Arts & Entertainment

An enclosed, multipurpose arena seating 5,500, the iconic Hard Rock Live is most famous for hosting massive music and comedy shows, but it has also served as home to sporting events like world championship boxing, tennis, and rodeo events, as well as celebrity charity fundraisers and exhibitions. Opened in the summer of 2005, it’s competed with similar sized venues like the 5,000-seat Mizner Park Amphitheater in Boca and even larger venues like the 20,000-seat BB&T Center in Sunrise, bringing in legendary acts like the Beach Boys, Billy Idol, and Diana Ross as well as more recent luminaries like Fall Out Boy, Weezer, and comedian Tracy Morgan. Draws for talent and fans alike include the venue’s state-of-the art sound system as well as its modern, scaled-down pro sports arena feel. Coupled with the fact that it’s nestled within one of South Florida’s premier casino and nightlife hubs, the always-professional Hard Rock Live consistently delivers top-rate talent in a comfortable, dynamic atmosphere.

Readers’ choice: BB&T Center

Eleanor Sobel spent much of this past year doing what few Florida politicians seem willing or able to do: defending abortion providers. In a year when Gov. Rick Scott, Voldemort incarnate himself, signed a bill to defund Planned Parenthood, Sobel stood strong and tried to amend the bill to save funding for those who’d become pregnant by rape or incest. (She was effectively booed from the floor and withdrew the amendment.) In addition, Sobel pushed hard for — and eventually got — money to hire 160 new mental-hospital employees in a state that may have the most dangerous mental wards in the nation. Oh, and she took some time to repeal that silly law that made it illegal for unmarried couples to live together. Here’s to cohabitation!

Proving there are ample ways to define the phrase “no-brainer,” Broward County decriminalized marijuana last November. Though the county can’t make the drug legal (that power rests with the state and federal governments), the County Commission unanimously voted to let cops choose whether to issue citations or make criminal arrests in certain pot possession cases. Now, it’s possible that instead of being hauled off to jail for a wee bit of ganja, nonviolent offenders just open up their checkbooks and pay: $100 for a first offense, $250 for a second, and $300 for a third.

There is a freedom that drag queens have that the rest of us simply don’t — at least not without a properly boozy happy hour. The glamour, the glitter, and the glitz allow certain men, regardless of size, to transform themselves into daring divas dripping in confidence. Over the years, Lips in Fort Lauderdale and its unique brand of dinner theater has brought us a tremendous amount of over-the-top joy. That comes thanks in part to one gentle giant, the soft-spoken but never shy Chocolatta. Johnnie Bowls, the man behind the mascara, is a professionally trained actor from Kansas City. He got his BFA in acting from Marymount Manhattan College, and his lengthy résumé includes teaching and stints on stage performing everything from A Raisin in the Sun to Othello. Perhaps it’s these past experiences that afford Bowls, in his Chocolatta persona, the poise to command a room of drunken bachelorettes, regardless of the situation. For example, imagine a drag queen accidentally has his wig fly off after a devastating hair whip. That would break the spell for most, but not for Chocolatta. He took that very same scenario and owned it. The crowd loved him all the more for it, as he strutted, all six feet, three inches of him, in heels, across the dining room as if everything had gone according to plan.

Readers’ choice: Daisy Deadpetals

A graduate of North Miami Beach High School (and Columbia Law School) who now lives in Broward, 46-year-old Brad Meltzer is best-known for his political thrillers like The Tenth Justice (about secrets at the U.S. Supreme Court) and The Inner Circle (about a still-active spy ring started by George Washington). Former Presidents Bill Clinton and George W. Bush are fans and have even helped him do research. Meltzer has made the New York Times bestseller list more times than we can count — not just for his novels but also for nonfiction, advice, children’s books, and even comic books. Although the baldheaded smarty pants has also hosted two TV series — Decoded and Lost History — it seems he’ll never stop banging away on his word processor. His latest offering, The President’s Shadow, mined his home turf, setting part of the story on the Dry Tortugas, a small group of islands that are part of Key West, to which in the 1800s four of the conspirators behind Abraham Lincoln’s assassination were sentenced.

While it’s certainly nostalgic to visit a historic local theater, sometimes you want your luxurious chair to rattle with every explosion and your eyes to melt from all the CGI effects — while you’re washing down popcorn with a bottle of vino. Silverspot Cinema has been designed for today’s movie enthusiast. There’s hardly ever a line for tickets, because it has self-serve-style ticketing systems. Walk up to the large touchscreen and select your movie and time and reserve your exact seat. Up-front, there’s a bar and restaurant called Trilogy, offering signature cocktails named after popular titles like Some Like It Hot, an impressive wine list, and dishes that have a twist of fancy — like the BLT Lobster Roll. You can take any food or beverage item into the show with you. Buy a bottle of wine and you get any size of popcorn for free. If the HD video and Dolby Atmos 7.1 surround sound don’t impress you, then the giant comfy leather seats will.

Readers’ choice: iPic Theaters

A wise dating guru once said, “If a first date is not memorable, there shall be no second date.” A trip to Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens will always own a place in your memory bank and will also provide a stunning backdrop for you to forgive your date for looking nothing like his or her Tinder picture. The $15 admission grants you entrance to paths that wind through waterfalls, bonsai trees, and patches of bamboo, all inspired by six different gardens in Japan. The environment provides the peace and beauty for you to find common ground with any fellow member of the human race whom you seduced into joining you. If Zen really isn’t your date’s thing, the onsite Cornell Café serves sushi and bento boxes for lunch and also has a full selection of beer, wine, and sake to help shake those first-date jitters.

Being Democratic National Committee chair isn’t easy. But it sure as hell isn’t as hard as Debbie Wasserman Schultz makes it out to be. In a year when voters on both sides of the political spectrum have sided with “outsiders,” Wasserman Schultz, who represents Florida’s 23rd Congressional District, has come to embody all that seems rigged in American politics. In December, after a Bernie Sanders staffer was caught hacking into Hillary Clinton’s campaign data, Wasserman Schultz tried to bar Sanders’ campaign from using vital voter data. The move backfired in spectacular fashion: Rather than tanking Sanders’ campaign, it led to critics accusing Wasserman Schultz of trying to “coronate” Hillary Clinton. Soon, even Democrats were calling for Wasserman Schultz’s head. The congresswoman didn’t help herself any when she said on CNN that superdelegates “exist really to make sure that party leaders and elected officials don’t have to be in a position where they are running against grassroots activists” or when she also chose to defend payday lenders.

Was there any political downfall as cruelly spectacular as Ben Carson’s this year? Before running for president, the Detroit native turned Palm Beach County resident could not have been more respected in neuroscience. His story was an American fable: Born into extreme poverty, Carson grew up with a violent streak and once attempted to stab his friend in a fit of rage only to be stopped by a well-positioned belt buckle. After changing his ways, he went to Yale and got a medical degree from the University of Michigan before becoming one of the first men to separate twins conjoined at the head. His autobiography, Gifted Hands, stood as a shining example of how to lift oneself out of poverty. Cuba Gooding Jr. even played him in a made-for-TV version of the book. But once Carson decided to run for president, everything unraveled: Seemingly a man of science, he was nothing short of a fundamentalist Christian wackadoodle who looked as if he were asleep at all times. Reporters quickly tore apart his life story — the only thing he could run on — and suggested that he never really stabbed anyone at all. The real-life presidential candidate then stressed that he had, indeed, attempted to stab someone. He dropped out after winning just a single county in Alaska. Nowadays, most wouldn’t trust him to cut into a bundt cake.

Rachel Nichols is arguably the purest and best sports journalist working today. And for good reason. Nichols, who started her career as a reporter at the Sun Sentinel, has carved out a niche as a force of nature, tackling uncomfortable issues and getting to the marrow of the important sports stories of the day. Nichols, who has been a fixture on ESPN and TNT, really hit her stride this year, when she openly confronted NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s seemingly waffling stance on his league’s handling of domestic violence with players. Likewise, Nichols didn’t hold back when she questioned boxer Floyd Mayweather on his own ugly history with domestic violence. In a business that has been traditionally dominated by men and is saturated by talking heads who are more eager to spout their hot takes over doing any real reporting, Nichols has shown that she’s one of the only ones to get to the heart of the matter on issues that impact everyone in and out of the sports arena. Her hard work has paid off with her own ESPN TV show and by being named “the country’s most impactful and prominent female sports journalist” by Sports Illustrated. They can remove the word “female” from that sentence, and it’d still ring true 100 percent.

After closing out its record-breaking fourth edition this past April, Tortuga Music Festival finds itself in a particularly sweet spot. No longer in its infancy, the country-style fest drew nearly 90,000 guests over its three days. But unlike some nationally covered fests like Bonnaroo, Tortuga still retains much of what has made it great from the start: its own singular, completely shameless identity. Tortuga-goers let it all hang out: fake breasts, natural breasts, cellulite, beer guts, Crossfit abs, bad tribal tattoos, body piercings, and butts in every shape and size. And though there was no shortage of cowboy boots and hats, braided blonds, American flag paraphernalia, and painfully obvious graphic tees this year, Tortuga has yet to become a caricature of itself. Bonus: Tortuga has helped raise awareness and more than $250,000 for ocean habitats through its volunteer program and onsite Conservation Village. Tortuga is a bit country, a bit rock, a lot of soul, and shamelessly tacky in all the best ways.

It’s been a while since the party people of Fort Lauderdale have had an intimate live music venue with the quality bands and kickass sound system that can compete with the larger, more expensive clubs. Screeching wannabes in hot, smoky bars with sticky floors have satisfied our lust for rock ‘n’ roll for too long. But Trio Live is an upscale club close enough to the freeway to be convenient and just far enough from the beach to offer plenty of free parking. Its analog sound system is a claim to fame, presenting music in the raw, grainy splendor that true music connoisseurs demand — powerful enough to pound out blazing classic rock on weekends, yet clean enough to have a conversation over smooth jazz and soulful blues on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Rock out to bands like the Long Run, Jeffrey James Gang, and Riverdown without having to sidestep through puke or make a mad dash to find a clean restroom. Trio Live offers a full menu, a generous bar, and no cover charge.

