Arts & Entertainment

The now-familiar parade of skeletons marching down Andrews Avenue the first weekend in November reached record numbers last year, as hundreds of puppet-bearing, costumed guests joined mariachi musicians for a processional celebrating Day of the Dead, Mexico’s annual celebration of passed loved ones. In all, more than 6,700 people attended the daylong festivities, which included live music and theater, a “Craft Crypt” of local art for sale, the staggering “Nocturne” exhibition of spooky art, and more macabre costumes than a Tim Burton set. But for the Puppet Network’s Jim Hammond, who created the festival, the simplest gestures touched him the most, like the ofrenda (a Spanish altar) dedicated to his recently deceased dog, Joplin. He described the tribute as “cut[ting] to the core of what our Day of the Dead celebration is and shall always be.” Since the fest ended, there’s been no rest for the weary, with Hammond already planning the 2013 edition. New offerings will include a late-night kayak procession, an outdoor venue for traditional dance and music, live re-creations of Frida Kahlo self-portraits, and an elegant black-tie-and-top-hat skeleton affair.

In 2006, Fane Lozman, a Marine pilot who became a millionaire after he invented and patented a financial trading software program, docked his houseboat in Riviera Beach, and the drama began. After he stood up for everyday boaters by blocking big developers from taking over the city marina, city officials retaliated. He was slapped with infractions for walking his ten-pound dog without a muzzle and for disobeying boating regulations. Then came serious vindictiveness. Riviera Beach, with help from U.S. marshals citing federal maritime law, seized and destroyed Lozman’s floating home. Lozman wasn’t going down like that. “I did not care how much of my personal time it would take or how much it would cost or how long it would take — I vowed that I would get justice,” Lozman later explained. He waged a yearslong legal battle against the city, ultimately scoring a major victory in January, when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the city and marshals had been wrong to seize his home by classifying it as a vessel. Wrote Justice Breyer, “Not every floating structure is a ‘vessel.’ To state the obvious, a wooden washtub, a plastic dishpan, a swimming platform on pontoons, a large fishing net, a door taken off its hinges, or Pinocchio (when inside the whale) are not ‘vessels.’ ” At presstime, Lozman was still looking to recoup the value of his home, his furniture, and his legal bills, but he swore he had more corrupt officials in his sights.

The most erudite politician in our fair county is also the most important one. Under the guidance of Fort Lauderdale Mayor Jack Seiler, Broward County has an unemployment rate of 5.7 percent — substantially lower than the state and national averages. More than 13 million tourists are expected to deluge Broward County this year, which marks an increase of 1 million over last year. And while Seiler doesn’t deserve credit for all of this, he leads the most dynamic and biggest city in the county. He also deserves major props for not making a mistake that has bedeviled other politicians: excessive ambition. There was a time when Seiler was considering a run at governor. This would have been a mistake — established state pols like Charlie Crist or Rick Scott would have pummeled him — and he wisely backed out. For now, it looks like Seiler’s here to stay. And that’s a good thing.

Whether the case involved a feckless terrorist plot, a wrongly convicted man’s quest for justice, or a wayward Norwegian biker trying to persuade a jury the CIA had set him up, Paula McMahon was there. Over any given year, this Ireland-born Sun Sentinel courts reporter enters hundreds of stories detailing the many zany antics of America’s southernmost swamp. Her stories are always smart, well-written, and teeming with her keen sense of absurdity. What’s more, in an industry of hubris and bombast, she lends a sense of decency and kindness. An adage of journalism is that to be a good reporter, you first must be a good person. Paula McMahon is both. And she makes good company during long jury deliberations, trust us.

With all the petite pups in fashionable attire strolling down Las Olas Boulevard or having lunch at Mizner Park, you wouldn’t think there was a homeless-animal crisis in South Florida — but there is. Each year, thousands of homeless pets are taken in by county animal-control agencies. Most are euthanized before finding a home. The Tri-County Humane Society takes in thousands of death-row pups and kitties and helps find them homes. Most recently, the 100 percent no-kill shelter rescued 50 Chihuahuas from a hoarding situation. Sick with upper respiratory infections and skin disease, each tiny pocket pet was treated by the shelter’s veterinary staff. Only when they were deemed well, sometimes hundreds of dollars of care later, were they ready to be adopted. Tri-County Humane holds cocktail hours, auctions, and picnics — many of them dog-friendly — to raise funds to feed and house these pets. These small fundraisers create a sense of community, with many “alumni” making appearances and showing off their shiny coats and new “parents.” Next time you’re in the market for a fur baby, may we interest you in a “certified preowned” dog or cat — direct from Boca Raton, dahling?

Here are five awesome things about Hollywood artist Harumi Abe:

5. An adjunct instructor at both Florida International University and Broward College, she also acts as gallery director at Rosemary Duffy Larson Gallery at Broward College. Abe is the kind of teacher and friend who generously shares her knowledge and opportunities with others. Her good curatorial eye helps keep the gallery looking good and the students creating quality work.

4. In 2008, Abe received the prestigious residency from the statewide South Florida Cultural Consortium for Visual and Media Artists for the county, which makes BroCo look way cool. This summer, a fellowship with the Everglades Artist in Residence Program will have her staying in the swamp with fellow (if you will) artist Naomi Fisher, dancer Ana Mendez, and others.

3. She’s a superfun, warm Japanese gal whose energy would make a tomb feel like a place worth hanging out.

2. She’s shown all around town at the finest Broward institutions, like Hollywood Art and Culture Center and Museum of Art|Fort Lauderdale, and her work is also part of the Girls’ Club Collection.

1. Her paintings are dreamy. They visually expose that blurry state between sleep and waking and explore domestic spaces. Though she uses traditional materials, her work manages to be experimental, with colors that make you think of South Florida sunsets. They, like her work, are simply the best.

For its first full-length-play production, emerging Mizner Park company Outre chose a work that was both minimalist (in its cast and production requirements) and maximalist (in its broad thematic umbrella). A modern retelling of Homer’s similarly named epic poem, An Iliad dramatized the narrative of the Trojan War through the eyes of a road-weary itinerant storyteller, played by Avi Hoffman. Slinging an occasional guitar and swilling the more-than-occasional guzzle of booze, Hoffman broke many a fourth wall while colloquially inhabiting Agamemnon, Achilles, Petroclus, Hermes, and the rest of them in an exhausting exercise running more than 90 minutes. Set designer Sean McClelland provided him with a morbid playground — a bombed-out, multitiered war zone that bridged the gap between battles past and present, which is the ultimate message behind the play’s antiwar monologue. Stefanie Howard’s lighting design proved equally instrumental in creating the show’s electric atmosphere, and ditto for Danny Butler’s soundscape, which merged ancient sword-and-sandals sound effects with present-day war reports. This may be remembered as Hoffman’s finest hour, not to mention an artistic breakthrough for Outre; I dare say Homer has never been this engaging.

Set designer Michael Amico won a well-deserved Carbonell Award this year for his contribution to Dramaworks’ Talley’s Folly. For its two performers, the play was a Herculean exercise in memorization, with actor Brian Wallace opening the show with a stunning, four-minute-plus, motor-mouthed monologue. But it was hard to pay too much attention to his words when there was such a beautifully busy structure catching your gaze behind him, an elegantly designed boathouse interior captured down to the smallest, most nostalgic details. The mossy edifice, with its rickety wooden boards, hole-punctured boat hulls, and assemblage of memories stored in crates and barrels, served as the visual gateway to the two characters’ complicated pasts and the trigger for their reconciled future. Previous sets of Talley’s Folly, from other productions around the country, seemed to favor more space and less stuff ­— more room to breathe and less room to stumble about. But the hoarder’s bounty of Amico’s vision gave director J. Barry Lewis much to play around with and helped elevate this talky drama.

“I would be tickled pink if someone compared us to Wynwood,” says Jill Weisberg, curator and project manager of the flourishing Downtown Hollywood Mural Project. She’s referring to a comment made by Hollywood City Commissioner Patricia Asseff this past May regarding the area’s new, edgier urban look since the mural project began last August. While downtown Hollywood and Miami’s booming arts district, Wynwood, are worlds apart in several respects, Weisberg hopes that the work being done for the mural project will help bring Hollywood’s smaller but lively arts scene and surrounding businesses the visibility and raw energy that Miami’s revitalized Wynwood area has witnessed over the past couple of years. With murals by prominent local artists David “Lebo” LeBatard, Jessy Nite, Luis Pinto, Edward Mendieta, Ruben Ubiera, 2alas, and Evoca1 already adorning some of the area’s most prominent building façades and two new murals by Michelle Weinberg and Tati Suarez on the way, the Downtown Hollywood Mural Project is adding color and character to the charming downtown area. Providing artists a larger-than-life platform for their work, inspiring the local community to come together during live wall paintings during the third-Saturday art walks, and injecting new life into local businesses, downtown Hollywood is leading the way for public art in Broward and Palm Beach counties.

