There's not a huge demand in the theater for naked middle-aged men, but don't blame actor William Metzo. As the Marquis de Sade, in the magnificent Florida Stage production of Doug Wright's play Quills, Metzo gave a performance that required him to (a) stop speaking after the first act (since the Marquis is relieved of his tongue by Church authorities hoping to stop him from writing erotica) and (b) strip down to his bare essentials. What Metzo displayed was a professional confidence and talent that proves he needs no costume. It's a tribute to the strength of his acting that Metzo's Marquis seemed more vulnerable without his wig than without his pants. In this play about the importance of defending art against censorship, Metzo made an indelible case for great acting.

Pat Nesbit is the sort of performer whose work finds its way to the foreground even if she's part of an ensemble, as she was in 1998's The Last Night of Ballyhoo at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. This past season, South Florida audiences were lucky to see her as one of two players in Donald Margulies' Collected Stories at the Caldwell Theatre Company, a smaller, more intimate drama that showed off her style as a miniaturist. Her character, Ruth, is a middle-aged college professor whose star is fading just as that of her protégé Lisa is on the rise. The play is not exactly subtle in the ways it deals with issues of artistic appropriation. Nesbit, on the other hand, is master of small moments. In this performance, as usual, her brilliance shone through in her line readings, the precision of her physical inflections, the way her character, becoming increasing ill, seemed to fade away in front of our eyes. For these reasons discerning theatergoers only want to see more of her.

Pat Nesbit is the sort of performer whose work finds its way to the foreground even if she's part of an ensemble, as she was in 1998's The Last Night of Ballyhoo at the Coconut Grove Playhouse. This past season, South Florida audiences were lucky to see her as one of two players in Donald Margulies' Collected Stories at the Caldwell Theatre Company, a smaller, more intimate drama that showed off her style as a miniaturist. Her character, Ruth, is a middle-aged college professor whose star is fading just as that of her protégé Lisa is on the rise. The play is not exactly subtle in the ways it deals with issues of artistic appropriation. Nesbit, on the other hand, is master of small moments. In this performance, as usual, her brilliance shone through in her line readings, the precision of her physical inflections, the way her character, becoming increasing ill, seemed to fade away in front of our eyes. For these reasons discerning theatergoers only want to see more of her.

Maybe this selection says more about the dearth of decent local radio than about the quality of the programming on WLRN. We love the kids at WKPX-FM (88.5), with their earnestness, amateurishness, and ever-changing menu of tunes. But truthfully, name us one other local station you can listen to for more than a half-hour without being driven insane by moronic commercials, sports "talk," or repeat playings of 'NSync. So we stick with the tried and the true: WLRN. Diane Rehm may be so far over the hill that she can't remember how she first ascended, and Terry Gross is way too precious. But is there a better way to kill off the commute than by listening to Morning Edition or All Things Considered or Marketplace? It almost makes you hope for a traffic jam. And how better to cool off on Saturday mornings (and again on Sunday afternoons) than with the still-hilarious guys on Car Talk? Still not convinced? We'd wager good money that you can't locate a single hour of radio more compelling than Ira Glass' This American Life on Sunday mornings, with its engrossing tales of everyday folks. And that's just the national programming. Weeknights we get Len Pace, the local equivalent of Barry White, serving up jazz, and late nights Clint O'Neil spins all manner of reggae, the perfect soundtrack to settle down with for the evening. We also love it that the traffic reporter is named Lourdes. Only in South Florida.