LaGrone earned her platitudes this year for putting together a series of stories that included one thing absent from most TV newsreels: nuance. Working in tandem with the Palm Beach Post, WPTV’s LaGrone studied every shooting by Palm Beach County cops since 2000. Even in today’s post-Ferguson world, the results were shocking: Deputies were cleared of wrongdoing in a whopping 97 percent of fatal shootings. Investigations, the report said, are geared, from the start, to favor police. Objective evidence, like videos or key witness testimony, is routinely ignored. But the package was also remarkable for the breadth and scope of its video content: In one harrowing clip, Vincent Tuzeo, the last Palm Beach County Police officer to be charged with shooting a civilian (in 1993), stares at the ground as he apologizes for killing a man. “Do I regret it?” he says. “No. Am I sorry? Of course. Who wouldn’t be sorry for taking somebody’s life? You can’t not be sorry.”

The Isley Brothers loved to cause a ruckus. They released “Shout” in 1959 and “Twist and Shout” in 1962 (and a few people probably made some noise to their 1983 single, “Between the Sheets”). Both songs are classic singalongs at parties and weddings and are perfect fits, thematically, for Shout Karaoke in downtown West Palm Beach. Like its musical namesake, Shout is a fun, friendly, and often silly karaoke joint with options for both the attention whores and the shy guys. An unassuming entrance leads directly into the heart of the action in front of the main bar. The entire floor is the stage, allowing singers to hide near a hi-top or strut their stuff in the faces of passersby. In the rear is a second bar and lounge area, and eight private karaoke rooms line either side of the lounge. It’s ideal for birthdays and private parties, and upstairs in the pool hall, there’s an escape from all the wailing banshees. The best thing about Shout is how supportive the room always is. Regardless of your level of suck, people will always clap. (Yes, a bit of liquid courage poured by the awesome bartenders helps.)

Readers’ choice: Dubliner Irish Pub

“We’re keeping it true to the vinyl because we’re all music lovers. That’s kind of what was missing,” says Jo Viscaino, marketing and music-curation mastermind at Stache in downtown Fort Lauderdale. “It needs to feel organic — feel right, comfortable.” Viscaino’s Strictly Vinyl party on Wednesday nights at the speakeasy-style sister venue to America’s Backyard and Revolution Live was a year in the making. “I was so meticulous in making sure the DJs were comfortable that I literally had all our managers agree we can’t have people come up and [ask] for requests. That’s not the vibe,” she says. To create a more intimate feel, once a week they close off the curtains, shut down the first floor, and offer 25 percent off all whiskey drinks and free pool. “People just know,” says Viscaino of the party, which has gained traction mostly through word of mouth. “It’s kind of like a living room party.” The event happens from 8 p.m. to midnight for now.

Massive, thumping nightclubs where a vodka Red Bull sets you back $20 and aggressive bros in button-downs rule the night are thankfully a fading trend, but the urge to dance will never go away. In Broward, we do it with zero frills. On Himmarshee Street, Fort Lauderdale’s turnup central, seedy bottle service venues like Off the Hookah and Art Bar have shuttered their doors, but a handful of spots have remained true to their simple, time-proven formulas. Though it’s primarily a restaurant, Tarpon Bend also has a decent dance floor, complemented by a refreshing lack of VIP bottle service or any dress code whatsoever. An upstairs bar and balcony overlook bustling crowds outside, and plenty of seating lets partiers roam from spot to spot, periodically timing out to show off their moves and maybe even score a make-out sesh under the dim lighting. Without being as unashamedly basic as, say, Dicey Riley’s (where a typical night’s playlist will span Journey to Sir Mix-a-Lot), Tarpon Bend’s DJs stick to a mix of danceable hits spanning old school hip-hop to Michael Jackson to approachable house beats. And where at some places you’ll at the very least receive a dirty look and quite possibly get ice thrown at you for deigning to request a song, at Tarp a total lack of pretension means your request for Rihanna’s “Work” on repeat might actually be indulged. So go ahead and dance with yourself; this is judgment-free zone.

Readers’ choice: Stache 1920’s Drinking Den

Palm Beach band Raggy Monster is part dream, part nightmare. Mixing beauty, horror, and fantasy both in their music and onstage has been their calling card. Their album is called As the Thorn Lures the Widow’s Lip, It Seeks No Wisdom From the Wicker Flies, and the little green monster on its cover was inspired by guitarist Billy Schmidt’s childhood imaginary friend. His wife Rachel, the lead singer, takes the main stage of the band’s music video for “Crying Shame,” which is simple and dramatic at the same time. After opening with images of fireworks and an ominous piano melody, the rest of the band slowly joins in until Rachel steps up to her place front and center. The video switches back from and forth from shots of the band playing and Rachel singing from a car driving by. Well known for her dramatic facial expressions and powerful onstage presence, Rachel delivers a performance like a haunting dream. While the band is more exciting to watch live, this music video certainly does Raggy Monster justice.

While Palm Beach and the United Kingdom aren’t known to have any trade agreements, the album Golden Ticket might be as good a reason as any to set up a British embassy somewhere around West Palm. The record is a union between local rapper Eric Biddines and English producer Paul White. Together as Golden Rules, they embody the spirit of classic hip-hop. They aren’t afraid to get silly like they do on “Holy Macaroni” with the refrain, “Holy moly macaroni with the cheese,” nor are they scared to get sultry as they do on “Play Some Luther” where Biddines coos, “Take your skirt off/Play some Luther Vandross.” Biddines’ old-school flow merges perfectly with White’s ear for beats, which he previously honed with acts like Danny Brown and Charli XCX.

Rick Ross’ eighth studio album features guest appearances by everyone from John Legend, Nas, and Mariah Carey to Mary J. Blige, Chris Brown, and Future, showing off the former corrections officer and current Broward resident’s keen knack for collaboration. But it’s the locally bred rap star’s usual threatening braggadocio and trademarked “humphs” that achieve new heights on Black Market. Released in December 2015, a mere 376 days after his previous LP, Hood Billionaire, the new album received praise across the board. Even though he’s faced some challenges over the last few years, (including involvement in a shootout on Las Olas Boulevard in 2013 and aggravated assault and kidnapping charges in 2015 after allegedly pistol-whipping one of his employees at his Georgia mansion), Ross remains one of our proudest exports in recent music history. Playing up his close working relationship with fellow local hustler and social media maven DJ Khaled, as well as grooming a massive Snapchat following of his own, Ricky Rozay (aka Ferrari Fatboy) makes it clear he’s still a boss — and Black Market is testament to that truth.

Weakened by a rare form of cancer, the West Palm Beach guitarist of Surfer Blood did not just sit around and mope when he had to quit touring with his band to receive treatment. Instead, he locked himself in his bedroom and made beautiful music. This past December, Thomas Fekete released Burner — 11 songs recorded on his home 4-track. The standout was the early release from the album, “Treason.” It’s 90 seconds of fuzzed-out, blissful garage rock filled with distortion and surf guitar. Depending on your mood, you can see it as a moment of triumph of art over human frailty or a haunting, ominous hymn of betrayal. Either way, it will earn a permanent spot on your playlist.

On a chilly Friday night in January, desperate procrastinators were hanging outside a strip mall begging anyone and everyone if they had an extra ticket. No one did, because the Southern California shoegazers Silversun Pickups were in town for the first time in six years. After local openers Sweet Bronco warmed up the crowd at Culture Room, the LA quartet ripped through 16 of their alternately rocking and brooding songs that had the packed room jumping up and down to lyrics about lazy eyes, panic switches, and well-thought-out twinkles. They played requests for songs they hadn’t played in years, like “Kissing Families.” They flirted and joked with fans in the crowd. And, in the best of show business tradition, they left the audience hungry for more.

Consisting of Kimmy Drake (vocals, guitar) and Skyler Black (drums), Beach Day formed in 2011 after the pair discovered a shared love of some of the most American of musical styles — namely, Detroit garage, ’60s girl groups, and surf rock. They clicked instantaneously, and by the end of their initial rehearsal, they not only had a handful of tracks but their band name, a moniker taken from their first completed composition. In person, the duo (often extended into a trio with a touring bassist) channel the brilliant, raucous vibes of their heroes with songs that are crisp and tight, songs that sound like they were written by a band that’s been together for the last 40 years instead of the last four. In that time, Beach Day have remained productive, signing with Kanine Records and releasing two records in two years — Trip Track Attack (2013) and Native Echoes (2014) — and touring for the better part of the last three.

Does Fort Lauderdale know how #blessed it is to count Mikey Ramirez among its ranks? A virtual encyclopedia of musical knowledge and a dedicated member of the local scene, he oversees all things vinyl at Radio-Active Records, where he also organizes killer Record Store Day parties year after year and books in-store meet-and-greets. He’s also a talented DJ in his own right. On Friday nights he holds down a weekly residency at Gramps Bar in Miami’s Wynwood Arts District, and lately he’s also been spinning at Stache. Whether he’s throwing down some old school Miami Bass, electro, and boogie tunes; a rare punk b-side; or some super-fresh left-field house grooves, you’ll do well to make it out to one of Mikey’s sets. “Lately, I have been playing a lot of edits — ESG, Jah Wobble, Fela Kuti, Vanity, Trevor Jackson, Padded Cell, Lightning Rod, Yardbirds, EPMD… ” he says, adding that he aims to “keep it across the board but have substance.” Like taking a journey through the musical cosmos, if you make it out the other end, you’ll be all the wiser, sweatier, and freakier having sampled some of his favorite sounds.