Bedlam Lorenz Assembly is the perfect example of what happens when South Florida produces motivated, artistically inclined talents and they don’t jump ship for New York or L.A. Composed of seven young movers and shakers in the art scene, the BLA first came together to help raise funds for the new Young at Art Museum in Davie. In the beginning, they promoted pop-up events in places like Fort Lauderdale’s up-and-coming FAT Village arts district, and now the group helps steer some of YAA’s programming, organizing events, artist workshops, and exhibitions. Together, BLA chair Zack Spechler, cochair Ali Spechler, art director and curator Rory Carracino, designer Ben Morey, project managers Anthony Delgreco and Andrea Trejo, and photographer Tara Penick have already produced three group exhibitions since 2011, including two that had auctions as fundraising components. They’ve also organized six artist lectures and workshops this past March that were open to the public with regular museum admission. In short, Bedlam Lorenz Assembly functions like the awesome teenaged sibling who has an ear to the ground, scouting contemporary art, street art, and interactive and hands-on projects, then figuring out how to creatively present and reinterpret it for kids or use it to raise money for the museum. By staying in South Florida and focusing their creative talents, the Bedlam Lorenz Assembly is helping to curate a more robust and exciting local art scene for the future.

Puerto Rican-born, South Florida-based artist Misael Soto uses performative and participatory experiences to investigate the “accidental, ephemeral, and transcendental.” Subversive in nature, his work often forces those who encounter it to confront their comfort zones and then step out of them. This past year, Soto travelled up and down the East Coast with his “Beach Towel” installation, a 56-by-29-foot, custom-made, terry-cloth towel, inviting strangers to come onboard and share the real estate. Memorial Day’s unfurling of the towel in Miami Beach included free food and sunscreen and performances from local bands that played their music for the community of transient towel dwellers. The result of the ten-stop towel tour, which made it all the way up to Rockaway Beach in Queens, was a social experiment that created connections as physical proximity, with the addition of the shared experience of the towel, translated to unexpected intimacy among strangers. Soto’s other works challenge social norms and help inspire spontaneous, joyous chaos. “Would you like to dance with me? (Young hearts be free tonight)” highlighted the opportunity for human connection that exists in the everyday by inviting patrons at Ricochet Bar in Miami to dance together within a small, subtle white box as part of Locust Projects’ One Night Stands series. At 18 Rabbit Gallery in Fort Lauderdale, a sign in front of Soto asked visitors, “What would you like me to sing for you?” The artist offered acapella versions of his entire iPod selection, singing along with visitors’ requests with headphones on, giving each song his honest best, and making a lot of people laugh while doing it.

Near the end of 2012, a call went out across the Everglades: Kill ’em all. The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission said it would hold a Burmese python hunt to exterminate the breed ravaging the natural fauna of the Everglades. It set forth arguably the strangest — and coolest — publicity stunt in the annals of bureaucracy. Don’t ask about catches or caveats. There weren’t any. Any hunter could tromp into the Everglades, knife in hand, with minimal training, and try to bag him a snake. But the best part was yet to come. Turns out, pythons are almost impossible to spot and trap. Over one month, only 68 pythons were killed. Even though Florida Fish and Wildlife didn’t manage total annihilation, it did bring an incredible amount of attention to the python epidemic writhing in the Everglades. Reporters dispatched hundreds of stories covering the issue.

When you’re hankering to go to the movies but don’t want to deal with everything that sucks with going to the movies — cost, kids hollering, cell phones ringing — go to the Classic Gateway Theatre. In an era of iPhones and Netflix, this historic theater is delightfully vintage. It opened in 1951, and in many ways it feels like you’ve traveled back to that time upon arrival. Even better, its prices match that aesthetic. On Tuesdays, Gateway charges only $7 for any movie. Seven dollars! As one of the few remaining places that still show independent films, it will bring you flicks that are nearly impossible to find anywhere else. That smell? It’s charm!

Young at Art’s new permanent facility, which opened in 2012, embodies both the wise maturity of a teacher and the playfulness of a child with crayons. The 55,000-square-foot interactive museum offers a fun and stimulating environment for field trips and birthday parties and also eight-week classes, like “Digital Cartooning,” “Darkroom and Digital Photo,” “Drawing and Painting,” and “Adult Mixed Media,” for children, teens, and adults. Musically inclined teens can work in a recording studio, kindergartners can crawl through a four-dimensional replica of The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, and everyone can discover a thing or two about the connection between art and ecology. Of the myriad virtues of Young at Art Museum, perhaps the most essential is its potential to bring the same eternally youthful glow of inspiration to faces of all ages.

“It’s easy to get sucked into Peggyworld and follow her in an almost cult-like way,” says one student’s review of the beloved Florida International University photography professor on RateMyProfessors.com. Represented by the Dina Mitrani Gallery in Miami, 70-year-old photographer and instructor Peggy Levinson Nolan makes her home in Hollywood, where she continues to capture the mystical in the mundane in her delicately rendered images. After discovering photography fairly late in life, the mostly self-taught Nolan received her BFA and MFA from FIU and has been a full-time staff member of the art department there for more than ten years. A proponent of film photography, Nolan inspires her students to hone and honor the craft of film while continuing to garner recognition herself for her photographs, which turn everyday subjects and settings — her children, the kitchen sink, a candid moment in bed or in the bath — into transcendent, even magical glimpses of life. Nolan’s work is collected by major institutions like New York’s Museum of Modern Art, San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art, MOCA, Norton Museum of Art, National Museum of Women in the Arts, the Light Work Permanent Collection, and the Martin Z. Margulies Collection. She was selected for Light Work’s artist-in-residence program in 2005 and twice won the South Florida Consortium Individual Artist Grant in 2004 and 1994. Apart from her natural talent as a photographer and teacher, Nolan has a personality and passion for life that leave all who encounter her wanting more. Joke or not, a student-made fan website titled Peggy Nolan’s Gentleman Callers is a testament to her infectious popularity.

Fort Lauderdale tends to get a bad rap for clinging to its old, sleepy boat-town mentality, despite being the largest city in Broward as well as one of the most promising waterfront metropolitan areas north of Miami Beach. That’s why when anyone decides to go against the norm and break the old mold a bit, we can’t help but get that warm, tingling feeling that makes us want to shout it to the whole world. Helium Creative in Fort Lauderdale’s rising FAT Village arts district is the kind of out-of-the-box company that helps raise the bar for a city by providing an example of just how much better different can be, when it’s done right. A boutique-style advertising agency with an edge for web development and graphic design, Helium Creative has created innovative campaigns for a diverse range of clients — everyone from the W South Beach and Levinson Jewelers to Burger King and Pollo Tropical — all from its cozy, alternative office nestled among some of the area’s most exciting and creatively focused new businesses. Founder and creative director Christopher Heller’s roots are in Philadelphia, where he graduated from the Art Institute of Philadelphia with a degree in graphic design, but since starting Helium Creative ten years ago, his heart and his thriving business belong to Fort Lauderdale. Helium Creative regularly opens its office space — an edgy, scaled-down version of something you might see in New York’s SoHo neighborhood — to the public during the monthly art walk; and Heller, an artist himself, continues to promotes the arts through his virtual/real-life gallery space, Project Fine Art.

“This is our town, and it is creative,” says Joshua Miller, founding director at C&I Studios, a 7-year-old media company and idea agency based in the up-and-coming FAT Village arts district in Fort Lauderdale. “People just didn’t know where to go. Now they do.” At the root of any innovation or movement is a free-flowing exchange of ideas, and Miller knows that if there’s one thing essential to fostering the arts, it’s having a community where like-minded individuals can get together over shared passions and a strong drink. Miller’s DIY media and production company has been making a name for itself in the FAT Village neighborhood since moving into the 4,000-square-foot warehouse space in 2011, hosting themed art walk events, $1 movie nights, and Live at C&I mini music festivals. The events draw crowds of mixed ages and styles — “anyone who is tired of going to Vibe and YOLO and is starving for something real,” says Miller. While the facilities boast a fully licensed liquor bar, recording studios, and a trendy design aesthetic, the savvy director also knows that many young creatives are still working on getting on their feet — which is why many of the events at C&I are BYOB, often with free food and no cover charge. If Miami’s burgeoning Wynwood Arts District is any indication, it would seem Miller has figured out the recipe to a successful arts community: If you feed them — art, culture, food, and drinks — they will come. C&I Studios is most certainly bringing up a small but hungry community of artists in Fort Lauderdale.

Less than two years ago, the strip of warehouses off of Boynton Beach’s Industrial Avenue, just a block west of I-95, was home to old machine parts, drab façades, and a couple of high-end galleries that have been around since the ’80s. Now, it’s nearly all filled with art. Things began to turn around for the area when artist and gallery owner Rolando Chang Barrero moved up from South Beach, turning his studio into a gallery and taking the reins on the newly developing Boynton Beach Arts District. With a crew of like-minded arts advocates including Lea Vendetta, Andrew Ackerman, Alexia Hemingway, and Chan Shepard of the KeroWACKED Crew, a growing collection of projects meant to infuse and inspire the area with art, and new galleries popping up like weeds, it’s no surprise a monthly art walk brings in the community. Apart from spearheading the Bay Gates Project, which assigns a different artist to paint a warehouse gate each month, Barrero’s ActivistArtistA gallery also sponsors the Boynton Beach Arts District Art Walk. Visitors can expect to see open galleries and studio spaces, open-jam musical performances, food trucks, raffles, and lots more arts-fueled surprises on the fourth Thursday of each month.

