We shudder when entering most public bathrooms (think any Greyhound bus station toilet). But we found one we want to move into. Check out the ladies' lounge at the Weston Hills Country Club next time you're out west. (Yes, they'll let you use the lounge even if you're not a member.) You'll understand why it's part of the tour all prospective members get. The aroma of flowers greets you the second you enter the room, which is a far cry from the usual bathroom scent. But wait, this doesn't even look like a bathroom -- it looks more like someone's living room. A brocaded Victorian couch trimmed in gold fringe beckons. Deep brass bowls filled with potpourri and flower arrangements rest on cherry-wood tables. The wood-shuttered French windows open to a halcyon view of palm trees and gently waving grasses. Four rose-cushioned chairs face ornately etched mirrors; frosted glass lamps providing the perfect lighting for makeup touch-ups. Your feet sink into the floral wall-to-wall carpeting. The toilets and sinks are in an adjoining room. The soap bins are always full of peach-scented soap, and there are even dispensers of mouthwash and lotion next to little plastic cups on a lace doily. The only problem we saw: a garbage can filled with used paper towels. Oh well. Even the Garden of Eden had a flaw.

We shudder when entering most public bathrooms (think any Greyhound bus station toilet). But we found one we want to move into. Check out the ladies' lounge at the Weston Hills Country Club next time you're out west. (Yes, they'll let you use the lounge even if you're not a member.) You'll understand why it's part of the tour all prospective members get. The aroma of flowers greets you the second you enter the room, which is a far cry from the usual bathroom scent. But wait, this doesn't even look like a bathroom -- it looks more like someone's living room. A brocaded Victorian couch trimmed in gold fringe beckons. Deep brass bowls filled with potpourri and flower arrangements rest on cherry-wood tables. The wood-shuttered French windows open to a halcyon view of palm trees and gently waving grasses. Four rose-cushioned chairs face ornately etched mirrors; frosted glass lamps providing the perfect lighting for makeup touch-ups. Your feet sink into the floral wall-to-wall carpeting. The toilets and sinks are in an adjoining room. The soap bins are always full of peach-scented soap, and there are even dispensers of mouthwash and lotion next to little plastic cups on a lace doily. The only problem we saw: a garbage can filled with used paper towels. Oh well. Even the Garden of Eden had a flaw.

For a landed view, it's best to land among the landed gentry, of course. You can do that in this little corner of the wealthy universe high atop the Bank of America Building. How high above the earth is 28 stories, the altitude of the Tower Club? About a million miles for those of us who toil the streets below, working for a living. But for those who languish in huge leather armchairs or dine in Continental opulence above the rest of Broward's 1.5 million denizens, 28 stories is about 370 feet above the pavement. Ride up, walk in, take a look. You'll see the blue Atlantic sweeping in from North Africa to the east, the Everglades rolling out toward the gulf to the west. Great views of South Florida's famous development frenzy stretch to the north and south, too. If you aren't going to join the club, the least you can do is show up with a resignation letter in hand, à la Groucho Marx: "Please accept my resignation. I don't care to belong to any social organization that will accept me as a member." Just be sure to give them the letter after you look at the view.
Tower Club
For a landed view, it's best to land among the landed gentry, of course. You can do that in this little corner of the wealthy universe high atop the Bank of America Building. How high above the earth is 28 stories, the altitude of the Tower Club? About a million miles for those of us who toil the streets below, working for a living. But for those who languish in huge leather armchairs or dine in Continental opulence above the rest of Broward's 1.5 million denizens, 28 stories is about 370 feet above the pavement. Ride up, walk in, take a look. You'll see the blue Atlantic sweeping in from North Africa to the east, the Everglades rolling out toward the gulf to the west. Great views of South Florida's famous development frenzy stretch to the north and south, too. If you aren't going to join the club, the least you can do is show up with a resignation letter in hand, à la Groucho Marx: "Please accept my resignation. I don't care to belong to any social organization that will accept me as a member." Just be sure to give them the letter after you look at the view.
Imagine you're the personnel director of an NFL expansion team and you have the opportunity to pick any player from the Dolphins roster for your new squad. Cornerback Sam Madison is one of the best in the league at his position, and wide receiver O.J. McDuffie led the league in receptions a year ago; either would be a good choice. But when it comes to being the best Dolphins player, middle linebacker Zach Thomas is the meanest fish in the tank. The defensive spark plug many NFL insiders considered too small at five feet, eleven inches and 235 pounds has led the team in tackles every season since being drafted in the fifth round in 1996. What Thomas lacks in size, he makes up for in intensity and versatility. How many players have the power to go head-up on Steelers running back Jerome Bettis -- a guy nicknamed "the Bus" for his bruising running style -- flatten him like a pancake, and still possess the speed to cover Raiders wideout Tim Brown on a deep crossing pattern? Thomas' teammates and coaches consistently recognize him as one of the hardest workers on the team. His character, fire, and athletic ability make him the heart and soul of a nasty defense that has come to be known as one of the stingiest in the NFL. While other players may be involved in one or two plays per drive, the Dolphins' middle man usually contributes on every down, thus continuing Miami's tradition of gritty defensive field generals.