Readers’ choice: DJ Misha

Kodak Black is Pompano Beach’s 18-year-old Project Baby, a street rapper who came up in the low-income Golden Acres Developments and shot to fame this past year after earning a cosign from Drake. (Though, he’s not eager to credit the tastemaking hip-hop star with his success. “It didn’t get me where I am today. My music did,” he told us back in December.) A born hustler, Kodak has consistently earned critical acclaim for his mixtape projects, was recently featured in the New Yorker, and has been called “one of the biggest new artists in the game right now” by XXL magazine. Pretty impressive for a kid who first set up shop recording out of the back of a trap house and is currently making plans for his senior prom. Lately he’s been making the talk radio rounds, confessing he’d like to ask out Kylie Jenner or rapper T.I.’s daughter Zonnique. With a new mixtape in the works for a June release and his first album dropping around Christmas, the future looks bright for South Florida’s latest breakout rapper. But if he plans to make it to prom this year — not to mention all 19 stops on his U.S. tour with Lil Uzi Vert this summer — our Project Baby needs to stay out of trouble. The rising star, whose real name is Dieuson Octave, was recently arrested on weapons and marijuana charges.

Readers’ choice: Bleubird

It’s rare that a real-life villain has his own cartoon castle to call home, but with Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump has just that: a brick-and-mortar embodiment of all that the hobgoblin developer-king has come to represent. Compared to the rest of his South Florida properties — Trump Hollywood, the Trump National Doral golf course — Mar-a-Lago is downright beautiful, which makes sense considering Trump didn’t actually build the castle himself. (That honor goes to Marjorie Merriweather Post, heiress to the Post cereal fortune.) In Trump fashion, he simply paid $10 million for the estate in 1985, ruined some of the gold-plated walls, and installed three bomb shelters on the property. Now, it serves as the capital for Trump’s grotesque, Hunter S. Thompson-esque presidential campaign. Dolled-up Palm Beach ghouls wander the halls. A team of mostly foreign workers awaits Trump’s every command. And Trump himself sits, eating a steak so hard it could “rock on the plate,” as the New York Times put it, waiting for the end of the world.

The Miami Heat’s Chris Bosh has always been counted out and under-appreciated, maybe because he’s not your typical menacing, cliche-ridden pro athlete. Yet throughout South Florida sports history, there have been few athletes as beloved as Bosh. He’s not only a phenomenal talent — and key cog that helped the Heat win two NBA championships — he’s also proved to be a lovable character with his GIF-able facial expressions, his post-game interview shenanigans, and his love of things like coding, playing guitar, and learning how to speak Spanish. So when he was diagnosed with blood clots in his lungs last season, fans and teammates alike were devastated — not only because the team had lost a tremendous talent for the season, but also because Bosh is a genuinely likable dude who was suddenly facing a very serious health threat. As it turns out, Bosh’s condition hospitalized him for several weeks. Then, doctors told him he couldn’t travel on planes for a while. The physical punishment an NBA player undergoes also made things risky. Everyone was concerned that they had seen the last of Bosh, that his promising career had been cut short. But at the beginning of the 2016 season, in true Bosh style, he not only returned — he pretty much picked up right where he had left off. His silky smooth shots hit their marks, his defense helped the Heat shut down opponents, and his overall presence breathed new life into the home team. As fate would have it, he was knocked out again with blood clots. But Bosh continues to fight back, showing up at Heat practice, posting videos of himself shooting hoops, and announcing that he has no intentions of retiring. No matter what happens from this point on in his career, Bosh has proven on and off the court that he is the ultimate underdog. A man who should never be counted out. A man who will kill you with his jump shot, then make a goofy face at the camera. Because he can.

John deGroot is a retired Sun Sentinel reporter who now lives in Wilton Manors. He has a Pulitzer Prize. He knows when politicians, public servants, and criminals need to be brought to justice with a sharp, written critique. He also knows it’s often quicker and easier to hit a man in the face with a pie. Say what you want about the embattled, limping Broward Health system, but former CEO Nabil El-Sanadi’s January 23 suicide was tragic. So when outspoken Broward Health critic Dan Lewis disparaged El-Sanadi, deGroot’s friend, in a Sun Sentinel obituary the day after the doctor died, deGroot drove to Publix — it has everything! — and bought a $7.99 berry cream pie. He then threw it at Lewis in public. Revenge is a dish best served a la mode.

Just a few short years ago, South Florida’s own Oscar Isaac was an unknown, handsome Guatemalan actor appearing in bit parts in films like All About the Benjamins and in Law & Order episodes. It seemed as if Isaac were headed toward the type of career most from around these parts end up with: that of a lifetime extra who eventually ends up in daytime soaps or out of the business altogether. But the Juilliard-trained thespian is too talented to keep down, and he was soon cast as Joseph in The Nativity, which led to a role as King John in Robin Hood, which led the Coen Brothers to cast him in Inside Llewyn Davis. At this point, it appeared as if Isaac was on his way to a career as an indie actor, starring in artsy films. But Isaac’s talent is way too large to box in. Now, he’s appearing in blockbuster Hollywood tentpole epics in notable roles such as the villain in X-Men: Apocalypse and, most remarkably, as Poe Dameron in Star Wars: The Force Awakens (as well as the ensuing films in that series). In just a few short years, Isaac has gone from unknown extra to action figure. Not bad for a South Florida boy.

It’s surprising politicians don’t get screamed at more often in public. (Florida ones, especially.) Our anger toward lawmakers doesn’t tend to extend past the written word. But Florida Governor Rick Scott is no mere politician. His eyes seem incapable of projecting happiness. It’s possible he doesn’t have a reflection. And he is, in the now-immortal words of former Lake Worth commissioner Cara Jennings, an “asshole.” After Scott cut Medicaid and access to abortions, Jennings ambushed him in a Gainesville Starbucks on April 5 and did something every non-Republican in this state has been dying to do since 2011: She screamed at Rick Scott. “You’re an asshole!” she lobbed. “Rich people like you don’t know what to do when poor people like us need health services. You cut us. Shame on you. You are an embarrassment.” Not only was her initial outburst brave, but Scott’s political action committee then posted a video bullying her online, saying she “clearly has a problem.” Yes, she does: Her problem is Rick Scott.

When your local bowling alley organizes a Bruce Springsteen night and brings in live entertainment, you know you have something special. While some may prefer a no-frills bowling spot, this rocking alley keeps guests entertained every night of the week by playing fun music videos on the giant screens behind the lanes and having a light and sound show with a DJ during “Lightning Strikes” Fridays and Saturdays. Even though Strikes feels like a nightclub every night of the week, prices are way cheaper than bottle service ($15 per hour, per lane for up to six people before 9 p.m., or $4 per person if you’d rather pay that way; shoe rental is $3.75). On top of the deal on entertainment, the chicken tenders are surprisingly good and go great with a beer or cocktail. (Yes, there’s a full bar.)

Even though this poolside hangout is perched on the third floor of the Westin Fort Lauderdale Beach Resort, you don’t need a reservation to enter. From up there, you can watch the yachts and boats come in and out of the marina, watch the people strolling below on A1A, and see the sunbathers relaxing on the beach. Sit at the bar or in the shade of a giant beach umbrella beside the large rectangular pool, heated to a comfortable temperature. Blue recliners are the perfect spot to tan, and should anyone start to overheat, the pool and the air-conditioned lobby are nearby. Sip on lychee martinis, cucumber margaritas, and other frozen cocktails. If you develop an appetite, there’s a full menu that includes yuca fries, fish tacos, and nachos. It opens at 11 a.m. and closes at 9 p.m., making it the ideal spot for late risers looking to spend the day in the sun.

Since 2004, people have flocked to downtown Hollywood on the third Saturday of every month for the Downtown Hollywood Art Walk, when local galleries and businesses open their doors to the public. You don’t have to be an art impresario to attend. Your first lesson on local art begins at 7 p.m. with the city’s free, 45-minute guided tour of 16 murals in the area. Highlights include 2Alas’ ominous Mona Lisa and Tati Suarez’s whimsical mermaid murals. At 8 p.m., an artist conducts a live performance, combining music and art on Harrison Street. Artist Daniel Pontet is known to paint with his feet while moving in rhythm with the drums. A group of musicians parades along the streets outside, and eateries host live music. Of the five art galleries, make sure not to miss L.Mercado Studios. The 3,000-foot art center hosts a dozen artists, and people are welcome to watch them work in the open studio.

Considering our tendency — nay, our pathological need — to document every bit of minutiae of our everyday lives, there’s something beautiful about art that can be wiped away by an abrupt sunshower. The Lake Worth Street Painting Festival is a unique event that taunts the elements with often-stunning works of impermanent art. Having celebrated its 22nd year this past February, the annual two-day fest brings a varied collection of artists ranging in age, background, and skill to the asphalt canvases of Lake and Lucerne avenues. It’s a weekend filled with a camaraderie bolstered by giant chalk and pastel renderings, a cornucopia of eats with selections from street vendors and nearby restaurants, and even a bit of music. Founded in 1994 by locals as a way to inject a little culture into the area, the festival now draws more than 100,000 people. Good job, L-Dub.

Readers’ choice: SunFest

Equality Florida has been championing LGBT rights in Florida since 1997 and, along the way, has won some meaningful court cases in a state that has traditionally leaned antigay. Gay marriage didn’t become legal here until 2015, and Equality Florida was key in making it so. The group championed the cause, backing Karla Arquello and Cathy Pareto until the two women became the first same-sex couple to legally wed in Florida. With that victory in tow, Equality Florida then filed a lawsuit in federal court to have the state’s Department of Vital Statistics list same-sex couples’ names on their children’s birth certificates. In 2015, a bill that discriminates against transgender people who want to use public restrooms was introduced in the Florida Legislature. The group was the first to openly call out the bill as a pure harassment and was soon joined by groups like the ACLU of Florida and TransAction Florida. No matter what crops up to try to bring down the LGBT community, Equality Florida will be there to take it down, Whack-a-Mole style, until the entire state of Florida finally positions itself all the way on the right side of history.

Due largely to the bloody turmoil of Guatemala’s history of government repression and narco-warfare (the two often intermingled, aided and abetted by us Yanquis), Palm Beach County has become home to as many as 50,000 descendants of the Maya — a people who, in millennia past, built an empire across what are now the nations of Central America. Warriors no longer, their arms are now ploughshares, picking crops in Big Ag’s fields and/or trimming the lawns of the well-to-do. Many of them are undocumented and thus easy targets of crime because they are reluctant to call police for fear of deportation. Some have also claimed civil rights abuses by the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office — which the center last year petitioned the federal government to investigate. The feds declined, but PBSO was prompted to hire outside experts to review its use-of-force policies. The experts came up with 70 recommended changes. If those are put into effect, the center may now have more time to devote to providing health care, plus legal and educational services, to its flock, as it has done for almost 25 years.

