Club Boca's brilliance lies in its simple aesthetics and its variety. Situated on the ground floor of an office building and decorated in a hip but elegant style (regal statues of lions next to hanging graffiti pieces), the club covers the waterfront with its selection of dance music. Mondays DJs Stevie D and Felix Sama host the fattest hip-hop night in SoFla, often with live acts popping in like Jeru the Damaja or Method Man; Thursdays are college nights, pandering to the frat crews with music spanning from reggae to hip-hop to techno; Friday nights Club Boca gets spicy wit' it at Fiesta Latina; Saturdays the club goes SoBe with its ladies' night, bumping Top 40, high-energy dance music; and Sundays DJ K-Ahzz gets progressive, spinning techno and alternative music at Purgatory. When on the hunt for some booty-shakin', Club Boca is the place to prowl.
Sports bars, in order to fulfill their promise as a man's paradise, need four things: plenty of televisions; a small army of hot, scantily clad waitresses; lots of less-than-expensive beer; and buckets of chicken wings. Hot Shots has all of these, but you'll have to forget about the girl-next-door, all-American style of, say, Hooters (not to say there's anything wrong with Hooters). The Hot Shots waitresses are hot in more of a working-class, smoke-stained, screw-you-stupid kind of way. The patrons range from Vinnie from New York to a countrified 57-year-old handyman named Bill who likes to hit on the older chicks in the place while coughing down filterless Camels. Oh, that's another thing: You can actually find single women in there, if the game gets boring. At Hot Shots there's plenty to fall back on, like a black-walled nightclub with a dance floor and so many pool tables there's always one open. Let's put it this way: Where else can you get a $3 Bass ale served up by a not-so-chic cutie while you call the eight ball in the corner pocket with your favorite game on the tube and righteous tunes thumping from a kick-ass sound system? Hot Shots, we salute you.
Hot Shots
Sports bars, in order to fulfill their promise as a man's paradise, need four things: plenty of televisions; a small army of hot, scantily clad waitresses; lots of less-than-expensive beer; and buckets of chicken wings. Hot Shots has all of these, but you'll have to forget about the girl-next-door, all-American style of, say, Hooters (not to say there's anything wrong with Hooters). The Hot Shots waitresses are hot in more of a working-class, smoke-stained, screw-you-stupid kind of way. The patrons range from Vinnie from New York to a countrified 57-year-old handyman named Bill who likes to hit on the older chicks in the place while coughing down filterless Camels. Oh, that's another thing: You can actually find single women in there, if the game gets boring. At Hot Shots there's plenty to fall back on, like a black-walled nightclub with a dance floor and so many pool tables there's always one open. Let's put it this way: Where else can you get a $3 Bass ale served up by a not-so-chic cutie while you call the eight ball in the corner pocket with your favorite game on the tube and righteous tunes thumping from a kick-ass sound system? Hot Shots, we salute you.
Revisit one of childhood's purest pleasures, playing in the sprinklers, at the four-year-old "dancing fountain." (It was officially named for the outgoing West Palm Beach mayor last week.) Venture onto the stone checkerboard during a lull, then register surprise as water shoots up from tiny spouts in the fountain's 289 triangles, alternating patterns of spray. First it gurgles around your ankles, then it towers above your head. Cavort like the children, clapping your hands on individual spurts, sitting or standing over them so your clothes billow from the pressure. Of course, this may not look quite as innocent when you do it. No matter. Almost anything goes here.
Revisit one of childhood's purest pleasures, playing in the sprinklers, at the four-year-old "dancing fountain." (It was officially named for the outgoing West Palm Beach mayor last week.) Venture onto the stone checkerboard during a lull, then register surprise as water shoots up from tiny spouts in the fountain's 289 triangles, alternating patterns of spray. First it gurgles around your ankles, then it towers above your head. Cavort like the children, clapping your hands on individual spurts, sitting or standing over them so your clothes billow from the pressure. Of course, this may not look quite as innocent when you do it. No matter. Almost anything goes here.