Give a community of artists free range over a 2,400-square-foot exhibition space split into three levels, housed within the live/work loft facility where they also live, and you’re bound to end up with an abundant stream of some really great art. That’s what ArtSpace must have had in mind when it created the Sailboat Bend Artist Lofts, where downtown Fort Lauderdale’s 1310 Gallery makes its home. With new exhibitions rotating through the gallery monthly as well as strong ties to the surrounding Sailboat Bend and FAT Village arts districts, 1310 Gallery is a pillar in the burgeoning Fort Lauderdale art scene. As each resident takes his or her turn curating a show, 1310 Gallery has featured a diverse range of media, from painting, photography, and sculpture to spoken word, video, and performance art. In the past year alone, exhibitions included “Re:Vision: See and Shift,” an art collaboration to provoke thoughtful dialogue and transform the way onlookers view ordinary things; as well as “Appropriated Gender,” a group show exploring the malleability and changing notions of gender identity. The gallery is open by appointment in addition to the opening and closing receptions.

If art is meant to reflect life and life is becoming more and more virtually real, then it was only a matter of time before someone had the bright idea of putting together an art exhibition exploring the 40-year-old ubiquitous medium of videogames. This past year, the Smithsonian American Art Museum debuted “The Art of Video Games,” a traveling exhibit tracing the evolution of videogames and their global impact through the lens of artistic expression. Of all places, the innovative exhibition made its first stop at the Boca Raton Museum of Art, where retirees and soccer moms mingled with gamers and art buffs to take in the 80 games featured over 20 platforms, from the Atari VCS to the PlayStation 3. Visitors were invited to interact with the exhibit — reminiscent of a time-warped arcade tunneling from the past into now — by pushing buttons to watch clips from the various games. The result was an immersive experience that told the story of our changing relationship to videogames as the medium itself became more complex, cinematic, creative, and expressive. Hands-on, collaborative, and truly a multimedia medium, videogames will only evolve as an art form; “The Art of Video Games” succeeded at provoking questions related to our future relationship with technology and the effects of the ever-increasing ubiquity of violence in media.

In the ever-cutthroat and fast-paced world of architecture and design, it can be hard keeping up with the names who literally shape the world of the future, but when it’s one of our own making the waves — earning features in top industry magazines like Chicago’s Design Bureau and awards from internationally recognized institutions like the World Architecture Community — it’s probably a name worth remembering. Margi Nothard is a Zimbabwe-born, South Africa-raised, Southern California Institute of Architecture-trained architect who’s spent the past 14 years living and working in South Florida. She’s the founding president and design director at Glavovic Studio in Fort Lauderdale, a firm responsible for more than 50 projects across South Florida since its inception. Dedicated to creating locally inspired work that competes on a global scale, Nothard is the mastermind behind some of South Florida’s most exciting recent projects, including Girls’ Club in Fort Lauderdale, ArtsPark at Young Circle in Hollywood, and the award-winning new Young at Art Museum in Davie. Apart from their aesthetic beauty, Nothard’s designs are innovative, often incorporating the latest in green technologies. With a new GS TALKS series of community lectures well underway as well as spearheading involvement in the up-and-coming Third Avenue Art District ArtWalk in Fort Lauderdale, it seems this highly motivated and talented Fort Lauderdale-based architect and her team are headed toward a bright future of continued success.

The Arts Garage in Delray Beach is a rather unassuming locale at first glance. Located in the ground-floor storefront space of the Delray Beach parking garage, you might at first walk past the place without much notice — at least until you catch a glimpse of what’s going on inside. The Arts Garage only recently celebrated its second anniversary but it has come a long way in that short time. The Delray Beach CRA originated the concept for the theater, envisioning a spot that would promote the arts, provide arts education, and be a place where emerging artists could ply their craft before an audience. Already, the theater has been awarded a Knight Foundation Grant and fought off a move to displace it from its current location. The beloved theater has held strong, and every week, locals line up at the doors with their bottles of wine and picnic dinners (it’s strictly BYOEverything at the garage) to catch the latest performance. The main thrust of the theater’s musical programming is jazz, but patrons will also find original plays, films, student theater, and the only drag show within city limits. Judging by the Arts Garage’s success thus far and the broad support shown by residents when the city dared to suggest moving the theater, the Arts Garage will be a beacon for the arts in Delray Beach for years to come.

Exit the King, Eugene Ionesco’s protracted absurdist exercise, is about a blustery monarch, played in Dramaworks’ production by Colin McPhillamy, who refuses to accept that, after hundreds of years of rule, he is finally dying. But the only character onstage that exuded a genuine air of regality was Angie Radosh, who, with her upright posture and hardened countenance, appeared to be the show’s lone anchor on a ship of fools sinking ever faster into the abyss. As the king’s first wife, long abandoned for a clingy trophy played by Claire Brownell, Radosh was, in other words, the only adult in the room. But it isn’t until the play’s end that we realize she’s been bestowed with an otherworldly wisdom transcending time, space, and dimension. When she ushers her husband into the afterlife, Radosh becomes the show’s mesmerizing center, pulling us in with every hypnotic command as much as she helps the king’s transition. It was a performance full of surprises, echoing through the auditorium, haunting us even while it soothed us.

It was the sip heard around the world. On February 12, 2013, Florida Sen. Marco Rubio became parched during the Republican response to President Barack Obama’s State of the Union address. His mouth was so dry, in fact, that people in Manitoba, the Guizhou province, and even the Cook Islands reported hearing the slapping and smacking of Rubio’s dehydrated tongue on his palate — with the TV off. As he rambled on about the economy, it became clearer that his maw was as arid as the Atacama Desert, moistureless like a scalp in desperate need of Head & Shoulders. With the whole world watching, Rubio ducked, almost out of the camera, to quench his crushing thirst. He sipped daintily and nervously from the tiny Poland Spring bottle, and the entire universe slowed for about five seconds. Suddenly, it was back to “big government” and “big businesses.” The entire internet then sat back and celebrated the best drink of water in the history of the galaxy.

There are no really good places to come out of the closet. Even if you were raised by lesbians — even if your adolescence was spent in the company of geeks and thespians, and even if you spent the first three years of high school going to the GSA “to support your friends” — even if you’ve fooled nobody at all with your straight schtick, ever, and you kind of know it, coming out will be a little awk, if only because it’s always awk to speak to your parents in even a roundabout way about what you like to do with your naughty bits. So do it at home. (Unless your parents are religious fundamentalists, in which case you should come out someplace with a heavy police presence and multiple opportunities for quick egress. Fort Lauderdale airport will do. Tell them just before you slip through security, a single angry digit raised in their pug-ugly faces, and fly away to freedom.)

Venus the Amazing Chimera Cat — yes, that’s her name — is a striking feline whose face is half-black and half-orange, split right down the middle like a black-and-white cookie. Her eyes are likewise mixed — she’s got one blue and one green. One day, a friend of a friend of Venus’ owner posted the kitty’s picture on Reddit, and it received more than 1 million clicks in less than 24 hours. Soon, a Facebook page was established and garnered more than 100,000 likes; next thing, the cat was making the rounds at Good Morning America and the Today Show. Now, her owner (who goes only by Christina to ward off crazed fans) is cashing in on Venus’ devilishly beautiful visage, having followed in the footsteps of Boo the World’s Cutest Pomeranian Dog, and struck a deal with stuffed-animal-maker Gund. Although in pictures, Venus sometimes comes off as tough with diamond bling on her collar and a show-off-her-tail attitude, Christina insists she’s just another misunderstood supermodel. “She’s rather shy; she doesn’t do tricks.” Look for the toy on store shelves by Christmas.

South Florida’s Scott Prouty became a major influence in the 2012 presidential elections while on the clock bartending during a Republican Party fundraiser last year in Boca Raton. He captured Republican candidate Mitt Romney disparaging 47 percent of Americans as people who are “dependent on the government” and “believe they are victims.” Admirably, Prouty did not seek profit from revealing his recording. “The guy was running for the presidency, and these were his core beliefs. And I think everybody can judge whether that’s appropriate or not or whether they believe the same way he does,” he told MSNBC. “I felt an obligation to expose the things he was saying.” In doing so, he may have changed the course of history.

Cassadee Pope’s first solo release was a slowed-down, dramatic cover of a song made famous by Natalie Imbruglia. The West Palm Beach siren sings “Torn” like hers is a damaged teenaged heart sashaying into a breakup. Not long after the song hit the web, Pope ended up on season three of The Voice. ‘Round these parts, we remember her Wellington High School band Blake and the pop-punk group she fronted, Hey Monday. But Pope’s pipes took a turn to the west after she was coached under the keen guidance of country superstar Blake Shelton. “Over You,” which she sang on the show, ended up bitch-slapping “Gangnam Style” out of the number-one place on the iTunes charts. Pope is now a rising star, signed to Republic Nashville, a Big Machine Records imprint, and dating All Time Low’s drummer. If there were one local voice we have confidence will rise above the rest, it’s this local girl gone good, and gone country.

The first rule of politics is: Do not take nude pictures of yourself while in an elected office and share them with your convict relatives whom you are sleeping with, then leave them lying around where someone could find them and blackmail you out of office. Although incest, pornography, blackmail, and felon relatives go together like peanut butter and chocolate, for Boynton Beach Commissioner Marlene Ross, it didn’t make for a good public relations mission. Ross admits sending the photos to her cousin Rogelio Vera and succumbing to his sexual advances for several months but said that she was bullied to change her votes by “sinister” former commissioner turned lobbyist David Katz for years and that the exposition of her affair was a personal vendetta for political ends. Ross resigned in December 2012. No word whether she and her cousin have been able to patch things up.