Maybe this selection says more about the dearth of decent local radio than about the quality of the programming on WLRN. We love the kids at WKPX-FM (88.5), with their earnestness, amateurishness, and ever-changing menu of tunes. But truthfully, name us one other local station you can listen to for more than a half-hour without being driven insane by moronic commercials, sports "talk," or repeat playings of 'NSync. So we stick with the tried and the true: WLRN. Diane Rehm may be so far over the hill that she can't remember how she first ascended, and Terry Gross is way too precious. But is there a better way to kill off the commute than by listening to Morning Edition or All Things Considered or Marketplace? It almost makes you hope for a traffic jam. And how better to cool off on Saturday mornings (and again on Sunday afternoons) than with the still-hilarious guys on Car Talk? Still not convinced? We'd wager good money that you can't locate a single hour of radio more compelling than Ira Glass' This American Life on Sunday mornings, with its engrossing tales of everyday folks. And that's just the national programming. Weeknights we get Len Pace, the local equivalent of Barry White, serving up jazz, and late nights Clint O'Neil spins all manner of reggae, the perfect soundtrack to settle down with for the evening. We also love it that the traffic reporter is named Lourdes. Only in South Florida.

Wednesday night, 9 p.m. Stomp on up the leopard-print carpeted stairs at this barely year-old blues bar. No cover tonight. Upstairs, within the bamboo walls, bluesman in residence Keith B. Brown is just getting started on his Delta licks. Order up a Konig Pilsener, John Courage, or one of the other fine tap beers. Or try one of the dozens of cocktails available. There are always a few on special for $4. Lounge at the bar and admire the house collection of vintage cocktail shakers. Or work your way near the stage, collapse into one of the comfy lounge chairs, and settle in as Brown works his way through some Son House, Robert Johnson, and a smattering of originals. Between sets rack up a set of pool balls and punch up a few songs on the vast, all-blues jukebox. Order up another round. The world seems a much finer place.

Wednesday night, 9 p.m. Stomp on up the leopard-print carpeted stairs at this barely year-old blues bar. No cover tonight. Upstairs, within the bamboo walls, bluesman in residence Keith B. Brown is just getting started on his Delta licks. Order up a Konig Pilsener, John Courage, or one of the other fine tap beers. Or try one of the dozens of cocktails available. There are always a few on special for $4. Lounge at the bar and admire the house collection of vintage cocktail shakers. Or work your way near the stage, collapse into one of the comfy lounge chairs, and settle in as Brown works his way through some Son House, Robert Johnson, and a smattering of originals. Between sets rack up a set of pool balls and punch up a few songs on the vast, all-blues jukebox. Order up another round. The world seems a much finer place.

We think Maguire's is the best place to souse oneself and absorb the Irish bard's musings on beauty and love because (a) it's a bar -- the booze is already there, and (b) it's a bar with three Yeats verses framed on the walls of the south room, a handy touch if you've forgotten your own copy of his collected works. "Never give all the heart, for love/Will hardly seem worth thinking of…/For everything that's lovely is/But a brief, dreamy delight." So go ahead. Keep the Harp lagers coming and forget about your latest heartbreak. If Yeats found solace in his words, so can you. At the very least, his lines will give you something to focus on when the room starts spinning.

We think Maguire's is the best place to souse oneself and absorb the Irish bard's musings on beauty and love because (a) it's a bar -- the booze is already there, and (b) it's a bar with three Yeats verses framed on the walls of the south room, a handy touch if you've forgotten your own copy of his collected works. "Never give all the heart, for love/Will hardly seem worth thinking of…/For everything that's lovely is/But a brief, dreamy delight." So go ahead. Keep the Harp lagers coming and forget about your latest heartbreak. If Yeats found solace in his words, so can you. At the very least, his lines will give you something to focus on when the room starts spinning.

You'll have to wait a few months for the next Holiday Fantasy of Lights, but it's worth it. Between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, Tradewinds Park becomes a drive-through, electrified fantasyland that is guaranteed to please the most jaded junior thrill-seeker. There's simply nothing anywhere at any price to compare with this sensory overload of lumens. Consider the stats: 1.2 million light bulbs, seven miles of cable, more than 50 individual displays. Last year's show included pirate ships, castles, frogs leaping across the road, a 50-foot-tall Christmas tree, an ice castle, and polar bears, to name just a few. Load the Packard with little people until the springs sag, because the cost is the same no matter how many you have in the car -- $5 during the week and $8 on weekends and holidays (unless you have a bus with 20 or more in it; then the price goes up to $35). Our advice: Go during the week. You'll save yourself a few bucks and a lot of time in traffic.