, amassing more than 100,000 vinyls in the process. "What you see up-front in the store, that's a teardrop of what I have in stock," he says. Now he's in the tedious process of uploading his collection to the store's website. "In five years, I'll still be uploading 45s."

Walk past the twirling yellow Ferrari and tilting silver Porsche. Cut through the rows of designer knockoffs, Bob Marley beach towels, and assorted ninja weapons. Then hang a right toward booth AA24, a shimmering beacon of dental cosmetics plopped in the melting pot of Fort Lauderdale — the Swap Shop. Sure, it's a bit weird to seek out minor dental procedures in a sprawling flea market, but it's tough to find a better deal when it comes to getting your pearly whites pearlier and whiter. For $60, the folks at Celebrity Bright Smile guarantee to whiten your teeth by two shades in just 20 minutes. The trick? A substance called carbamide peroxide. Brendamarie Canfu, the round-faced sweetheart who works the stand, says most dentists use the substance in a concentration ranging only from 25 to 35 percent. At the Swap Shop, Canfu and her colleagues will slather a 44 percent concentration of the stuff across your chompers. Though we have no idea if the more potent concoction actually makes your teeth glisten any brighter, Canfu says it can't be used on pregnant women and people with pacemakers. That must mean it's good.

Know what's so great about shoes? In a society where even the most liberated women can't quite escape the enculturated need to feel pretty, shoes are always your friend. Gained ten pounds? Shoes still fit. Bad hair day? Shoes look awesome. Bad skin today? Good shoes today. Feeling generally unsexy and awful? Know what's always sexy and awesome? Shoes. Men notice boobs and butts; women compliment one another's shoes — and then immediately ask, "Where did you get them?" 'Round here, there is one shoe store that is known far and wide. It is conspiratorially whispered about in the dark corners of bars and in the ladies rooms of clubs. Women who have never been there at least know of it. It is known only as $8.88 shoes, but few bother to learn its actual name, Fashion Footwear. It carries all kinds of shoes but specializes in teeter-inducing footwear that causes podiatrists to cringe and women to crave. (We're not sure about women podiatrists, but we assume they are very, very conflicted.) Located in a completely nondescript little stretch of stores not even worthy of the term "strip mall" along Hillsboro Road in Deerfield Beach, the store has no witty ad campaign, no billboards, and no slogans. It has no online store, and it doesn't ship. It does, however, have a sassy Facebook page that parades the latest footy finds in a podiatic orgy of cobbler bliss and also warns away any would-be shoplifters in no uncertain terms. It's on their Facebook page that you'll also learn the shoes are actually $9.88 now (damned economy). But inflation be damned, the legend has been christened, and so it shall remain. And the next time you see a young woman precariously perched upon va-va-voom heels, give it a try. Ask. Just don't be surprised by the answer.

Downtown Delray Beach is known for its fine-dining choices, beautiful parks, and generous, free public parking. There is even Old School Square, home to a museum, a theater, a vintage gymnasium, an outdoor pavilion, and an amphitheater. Every possible enjoyment you can imagine is found here, and every bit of it is bait. The great secret pleasure of downtown Delray is the people-watching. No other location provides the parade of variety that marches down the avenue day in and day out, from leathery George Hamilton look-alikes and their glamorous nip 'n' tucked Lizard Ladies to the yuppies either trying to look like adults but puking in an alley or trying to look like college kids but standing awkwardly in the corner of the "too loud" bar. If hipsters are your taste, grab a coffee at the Spot — it's cool, so you probably never heard of it. Want crunchy granola types and helicopter moms who don't believe in vaccinations? Try Nutrition Cottage or the Swinton Community Garden. There are suburban warriors with pedigreed dogs too big to fit in cars or small enough to live in purses. It is a festival for the senses and a delight for anyone with a humorous appreciation of the human race.

Screen printing is undeniably cool, no doubt about it. But hurting the environment is totally uncool. Luckily, Squeegee Science knows both of these things and harms no plants, animals, or people while cranking out killer designs. Although other screen-printing shops may talk a big game promoting eco-consciousness, Squeegee Science has the products, knowledge, and dedication to back it up. Founder Brett Wilkin has grown up in the industry and is personally invested in minimizing the ecological footprint on the world. Whether it's for a restaurant, band, or any other business, Squeegee Science has got it covered, all while keeping the planet a happy place to live.

