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The promise of free alcohol ain't what lures ladies to Round Up on Wednesday nights. That's just a marketing strategy to appeal to the male mind: "Hell, I'd go to any bar that lets me drink for free," he reasons. Rather, women flock here because this saloon has what women call an "activity": namely, line dancing. However sausage-heavy the male-female ratio may be in the bar's aggregate, you'll notice that the fenced-in dance floor is dominated by dames. Each is aware of how the line-dancing moves show off her curves and her rhythm. It's up to the lone rangers hanging on the fence to go ahead and ask that divorcée from Tamarac exactly how to do the achy breaky. You might not lasso the first one, but keep at it, cowboy. When it comes to the mating dance, practice makes perfect.
For those who have a well-built neighborhood bar, the world is simpler. Take this man: It's Friday night, and he's exiting his job at the Corporate Center. We won't shoot you with his troubles — hell, he's not even thinking of them — because he's only minutes from his neighborhood bar. That bar for him is Maguire's Hill 16. He can already taste the pint of Guinness. On a more stressed day, it might be a car bomb to shoot and a whiskey to sip. This cozy Irish bar keeps a stock of full liquor, and tonight, he'll be tucked away in one of the wooden back booths. Most nights, it's nicely packed with folks of all ages, and tonight happens to be no different — and what this means is that he doesn't feel like he's missing out on the action on Himmarshee. What a wonderful bonus, he muses, of not having to deal with parking downtown. When he wants a smoke, he'll head outside and sit in one of the swinging booths. After a while, he'll order some food, perhaps the bangers 'n' mash or the lamb stew mingles. Afterward, he'll stumble home, being one of the loft/condo/apartment dwellers of north downtown, which has itself one sturdy neighborhood bar.
Double-apple-flavored smoke churns through the water of an ornate pipe. It passes through lungs and curls from parted lips, finding itself floating through the heavily wrought, massive party complex of Off the Hookah. The smoke clings to the Middle Eastern-inspired curtains, the flamboyant décor, the beautiful furniture. It appears thick and ghostly under the bright spotlights and flashing colors. That scented smoke wafts past the olive-skinned, barely clothed belly dancer as she swallows a ball of fire. It finally dissipates in a gyrating mass of sexy partiers in high heels and short skirts. You, the inhaler, get a heady, delightful buzz.
What do Hendrick's gin, Patrón tequila, and Bulleit bourbon have in common? Each liquor can be bought in a bottle larger than a human head (Let's not spend too much time imagining how many human livers you could stack up, mmm-kay?), and each is in stock right now at Cellars Wine & Spirits Warehouse. Now, it's probably bad form to lick spilled Sauvignon Blanc off the floor, but you probably could — that's how immaculate this place looks inside. From the back "cellar" wine section to the midpriced racks in the center to Johnny Blue they keep behind the counter to the neon stuff that tastes like a melted Jolly Rancher, it's all right here at absurdly low prices. Monthly winetastings turn the store into a neighborhood social scene, so you never know what (or whom) you might bring home.
A man with a fervent passion for allthings horror,Tom Rampage works the back bar at the Poor House. He's the lead singer of local metal band Murderous Rampage (read more on them above), so his kindness may come as unexpected. In this romantically gothic bar off Third Avenue, Tommy welcomes you — like only a happy man could when being surrounded by half-naked zombie chicks. Of course, you must take that last statement correctly: To make him happy, he must be really into zombie chicks, which he is (just check out the music video for "Eat, Shit, Sleep"). The man says his "thank yous," and they're genuine — and that's not the norm for Himmarshee. Even though the back bar at the P-Hizz is next to the stage — even in a packed house — Tommy will spot you through the dancing dervishes. His interests are seen though the classic horror films he plays on the flat screen above the bar. Side note: He was also homecoming king.
Leave the tux and the ball gown at home; there's no dancing at Whiskey Tango. Those initials are code for white trash, and this is the kind of bar a trailer-park dweller would build if he ever hit the Pick 4. Big screens plastered on every wall, a menu full of American comfort food, and drink prices to ensure that a workin' man (or nonworkin' man, for that matter) can get shitfaced by halftime. The two-for-one happy hour starts at 11:30 (yes, that's a.m.) and doesn't end until 8 p.m.
The newest way to meet a guy might be the internet, but the oldest, surely, is at the bar. And the bar at the 90,000-square-foot Xtreme Indoor Karting complex is soundproofed. That's right: The 25 go-cart engines zooming by — one of which possibly carries your beau-to-be — can't break your focus. The men — chipper from exiting the go-cart-ride part of their night — will now be sprinkled throughout the bar. The black-and-white-checkered tile that covers all the ceilings and floors will help amplify the mood — the room itself seems to transform into a giant race flag. Feed into the adrenaline yourself. It's your race now.
Wind your way past the throngs of skinny-jeaned teenyboppers, up the escalator to the third floor. There, across from the movie theater snack bar, is a dimly lit bar. Inside, the dance floor is tiny, made of mosaic marble ideal for spinning. The rotunda ceiling is painted sky blue with white clouds. By 11 p.m. on a Friday, this space is filled with writhing bodies — thrusting hips, glossy red stilettos, metallic belts, greased hair. The people sweat and sparkle as if with one breath. The DJ, speaking only in Spanish, feeds the frenzy, spinning crowd-pleasing salsa, bachata, merengue, and reggaeton. Almost no one is stumbling drunk or leering. Dancing is the only thing that matters here. Beginner salsa students shyly pair off beside the people who were born to move their hips this way. Newcomers watch, mesmerized and breathless, as the best couples compete in impromptu contests. Stand on the sidelines long enough and someone will take your hand, clear a space for you on the floor. You dance until you're exhausted. Then you stumble back out into the air-conditioned theater, wondering how anyone could watch a movie on a night like this.
Candace West
Dinner and intimate conversation? Sexy, exotic martinis at a swank bar? Drinks and covert groping on the low-lit patio? Sweaty body-slapping on a crowded dance floor? You'd have to hit every other gay bar in town to even come close to getting the Manor experience. Its compartmentalized rooms and copious bars make this the most diverse place in Wilton Manors to get blitzed — whether you're tossing back signature Red Apple martinis with the entire YMCA or you're alone celebrating your 40th birthday (with a tray of tangerine-flavored shots and a pink tiara). The dance floor of its Epic Nightclub boasts more shirtless, muscular men per square foot than the sauna at your local gym. And if the Manor weren't already everything you need it to be, the cherry on top is Coffee Talk — a wi-fi-equipped sweetshop smack-dab in the middle of all the sexiness.
There's just something picturesque about a pair of cowboy boots tapping across a shiny, polished dance floor. Maybe it's a deep-seated longing for the romance of the Old West, with its saloons, shootouts, bustiers, and whiskey-swigging good ol' boys. Well, pardner, those days still live at Scandal's Saloon, the best place for both country hoedowning and riding cowboys. You'll meet Florida's finest cowboys (and cowgirls) as they Texas-two-step across the expansive dance floor and line-dance under the gleaming cowboy-boot-shaped disco ball. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, Scandals hosts lessons for those who long to join the ranks of footloose dancers. But even if dancing's not your style, toss a few cowboy cocksuckers (shots) back with Pooch and the rest of the beefy bartenders. Scandal's is all the good of the Old West with none of the bad or ugly.

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