Weirdly enough, there are still grown humans walking around this planet who refuse to acknowledge that climate change is a real thing. But we defy you to find a bigger climate-change denier than our very own two-term governor, Rick Scott. Chromedome McGillicutty actively and with a serious face defended his wrecking of the environment by telling people that he isn’t a scientist, so therefore, climate change wasn’t something he would be willing to take seriously. The man also ordered his environmental staff to not use the term “climate change” in any memos or reports. Throughout his tenure, Scott has screwed over the Everglades by gutting the state’s environmental protection programs and has hamstrung the Florida Department of Environmental Protection. In a few years’ time, this place could go the way of Atlantis — underwater.

In the spring of 2015, when Bernie Sanders’ candidacy was but a gleam in left-wing eyes, Hillary Keyes was on the case in Palm Beach County, drawing the faithful together under the banner of Progressive Democrats of America. She put meat on the notion’s bones, troops on the ground, and cash in the drawer. Working outside the Vermont senator’s national organization and in the face of an indifferent Palm Beach County Democratic Party (its leadership having been Clintonized), Keyes organized backyard and living-room meetings that snowballed into a volunteer corps of phone bankers, two “Bands for Bernie” benefit concerts, and other outreach efforts. How did Bernie do in the mid-March Florida Democratic Primary? Lost to Hillary Clinton two-to-one. Did more than half a million Floridians support a Jewish, atheist, socialist for president? Yes, they did. For your share in that miracle, take a bow, Ms. Keyes.

Here’s a not-so-outlandish little theory: Donald Trump is full of shit. He’s making it up. All of it: his candidacy, his platform, his xenophobic declarations, his taunting of opponents on Twitter, his run to the White House. Trump, who has built an empire on being a bombastic headline hog, has always been about one thing: Trump. He’s a narcissistic boor of the highest order, and his desire to push his brand by any means necessary has always been, and ever remains, his modus operandi. The man not only has to have his name on hotels and high-rises but insists on also stamping it on steaks, wine, ties, hats, fake universities, reality-TV shows… and even the Oval Office. So far, “The Donald” has played us. He has shouted out dumb racist things, made abysmal degrading comments about women, stirred up racial angst among a vocal and angry minority, and bullied and insulted his opponents, all in the guise of “telling it like it is.” He inexplicably beat the establishment Republican candidates and rose to the top. And now he has no earthly idea what to do other than to see how far this thing can go. Ask him a foreign-policy question or get him to talk international nuclear strategies and Trump will look at you like you asked him to solve Beal’s conjecture. But get him to talk all things “Trump” and he’ll bloviate until his comb-over barks. Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy is one big marketing scheme that just has to implode before November… right?

Seventeen-year-old Elijah Manley loves to tell people, “If you’re not sitting at the table, then you’re on the menu.” And this youth rights’ advocate is tired of being directed to the kiddie table. Last year, he decided to run for president — not student body president at Fort Lauderdale High School, where he’s a junior, but president of the United States of America. Last June, he filed forms with the Federal Elections Commission. This past year has been a whirlwind for the young candidate, as he traveled to New Hampshire to campaign, Wisconsin for the Socialist Party’s national convention, and Washington, D.C., for meetings with VIPs. He knows the Constitution dictates that he has to be 35 to be inaugurated, but he doesn’t see why that should prevent him from running. In his spare time, Manley serves as president of Youth Assembly, a youth rights’ organization, and has been a thorn in the side of county and city commissioners, constantly proposing lowering the voting age to 16. He hasn’t been successful yet, but has vowed to continue pushing for youth rights even after he turns 18.

Lawyers might look all business as they waltz into the courthouse to try their cases, carrying themselves proudly with their expensive suits and knowledge of obscure Latin phrases. That’s true even in Broward, a county notorious for its wild judiciary (like the half-naked drunk judge, the pot-smoking judge, and the Anna Nicole Smith-obsessed judge). But the sheen of professionalism is frequently shattered online at Bill Gelin’s Justice Advocacy Association of Broward Blog, or JAABlog, a site dedicated to airing grievances and gossip within the 17th Judicial Circuit. Gelin, a Fort Lauderdale attorney, started posting in 2006. Under the cloak of anonymity, lawyers dish in his comments section like they’re in the high school cafeteria. Some call it juvenile, but others praise Gelin for the much-needed transparency. “Without me, there would be no accountability,” Gelin says. He’s right, and the Broward Courthouse surely wouldn’t be as interesting.

Antarctica is known for many things: crippling cold, ravenous polar bears, hypothermic death, penguins. But it’s virtually uninhabited by man, which leads to a wonderful thought experiment: If humans were to colonize Antarctica (which may become a popular idea as the world continues to warm), what kind of continent would it be? Aaron Jackson, part-time Weston resident and founder of the humanitarian rights group Planting Peace, saw an opportunity in March to get at least one point across: If we’re going to inhabit a new continent, the whole thing better be LGBT-friendly. Jackson — a straight, cisgender male whose past work includes delivering medicine to Haitian children and establishing an “Equality House” to counter the hate-filled Westboro Baptist Church — took it upon himself to sail down to Antarctica on a research boat, for the sole purpose of declaring Antarctica the world’s only “LGBT-friendly” continent. That photo of Jackson kneeling next to some Antarctic penguins (which can’t seem to figure out what kind of fish he is) ought to be plastered over the Sistine Chapel.

In today’s blog-heavy, traffic-optimized, content-laden news cycle, Amy Shipley is the sort of unicorn the world needs now, more than ever: a person given the time and resources to dig deep into a single subject for months. Over the past year, Shipley, a former Washington Post staffer, led a Sun Sentinel investigation into the way Broward’s courts work to keep the mentally ill locked behind bars indefinitely, far from the treatment these inmates so desperately need. The article, called “Trapped: The Crime of Mental Illness,” showed that when the mentally ill are diverted to Broward’s felony mental health courts, defendants, guilty or not, spend six times longer in the criminal justice system than the non-mentally ill. Shipley’s story explained how these people are forced to live up to near-impossible demands and are often thrown in jail if they cannot comply. She illuminated wholly unacceptable practices at Broward’s State Attorney’s Office and did what most criminal justice reporting fails to do: remind us that we cannot talk about criminal justice without talking about mental health care too.

Morning-zoo radio hosts are kind of cliché. When spouting out their 3,000th fart joke doesn’t work, they hit silly sound-effects buttons. They’re dumb, they’re annoying, and they’re the last thing you want to be stuck with while driving to work in rush-hour traffic. Then there’s Paul Castronovo. He’s been hitting the South Florida morning airwaves for 26 years with his buddy “Young” Ron Brewer — and he’s still entertaining. Castronovo knows his audience and is for-real funny, not fart-joke funny (although he’ll occasionally dabble in some off-color humor). Castronovo is at his best when he’s snarky and loves to mix it up with callers who are less than intelligent. More than anything, however, Castronovo has the rare gift of making you want to hang with him. There’s not a single loyal listener of the Paul & Young Ron Show who wouldn’t kill to go fishing with Castronovo in the Keys or hit up a Dolphins game with him. Paul Castronovo is like your cool cousin, and he makes that morning commute bearable.

Readers’ choice: Paul Castronovo

Between 2005 and 2010, when Channing Crowder was busting skulls for the Miami Dolphins as their middle linebacker, fans knew he was a character. Crowder’s stint with the Fins was a brief one, but he left a lasting impression as a guy who would mix it up by getting under the skin of the opposing players, plus give the media a crazy postgame sound bite. His inability to filter himself turned into highly entertaining radio interviews, during which he revealed that he used to urinate in his pants during games and gave nebulous accounts of possibly selling football jerseys while in college. This led to good things for fans in Crowder’s post-NFL career as 560 WQAM’s nuttiest sports-talk personality — first as a midday host of his own show and now as the third man on Marc Hochman’s afternoon-drive show. Crowder has made QAM must-listen radio, as he spouts off his opinions on pretty much everything under the sun and regales listeners with goofy stories from his playing days. All in all, Crowder the man remains the same. He’s as funny, crazy, and unpredictable as ever, which is why he’s the best thing going on local AM radio.

Readers’ choice: Steve O & Rene

Producing a radio show might seem like a cakewalk when you have on-air talent as strong as sports journalist Dan LeBatard and his cohort, Jon “Stugotz” Weiner. Really, though, the sports-talk biz is crazy competitive, and as the hosts improvise and adjust their patter, curve ball after curve ball is thrown in producer Mike Ryan’s direction on an hourly basis. Yet he consistently gets a bat on the ball and knocks it completely out of the park. He jumps on air, managing to function both as the young guy and the voice of reason. He sings parody songs, butts into conversations at the right time, and perfectly represents the bipolar Miami Heat fan. Sure, the hosts are great — but this sports radio show wouldn’t be the same without this particular producer.

You know those Twitter memes that make you laugh, then blow up by being shared 1.4 thousand times and get retweeted with commentary like “I’m dead fam!” and “Who did this??” Chances are that a good number of those memes were created by @DanGnajerle. Only you don’t know it. Because most of his memes have been stolen and co-opted by other Twitter users passing them off as their own. When LeBron James broke the Miami Heat’s single-game scoring record, @DanGnajerle pasted a goofy LeBron face onto the iconic Wilt Chamberlain 100 points picture. The meme was then shared more than 2,000 times. When the Mets lost the World Series last October, @DanGnajerle Photoshopped the infamous “Crying Jordan Face” onto the Mets’ home-run apple. This got more than 5,000 retweets, and the meme even got a mention on CNN. Every single time, @DanGnajerle was never given the proper credit. But here we are, giving credit where credit is due. Some of Twitter’s best memes are coming from a local guy named Danny who loves the Miami Heat, the Teenage Ninja Turtles, and Full House and goes by the name @DanGnajerle. Give him a follow. And when he tweets out a meme that you find amusing, hit the retweet button, for Pete’s sake.