In the early days of videogames, things were pretty simple. You stayed still and shot asteroids zooming past you. You went back and forth across the bottom and bounced a dot at bricks. Or you were a frog navigating across a busy roadway, trying not to get squished. Perhaps it is this deeply buried societal memory of Frogger that explains why Sunrise Boulevard is so goddamned @#$%^!@#^! Why, fellow citizens? Why?! Despite the heavy traffic here, pedestrians wade out into this relentless tide like unwary tourists into a rip current. Have you no care for your own welfare? Have you not eyes to see? And you seem so annoyed by the cars on the roadway. You give them angry glares. You press close to them, practically brushing the door panels with your knees, as they fly past. If they try to pause instead to let you cross, you stop and angrily wave them on, yet as soon as they start to move again, so do you. Sometimes, you bang the hood as you cross paths just to say "Hello." There is a traffic light every ten feet, and they are timed with frightening precision to make sure that drivers stop at every single one — sometimes twice. So why, dear walker, must you push that crosswalk button, only to slowly — so slowly — cross in front of moving vehicles so that by the time the light turns red and cars stop, you are long gone? Perhaps instead of more traffic lights or red-light cameras, the city should install large speakers every 20 feet and play the classic Frogger music. It surely won't stop the jaywalking, but it will make it much more fun.

The task presented to architect Robert Gatje of New York-based Marcel Breuer Associates was difficult: Design a library that would embody the early 1980s resurgence of Fort Lauderdale. To do this, he employed a hodgepodge of design elements that came together flawlessly. The glass façade facing north is imposing. The landscaped terraces are swank. Walls made of local coral rock are thoughtful. A reflecting pool that appears to run uninterrupted from the outside to the inside is striking (when full). And the six-story atrium punctuated by an Alexander Calderesque mobile (it's by William Gaterman) is the kicker. Many of these eye-catching features are currently obscured by construction fences, part of a project to swap in impact glass so the building can better handle high winds and hurricanes. Even though the Broward Main Library dates back only to 1984, officials have already started the paperwork to get the building designated as a Fort Lauderdale historical landmark. "You can argue that it's the most iconic building in the county," says Dave Barber, Broward County Historic Preservation Coordinator. "It's such an amazing space to walk into. You feel like you're in a special place, and that's how libraries and public buildings should be." Amen.

Do not abuse this bathroom. Unless you've paid for coffee and tipped the lovely proprietor, Patti, you don't deserve this kind of karma. A beaded curtain shields the entrance. Inside, it's cleaner and more spacious than a Manhattan bedroom. An ancient L.C. Smith typewriter rests on a bureau next to a book titled Ten Zen Seconds. Should you require further reading material, there is a well-stocked bookshelf too. Painted above the mirror is the inspirational message, "You are beautiful to me." When you go to flush, the ordinary commode handle has been replaced by a small coffee cup. "Life is best lived in the flow," reads the accompanying note. "Put your worries in this cup. Lift it up and let them go!"

How to explain the hot mess that is the parking lot for this plaza that houses Whole Foods Market, Barnes & Noble, and numerous other yuppie magnets? Perhaps there is a component in fair-trade coffee and organic kombucha that causes people to throw all driving inhibitions — like the notion that you should, you know, not crash into other cars or humans — out the window like so many conventionally grown vegetables. The scene calls to mind a dystopian future wherein the world is given over to a race of Hummer-driving Pilates instructors who have smartphones for hands. Ninja-like reflexes are required for safe navigation, and heaven help you if your craving for raw cacao nibs strikes on a Sunday afternoon.

Convicted Ponzi schemer Scott Rothstein implicated tons of people in his blockbuster ten-day deposition in December, but only a few entities were described as being absolutely integral in his plot to steal more than a billion dollars. TD Bank was one of them. According to Rothstein, TD employees passed off bogus documents, helped put on "shows" for investors, and lied to depositors who asked if they could "lock" their accounts to keep Rothstein from getting to their cash. Rothstein said his scheme "absolutely would have ended" if TD performed even a cursory investigation of his dealings, so, while they're probably paying closer attention now, it's still unrivaled in South Florida for wannabe Ponzi partiers.