With six snow-blowing machines, and facilities in Pahokee and Miami, Fred Abramovitch dominates the local snow business. Fred, the president of Royal Palm City Ice, hails from Toronto, Canada, and can't seem to leave his chilly past behind. He doesn't advertise his product, but especially in December and January, his phone (305-653-7500) rings off the hook with customers. Fred's fleet then hits the road for another block party, modeling shoot, bar mitzvah, or corporate hootenanny. "Of course, the only real snow is the snow that falls from the sky, but this is nearly identical in quality," Fred says proudly. "It's not ice. It's not slush. It's snowball-quality snow." Minimum purchase order: five tons, $600.
With six snow-blowing machines, and facilities in Pahokee and Miami, Fred Abramovitch dominates the local snow business. Fred, the president of Royal Palm City Ice, hails from Toronto, Canada, and can't seem to leave his chilly past behind. He doesn't advertise his product, but especially in December and January, his phone (305-653-7500) rings off the hook with customers. Fred's fleet then hits the road for another block party, modeling shoot, bar mitzvah, or corporate hootenanny. "Of course, the only real snow is the snow that falls from the sky, but this is nearly identical in quality," Fred says proudly. "It's not ice. It's not slush. It's snowball-quality snow." Minimum purchase order: five tons, $600.
More Stupid Graffiti? Whatever the name means, this posse's handle is not about food additives. MSG may be the best "writers" in the region because they've been at it the longest, persevering in one of the nation's most antigraffiti environments, South Florida. Fallen (literally, having tumbled from an overpass to his much-publicized death) spray-can artist Beano was an MSG member, as is South Florida's most prolific bomber, Crome. A co-production by Crome and MSG-er Kemo on the side of a warehouse at Broward Boulevard and I-95 was perhaps the longest "running" piece in the county's history, seen for more than a year by thousands of motorists. It may have been recently painted over, but MSG will no doubt continue their clandestine art wherever bare walls and clean trains exist.
More Stupid Graffiti? Whatever the name means, this posse's handle is not about food additives. MSG may be the best "writers" in the region because they've been at it the longest, persevering in one of the nation's most antigraffiti environments, South Florida. Fallen (literally, having tumbled from an overpass to his much-publicized death) spray-can artist Beano was an MSG member, as is South Florida's most prolific bomber, Crome. A co-production by Crome and MSG-er Kemo on the side of a warehouse at Broward Boulevard and I-95 was perhaps the longest "running" piece in the county's history, seen for more than a year by thousands of motorists. It may have been recently painted over, but MSG will no doubt continue their clandestine art wherever bare walls and clean trains exist.
She writes on a laptop at a spare, scratch-and-dent-sale desk in a walk-in closet filled with boots, blouses, and suits; he composes before an oversize screen in a separate study, surrounded by photographs, poetry books, and a cartoon starring Walt Whitman. She sets aside her muse from nine to five, shifting to accounting software; he is constantly crafting stanzas in his head and teaches composition at Nova Southeastern University and Florida International University. When they met three years ago as graduate students in FIU's creative writing program, Lyn and Jesse discovered they shared an affection for Wrigley Field, a Southern Baptist upbringing -- she in Mississippi, he in Virginia -- and a therapeutic preoccupation with their prior experiences. In a poetry manuscript, The Last Dance of the Once Wicked, Jesse is revisiting what he calls "the neighborhoods of my past sorrow," including the tin-roofed farmhouse where "the night rose up on grim haunches/And crickets raised their sharp and dry bodies." That same unflinching lyricism marks his memoir, A Temporary World of Light, a short version of which won the 1998 Alligator Juniper national competition for creative nonfiction and will be published in an Arizona literary journal this year. Lyn, whose nonfiction has appeared in the now-defunct Tropic and on Public Radio International's Marketplace, is also writing a memoir. In Accounting For Myself, the CPA connects money and identity with precise, vivid prose, evoking a child's guilt as her parents squabble over finances. On paper and in person, the Hollywood pair is paving a future with the painful lessons of the past.

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