Did he leave the seat up one too many times? Did she come home with a new pearl necklace? When you were scanning every memory sector on your iPhone with a forensics image-and-text-retrieval app, did you stumble upon those tickets he bought to Vegas? With your boss?! (Stored in his phone as “my little Bumpkin”!) Breaking up is not the hardest thing to do when you live in the nexus of the Everglades, the Bermuda Triangle, and the Atlantic Ocean. You could invite her on a romantic airboat ride. (“Just the two of us, honey; something exciting! Why am I bringing the chainsaw? You know I’ve always wanted to carve ice sculptures in the swamp at 3 a.m. during a new moon!”) Or double the life insurance payouts and charter a small boat to Bermuda. (“Don’t fret over the hurricane, sweetie; they never hit us.”) Or resist the Dexter-esque inclinations and just opt for a nice swim in the Atlantic. Wearing only a swimsuit, there’s nowhere for her to hide weapons or recording devices with which to retaliate; surely there will be some hot lifeguard or half-naked eye candy to greet you on the beach when you turn your back and walk away (forever!), and for the dumpee, everyone will think those tears are just droplets of saltwater. You’re a gentleman; be charitable to the bitch.

We should all go to Birch State Park much more often. It shows us what this chunk of Florida looked like before we messed it up with the drainage and concrete and sprawl. The park is green, brown, beautiful, overpoweringly fragrant, and a little too wet for comfortable human habitation. And in the park’s lagoon, accessible via rented canoe ($5.30 an hour), there is a lonesome little island where nobody ever goes, a few hundred yards past the nearest walking trail, just beyond the abandoned railway bridge. It is a place for a picnic and for languor, and if you have no hatred of humidity but a deep love of water, soft soil, and sun-dapple, it is the most romantic place in Broward County. Propose there.

Wellbutrin, Adderall, Zoloft… You name the prescription drug, teenagers are on it. And no wonder. Sitting inside ice-cold classrooms, stressing over the FCAT, and eating limp Tater Tots when the Fort Lauderdale sun is outside beckoning can be depressing as hell. Maybe we’d be less of a Prozac nation if we self-declared a mental health day once in a while. The sand around Commercial Pier has long been a staple for Broward County kids ditching the books to catch some sun. The pier itself, which divides the beach into the more-touristy north side and more-private, local-friendly south side, offers a couple of bonuses too. It provides shade and a bit of privacy for those who sit under it (usually the smokers) and a small adrenaline rush for those brave enough to jump off it. Hungry truants know to stay far away from the pier and restaurants within cops’ view. Instead, the neighborhood kids prepare by hitting up LaSpada’s Original Hoagies while en route to the beach; it sits a couple of blocks west on Commercial Boulevard. It’s this trifecta of sun, pals, and good food that makes Commercial Pier the ideal spot to cut class. School is for rainy days, right?

Florida, also known as Floriduh and Floriderp, doesn’t exactly have a reputation for stand-up citizenry. We elect fraudsters like Rick Scott and find bizarre entertainment value in Filomena Tobias, the Palm Beach woman who became an internet sensation when she flipped off Chicago Bulls player Joakim Noah at a Heat game — but was accused by her internet psychic in 2008 of murdering her hedge-fund husband. There’s Jack Abramoff’s link to unexplained deaths and explained bank fraud, and Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh live here. They’re all part of our nutty cultural landscape, and if something weird happens in the rest of the country, you can bet there’s some link to our Sunshine State. (On the positive side, we’ve got some great orange juice. Woo!) So when people like Aaron Jackson, founder of the South Florida-based nonprofit Planting Peace, come along, we almost dismiss. Not only did he live a life of asceticism, selling all his possessions and sleeping on the floor of a homeless shelter during the mid-aughts, to found orphanages in Haiti; he also led a major effort to clean up oil after the BP spill and has expanded Planting Peace’s outreach to India, where 11 million children live on the street. Alas, he recently moved to Kansas, where he bought a house directly across the street from the Westboro Baptist “I hate fags” Church, painted it bright rainbow colors, and christened it Equality House. It’ll be a resource center for LGBTQ-rights activists and antibullying campaigns, and Jackson will live there to promote a hopeful symbol of love against the church’s message of hate. For that, we say he’s at least as good as Florida orange juice.

The world seems to get scarier and more desperate every day. Guns are marketed to toddlers, CEOs now make on average more than 350 times what the average worker earns, and the concentration of carbon dioxide in the Earth’s atmosphere topped the apocalyptic 400 parts per million this year. Yikes! Makes you want to gobble down a tub of vegan ice cream while watching reruns of Bob Ross’ The Joy of Painting. (After all, those might be the only unsullied landscapes you’ll see in a couple of centuries.) But you won’t catch author, artist, and lifelong Broward County activist Stephanie McMillan sulking in a vat of Häagen-Dazs. Instead, when McMillan’s not penning award-winning political cartoons and polemics, she’s brainstorming better protest and resistance strategies as part of South Florida anti-capitalist/anti-imperialist group One Struggle, speaking on panels like “Comics and Social Change” at conventions, writing essays, and standing up to authority whenever the struggle calls. Howard Zinn described her work, a collage of essays, cartoons, and reporting from the Occupy movement titled The Beginning of the American Fall, as “social satire at its wittiest and most engaging.” That book eventually went on to win the Robert F. Kennedy Center for Justice and Human Rights Journalism Award in 2012. Maybe your heart doesn’t pump revolutionary blood yet, but check out her work and it will.

The only question we have about Tortuga is… Why the hell did it take so long? Seriously — this is the first time a massive music festival has been hosted on the actual sands of Fort Lauderdale Beach, even though the idea is so obvious. It’s like six-foot-eight LeBron James waiting until he’s 30 years old to say, “I’m tall — maybe I should try playing basketball.” Better late than never, we suppose — the two-day affair could hardly have been more awesome. It had beach cleanups, games and booths, tons of beer, great security, fast lines, giant burritos, and most important, Michael Franti, Donovan Frankenreiter, Kenny Chesney, and Lynyrd Skynyrd doing their thangs. (Note to organizers: More womenz next time, plz.) It was good times (and perfect weather) from the minute gates opened until the last note of the last set, when sunburnt partygoers had all built little bunkers out of sand, like human sea turtles. Out-of-town party people, local yokels, beachfront businesses, little kids — they were all stoked. Wait, one more question: When’s next year’s?

Andre Barbosa isn’t interested in fame. He isn’t interested in politics. Nor is he interested in rational action. He’s interested in music videos and $2.5 million mansions. His nickname, deeply irreverent but somehow iconic, says it all: Loki Boy. Early this year, he infiltrated an emptied Boca Raton palace and then — in straight Loki Boy style — just chilled. No plan. No motive. No contact with reporters. This story hit its strange climax in early February. That was when intrepid CBS12 reporter Josh Repp charged into the mansion to interview Loki but instead discovered two Arabic women who bellowed “Hide yourself!” to each other when Repp and camera approached them. Soon after, Loki vacated the mansion and released a dancy-dance music video of his single “I Don’t Wanna Let You Go.” He also launched a record label, Monstar Entertainment. It has one client: Loki.

Twitter is a funny thing. It gives us a glimpse — ugly and real as it may be sometimes — of famous people like Jennifer Capriati. She’s been tennis royalty since she broke onto the scene at the tender age of 13 in 1990. She was fearless, talented, and powerful. In the first three years of her pro career, Capriati won six singles titles and an Olympic gold medal. Her fall from grace was swift when, in 1993, she took a yearlong break from the sport only to find herself in trouble with the law for shoplifting and pot possession. But then she came storming back in 1998, winning Wimbledon once and the Australian Open twice and regaining her spot as a top-ranked women’s tennis player. Just last year, she was selected to the International Tennis Hall of Fame. But her postplaying days have been distressing, as the world would soon learn via her Twitter feed. Earlier this year, bizarre tweets from Capriati began to emerge. At first, they sounded like a teenaged girl in a relationship crisis. But then things got darker. “Besides the truth + my strength prevailing. The only thing I want is this man to be stopped + for a mother + her son to get what they deserve!!” read one rancorous tweet. Capriati would soon be arrested and charged with stalking and battery on her ex-boyfriend. Allegedly, she sent more than 280 text messages to him, punched him several times, called his business 50 times in one day, and pounded on the windows of the business. She also allegedly stole his phone and harassed him in a Publix parking lot. Capriati has always been viewed as a sort of bad girl of pro tennis. She’s trying to find her inner peace now, though. One tweet at a time.

There are only a few things that really matter in the almighty, mystifying Twitter-verse: being funny, being inappropriately personal, and being a trash-talking mensch. If you have all three of these elements — along with some shred of preexisting real-life fame — well, you’re bound to shoot across the internet cosmos like a great, beautiful, blazing ball of fire. Donald Trump doesn’t let anything get in his way, and whether he’s giving relationship advice (as in “Robert Pattinson should not take back Kristen Stewart. She cheated on him like a dog & will do it again — just watch. He can do much better!”), expounding on environmental issues (“It’s Friday. How many bald eagles did wind turbines kill today? They are an environmental & aesthetic disaster.”), or waxing poetic on integrity (“The cheap 12 inch sq. marble tiles behind speaker at UN always bothered me. I will replace with beautiful large marble slabs if they ask me.”), he always somehow manages to hit the nail right on the head with those 140 characters, creating a cyber ripple effect to Asia and back. We’re only glad “The Donald” makes his family home in Palm Beach part of the year so we can revel in the fact that part of his glowing celebrity belongs to us.