Time machines might not exist, but thankfully vintage stores do. When shopping at Vintage Diversity, it's all about the hunt, so get ready to dig, and set aside a long afternoon. Wall to wall packed with treasures of yesteryear, there is no telling what's hiding underneath a 1950s gold-embroidered housecoat or an authentic pair of '70s, white, patent-leather go-go boots. Perhaps you're only looking to travel back in time for a Mad Men party or a Warhol Factory-styled event? Vintage Diversity rents out clothing and costumes too. Owner/operator and local vintage queen Melanie Garbo-Byrnes is always on-site and ready to assist with all your vintage needs. Forget about powering the flux capacitor, and drive down to Oakland Park instead.

With Cider Doughnuts, Boston Chowder Co.'s Maine lobster rolls, and Anita's Guacamole, this category could easily be renamed "Best Place to Justify Standing in an Ungodly Long Line," because you will do just that for any of these vendors, all the while producing enough back sweat to fill a Big Gulp. But it's so worth it! In its 17th season, the well-attended West Palm Beach Green Market throws together more than 60 vendors selling everything from locally grown hydroponic greens (lettuces, people), tropical fruits, orchids, artisanal breads and pastas, teas, olive oils, pickles, cheeses, handmade dog treats, heirloom tomatoes, jams, honeys, and potted herb plants that are occasionally hand-assembled by West Palm Beach Mayor Jeri Muoio. If you want to avoid the mayor's digits in your herbs, then steer clear of the area during the annual grand opening on October 15, when West Palm Beach parades out local politicians, radio hosts, and TV personalities to man the booths. The market runs every Saturday from 8 a.m. until 1 p.m. from October through April.

"Where's the bargains?" No, it's not grammatically correct, and yes, you might occasionally find better pricing on Craigslist, but if you are a living, breathing, deal-hunting Floridian, you can't help but utter a Pavlovian "At the Swap Shop!" response anytime someone utters the above question. The Swap Shop slogan that was first made famous on local TV ads a few years back has even made its way into remix territory on YouTube. But it's not just the cheesy slogan that makes the Swap Shop one of the state's largest tourist attractions (the owners claim it is second only to Disney); it's the complete unpredictability of the vendors' goods on display. Airbrushed Jesus T-shirts, discounted adult toys, quinceañera garb, designer perfumes, vintage Atari games, tables upon tables of tube socks, a dozen roses for under ten bucks, and cheap produce can all be scored from one of the 2,000 vendors on hand, seven days a week.

This site, run by renegade Palm Beach Post reporter turned gossip blogger Jose (that's "Joe-ZAY") Lambiet, is way more than just silly pictures of the Kardashians — though they're on there too. While he's quick to pick up on South Florida celebrity news, Lambiet is also constantly rooting through the business of the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office, keeping it honest when, say, a man robs a pawn shop with an assault rifle stolen from a sheriff's deputy. For scoops on the South Florida scene, Gossip Extra is the place to go.

The gossip here is juicy. Palm Beach County Sheriff's deputies dish anonymously about everything from a high-profile murder case to a lieutenant with an alleged pain-pill addiction. Founded by Mark Dougan, an ex-deputy who left the force in 2008, PBSOtalk.com makes no attempt to hide its contempt for Sheriff Ric Bradshaw. On the messageboards, it's tough to sort fact from fiction. But some of the most helpful info comes from the documents Dougan has posted on the site — the probable-cause affidavit in the pain-pill case, purchase orders showing that the Sheriff's Office spent more than $60,000 on barbecue grills, a copy of an internal-affairs complaint filed against Bradshaw. Although the site offers no smoking gun, it is a rare window into the internal politics of a sheriff's office few outsiders would otherwise glimpse. After all, it's fun to spy on the cops once in a while.

Worried about an electromagnetic pulse from solar flares wreaking havoc on the modern world? How about a global pandemic or a complete devaluation of the dollar? No? Well, maybe you should be. Here to guide you gently into that dark night are the South Florida Preppers, a congenial bunch of folks who are preparing, in their own particular ways, for a collapse of society as we know it. They trade pointers and theories about "shit hits the fan" scenarios at a monthly barbecue meeting that's open to all and features free lectures. The local survivalists range from camouflaged gun nuts to checkbook-balancing moms. Underneath their morbid anticipation of total disaster is hope — and faith in the human ability to overcome tragedy in this overpopulated, hurricane-swept land.