Imagine you're the personnel director of an NFL expansion team and you have the opportunity to pick any player from the Dolphins roster for your new squad. Cornerback Sam Madison is one of the best in the league at his position, and wide receiver O.J. McDuffie led the league in receptions a year ago; either would be a good choice. But when it comes to being the best Dolphins player, middle linebacker Zach Thomas is the meanest fish in the tank. The defensive spark plug many NFL insiders considered too small at five feet, eleven inches and 235 pounds has led the team in tackles every season since being drafted in the fifth round in 1996. What Thomas lacks in size, he makes up for in intensity and versatility. How many players have the power to go head-up on Steelers running back Jerome Bettis -- a guy nicknamed "the Bus" for his bruising running style -- flatten him like a pancake, and still possess the speed to cover Raiders wideout Tim Brown on a deep crossing pattern? Thomas' teammates and coaches consistently recognize him as one of the hardest workers on the team. His character, fire, and athletic ability make him the heart and soul of a nasty defense that has come to be known as one of the stingiest in the NFL. While other players may be involved in one or two plays per drive, the Dolphins' middle man usually contributes on every down, thus continuing Miami's tradition of gritty defensive field generals.

South Florida is congested as hell. Yet it seems that every other car on the road is a Corvette, Porsche, or some other high-horse ride that was born to run. What to do? You can take the tack most do around here and drive like a freakin' idiot from stoplight to stoplight, or you can point that pony west and open 'er up on Alligator Alley. We recommend the latter for three reasons: (a) It's straight and flat as a pool table, which means that (b) there aren't many places for the cops to hide, and (c) traffic is usually light and well spaced so that, if you run off the road at a high speed, you won't take innocent bystanders with you. You still have to keep an eye peeled for the Florida Highway Patrol, but if you're the least bit alert, you should be able to get away with exceeding the speed limit. Just don't send us the ticket if they nab you.

South Florida is congested as hell. Yet it seems that every other car on the road is a Corvette, Porsche, or some other high-horse ride that was born to run. What to do? You can take the tack most do around here and drive like a freakin' idiot from stoplight to stoplight, or you can point that pony west and open 'er up on Alligator Alley. We recommend the latter for three reasons: (a) It's straight and flat as a pool table, which means that (b) there aren't many places for the cops to hide, and (c) traffic is usually light and well spaced so that, if you run off the road at a high speed, you won't take innocent bystanders with you. You still have to keep an eye peeled for the Florida Highway Patrol, but if you're the least bit alert, you should be able to get away with exceeding the speed limit. Just don't send us the ticket if they nab you.

Love, sex,… and death. So you're gonna drop the bastard, eh? You're gonna, what, tell a good woman it's not really her, it's you, you're the problem, so don't worry while you just tear her heart out? You're gonna let him know -- you feel suffocated. He's a great guy, he has changed the landscape of your heart. (Remember that line, "the landscape of your heart.") But no way, José. Now the question becomes simple. Where to do it? You do not want any place that suggests the landscape of a heart or that suggests hope. You want just the opposite. A cemetery, obviously. After all, this is what breaking up is all about. It's about dying. And being reborn. What better place than a Catholic cemetery? Those Catholics are really into death and resurrection. So we recommend taking your soon-to-be ex to Queen of Heaven, which provides 100 acres to walk around while you deliver the message. And if you're dropping a real SOB, if you really want to bury somebody who treated you badly, you can do it there, too. For $1300 a plot.

Love, sex,… and death. So you're gonna drop the bastard, eh? You're gonna, what, tell a good woman it's not really her, it's you, you're the problem, so don't worry while you just tear her heart out? You're gonna let him know -- you feel suffocated. He's a great guy, he has changed the landscape of your heart. (Remember that line, "the landscape of your heart.") But no way, José. Now the question becomes simple. Where to do it? You do not want any place that suggests the landscape of a heart or that suggests hope. You want just the opposite. A cemetery, obviously. After all, this is what breaking up is all about. It's about dying. And being reborn. What better place than a Catholic cemetery? Those Catholics are really into death and resurrection. So we recommend taking your soon-to-be ex to Queen of Heaven, which provides 100 acres to walk around while you deliver the message. And if you're dropping a real SOB, if you really want to bury somebody who treated you badly, you can do it there, too. For $1300 a plot.

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