Who would have thought the reigning queen of South Florida hip-hop would be a five-foot-two, 22-year-old lil’ lady from Fort Lauderdale? But it is so! Editor Ashley “Outrageous” Ocampo has been at the helm of all things rap since 2008 on her blogspot turned superblog, the aptly titled ashleyoutrageous.com. Fashion, breaking news, mixtapes, the hottest sounds… no matter how many snapbacks you own or “dope” rhymes you spit, she has the juice before you do. And whether it’s sweet or sour, it’s right there, accessible on her site. Not only is she blogging but she’s also interviewing big names like Schoolboy Q and T.I. In keeping with her nickname, the petite blogger asks each rapper, “What is the most outrageous thing you’ve done?” She’s also turned her talents south to help promote the enduring ’90s hip-hop weekly at the Garret Peachfuzz, which never fails to make you sweat like a freak in heat. She’s also set up some impressive local rappers like Sin as openers for headliners like Curren$y and Kendrick Lamar. If you want to know what the future of hip-hop is in the age of the internet, take a good look at Ashley Outrageous.

There are few institutions here in South Florida that can truly be considered history-making. Besides defying the odds after doctors said he’d never walk, the “Pimp With the Limp” — Cuban-American DJ Laz (born Lazaro Mendez) — went on to pioneer a movement of freestylin’ booty-bass music that helped put Miami on the map back in the ’90s. He continues to serve as a pillar to our sun-soaked, Latin-infused South Floridian cultural identity. Formerly the flagship personality of Miami’s number-one party station, Laz parted ways with Power 96 last year after a 22-year love affair and has since moved on to host the morning show on the new South Florida bilingual party station, DJ 106.7. Even though ratings currently trail those of his previous station, we’re confident that this smooth-talking, bass-bumping, diamond-encrusted-watch-wearing jokester has all the personality and staying power to become America’s Latin Howard Stern.

The sidekick always gets overlooked. Be it Robin to Batman, Garfunkel to Simon, Biden to Obama, or Chewbacca to Han Solo, the sidekick is mostly seen as comic relief, with little else to do. But then there’s Jonathan Zaslow (Zaz), the venerable Kato to Marc Hochman’s Green Hornet of 790/104.3 FM The Ticket’s morning drive program, Hochman & Zaslow. Zaz has played several roles for the station, from being a reporter to producing a show to hosting the Miami Heat pregame show (which he still does). What endears us to Zaz is his unapologetic die-hard love for the local teams, his intelligence, and his dry-cut sense of humor that seems like a perfect foil to an otherwise goofy morning show. Zaz delivers his lines straight but with tongue firmly in cheek. He’s passionate without being a meathead, and there’s no better host to answer trolling opposing teams’ fans phone calls than Zaz, who is always ready to cut them down to size with his wit and his sports knowledge. As the man himself would say, “Zaz is your boy!”

Pixie dos aren’t exactly common in the ranks of South Florida news anchors. Smart-sexy vamping is usually the standard MO. But the woman now steering WSVN-TV’s weeknight newscasts is holding down a niche in the market. After nine years on-air, Belkys Nerey has jumped from reporter to style correspondent to anchor, building up a faithful audience with an on-camera approachability that’s the antithesis of frosty and fake. The charm doesn’t seem to drop when the cameras turn off. In fact, she’s probably the only member of the local anchorati you could approach in public without getting your face chewed off. That genuine vibe is built on hometown credentials. Born in Cuba, the 46-year-old grew up partly in Miami and later studied journalism and communications at Florida International University. Today, Nerey is the informed voice guiding viewers through the daily highs and lows at 5, 6, 10 and 11.

Brian Andrews has ridden out a series of wild personal adventures — including playing “El Gringo” on TV in Bogota and escaping a Colombian kidnapping attempt — to find his way back to South Florida on CBS4. For this, we rejoice. Few television reporters in South Florida offer more charisma or insider knowledge of the region than Andrews. The dude is 100 percent élan, and his vibe perfectly fits Miami and Broward. You’ll never catch Andrews looking like he’s going to a funeral. He pulses with color, just like our wacky state does. And Andrews’ stories, whether they detail the latest on a murder or a major storm or some international intrigue, always go further to bring us the news we need now. We can authoritatively say that Bogota’s loss is South Florida’s gain. Welcome home, Brian Andrews.

Summer in South Florida: Blockbuster movies, rainy tropical afternoons, and no school. While this teen-friendly combination drives gaggles of 16-year-olds to the local movieplex, you want to enjoy your favorite Marvel superheroes in peace on the big screen without having your seat kicked and while eating something a little more gourmet than stale popcorn. Behold iPic Theaters in Mizner Park, where all ages are welcome, though some might appreciate the iPic angle more than others. Seating is reserved, starting at $14 per leather recliner. For just $10 more, a “Premium Plus” ticket gets you a pillow, a blanket, and gourmet food and beverage service from a full bar. Just push a little button on your armrest and your server hustles on over. iPic Boca Raton has a resident mixologist as well as tasty treats — the flatbreads come highly recommended. Aside from the food, the crowd is quiet, the theaters are clean, and the sound quality can’t be beat. Sign up for the free membership program to reap the rewards of upgraded seating and discounts at the snack bar.

To traverse our sprawling county at the mercy of a county bus route can cause great anxiety for commuters, but Broward County Transit offers fun and games for the casual visitor. Get on the number four. If you’re here from out of town, you can hop a free connection from Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport to the Tri-Rail station. From there, this bus takes you east to the Dania Beach Fishing Pier, where you can hop off and check out the oldest pier in the tricounty area and get a drink at the Beach Watch Restaurant (remember, you’re not driving!). Then get back on the bus and relax while the number four takes you south toward Young Circle in Hollywood. If your timing is right, you’ll find yourself in the middle of live music or other festivities that break out regularly in the circle. Once you’ve had your fun there, Route 4 next heads west to the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Hollywood, where you can pretty much say “sayonara” to your day, getting lost in the shopping, eating, drinking (still not driving), playing cards, playing slots — whatever. Do it up. And if you miss the last bus (which on the weekend can be as early as 9 p.m.), you can get a room or call a cab. If you need to make it back to the airport or Tri-Rail station after your Fort Lauderdale adventure, just take the bus full circle. A day pass will cost you just four dollars — cheaper than filling the tank and safer than drinking and driving.

Rumors, a caustic farce from Neil Simon about a dinner party gone very, very awry, was Broward Stage Door’s finest hour last season — a play directed like a choreographed musical, with humor and absurdity brimming from all contours of the stage. At the heart of its Carbonell Award-winning ensemble was Matthew Korinko, who knocked the play’s most difficult role out of the park. His character arrived at the dinner party having just suffered a traffic accident that nearly broke his neck, so he played the part with his head perpetually cocked to the side, working through the obvious discomfort. But it was his climactic scene that earned Korinko justifiable praise from everybody who saw the show: He was saddled (or gifted) with the play’s manic pièce de résistance, in which his character invents a preposterous narrative on the fly to explain the play’s depraved actions to a pair of police officers. This sputtering story was delivered with a pitch-perfect combination of inspiration and desperation, absent any whiff of learned memorization.

Nope, that wasn’t an earthquake. Those shaking windows and shivering chandeliers, that was Latrice “Mother*$@#in'” Royale’s booming voice rocking the whole of Wilton Manors. You can just hear the supersized mama yelling “The shade of it all!” while flapping a Spanish fan in front of her big, brown, lacquered face. Latrice Royale. She’s a woman, but she’s more than twice your size. The dazzling drag queen, born Timothy Wilcots, was a fan favorite on season four of RuPaul’s Drag Race and RuPaul’s All Stars Drag Race. A longtime Hollywood resident, the divine diva spends her time, as Royale’d put it, “showin’ off my curves ‘n’ swerves,” in the heart of gay Fort Lauderdale. You can find her taking over (and up!) the stage at the Manor, Boom, and Bill’s Filling Station. But before the glamour and stardom, Wilcots was just a little black boy growing up in Compton, and prior to ruling the airwaves, she spent a stint in the slammer for a drug-related crime. But a star is identified by his, or her, ability to shine brightly through the darkest galaxy, and that is exactly what Ms. Royale does best.

You would be hard-pressed to find a bar with such deep drink specials as the ones offered at American Rock Bar and Grill. It’s true, no watering hole in the northern parts of Broward County is as generous in its liquor apportions as this Deerfield Beach establishment. With three-for-ones on well drinks and domestic drafts from 4 to 8 p.m. and two-for-ones from 8 p.m. until closing, happy hour knows no bounds within these confines. The locale’s intoxicating charitableness leads to patrons of the highest spirits. A name like American Rock Bar gives the impression that these regulars would consist of the long-haired, metalhead sort, with devil-horn tats and leather pants in check. In actuality, this joint is a neighborhood bar in its quintessential form, a mixed bag of blue-collar locals, FAU kids, and Palm Beach County executives enjoying cheap drinks and appealing grub. The countless posters of rock icons like Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison on the walls and the menu items, which reference artists from rock’s lexicon, set the rock ‘n’ roll mood. Nirvana, a heap of tricolored nachos loaded with salsa, guacamole, sour cream, shredded cheddar cheese, jalapeños, shredded lettuce, and chopped tomatoes; and Black Flag, a half-pound Black Angus burger, are the two most popular rock-idol-acknowledging food items. Of late, this taproom has been living up to its name by showcasing local musical acts regularly.