A quick scan around this bustling mecca of secondhand finds can leave even the most avid garage-sale warrior with that sinking feeling of being in over her head. With its ten cash registers, internal ATM machine, bright fluorescent lighting, and metal railings for growing lines, World Thrift could have easily been a Winn-Dixie in its former incarnation, but it remains the only place in town to score a vintage silk kimono, a $3.99 collection of mint-condition '70s-era teen magazines, a plethora of options for the next ugly Christmas sweater party, and a White House Black Market dress with the tags still on for ten bucks, all in one afternoon. First visits can be daunting, so here are some survival tips from World Thrift regulars. First: Embrace the sports bra and bike shorts. While this thrift shop has aisles of clothing, it lacks dressing rooms. Experienced thrifters show up in skintight options so they can layer on finds in front of several mirrors. Second: Pay attention to color. Everything is broken down by color, which makes finding that little black dress a breeze. And clothes with select colored tags are half-off daily. Third: Show up twice a day. Serious shoppers come by at the 9 a.m. opening time and then again around 3 p.m., when the staff brings out the second shipment of stuff from the backroom.

The man who runs Abernathy's is not named Abernathy — he's Tom Tahmasebi — but don't let that turn you off. He comes highly recommended, and for good reason: On cars he fixes, he gets the paint a near-perfect match to the original color and makes sure it looks as good as new. The waiting room smells reassuringly of solvents, and the workers are friendly. It's never nice to have to shell out hundreds or thousands of dollars for a messed-up car, but even if this place doesn't offer the biggest discounts, it's a reassuring experience every step of the way.

The animal advocates at Sea Turtle Oversight Protection (STOP) don't have a beef with the Hillsboro Lighthouse — just with the particular way that its beam shines onto the beach, thereby disorienting sea-turtle hatchlings to the point that many completely miss the ocean and end up dying. The turtle protectors have been trying to get the Coast Guard to fix this problem for years and have even offered up a list of solutions that don't in any way involve turning off the century-old light. Just change to a yellow instead of a white light bulb, they've pleaded, or use a type of glass that won't confuse the poor baby turtles. The Coast Guard then turned around last year and misrepresented STOP's argument. The Coast Guard asked for community input, essentially saying, "We're thinking about turning out the lighthouse because of these sea-turtle folks. Do you think we should turn out the lighthouse?" Politicians, historians, and neighbors, of course, freaked out and yelled "Keep our lighthouse on," and now all the turtles are going to die.

Few attorneys would clamor for a government job representing juvenile delinquents. Broward Chief Assistant Public Defender Gordon Weekes treats his clients as he would any other kids — with dignity, respect, and a fierce sense of protection. When a 14-year-old boy alleged he was repeatedly sexually assaulted by a guard at the Thompson Academy detention center, Weekes got the teenager released from jail. He also defended Michael Bent, the 17-year-old accused of orchestrating an attack on 15-year-old Michael Brewer, which ended in Brewer's being lit on fire. In each case, Weekes stood up for kids others might shun. Weekes writes letters to Tallahassee complaining about maggots in his clients' food, abusive guards, and other problems at state-funded juvie lockups. He refuses to accept that dysfunctional government agencies such as the Department of Juvenile Justice and Department of Children and Families will never change. He keeps shining a light on the dark places, insisting there is a better way to help troubled kids.

It certainly wasn't the first time something racist was said on the internet, but Santaluces High School was briefly on alert for "cracka beatdowns" after girls posted an outrageous video in February. Turns out, saying "So, guys, if you are watching this video right now and you have a weave and you are black, please be offended, 'cause we are making fun of you" offends people. The same thing happened in Gainesville when two girls posted a 14-minute rant about blacks in their community that got national attention and "response videos" from all over the place. After the video blew up, so did their academic careers at Gainesville High — they never went back. So next time you have a hankerin' for some genuine race-fueled outrage, just say the same thing Michael Scott did in The Office: "I've got to make sure YouTube comes down to tape this."

They say the man who represents himself has a fool for a client, but this long-running David-and-Goliath case just might end with a local government looking like the fool. It all started in 2006, when Lozman, a retired Chicago financier with plenty of money to burn on justice, claimed he had been illegally evicted from his floating home in Riviera Beach because of his activism against last-minute plans to sell the marina to a developer using eminent domain. He won that case, but the city stayed on his heels, coming after him with all kinds of accusations (he owed fees to the marina; his ten-pound dachshund was too dangerous). Lozman resisted, and — long story short — the feds towed away his house. Last year, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that federal authorities had the right to do so, since his house was technically a vessel, subject to federal maritime law. Lozman balked at the ruling — his house, since destroyed, didn't even have engines or steering — and petitioned the highest court in the land to decide what, exactly, distinguishes a boat from a house. The court picked his case, and it will be heard in October.