It’s hard to believe, but Fox Sports Sun’s Eric Reid has been calling the Miami Heat’s play-by-play action since 1988. He’s become our very own Vin Scully. You simply can’t watch a local Heat game without Reid’s voice calling the action. It’s just a part of life. Reid, known for his staccato cadence, his sharp suits, and his “Kaboom!” catch phrase after every made Miami three-point shot, has established himself as a local institution. Over the years, he has worked Heat games with basketball giants such as Dr. Jack Ramsay, Mike “The Czar” Fratello, and Ed Pinckey. In recent years, Reid has teamed up with former Heat Assistant Coach Tony Fiorentino as his color commentator, forming a likable odd-couple dynamic that makes Heat broadcasts must-watch TV. And this year, the franchise celebrated Reid when he called his 2,000th game — a milestone that’s become more and more rare in a time when giant sports networks like ESPN and NBC are snatching up talent and plugging them into their nationally televised games. Eric Reid is ours. And he’s gunning for 3,000 games. That’s a lot of “Kabooms!”

At the risk of re-igniting the fierce controversy that began some 50 years ago with the release of Bringing It All Back Home — the album on which Bob Dylan first “went electric” — this year’s Best Folk Band is the similarly unapologetically electric Big Brass Bed. Having begun as a side project of Rod MacDonald (a New York expat who made his bones in NYC’s “fast folk” scene of the 1980s), BBB’s lineup is fluid but its chops are consistently soulful, tight, and dextrous. The band’s set lists are primarily made up of Dylan covers, appropriately, but also include material by Leonard Cohen, Sam Cooke, and Nina Simone — in other words, music known, loved, and sung by us folk. Rock on.

In March, an eccentric two-day performance art festival was launched in Fort Lauderdale’s artsy FATVillage. “The Nerve” introduced 14 artists and creative groups performing conceptual pieces. The majority were slightly bizarre (a good thing!) and totally mesmerizing. Artist Lisa Marie Stephens attempted to break 50 cement bricks with a sledgehammer. Karina Pais carved words onto carrots. Rosemarie Romero got into character using a hyper-kitschy nail salon as her backdrop. Jen Clay brought stop-motion animation, handmade costumes, and puppets all together to give silly yet creepy vibes in her projected pieces, “Let’s Be Friends” and “It’s All Really Real.”

Custom-built bicycles and bike racks line the front window, and antiques fill the shelves in the back room around a pool table. In between, there’s a fireplace framed by stones. Seated around the bar, zany characters and bicycle nerds chat and mingle, sipping on craft beers and stiff cocktails. The owners, Elmo and Zoe Love, a quirky and endearing married couple, are quickly transforming the east end of Las Olas with their beloved spot called Two&, a playful name meant to be changed when apropos — Two&liquor, Two&boobs, Two&whatever. The patrons who frequent this friendly establishment are also a part of the fun. Pull up a chair, get talking, and you’ll quickly meet a new pal who might invite you on a bike ride or a hot after-hours make-out session. Elmo, a longtime mechanic, operates a fully functioning bicycle repair service during the day, and Zoe organizes weekly social bicycle rides for the community. At night, bands perform, crazy karaoke goes down, and any other imaginable live entertainment might also occur: burlesque, fire dancing, you name it.

Readers’ choice: Bull Market

Small, dim, and relaxing, PRL is a far cry from the monumental corporate draft houses awash with every beer from every regional producer. This place just celebrated its 11th year in business—a testament to the staying power of a good selection and a clientele that still blows off steam after work with a cold one. The draft selection can be limited at times, but there will always be something incredibly quaffable. The real gems, though, are the bottle selections, ranging from Polish imports to classic Belgian tripels to American greats from Colorado and California. A PRL light pilsner is brewed for the bar by Florida Beer Company and sold for a decent rate of two bottles for $6.

Readers’ choice: GG’s Waterfront Bar and Grill

The main selling point for a place like Kahuna Bar and Grill is its tremendous location. Across the street from beautiful Deerfield Beach, it’s a great spot for both locals and visitors to catch the coastline. Still, Kahuna’s doesn’t merely rely on the outdoor setting for return customers. For one, the happy hour is ridiculous. Running from 12 to 8 p.m. every day, it features well drinks and domestic beers for $2.25. Fish tacos are an excellent way to sober up, as are the tacos filled with land animals. The Hawaiian-themed watering hole and restaurant is adorned with surfboards on the walls and ceiling, with plenty of tiki touches throughout. The policy welcomes no shirts and no shoes and invites us all to please have a seat and a specialty cocktail. Kahuna’s also presents the opportunity to listen to live music (local bands like the Heavy Pets and Spred the Dub both play here) or just listen in on conversations between buzzed fishermen and beach bunnies. While you’re carousing with the half-priced beers and the half-naked people, don’t skip out on your tab, or else you’ll end up on their chalkboard of infamous deadbeats.

Readers’ choice: Bru’s Room Sports Grill

To start things off at the Rebel House, grab some flavored popcorn and local craft brews. After you work up a buzz, order a plate of delicious fried rice or a Pickle Jar — an assortment of cucumbers, grapes, onion, pineapple, and peppers, all pickled in different ways, each of which somehow gives you just enough salt to make your beer taste that much better. We think the Rebel House was meant to be a restaurant that’s also a bar, but some would argue it’s a bar that just so happens to serve some delicious eats. Whatever you call it, it’ll become one of your favorite places.

Cheap drinks are cool, but if the atmosphere isn’t up to par, you’re left feeling empty. Hip crowds have their place, but they mean you’ll end up paying an arm and a leg. You want something different, but you want to feel comfortable. The Social Room has most definitely been a fantastic solution this year. Not many bars can say they have oversized Connect Four and Jenga on an outdoor patio, but the Social Room rolls like that. Chill as it is, it’s not a dive; the decor is beautiful. Candles and beautiful lighting fixtures lead you to cushy seats with ample space to stretch out. Starting at 6 p.m. patrons can listen to music on the inside or mosey outside and enjoy the DJ from a distance. Drinks are affordable ($6 for a Jack and Coke) and usually feature local breweries’ beers, which is always a plus.

As beautiful as any painting may be, as inviting as any photograph may seem, and as funky as any sculpture can get, it’s hard to escape the feeling that museums are staid places — no matter how many wine and cheese nights they might host. Props must go to Young at Art for its focus on getting the community eagerly swinging through the doors. There’s just no beating art that you can play with, so a toy exhibit is almost a no-brainer… except that in signature style, the YAA team does feed the noggin. It elevates the discourse much higher than at your standard kids’ museum. Sure, kids were able to make their own “Trash-former” robots and create short films on iPads, but with help from cool cats of the South Florida arts scene (including Tate’s Comics), this exhibit explored the attraction to, the psychology behind, and the joys of collecting toys.

Absurdity. Surrealism. Playfulness. These qualities pop out in almost all of the work by Clay, who admits in her artist’s bio that her practice “is influenced by hallucinatory experiences that manifest doubt in one’s surroundings and the self.” The artist, who holds an MFA from the University of Florida, invites viewers on a subversive ride through her experimental, multimedia body of work. The charming and quirky North Carolina native is inclined to juxtapose realism (sometimes using leftover food or making a nod to grotesque bodily fluids) with cutesy pop-culture elements. This both entices and throws off viewers. A jack-of-all-mediums, she sews her own costumes, paints, sculpts, and even makes stop-motion animation.

Lake Worth-based artist and filmmaker Jacques de Beaufort boasts an oeuvre that is made of magic. His paintings and drawings usually consist of shamanistic, slightly surreal images (and exotic topless chicks); red, gold, and orange tones convey power and mystery. This past year, he won us over with “Deep Inside the Man-Cave,” a series of portrait drawings (and his self-portrait) in which he masterfully captures the aura and essence of masculinity in his male subjects, all friends like PureHoney magazine publisher Steve Rullman and Raggy Monster bandmates Sage Duvall and Billy Schmidt. With pastels, pencil, and white conté, de Beaufort allows the men’s individual personalities to jump off the page and prompts the viewer to wonder more about each person. De Beaufort is also an associate professor of visual arts at Palm Beach State College.

Readers’ choice: Christopher Ian Macfarlane

Usually, the phrase “street artist” conjures up the idea of some crust-punk with paint cans scrawling graffiti or a Wynwood hipster painting a wall. But Robin Merrill outdoes them all. A woman who defies stereotypes (she’s a Christian missionary with a wicked sense of humor, a white lady who hangs with Seminole and Miccosukee Indians), she’s always thinking up projects to improve the world. At her brick-and-mortar shop, the Upper Room Art Gallery, she sells fair-trade gifts and paintings. In 2013, she won a Knight Foundation grant to keep alive the tradition of cypress canoe carving. And this May, she took action to combat one of her pet peeves: dangerous intersections. The City of Fort Lauderdale won an “Art of Community” grant from the Community Foundation of Broward for their “Connecting the Blocks” project and Merrill was hired to paint her design at crosswalks along Breakers Avenue in bright, eye-catching colors and geometric designs. The project works as a beautifying measure but doubles as a traffic calmer, since people slow down to check out the works. A third effect is that the patterns evoke the underground aquifers that nourish us and our land. Genius!

Bizarre cartoons are the specialty of Christopher Ian MacFarlane, a self-taught 30-something who works with vibrant color palettes in a rare, playful way. Influenced by Looney Tunes cartoons and cubism a la Picasso, MacFarlane’s murals are full of characters who look like they’ve gone mad, like a wolf riding a trash-can rocket, or a lady with a schoolmarmish hair bun and dress but a grotesque face. His work has been commissioned all over town at sites including Young at Art Museum, FATVillage, Respectable Street, and Broward College. In addition to his 2-D work, he’s been experimenting with movable robot sculptures, like an “animatronic raccoon” and a “spaghetti mutant” with light-up devil eyes.