What makes this German-themed downtown Boca Raton eatery and bar such a standout is its perfect amalgamation of kitschy, cushy, and classy. Stylish on the inside with its ivy-laden walls, dark wood accents, and taxidermy lighting, Biergarten brings the hint of sophistication and ambiance that is de rigueur for a successful Boca Raton establishment. Yet this watering hole doesn’t take itself too seriously, never feeling stuffy and overly posh. On the outside, this locale is set up like a cozy German biergarten, with its large slab tables and barstools. The servers, dressed in traditional German outfits — beer wench dresses for the ladies and suspenders over lederhosen for the guys — add the kitsch factor, but they are so comfortable and amiable in their garb that the outfits do not come off as tacky. We have not even mentioned Biergarten’s main draw, its stellar beer selection. With an assortment of 24 rotating drafts and more than 20 other bottled brews to choose from, Biergarten has Boca Raton’s heartiest assortment of beers. The icing on the cake: This extensive variety of barley pops does not come with a Boca Raton price tag. During happy hour, a pint of its German delights, like Paulaner Salvator or Franziskaner Dunkel, is only $4.

Industrial Andrews Avenue isn’t the most scenic place for a bar, but this location had a few things going for it: proximity to downtown, lots of parking, and no meters. And it was the site of the legendary Brownie’s, a Fort Lauderdale saloon that was open for about 75 years before making way for Tap 42. The good people on the barstools up in heaven must have blessed this place, because it’s been slammed since opening day in late 2011. Though it’s true that the simple but welcoming décor, the 50 craft beers on tap, the 42 bourbons, and the specialty cocktails might have had something to do with its runaway success (oh yes, and the food: mac and cheese with lobster tail, and chicken wings the size of your head), we like to imagine a big party planner in the sky wanted to nudge together all of us disparate “types” in this concrete swampland — hipsters, yuppies, and power lunchers, all of whom commune here in happy swarms. But maybe we all just came for the happy hour (4 to 7 weekdays).

The pub craze is blazing through Fort Lauderdale; some are as old as the city itself (or so they smell), and some are so new that the paint on the sign hasn’t even dried before every seat in the house is filled. Almost overnight, the Royal Pig Pub appeared on the west end of Las Olas and has become an instant classic. So what does the Pig have that plucked patrons from the plethora of pubs reproducing in the BroCo? Beer. And not just any beer but probably the most extensive list on the drag. Sixteen brews on tap, including its own “Royal Pig” red ale and the perfect beer for South Florida weather, Magic Hat #9 (not easy to find on tap around these parts). On top of the tap options, about 20 other beers are on the list. And you won’t even get stuck paying more than six bucks for that beer, which is a rare thing on Las Olas. Believe it or not, with that sort of selection, the beer shares the limelight with an even longer list of wines and a hip little list of cocktails to boot. And while the Pig prides itself on its diverse beer and wine menu, the food menu is nothing to scoff at. The options range from not-so-simple burgers (Cactus Jack Burger) to Cajun fusion pub fare (Fish of the Moment, with grits). Worth looking into for the beer list, worth staying for the food and with the number of televisions in the place — you won’t miss that three-pointer because you’re sitting at a table.

No offense to the gays of Wilton Manors, but sometimes that scene can be a little elitist and thus borrrring. It’s on those downer days that you need to march your queer ass over to the Cubby Hole. It’s located in one of the coolest strip malls ever, right next to Radio-Active Records and Arcade Game Sales. (Just let the giant bear claw lead the way to this straight-up divine dive.) These dudes call their spot “the best li’l butch bar in Fort Lauderdale,” and man, are they into some hairy shit. Over at the Cubby Hole, they prefer their men masculine. Bear Chest Thursdays’ll get you two-for-one drinks, as will Underwear Wednesdays (wear only underwear!) and Boxers and Briefs Mondays. These guys reward nude behavior with libations, and God bless ’em for it. They’ve got butch burgers, butch billiards, and butch dudes. Not everyone wants a tiny twinkie; some of us hunger for more — for man meat, a delicacy best found served warm and wet at the Cubby Hole. They’re friendly to the straights here too.

It’s Thursday night. While you could stay home in your Pink sweats and watch Community, you and your friends are totes down to get shitfaced instead. YOLO and all that. So throw on some high-waisted neon shorts, scrounge up some stray dollars from the couch cushions, and make your way to America’s Backyard.

College night means $1 drinks, $1 drafts. Challenge your roomies to an epic beer-pong battle ($10 unlimited all night) — loser does the laundry. Make it rain pennies from the second floor. Drink from a PBR pitcher. Hula-Hoop on a bar top. Do shots. Lots of shots. Make out with a stranger in the bathroom. It’s the broad spectrum of college debauchery, all rolled into one two-story coed wonderland.

Does the fact that you’re 32 make this weird? Nah. Everyone loves Old School, after all. Just try to keep the streaking to a minimum.

It’s Friday night. That means ladies’ night at Cowboy’s Saloon. So squeeze into some Tight Fittin’ Jeans, hop into your Big Ol’ Truck, and head over to the unassuming strip mall in Davie. Once inside, check out the talent — Wrangler’s, cowboy hats, and heeled boots all around. Country Girl, Shake It for Me — you say to one ponytailed hottie. You tell her you’re looking for A Little Less Talk, a Lot More Action. She’s a Whiskey Girl — she understands. You hit the dance floor for some line dancing and score her a shot in a Red Solo Cup. Chicks drink free, and Tequila Makes Her Clothes Come Off. I Love This Bar, you tell her. Tip It on Back, she says. The Gambler in you knows, if you play your cards right, you could end the evening with Nothing On but the Radio. After a few rounds of Boot Scootin’ Boogie, you and your dance partner hit the road. Cowboy, Take Me Away, she says. You oblige. Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. When dawn breaks, you drop her home and speed away like the devil. It’s The Cowboy in Me, you say to yourself. And next week, you’ll do it all over again. After all, life is short. Gotta Live Like You Were Dyin’.

“Techno and tacos” are two things DJ Donnie Lowe loves in this world, along with making people dance, of course. Resident DJ at Gryphon Nightclub, located at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, Lowe has been spinning records for the past five years. What sets Lowe apart from a lot of young DJs is that he spins wax as opposed to working straight off of a MacBook. “My mentor Matt Spector showed me how important it was to run vinyl exclusively. He wouldn’t let me switch the record until the mix was perfect,” he says of honing his art. One thing is clear from Lowe’s sound: He has respect for his predecessors, especially those he’s responsible for opening a room for, understanding the delicate balance of setting the stage and stealing it. You can find Donnie Lowe spinning at Gryphon, where he started as a promoter and shows genuine appreciation for his workplace. Humble and talented, Lowe isn’t worried about everyone knowing him as much as he wants to ensure he’s doing what he can to evolve as a musician. His first recording was released in 2012, and there’s a lot more where that came from. If you have a taste for blowing off steam and shaking that ass, Lowe can help you with that. “You never know when someone’s had a terrible day, but all it takes is one minute of mixing to get them dancing and you can see them just putting whatever it is behind them,” he says. Keep an eye out for him this year, as he’s got a few things lined up for release. He’s all over SoundCloud, and you should be all over him.

Residing on Clematis Street in downtown West Palm Beach since 1987, Respectables is the longest-running nightclub in the southeastern U.S. — and for good reason. Not only does RSC feature local and nationally known DJs to curate dance-floor shenanigans throughout the week but it’s also been a hub for some of alternative music’s most crucial musicians. With a simple stage sitting about four feet off the ground, the view is perfect from anywhere in the venue, and the understated hardwood floors are perfect encouragement for sound quality. When the weather is on its best behavior, there is plenty of room on the patio for alfresco tuneage along with an auxiliary bar, so you never have to wait too long for a drink. Lining the walls are plenty of opportunities to kick it and relax if you don’t feel up to getting down on the dance floor on nights when the venue hosts parties, but if you’re looking for the full RSC experience, you’ll want to head out on a Thursday for the weekly edition of Flaunt. There, you’ll get to take advantage of drink specials on the basics while the spotlight turns to local music. Two or three bands every Thursday from as close as Lake Worth and as far as New York play Respectables, and after the bands are packed away, the DJs are ready and waiting. Respectables is known for its theme nights (cheesy ’80s prom night!) and often hosts cultural events where art and music meet. RSC is truly a melting pot on any given night and a staple in the South Florida music scene.

The thump of the bass is making your teeth shatter. You’re smashed between the sweaty pumped pecs of a beefy Italian on one side and the sequins of a drag queen’s dress on the other. Your arms sway to the sounds as rainbow-colored confetti falls lightly on your wet shoulders, sticking to your hair. Your drenched tank top is shoved into the pocket of your pants. Who the hell needs a shirt when you have the Manor? Chandeliers and disco balls hang mostly pointlessly as laser lights shoot through the dense air, thick with beats and human heat. The best decorations in the room are the go-go boys flexing and pumping the air. From the DJ booth, Kidd Madonny, or maybe it’s Tracy Young, spins and strikes poses. The only cool thing in the room is the fog machine, which makes it even harder to see the dude you’re grinding up against. Your boyfriend and your bottle are waiting for you at VIP, but they’ll still be there when you’re done with this song and maybe the next one too. This is the most fun you’ve had in years. Nothing, not even love, will drag you off this dance floor.