Driving drunk, plowing your Bentley through a stop sign, and capsizing a Hyundai into a canal is one thing. Leaving the 23-year-old driver of the Hyundai to drown while you stumble off down the road to call your girlfriend is a whole different universe of awful. A Palm Beach County jury convicted Wellington polo mogul John Goodman of all of these crimes in March. A few months before the trial, Goodman added salt to the wound by adopting his 42-year-old girlfriend — a move many observers saw as a way to protect the millions of dollars in his kids' trust funds. By the time Goodman took the stand to defend himself against charges of DUI manslaughter, vehicular homicide, and failure to render aid, much of South Florida had already turned against him. Jurors said they didn't believe much of Goodman's testimony. Can you blame them?

Taking a potential love to the Swap Shop is great place to show your quirky side without having to go out and buy any artsy posters of men covered in body paint. There's no one thing about the place that will make you look cool, but where else in South Florida can you buy hot dogs, studded belts, and flowers before bringing a bottle of booze into a first-run movie (it's a drive-in, no less!)? Plus, it'll be a helluva story telling your grandkids about how Grandpappy wooed Nana over a folding table of old earrings.

Oh, Irene. You big, dirty tease. It looked like you were coming straight at us: In mid-August, the forecast cone painted an elegant swath across the Atlantic, tracing the contours of Cuba and landing smack-dab up the spine of Florida. We rushed to the stores and bought all that great South Florida stuff like batteries and cans of beans and bottled water. And then, just as we battened down and watched your rain bands sweep our eastern skies, you left us. The surprises weren't over: You went on to hit our families and friends up north, to give those who live in sensible climates a little taste of the wrath we've come to expect. With all that coastal damage, you were one of the costliest hurricanes on record. But we got the best of both worlds: all of the pre-hurricane panic (the media thank you) and none of the damage. See you in 2017, darling.

Tired of ripping a bong, then going on a 45-minute YouTube bender? Feel like adding a little excitement to your next stoned escapade, getting all Harold & Kumar with it? If so, twist up a fatty and make your way toward John U. Lloyd State Park, a stretch of Dania Beach scenery wedged between the ocean and the Intracoastal Waterway. The roar of passenger jets blasting off from the nearby Fort Lauderdale International Airport will startle your stoned senses while the hideous sight of shipping containers being unloaded across the waterway will have you harping on industrialized man in no time. To hit the pinnacle of blazed brashness, just keep following the one road through the park until you find yourself at a chainlink fence adorned with signs warning against taking pictures and something about unauthorized access. Voilà — you're now stoned at an annex of the U.S. Naval Surface Warfare Center. Just play it cool, man.

In 2010, David Britto was named Officer of the Year by the Boynton Beach Police Department for investigating the shooting of preachers and resuscitating a 2-year-old. Little did his bosses know, he was also allegedly slangin' large quantities of methamphetamine. The feds arrested Britto in July, saying he had "conspired to possess with the intent to distribute more than five hundred grams" of meth, charges for which he faces up to life in prison. But on August 24, the U.S. Marshals office says, Britto cut off his ankle monitor and skipped town as a fugitive from justice. His mother aided his escape to Brazil, where he has dual citizenship and is free to sip caipirinhas on the beach. Before he disappeared, he wrote on his website, "Without faith and hope you won't make the decisions needed to be made today to change your circumstances for tomorrow..." Mom pleaded guilty to helping him escape, but the former cop is still on the lam.

Samuel "Jack" Hairston III looks like your doting grandpa, if the old man had a soft spot for bikes and migrant workers. Jack has white hair, a handle-bar mustache, and a broad smile. At his shop, workers and volunteers take old bikes and parts, repair them, and resell them to support Jack's charity. The nonprofit donates hundreds of used bikes and helmets to needy kids — many of whom are the children of migrant workers in the area — every Christmas. This is a worthy cause no matter how you slice it, but getting a new set of wheels for your money is a bonus. When you buy a bike from Jack, you get a collection of seemingly mismatched parts — perhaps a Raleigh frame with a clunky chain and barefoot pedals. But each machine runs well, and each one has a story: a past and a future bright with the promise of a good deed.