In ever-transient South Florida, it doesn't take much to qualify as a local institution. Kim's Alley Bar, with roots back to 1959, undoubtedly makes the cut. And Laurrie Pood, who has been manning the bottles for seven years at Kim's, almost qualifies herself. Laurrie is the den mother of the mahogany front bar, serving up equal parts liquid anesthesia and emotional solace. She has a smile, a hug, and a drink for just about every weary soul who wanders into the place. You might momentarily feel like you're in Mom's kitchen waiting for the Sunday-evening pot roast to be served, except that the pot roast comes with ice cubes, doesn't give you heartburn, and magically lifts away your troubles, at least for the moment. Laurrie's benevolence extends beyond the bar as well. In March she traveled to Hawaii for a Leukemia Society of America marathon. She and a friend raised more than $5000 through fundraisers, begging, and hard work -- and they somehow actually ran 26 miles. Be wary, however, of Laurrie's advice when it comes to drinks. Her self-concocted specialty is the Drunken Monkey: Stoli strawberry vodka, banana liqueur, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Sprite. "It's one of those things," she notes, "where people say, 'Make me something sweet that will kick my butt.'" Thanks, but we'll stick with her martinis.
In ever-transient South Florida, it doesn't take much to qualify as a local institution. Kim's Alley Bar, with roots back to 1959, undoubtedly makes the cut. And Laurrie Pood, who has been manning the bottles for seven years at Kim's, almost qualifies herself. Laurrie is the den mother of the mahogany front bar, serving up equal parts liquid anesthesia and emotional solace. She has a smile, a hug, and a drink for just about every weary soul who wanders into the place. You might momentarily feel like you're in Mom's kitchen waiting for the Sunday-evening pot roast to be served, except that the pot roast comes with ice cubes, doesn't give you heartburn, and magically lifts away your troubles, at least for the moment. Laurrie's benevolence extends beyond the bar as well. In March she traveled to Hawaii for a Leukemia Society of America marathon. She and a friend raised more than $5000 through fundraisers, begging, and hard work -- and they somehow actually ran 26 miles. Be wary, however, of Laurrie's advice when it comes to drinks. Her self-concocted specialty is the Drunken Monkey: Stoli strawberry vodka, banana liqueur, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Sprite. "It's one of those things," she notes, "where people say, 'Make me something sweet that will kick my butt.'" Thanks, but we'll stick with her martinis.
The last place you'd want to hear "Gimme Three Steps" or "Free Bird" is some faux upscale bar resplendent with oak, brass, and forest green Boltaflex. Bleeeecch. If one has to endure Lynyrd Skynyrd (a sad but unavoidable truth in the South), one should be very, very drunk. One should also be surrounded by toothless fishermen, dust-caked construction workers, and other hard-drinking locals downing shots of Jack and gobbling greasy onion rings. That's exactly what you get at this joint. And don't let the crowd's woo-hooing debauchery fool you into thinking the lone pool table's an easy score. There's always a game going on, even if the players are nowhere near the felt. Usually they're somewhere by the dance floor waggin' ass or bellowing at the band to play yet another Skynyrd tune. Sneakers offers patrons the kind of gritty old Hollywood ambiance you ain't gonna find on nearby trendy Harrison Street. Thank God.
The last place you'd want to hear "Gimme Three Steps" or "Free Bird" is some faux upscale bar resplendent with oak, brass, and forest green Boltaflex. Bleeeecch. If one has to endure Lynyrd Skynyrd (a sad but unavoidable truth in the South), one should be very, very drunk. One should also be surrounded by toothless fishermen, dust-caked construction workers, and other hard-drinking locals downing shots of Jack and gobbling greasy onion rings. That's exactly what you get at this joint. And don't let the crowd's woo-hooing debauchery fool you into thinking the lone pool table's an easy score. There's always a game going on, even if the players are nowhere near the felt. Usually they're somewhere by the dance floor waggin' ass or bellowing at the band to play yet another Skynyrd tune. Sneakers offers patrons the kind of gritty old Hollywood ambiance you ain't gonna find on nearby trendy Harrison Street. Thank God.

Best Place To Watch Women Lick Beer Off Each Other's Breasts

Smith Brother's Lounge

Saturday night and we're sitting out front at Smith Brother's admiring the parade of Harleys passing through the parking lot and avoiding the too-loud cover band inside the cramped bar. We duck inside for a refill, only to encounter a trio of scantily clad female bartenders squirting each other with beer, licking the foam from each other's well-endowed chests, and sticking their tongues into various bodily orifices. The tongue-studded Emily nearly causes us to drop our mug. Needless to say, the beer took quite a while to procure. By the time we returned to the outside table, our friend, a thirsty hangdog look on his face, was wondering what the hell had happened. "They're having a lesbian sex show in there," we explained. "Makes it difficult to get a beer." Our buddy declared us full of shit, but he did insist on getting the next round himself.