A local music festival was born on April 20, 2013, in a whirl of tattoos, plaid skinny jeans, guitars, turntables, and dancing feet. This bouncing baby was named Block x Blog. It swept through Revolution Live, Green Room, and America’s Backyard on the international day of stoners and Record Store Day, bringing with it a barrage of admirers. A particularly ambitious effort, the festival was given life by Subculture, Revolution Live’s 3J Hospitality, and the force of all the other most powerful cultural players in the Fort Lauderdale scene. And by ambitious, we mean, 30 local acts playing original and quality music, all in one night. Block x Blog brought down DFA’s Holy Ghost! from New York to get buzzing butts to the dance floor. Revolution bumped with bleeps by many electronic acts, including Afrobeta. Green Room was packed with live art, Mario Bros, and rock ‘n’ roll by bands like Jacuzzi Boys. Black Locust Society brought its enduring, hip-hop-tinged party Swarm to America’s Backyard, turning that motherfunker out. Unlike huge festivals with mostly out-of-towners, like the former Langerado, Block x Blog takes a homegrown, and thus successful, approach to concert planning. It’s planted the seeds, the music grew tall and strong, and the people grazed. They all left full and fueled for the next big Broward party.

It’s not often these days that a city dweller east of I-95 has any reason to go west of… I-95, unless said dweller is commuting to work or school or needs to evacuate for a storm. Not that there’s anything wrong with life on the west side, but once settled in along the 1 and A1A, you don’t have to go very far to find what you need. But back in February, something happened that could really have a whole lot of eastern Broward residents wondering what other secrets the west side has been hiding. What happened is that the Tampa Bay Brewing Co. opened a satellite Tap House in Coral Springs. At the Tap House, Tampa Bay reserves three taps for its beers while proudly featuring more than 25 taps of local Florida brews and a few other hand-selected options. It offer simple burgers and sandwiches to keep you from falling off your barstool after getting into some Florida beer love but also about 20 ways to order chicken wings. This is the moment South Florida has been waiting for: local, handcrafted, quality beer we can be proud of — well worth heading inland for a night.

You take one more shot at the bar and you’re basically ready to sing your favorite song in front of a crowded room of strangers. Then you turn back for another. Just because. OK, now you’re totally ready to belt it out — you’re going to morph into Madonna up there! You are the Material Girl! You grab the mic and grab your crotch and say, “Come on! Vogue!” At Gaby’s in Pembroke Pines on Thursday nights, you’re not alone on the karaoke stage. And we’re not talking about the 20 of your best friends yelling the lyrics into your ear; we’re talking the band Boys Night Out, bringing Rockstar karaoke to this strip-mall staple. This live act plays instruments while you stumble drunkenly through the tunes of Metallica or Usher or Evanescence. And when you can’t rap along with Biggie, Merv Thompson, Erin Hagerty, Wayne Hood, and David Bertok are there to help pick up your slack. These guys have been around for about a gazillion decades, or maybe like three, so they know what you’re trying to say, and they’ll sing it for ya. Ladies drink free till 1, so no doubt you’ll be nice and lubed for your big moment in the spotlight. Now, sing!

Like you dipped your whole head into a vat of liquid acid. Like someone you truly love and trust massaged your eardrums, bringing them to the heights of orgiastic pleasure. Like your brain cells took the shape and colors of Sesame Street numbers, connected by taut, then vibrating, guitar-string synapses. This is the effect Cop City Chill Pillars’ 2012 album, Hosed, has on the body. “Hosed,” band members say, means to have bad luck. But there’s nothing unlucky about this release, their second LP on Orlando’s Florida’s Dying label. It’s sent them playing around the country and alongside the Jesus and Mary Chain and Swans at Calgary’s Sled Island Festival this June. The sounds of guitarist Chris Jankow Jr., drummer Jordan Pettingill, and bassist Jimmy Bradshaw are experimental and psychedelic; they are slow, they are solid, and they will mess with your head and weigh on your heart. There isn’t a queer subgenre that suits this Lake Worth band neatly, but Hosed needs no defining. It is a crazy, unexpected embrace you can’t struggle your way out of, so you lie back and enjoy the feeling.

The guy with the gaunt face and freestanding black hair that you see all the time as you slink through the aisles of Radio-Active Records is Richard Vergez. He’s the creative director there, but making the store’s website is definitely not all he does with his time. Vergez is a musician who gets dark and synthy with Mothersky and totally atmospheric and experimental with his electronic solo project, Drowning the Virgin Silence. For the latter, he creates surreal music — influenced by Stockhausen and Daphne Oram — under a title taken from Federico Garcia Lorca. He uses analog equipment and creates loops from splicing cassettes to weave soundscapes that are tense and relaxing, complex and ambient. Under DTVS, he’s opened for former Harry Pussy guitarist and singer Bill Orcutt, brought his brand of dreamy electronica to Churchill’s annual International Noise Conference, and worked with dancer Ana Mendez to offer a sound installation to enhance her intensely emotional Joe Meek tribute. His upcoming tape with this project will be out on New York’s Goat Eater label. An artist working not only with sound but also with visuals, Vergez composes images with feeling and place for each of his releases and is showing all over the world, from London to Chicago. DTVS elevates sound art, making it something you’d want to hear at home, at the pool, by the ocean, or in your car.

With the diversity that Black Locust Society has brought to Broward County, there is no shortage of talented 20-somethings making music of all kinds and certainly no shortage of the hip-hop sound within the confines of a group. Though there is one that stands out above the rest this year, and while the hunt for Best Hip-Hop Act grew increasingly more difficult the closer to deadline, Gaps (Ricardo Tejeda) gave a performance a notch above at this year’s Block x Blog festival that sealed it for New Times. With rhythms that break tradition and soar beyond delay and feedback, Gaps has been refining his sound for the past ten years here in Broward. Currently working with Pax (Astrea Corp), who is lending a hand in the production of the next Gaps release, Tejeda’s influence is as selective as it is diverse. “I really enjoy performing with my BLS crew, obviously, but love to branch out with other artists like Iron Ora, the Goddamn Hustle, Suede Dudes — cats like that. Anything that will keep it interesting for everyone involved.”

There’s something oddly relaxing about listening to the roar of aggravated metal vocals backed with the rumble of pure evil. Sure, at first, your shoulders tighten to your ears. You’re facing the deep, pounding speed that comes from the stage when Broward death-metal act Beastplague performs. Yeah, your blood pressure shoots up until the blood vessels in your eyes burst and you’re punching the person next to you. But if you give it a minute and just settle into the experience, you will fully enjoy the intensity and talent of this three-piece. As bodies beat bodies into a frenzy, you can simply allow the tension to melt away. Your muscles will unwind, your head will hang, and it will bang. And you will feel the true allure of this genre through Beastplague. Just last year, these dudes of grindcore mixed and mastered their full-length release Manifestation in just ten hours. It gained a bit of attention on metal blogs around the country that likened them to Napalm Death, Exitium, Magrudergrind, and Mother Brain. They also put out a song on Anvileater Records’ compilation Eaten Alive Vol. 1. The band has performed some gigs this year that don’t ooze with doom and darkness of the underworld, like Sweatstock in Miami and Speakeasy in Lake Worth. But that doesn’t take away from Beastplague’s brutality; it simply brings those sunny venues that much closer to Beelzebub.

Without knowing the backstory, the average listener will have a difficult time placing where and when Suede Dudes’ droning, sludgy postpunk comes from. It is because of this timeless, unidentifiable character that we give this Fort Lauderdale quartet such kudos. The fuzzy guitar lines, reverb-drenched vocals, and white-noise-laden hue heard on 2012 effort Mutant Meat give the notion that it is a lesser-known contemporary of Sonic Youth’s masterful late-’80s record Daydream Nation, indicating that the band is, perhaps, a member of downtown New York’s no wave movement. Others might affiliate the band’s overdriven, catchy, psychedelic buzz to the Velvet Underground. Most haven’t a clue that the Suede Dudes and their sonic caterwauls originated from South Florida, and we love it that way. We are thankful that South Florida can emit more than just sunny garage rock. The fact that these dudes of suede have released two records on cassette (Burns From the Doghouse and Burns From the Doghouse II) specifically for Record Store Day adds to their other-era aspect and their kickassness too. The act is also a bit of a local supergroup, with each musician working on his own successful solo project as well — most notably bassist Raphael Alvarez’s work as art-house electro act Chrome Dick, and drummer Will Alvarez in lo-fi project Minimalist Blasphemist. The four-piece has big plans to round out the year, being in the process of recording its first ten-inch vinyl aided by Jonathan Nunez, bassist from Miami doom-metal heroes Torche.

After winning a contest to play Aura Fest 2012 in Central Florida, the Funky Nuggets were not invited back to play Aura Fest 2013. This was quite a bummer for Frankie Sensimilla, the band’s charismatic, guitar-shredding leader, who got naked (except for an Aura wristband, which he is still wearing) for the band’s 2012 Aura performance, and for the rest of the band and its ever-growing tribe of fans as well. How did the band respond? Exactly as one would hope a playful young jam band would: They smuggled a silent disco rig into the fest, set it up in the woods along with a pro light rig courtesy of Orange Blossom Jamboree, and jammed from 3 to 9 a.m. Friday and Saturday nights without making a peep, except for into the wireless headphones worn by the hundred or so grinning folks surrounding them. This glorious act of peaceful rebellion was the talk of the festival, won the Boca Raton band hundreds of new fans, and is but one episode in the Nuggets’ fun-filled musical journey. And, as fun as their approach is, it is grounded in serious dedication to the music. This coupling of fun times and quality musicianship is what makes a good jam band, and the Nuggets have it as well as any band on the circuit.