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It’s easy to take captivating pictures in exotic or busy places like New York City or Mumbai, where the surroundings do the work. But even the most talented National Geographic shutterbug would have trouble keeping things interesting given the parameters of shooting the same subject at the same time, daily. That’s why Andy Royston’s work is so fascinating. Every day at dawn, he takes his trusty iPhone4 and snaps photos on Fort Lauderdale Beach where he manages to eke out a vast range of images, from abstract shots of waves crashing to ethereal images of wildlife silhouetted against the horizon. He posts his shots on his popular Twitter feed @FtLauderdaleSun, which hovers at more than 27,000 followers.

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It’s been almost a decade since artists started setting up studios in the Flagler Arts and Technology Village. Husband-and-wife team Leah Brown and Peter Symons, both graduates of the Rhode Island School of Design, were among the first to move in, and their presence helped build FAT’s reputation as a place where serious artists could execute sophisticated work. The ideas never stop coming with these two. Not only do they build killer installations themselves (to walk into one of Brown’s mythical forest-scapes is to be transported to a calm but unsettling alternate world), but they’ve fostered a sense of community by organizing and curating group shows that manage to be fun, high level, inclusive, and of the moment. “Beep Bop Boop” was an attempt to make sense of digital culture. “Game Show” incorporated the idea of play. “The Nerve” was perhaps the best-realized performance art exhibition to ever take place in Broward, and a current show on political art seizes the Zeitgeist. Brown and Symons’ current space, called the Projects in FATVillage, is a 10,000-square-foot hangar-like warehouse and remains the go-to spot every last Saturday of the month when Fort Lauderdalians are out in full force for the monthly art walk.

This small but cozy craft cocktail bar serves drinks with fresh herbs, spices, bitters, shrubs, and infusions. Shelves are filled with unique ingredients (somewhat reminiscent of an old apothecary), and with these co-owner/bartender Sean Iglehart creates jaw-dropping drinks like a chemist in a lab. One of the biggest hits on the cocktail menu is the Rhum Agricole — a summer-style sip that marries peach puree and lemon — but if the bar gets too busy, order a cocktail on tap (did you know you could get those premade?). Sweetwater also has an eclectic menu and will satisfy the foodie as well as the bar rat. No, it’s not the cheapest fare in town, but it certainly is some of the tastiest.

Tucked away among the Irish pubs, the Mexican restaurants, and the gaudy storefronts of Mizner Park is a beacon of both local and world culture. The Boca Raton Museum of Art is a 44,000-square-foot facility that opened in 2001. It is simultaneously an inviting space that celebrates human creativity and a humble work of art itself. In addition to the revolving exhibitions featuring painters, photographers, and sculptors from across the breadth of the American experience, the museum houses a permanent international collection that has over 5,000 works of art spread throughout the building and the outdoor sculpture garden. The museum’s current exhibitions include environmental portrait photographer Arnold Newman and New York-based portrait painter Kehinde Wiley, whose colorful work of contemporar brown-skinned people striking heroic poses in regal, Anglo-European settings is the epitome of what the Boca Museum of Art is striving for. From film screenings to wine-and-cheese gala openings, the museum welcomes the full scope of society’s dreams and visions and is as varied and diverse as South Florida itself.

Readers’ choice: Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens

The “Up” in “ArtsUP” stems from the fact that when you walk into the gallery, which just opened in April, your eyes are uncontrollably drawn toward the ceiling. The space inside is massive — 5,000 square feet — and the art hangs (or floats, or soars) from the ceiling. The effect is awe inspiring: In artist Jamey Grimes’ recent installation, called “Wash,” neon, coral-like ripples glide high above the viewer, appearing to bob up and down on the air. It’s dreamlike, and unlike any other gallery in South Florida. The setup also has a bonus feature: Since there’s rarely anything on the ground, the space can be used for events.

Readers’ choice: Gallery of Amazing Things

Look hard enough and most scenic designs betray their transience: the way the entire flimsy structure shakes at the slamming of a door, or the way the tops of buildings rooflessly taper off just before the lighting grid. Stage artifice inevitably exists somewhere, which is why realistic set designs are harder to perfect than conceptual ones. But I’ll be damned if Amico’s two Midwestern houses and shared backyard of Picnic (at Palm Beach Dramaworks) didn’t look positively air-lifted from the play’s 1950s setting, with nary a theatrical cog or plank or beam in sight. No facet of the set was stunning for its own sake; Amico’s contributions generously complemented the production’s other designers. Each element, from the disconnected shed where characters escaped the hot-blooded throngs to the functional (!) water pump, proved significant to director William Hayes’ naturalistic evocation of everyday life. Trees towered behind the impressive midcentury wood structures, littering the roofs with leaves and allowing lighting designer Donald Edmund Thomas to refract sunlight across the sweltering exterior. Kansas, you never looked so good.

There are plenty of directors who simply do the work that’s on the page, in clean and invisible reverence to the source material as it was written. Stodard is not one of those directors. Her scrappy, inexhaustible work for Thinking Cap Theatre over the past year consisted of deconstructing scripts and rebuilding them to suit her uncompromising vision for each piece. Her harrowing, perplexing A Map of Virtue employed minimal resources, unsettling sound and scenic design, and original music to transform a serendipitous romance into a backwoods abduction thriller. Her remix of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest re-imagined the classic comedy of manners in ’70s-era America, complete with ostentatious costumes, disco lighting, roller skating, and occasionally sung dialogue. And Or, her interpretation of a Restoration comedy, celebrated sexual and gender liberation with an impeccable cast of three exerting the deftness and energy of six. Her selection of plays was so esoteric that sometimes the actors onstage nearly outnumbered butts in the seats, but so be it. Groundbreaking art isn’t for everyone.

Johnston is a dashing attractor of spotlights who has played Hollywood gigolos and populist presidents. He has the brooding charisma to embody James Dean, should the opportunity arise. But in the world premiere of Charles Gluck’s Unlikely Heroes at Mizner Park Studio Theatre, he had to meet the challenge of blending into a dysfunctional family ensemble. As the youngest character onstage — a detached video gamer symbiotically attached to his game controller — Johnston was almost too old for the role, but with acting this first rate, almost will do just fine. For much of the play, as his uncle’s uncomfortable request for a transplanted organ reopens old filial wounds and cuts new ones, he escaped the explosions in the family living room by creating virtual ones on his console. By the end, however, when his character finally came to grips with the play’s game-changing revelations, the eternal adolescent grew up before our eyes, processing the news with a volatility we didn’t know raged within him. He added new dimensions to his character with decisions both loud and subtle so that his unlikely heroism seemed like an inevitable coming-of-age transition.

When it comes to conquering roles, looking great is sometimes half the battle. And certainly the lavish 19th-century Viennese gowns that costume designer Rick Pena created for Laura Hodos in the first act of Slow Burn’s Romance/Romance contributed to the intimidating nobility of her character, which is central to her motives. But she also lived the part and more, embodying both the statuesque regality and the yearning to break free from the strictures of upper-class privilege. In the first act of Keith Herrmann’s musical, in which she and Matthew Korinko hid their aristocratic trappings and began “dating” in the guise of penniless working-class denizens, she brought an infectious effervescence to the role, her every song evoking the pop of a champagne bottle. Act Two is set in the humdrum, plainclothes Hamptons of the 1980s, but even with less-exciting material on which to build, Hodos remained irrepressible. This was a year of sensational performances from Hodos, who can make the most difficult passages seem effortless.

When you’re cast to play a public figure as widely videotaped, personified, and parodied as Richard Nixon, it’s a challenge to forge your own path. The precedents are voluminous: Anthony Hopkins’ pudgy-faced, occasionally British version from Oliver Stone’s Nixon; Frank Langella’s stentorian, deep-throated take in Frost/Nixon‘s Broadway and cinematic incarnations; the real-life perspirer from those black-and-white debates with JFK; and the wattled paranoiac of his waning political career. Jellison, in his fresh, charismatic perspective in Maltz Jupiter Theatre’s version of Frost/Nixon, traversed a 40-year history of mimicry and caricature and emerged with something that looked and felt as authentic as the Nixon Tapes sounded. His hunched shoulders, stooped gait, and birdlike movements embodied the disgraced leader in exile; likewise his studiedly unpolished delivery, full of meandering ellipses. An ornery charmer for most of the production, Jellison also proved adept at channeling Nixon’s potty-mouthed id, as evidenced by one of the play’s key scenes, a bravura drunk dial to David Frost’s hotel room. He almost — and this is a major compliment — made us feel sorry for the bastard.

When she’s not acting in musicals, Avery Sommers brings grace and elegance to her solo performances at cabaret venues around the country. But as the pioneering blues siren Bessie Smith in the Theatre at Arts Garage’s The Devil’s Music, she easily eschewed tact and niceties, embodying the brassy and boisterous legend through every lascivious hip movement and shrapnel-leaving F-bomb. From her mannerisms to her voice to her costuming, she could have passed for Smith’s doppelgänger. Without ever leaving the stage and besotted by a bottomless selection of alcohol, Sommers’ version of Bessie performed 15 numbers in a variety of styles — from a cappella gospel to swing to spartan blues — while sharing a life story rife with triumphs and tragedies. Though primarily a celebration of Smith’s art, Sommers expressed plenty of subtle acting chops between the numbers, evident in the way her righteous anger segued naturally into knowing smiles or when she found the cracks of vulnerability in her character’s towering persona.

Dramaworks began its recent season with back-to-back Carbonell-winning gems late last year: William Inge’s classically structured, voluminously populated Picnic, with its career-best performance from a virtuosic Margery Lowe; and Alan Bennett’s coming-of-age drama The History Boys about, among other things, sexual misconduct in an English grammar school. Don’t be surprised if the company accrues more statuettes for its stellar, benchmark-setting work in early 2016 as well. In an era when intermission-less 80-minute plays are the new standard, few companies would subject their audiences to the three-and-a-half-hour family exorcism that is Long Day’s Journey Into Night. But Dramaworks’ exemplary production forced us to wallow with Eugene O’Neill’s demons, the final act representing the most artistically fertile discomfort imaginable. Its follow-up play, the sweet and teary Outside Mullingar, flawlessly exhibited the company’s romantic side with a superbly acted, wondrously designed rendition of the John Patrick Shanley hit. These four works added up to a perfect synthesis of source material and production values.