Best Place To Watch Women Lick Beer Off Each Other's Breasts

Smith Brother's Lounge

Saturday night and we're sitting out front at Smith Brother's admiring the parade of Harleys passing through the parking lot and avoiding the too-loud cover band inside the cramped bar. We duck inside for a refill, only to encounter a trio of scantily clad female bartenders squirting each other with beer, licking the foam from each other's well-endowed chests, and sticking their tongues into various bodily orifices. The tongue-studded Emily nearly causes us to drop our mug. Needless to say, the beer took quite a while to procure. By the time we returned to the outside table, our friend, a thirsty hangdog look on his face, was wondering what the hell had happened. "They're having a lesbian sex show in there," we explained. "Makes it difficult to get a beer." Our buddy declared us full of shit, but he did insist on getting the next round himself.
Get up close to singer-pianist Lyn Moore when she's out on the town during one of her solo gigs, and she'll blow your ears right off your head. Of course the jazz chanteuse hasn't been out and about much lately. Her five-nights-a-week solo gig at Toni Bishop's Restaurant and Jazz Club ended abruptly last November when Bishop's closed amid rumors of financial insolvency and high-society shenanigans. Seemingly unfazed by the sudden termination, Moore found steady work with Wayne Huizenga, whose associate Steve Woznick hired the Columbus, Indiana, native for the National Car Rental Center's semiexclusive Emerald Club, where she performs at every Florida Panthers home game. Beyond the Panthers and select private appearances, however, your best chance of hearing Moore will be later this year when her second album, Let's Get Back to Love, will be released. While we won't quibble with Moore's current choice of employer here, we will unequivocally state for the record that Huizenga got himself one crackerjack performer in Moore. Not only has she successfully managed to integrate sequenced tracks seamlessly with her acoustic piano, but her set of ballsy alto pipes and her formidable gift for interpreting everything from Cole Porter and Billie Holiday standards to Shirley Horn and Diana Krall modern classics has established Moore as the premier jazz act in the neighborhood.
Get up close to singer-pianist Lyn Moore when she's out on the town during one of her solo gigs, and she'll blow your ears right off your head. Of course the jazz chanteuse hasn't been out and about much lately. Her five-nights-a-week solo gig at Toni Bishop's Restaurant and Jazz Club ended abruptly last November when Bishop's closed amid rumors of financial insolvency and high-society shenanigans. Seemingly unfazed by the sudden termination, Moore found steady work with Wayne Huizenga, whose associate Steve Woznick hired the Columbus, Indiana, native for the National Car Rental Center's semiexclusive Emerald Club, where she performs at every Florida Panthers home game. Beyond the Panthers and select private appearances, however, your best chance of hearing Moore will be later this year when her second album, Let's Get Back to Love, will be released. While we won't quibble with Moore's current choice of employer here, we will unequivocally state for the record that Huizenga got himself one crackerjack performer in Moore. Not only has she successfully managed to integrate sequenced tracks seamlessly with her acoustic piano, but her set of ballsy alto pipes and her formidable gift for interpreting everything from Cole Porter and Billie Holiday standards to Shirley Horn and Diana Krall modern classics has established Moore as the premier jazz act in the neighborhood.
Up front where the rich folks sit, with a beggar's billfold -- what more could an economically challenged sophisticate desire? Pick your poison: Jascha Heifetz playing Beethoven? Pinchas Zuckerman interpreting Bach? A great symphony, a play, a musical? You aren't going to fork over $70 to $100 for the best seats in this splendid Broward County house of culture on the New River, because you can't. You're a waitress. So here's what you do instead. Count out $20, even if you have to use your laundry quarters. Arrive near the ticket windows about 20 minutes before showtime. Look carefully at the crowd. A few well-dressed aficionados are standing around restively, trying to make eye contact. A come-on? Naw. You're probably looking at a rich-guy-turned-scalper with a couple of tickets worth more than your old car. The trick is to tell him up front exactly what you'll pay. Sometimes you can find yourself three or four rows back from one of the world's great performers when the first notes ring out. So what if you have to wear dirty clothes for a few days?

Broward Center for the Performing Arts
Keith Douglas
Up front where the rich folks sit, with a beggar's billfold -- what more could an economically challenged sophisticate desire? Pick your poison: Jascha Heifetz playing Beethoven? Pinchas Zuckerman interpreting Bach? A great symphony, a play, a musical? You aren't going to fork over $70 to $100 for the best seats in this splendid Broward County house of culture on the New River, because you can't. You're a waitress. So here's what you do instead. Count out $20, even if you have to use your laundry quarters. Arrive near the ticket windows about 20 minutes before showtime. Look carefully at the crowd. A few well-dressed aficionados are standing around restively, trying to make eye contact. A come-on? Naw. You're probably looking at a rich-guy-turned-scalper with a couple of tickets worth more than your old car. The trick is to tell him up front exactly what you'll pay. Sometimes you can find yourself three or four rows back from one of the world's great performers when the first notes ring out. So what if you have to wear dirty clothes for a few days?

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