Readers’ choice: Broward Center for the Performing Arts

Michael Leeds’ world premiere of Who Killed Joan Crawford? at Island City Stage was an amusing respite from a season dominated by works of political and social provocation. Predicated on the durable stereotype (or just flat-out reality) that gay men love Joan Crawford, Leeds’ comedic murder mystery is built on an ingenious conceit: a birthday gathering of Crawford devotees who are required to show up dressed as a favorite Joan role. When one of the Joans is found in a closet, hung in more ways than one, it sets off a chain of mysterious deaths, forcing the others to suspect the obvious: One of these men, clad in the frocks of ’40s femmes fatale and crazed, eyebrow-arching matriarchs, is a killer. Spiked with the inside-showbiz humor at which Leeds excels — on top of everything, it’s the night of the Tony awards, whose importance is just as paramount for some of the Joans as fingering the serial killer in their midst — Who Killed Joan Crawford? proved equally adept at surprising us. And at a lean 75 minutes, it didn’t overstay its campy welcome.

Slow Burn’s regional premiere of this Steven Sater/Duncan Sheik Tony winner offered the visceral thrills of a rock show within the tight structure of a Broadway musical. In the inspired hands of director Patrick Fitzwater, this tragic coming-of-age narrative about teenage sexuality flowering in an authoritative 19th-century Germany bristled with the sort of angst, frustration, retaliation, and liberation rarely heard (or seen) since Pink Floyd’s The Wall. From the precarious chair choreography of “The Bitch of Living” to the ravishingly lit, cobalt dreamscape of “The Mirror Blue Night,” Fitzwater’s choreography reinvented wheels and kept them turning efficiently at the same time. Sean McClelland’s set, with its subtle nooks and crannies, flawlessly balanced artistry and economy, while the actors conveyed oceans of feeling with single drops of expression, finding an aching tenderness among the adolescent cacophony. Whether or not you’ve seen the Broadway tours of Spring Awakening, it’s hard to fathom a better production.

With live music virtually every single night, Bull Bar has the air of a laid-back college bar, minus the frat boys and the sandal-wearing philosophers. It’s small, and the party often spills outside the doors. Locals, young professionals, and tourists alike all pack the Delray Beach hotspot. They come for the daily happy hour and the half-off drinks, but stay — or swing back by at the end of the night — for the singer-songwriters and bands that take the stage, mixing original songs in with plenty of singalong covers. Perhaps the only negative is how busy Bull Bar can get, but taking the numbers into consideration, it’s a wonder how clean and comfortable it remains. It’s the perfect place to start and end a night of revelry along downtown Delray’s Candyland of bars, clubs, and restaurants. It’s both the pregame and the nightcap.

With a full-tilt, fast-and-loud string band spirit equally suited to the jam band circuit of the great outdoors as to the dank confines of crowded punk clubs, this four-piece outfit has brought the old-timey noise on a regular basis to virtually every venue in South Florida. Lick-rich guitar work, sparkling banjo, blazing fiddle, and buoyant bass are on display as well as mandolin, harmonica, and more — this is a multi-intrumentalist zone. These sounds, along with rich, intricate harmonies and lyrical wit, all uplift the “uproot.”

Spred the Dub started out as a jam band at the Boca Raton craft beer bar Funky Buddha Lounge, where singer Mick Swigert once manned the taps. What began in 2007 as a 12-piece getting together for weekly improvisational jams has now morphed into a six-man show offering its own unique dub sound. Today the band gigs from Stuart to Miami, offering a mashup of roots-style reggae, rockabilly, dub, ska, and punk. While the band has opened for big Jamaican acts like Yellowman and Eek-a-Mouse, the best place to catch Spred the Dub is at E. R. Bradley’s Saloon in West Palm Beach during the ultimate jam session every Monday night from 10 p.m. to 3 a.m. Request the most popular songs — “Coming Home Drunk” or their cover of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” — and rest assured that good times will be had when all 250 or so weekly revelers start swaying and singing in unison.

Despite the number of times people have heralded the death of rock ‘n’ roll, it not only lives, but thrives. The Flyers revere the past and rollick in the present. With a regular four-hour gig every Wednesday night at Johnnie Brown’s and a busy touring schedule around the state, the band is made up of Patrick Farinas (guitar, vocals, keys), Jordan Richards (bass, vocals, guitar,) and Joe Beard (drums, vocals, guitar). These guys have independently released several albums of original material, but when they do tackle the classics, holy hell, is it a beautiful thing. Band members regularly switch instruments to show off their chops, scorching through jams by the Band, Jimi Hendrix, and Ray Charles. As far as local rock bands go, The Flyers are arguably the best — not only because they’re amazing musicians, but because they’re all of the musicians rolled up into one fun-loving trio of awesome.

Readers’ choice: Raggy Monster

Not all casinos are created equal; that’s a known fact. Each has its positives and negatives, but what you really want — besides a giant jackpot — is an enjoyable experience, regardless of your luck. Coconut Creek Seminole Casino finds that sweet spot with easy parking, customer service, cleanliness, friendly dealers, and restaurants. The outdoor Sunset Grille tiki bar provides a beach bar experience far from the beach. The Nectar Lounge inside the casino provides great musical acts that can be heard within slot distance but also enjoyed close up. Blackjack and poker tables throughout the casino have some of the nicest, most outgoing dealers in the area, and the staff is always ready to diffuse tense situations in the fairest way possible. Overall, this place gives you what you want out of a casino experience: no fuss, just an easygoing test of your luck.

Certain rock songs have become so synonymous with strip clubs that one almost can’t exist without the other. At this point, songs such as “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Mötley Crüe and “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry shouldn’t even be legally allowed to be heard outside of a gentleman’s club. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” has become such a fixture in pop culture as a stripper song that the CW’s iZombie recently titled one of its episodes “Pour Some Sugar, Zombie” after the main character eats an exotic dancer’s brain. (Just roll with it.) Club Vixens in Davie is the hair-swinging, full-frontal unifying force that brings together the best of two hard-partying worlds. Just off the beaten track and tucked away behind a warehouse district, Club Vixens is a diamond-in-the-rough sort of place… if you’re attracted to women named Diamond, that is. For those who can tear their eyes away from the erotic gymnasts peppered throughout the club, the walls are plastered with rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia. Best of all, Club Vixens is a full-blown concert venue. In addition to weekday happy hours that run from 12 to 8 p.m. and guest dancers from around the country, the club prides itself on bringing in national touring acts such Enuff Z’Nuff, Drowning Pool, and Puddle of Mudd. Club Vixens is a spot where you can come for the music and stay for the eye candy — or vice versa.

Readers’ choice: Scarlett’s Cabaret

For those of a certain age, it can take some doing to think of the Kennedy clan without Vietnam and that Bad Day in Dallas. But “Camelot” — the Kennedy mystique of sun-gold young men and women on sailboats, clam bakes on Cape Cod, touch football on autumn lawns — that lives on like a hazy summer dream. Football, touch or otherwise, at this downtown West Palm Beach boîte has so far been seen only on its large-screen TVs. But for clam bakes, sub the raw bar stocked with fresh mollusks daily, and for golden people, scope the stream of sophisticates who are tired of the rowdy end of Clematis Street and take refuge inside Camelot’s nautical-themed confines. There’s a dance floor and a revolving selection of live musical entertainment: jazz, nu disco, reggae, and the occasional pop-up show. Younger Palm Beach types venture here from their privileged island enclave. Are they drawn by the air of an age when noblesse had oblige?

Our reputation precedes us. Combine South Florida’s status as a destination for tourists from around the world with its claim to be the United States’ leading playground for “the lifestyle,” and bingo! A nightly stream of erotic adventurers from Europe and South America pack the dance floors and the clothing- and inhibition-optional back rooms of this Broward club, the region’s longest-running swingers establishment. It’s a pricey venue (entrance requires a membership fee, plus nightly user fees of $15 to $75) but to practice your Spanish or German with native speakers in the most intimate of situations, Trapeze can’t be beaten (unless that’s your thing).

You’ve been talking to her for almost 30 minutes and she hasn’t once taken a snapchat selfie or said “LOL” out loud. Well dressed in a Boston Proper tank top, fitted white jeans, and wedges, she’s confident and has no problem buying her own cocktail. She’s a South Florida cougar, and this place is crawling with women just like her. The level of class at Blue Martini Boca is higher than at your average city bar; nothing here is served in a solo cup. Partly for this reason, it has become a local watering hole for the sexy, mature woman. Seven days a week the bar’s chic happy hour attracts people of all ages, but a fun-loving and flirty cougar is the signature patron. She rarely turns down an opportunity to talk to a hot youngster at the bar, so buy her a Mango Tango and drag her off the patio bar and inside because dancing with a cougar is never a bad time.

The Heat are up by only two points with 35 seconds left in the game and you can feel the tension reverberate around the bar. High off of all the testosterone in the air and a little tipsy from the bucket of Mich Ultras, you can’t help but smile every time you make eye contact with him. He’s got shoulders that make you totally okay with cut-sleeve shirts and enough scruff on his jawline to make you call “dibs” to your girls. But you can’t call dibs… because you’ve already called it on three other guys since walking in 30 minutes ago. This place is swarming with guys making flirty eye contact! Whether it’s the beer bucket specials, endless TVs, hot waitresses, or a combo of all three, Tilted Kilt has a way of bringing in the bros. They have 21 beers on tap and ample seating for your large squad to get rowdy together, so throw on your hot new outfit and get there. Happy hunting.

What is it about sassy and fabulous waitresses, frozen cosmos, and a drag show that attracts groups of single women in droves? A popular destination for bachelorette parties, Lips gives the perfect combo of alcohol, glitz, and no-holds-barred humor during their dinner and drag show. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in a grumpy mood at Lips. The waitresses ooze contagious confidence as they strut around in various glamorous outfits throughout the night. This combined with a few cocktails perfectly primes any single women in the dining room for flirty conversation.

What qualifies someone as a great bartender? Is it someone who can make the perfect martini? A barkeep that can spot you walking through the door and have your favorite drink waiting before you even sit down? Or is it that person with so many followers, his or her bar is packed with loyal regulars? Brule Bistro’s Randy Rapposelli scores on all of the above. This drink-slinger has been manning the bar at this beloved Delray Beach hotspot for the past four years, when the former gourmet market and lunch spot swapped to a more sophisticated full-service restaurant complete with a full bar in 2012. Now, whether crafting the perfect Old Fashioned, mixing up margaritas, stirring up an ice-cold martini, or offering the perfect wine pairing for your meal, this is one bartender that knows his stuff — and serves a little friendly banter along with it.

Readers’ choice: Brett Robertson at Kapow!

A show whose title conjures swingers clubs and hedonistic Craigslist searches had better be hot. And the Theatre at Arts Garage’s production of Laura Eason’s Sex With Strangers was indeed smokin’, with enough sexual tension and torn-off clothing to turn its spectators into voyeurs. It was also a witty, sophisticated, and trenchant observation on the changing social mores and literary shifts of the 21st Century. Jacqueline Laggy starred as a 40-something novelist piecing together her sophomore book after a middling response to her debut, and Michael Uribe shone as a misogynistic millennial with a successful media empire centered on his playboy ethos. The actors smoldered and simmered and punched and counterpunched in equal measure, their pitch-perfect chemistry humanizing this pointed mystery through its boldly open conclusion. Arts Garage’s entire theater season scratched at libidinous itches, but only Sex With Strangers had the performances to back it up.

So apparently Rhum Shak serves food. Guess we never really noticed because the live music Wednesday through Sunday was always so great and the daily happy hour so satisfying. Located in the heart of downtown, the ocean-themed bar, with its pirate logo and mural of an underwater scene on the far main wall, is a dream come true for binge drinkers. The drink specials begin at 11 a.m. and run through 7 p.m., turning happy hour into a happy day. That includes $2.25 drafts and $4 house wines. If the cheap cocktails or specialty drinks like the Pirate’s Booty or Rhum Shak Sucker Punch knock you on your ass, Rhum Shak can bring you back to life with food specials. On Thursday nights they offer 49-cent chicken wings, and on Saturdays the entire menu is 40 percent off before 5 p.m. Rhum Shak delivers on a wonderful promise: Get drunk, get fat, get entertained, and keep your hard-earned treasure in the process.

Readers’ Choice: Mai-Kai Restaurant

Walk along the Broadwalk on Hollywood Beach and you’ll run into a little tiki bar that locals and tourists frequent all year round. The Riptide Hotel’s beach bar is a simple thatched hut surrounded by chairs, tables, and a soundstage for live music. Underneath, you’ll see fun, beachy sayings like “Drink until you’re naked” and “No fish were harmed while making our fishbowls.” Live music happens every day from 1 to 9 p.m. — the kind of tunes that pair well with a piña colada. The signature drink is the Riptide Lemonade: strawberry-infused vodka mixed with lemonade, a refreshing but lethal combination. You might actually end up naked drinking too many of those, but draft beers, fresh smoothies, and sparkling wines are also available for the taking. If you’re hungry, create your own pizza or nab a Riptide Veggie Wrap or Cobb Salad. You can walk right onto the beach with a drink in your hand.

Blue Jean Blues features some of the best local artists in South Florida, like Jimmy Cavallo, Joel DaSilva, Eric & the Jazzers, and Kat Riggins. Live music is on blast seven nights a week — quite impressive for a club that sticks to just a few specific music genres. A big menu gives you lots of options: pizza or calamari for food, a glass of Prosecco or signature cocktails (Old Time Blues or Blue Jean Collins) for drinks. When you walk into this joint any night of the week, you’ll find a packed bar, dancers on the floor, and men and women singin’ the blues like it was in their veins. This is the perfect spot for a fun, sultry night on the town.

Queerly beloved, we are gathered here today

To witness the fact that there exists not a single dedicated lesbian bar in this county,

Which is an unholy outrage in a city like Fort Lauderdale.

Who can name a place for women who love women to go for a drink

Without being surrounded by sausage, plagued by penis, choked by chest hair?

We mean not to offend those with chest hair, or those who love the D.

But for God’s sake, bring back New Moon,

Lest bed death do us in.

(Runner-Up: A Bottle of Wine in Your Living Room)

With the abundance of choices for nightlife in West Palm Beach, it’s somewhat surprising that there’s a dearth when it comes to the LGBT scene. It may not be Miami, but the struggle to find a quality gay bar in Palm Beach County shouldn’t be so real. Thankfully, there’s H. G. Roosters. Established in the mid-’80s, what makes H. G. Roosters such a delight is the perpetual activity. Every single night features a different form of entertainment: Monday bingo, Tuesday pool tournaments, drag shows on the weekends, Sunday karaoke, and so on. Despite the incessant busyness, though, the atmosphere couldn’t be more relaxed, with nary a hint of pretension in the air. In addition to late-night happy hour on Friday evenings, the drinks are stupid cheap, and the bartenders couldn’t stop smiling if they tried. Featuring hours made for night owls (the bar never closes before 3 a.m.), H. G. Roosters has partygoers up until, well, the rooster crows. And speaking of which, all you need to know about this place is in the marquee. When a gay bar has an animal in its name closely related to the slang for “dong,” you know it doesn’t take itself too seriously. That right there is an indicator of fun times.

Readers’ choice: Rosie’s Bar and Grill

A graybeard in the world of SoFla kava bars, the Purple Lotus, 11 years along, is where many a local first tried euphoria Polynesian style. Proprietor Jimmy Scianno, a serious student of kava and kava culture, has weathered (kratom-related) controversy and seen his enterprise expand to locations in South Beach and Delray Beach. But the original remains a favorite, and not just for the exotic beverages and chill South Seas décor. The whole block it occupies has a whimsical air and a storied past. The fortune teller next door has moved on, but the very cool Evernia Coffee House has moved in a few doors away — to a space that in the early ’90s housed the Artsbar, a landmark of local alternative history. Dixie Highway is a sleepy two-lane street here; sit and sip in the Lotus’ sidewalk chairs and watch the world flow by.

As far as dive bars go, alcoholics everywhere could do much, much worse than Elbo Room, where more often than not there isn’t much, well, elbow room. Most dive bars are run-down shit-holes in crummy neighborhoods, but Elbo Room is a run-down institution on one of the most prized pieces of real estate in Broward County, where Las Olas Boulevard meets the beach. The first floor is often cramped and overflowing with sunburned drunks, and that’s part of the appeal! Opened in 1938, this venerable bar owes much of its success to its sunny corner and to being featured in the movie Where the Boys Are (which launched the spring break phenomenon). Bathed in an Art Deco façade on the outside and lined with a rustic, woody Key West feel inside, Elbo Room hasn’t changed too much in its almost 80-year history. Modern day shenanigans include drinking contests, spring break bashes, and live music. Save the uppity hustle and bustle for South Beach. Like a wicked hangover that won’t quit, Elbo Room hangs on.

Readers’ choice: Original Fat Cat’s

It’s among the most aggravating of first-world problems: you put hard-earned quarters in the side of the table and come back from the bar to find two dudes enjoying a game of pool on your dime. You want to tell them they owe you $1.50, but most likely you just stew silently and sip your Bud Lite — and vow that next time, you’ll head to the Billiard Club tucked away upstairs in the Oasis at Sawgrass Mills, surrounded by preteen mall rats. Gone are the days of placing your quarters in the side of the pool table and waiting for the next game, since here you pay by the hour. With well over a dozen tables, there’s almost always one open. They have a full liquor bar and charge no cover on UFC fight nights.

Readers’ choice: Blondies Sports Bar

The Sports Corner is a dive bar in every respect. It’s dark, it’s dingy, and it has an air of danger. The black walls lined with TVs and sports memorabilia shut out sunlight as well as the existence of any world separate from this black hole. Oftentimes the secondhand cigarette smoke is so thick, it’s almost certain you’re going home with a black spot on your lung. And yet… it’s the perfect haven for the hardcore sports nut. While there are certainly nicer options around South Florida — the Ale Houses, the Duffy’ses, the Bru’s Rooms — there is none with as much personality. The bar’s website looks like it hasn’t been updated since the place opened in 1997 (or at least since the death of MySpace) — and that’s part of the charm. It’s not fancy, and we love it that way. Here, you can drink like your dad and yell at the television screen, tell your favorite players what overpaid jackasses they are, and engage in drunken debates with other belligerent sports-dad types over a game of darts, pool, or tabletop shuffleboard.

Bucking trends has worked well for Fort Lauderdale’s funky new kid on the block, Rhythm & Vine. Bringing something other than the smoky dives and ear-blasting bass of established spots on Himmarshee Street or the beach, the neighborhood beer garden and cocktail bar on the corner of FATVillage is a more relaxed watering hole. Manager Bobby Velez, formerly of the infamous, high-volume Bleau Bar at the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach, has helped develop R&V into more than just another place to get hammered, with yoga in the garden, movie screenings on the projector inside, weekly live music “buzz sessions,” and a rotation of party-starting resident DJs. R&V’s eclectic programming fills a void in Fort Lauderdale’s one-note nightlife scene. With its edgy, laid-back space, killer cocktails, and visiting food trucks slinging grub, it’s the perfect spot to party from day to night. “Broward County and Palm Beach were screaming for a place like this,” says Velez.

The neighborhood bar is endangered these days, but a few have stood the test of time. At the Sail Inn, a crowd of regulars still shows up day or night, and some bartenders have been there for as long as 20 years. Ask for a round of “the coldest” grape bombs — ice cold beer mugs filled with grape vodka and Red Bull — and the barkeep just might peg you for a local. For many years this was a smoking bar, but owner Rick Jankee gave the place a complete overhaul a few years back. Today everything is shipshape, and there’s even a new brass polished bar (and no more smoking indoors). These days, Sail Inn feels more special than ever — a small slice of Old Delray, a spot the throngs of tourists on Atlantic Avenue have yet to discover, and perhaps never will.

Readers’ choice: Deck 84