Unity Rise is a cast of radicals more likely to belt out their riotous folk-punk songs in the trenches of an anti-imperialist protest than on a proper stage. In either case, they require no amplification. They are loud. They sound like a tightly clenched fist being raised into the polluted air of an unjust society. They hold nothing back. For an audience of three in a parking lot outside of a building they just played in, they will play all of their songs again, a few times over, each time with even greater passion. And each time, bassist Tyler Lewis will lay his double bass on its side without missing a beat, so that his bandmates may use it as a platform to shout out union-praising lyrics, new and old. When playing “The Ballad of John Henry,” the band works like it’s driving steel and sounds like a pissed-off locomotive. And the originals come across as being just as authentic as that timeless anthem of yore. It’s good to have these guys on the streets.

The phrase “breath of fresh air” does not provide the oomph needed to describe just how special the Resolvers are. The Resolvers are like a ganja-tinged hurricane wind from the deep lungs of a giant Rastaman ripping out the end of a scorching-hot brass horn as just the funk the doctor ordered. Their unique sound, which the 11-piece calls “big band reggae,” is a marriage between roots reggae and New Orleans-style funk, and its powerful vibes have spread out far beyond this peninsula. The band has uplifted audiences throughout the Southeast, as well as in California and Jamaica. And its 2012 EP, Big Band Reggae, debuted at number five on the Billboard reggae charts, establishing the band’s presence in the reggae world at large. While the positive influence makes its way around the globe, it is certainly most concentrated here in South Florida. The band regularly, along with its ever-growing posse of sun-kissed fans, blows the roof off of local venues. And once a month, the Resolvers “fam” hits the beach for a day of service — picking up litter for hours. Driven by a group heart and a work ethic as powerful as their music, the Resolvers are getting bigger all the time. And with an album release and U.S. tour scheduled for 2013, they’re showing no signs of stopping.

Paul Wilson’s music stains the mind like tobacco, rusty-gold. His voice hangs in the air like smoke. He carries on the tradition of the old singin’ cowboy with the authenticity of a passing train. A cool, seasoned character with long white hair and beard to match, he’s just the guy you want to have singing to you about riding the rails, chasing women (and catching a few), and running from the law. He does so with simple dignity, like it’s his job and his joy. As he puts it: “I just want to say thank you to God for the talent to make up songs and to you for listening.” As beautifully lonesome as his tunes can be, he doesn’t work alone. He is continuously getting together with friends and family to write and perform, hence the name of his project. His 2012 debut release, Trains and Fools, features collaborations with a handful of fellow songwriters, including T.J. Howard and Lydia Milan, his niece. The song he wrote with Howard, “Lost in Texas,” recently earned the pair co-Songwriter of the Year awards from North American Country Music Association International. Vintage, timeless, and trusty, Wilson and his band of friends offer something that will always have a place in American music, and it’s great to have it here in South Florida.

If anyone knows about community, it’s bikers. Not hipster fixed-gear cyclists but hard-ass, wind-blown, wanderlusting motorcyclists. Many communities find their center in bars, these places where you become part of something larger when you’re there. Flossie’s Bar and Grill is just that center for Broward County bikers. Sure, it’s kind of a dive located in an apartment complex, but it’s also a watering hole for old dog motorcycle enthusiasts in the savannah that is Fort Lauderdale. On Sundays, the lot out front becomes a sea of wheels and seats with metallic waves. The tiki huts add a bit of style to an otherwise unremarkable exterior. For entertainment, there are pool tables inside and room for bands to play out front. And no, that’s not ZZ Top you see; it’s merely a regular at this laid-back joint. If you’ve worked up an appetite after a joy ride around town, Flossie’s serves breakfast starting at 7 a.m. Friday through Sunday and other chow, like wings soaked in gator sauce, throughout the day. Definitely the coolest thing about the place is that it gives back and loves beasts! Animals, that is, and to the music of Southpaw Raw, it uses raffles, a buffet, and a kissing booth to bring people in and get abandoned dogs and cats homes. The place also raises money for Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital with Thug Tug, a tug-of-war game day with music and plenty of beer. All of that smells like community and also a little like barbecue and Budweiser.

If, understandably, you failed to make the drive up to Jupiter this past winter to see one of Maltz’s few nonmusical productions of the season, you missed an elegant, pitch-perfect rendition of Doubt, John Patrick Shanley’s prescient morality tale about a priest who did, or didn’t, molest a child. The entire cast was impeccable, but Maureen Anderman, as the play’s conclusion-jumping Mother Superior, was most memorable of all, projecting the magnetism of a villain you loved to hate. This is a role for which mannered severity is essential, and she arguably did a better job at shaping her character’s ice-streaming veins and prison-warden mentality than Meryl Streep did in the motion picture. But beneath all the self-righteous bluster and knee-jerk conservatism, she buried a sarcastic wit that was so polished as to look effortless. It took the entire play for her character to exhibit an iota of change, but when that final expression of doubt came, the result was quietly earth-shattering.

There’s something about watching someone crack up onstage that has made mental patients such attractive archetypes for actors and audiences alike. For thespians, parts like the civil-services prole in Nikolai Gogol’s Diary of a Madman — who loses his sanity after one too many days of mind-numbing drudgery for a monolithic government — provide an opportunity for complete liberation from normalcy, an expressionistic freedom from the regular strictures of real-world acting. Ken Clement made the most of it in this production, arguably the last great show from the now-defunct Mosaic Theatre. He had an occasional assist from actress Betsy Graver, but the production was mostly just Clement, acting through the multiple voices in his head. He was funny, relatable, and ultimately tragic, conveying the play’s challenging, staccato script with worn-in ease, slipping into full-on psychosis with disturbing aplomb. That he did all of this in unseemly suspenders and a sand-colored mop for a wig was all the more impressive.

Who would want to direct an adaptation of Aphra Behn’s The Rover in 2013? It’s a question right up there with “Who would ever want to be president of the United States?” This ribald, 17th-century sex comedy about gender relations, betrayal, and mistaken identities is almost impossibly difficult, with something like a dozen characters and an unabridged text of more than 30,000 words, written in antiquated English whose delivery makes Shakespeare look easy. We still don’t think it’s a great play, but Stodard oversaw a marvelous reboot, drastically trimming the duration and cast list and stamping the production with anachronistic flourishes, from the inventive costumes — punk-rock and fetish wear commingle with ecclesiastical garments and luchador masks — to the century-spanning musical choices. Under Stodard’s direction, Behn’s dated verbiage flew off her characters’ tongues with the ease of smartphone tweets, and she guided Scott Douglas Wilson, as the titular Rover, to one of his most galvanizing performances yet.

This was what excellence looked like in the 2012-13 theater season, an unmissable production that should have humbled any theater professionals lucky enough to see it. Lorraine Hansberry’s multifaceted meditation on race, class, housing, family, and the American dream remains devastatingly accurate when performed as flawlessly as Dramaworks’ cast of 12. Ethan Henry was fierce and desperate as Walter, the crestfallen cabdriver whose business decisions put the family’s future in peril; Joniece Abbot Pratt brought nuance and relatability to her role as Walter’s progressive sister; and Pat Bowie’s Mama, especially, transcended the familiar trappings of her stone-cold matriarch. In her performance, you glimpsed the history of travesties she’s endured, her noble dignity, and the fear she could exude in her authority. Guest director Seret Scott had the audacity to start the play slowly, lingering longer than most on the banal reality of the family’s domestic life, a decision that only made the play’s dramatic confrontations resound even louder.

You’ve done the online thing, but the photo is always better than the reality. It’s time to up the game, and it’s time to stop screwing around. You don’t want a girl with a flat attitude. You want sophistication, but you also want genial mixed with sexy. Clean yourself up, put on your sharpest duds, and head on over to the W Hotel’s Living Room. It’s a luxurious place where you can order yourself an old-fashioned and get your Don Draper on with some of the finest single ladies you’ll find anywhere in Fort Lauderdale. Scan the joint and you’ll find what you’re looking for. The Living Room offers plenty of couches and corner seats to sit and chat and get your game going. Women come here to unwind after a hard week of work and are very much into socializing, drinking, dancing, and getting to know a man who knows how to play his cards right. You can always sit and chat in the dark in a booth or, better yet, order her a drink and walk her to the outdoor patio overlooking the ocean. As the night gets livelier, so does the dance floor. And there’s no better way to close the deal than showing her your dance moves. Sharp dresser, classy drinker, good conversationalist. Go get ’em, Don.

Some women (and men) complain that it’s hard to meet a good man these days. What if there were a magical place where the men all had jobs… and flew airplanes. And what if this place were in Fort Lauderdale? There are places where pilots are herded together, much like cattle, for the taking. These places are called FBOs (Fixed Base Operators) — basically, a private air terminal for small planes. Be bold. Park your Corolla right beside all the Beemers and Bentleys in the parking lot and walk in. Freshen up in the ladies room, where mouthwash and body lotion is provided gratis. Once beautiful, sit down in the plush seats and watch the parade of men walk to their airplanes. Some are pilots, some are owners, but all of them have one thing in common, pretty lady — they do not work at Walmart. Ever been whisked away for conch fritters in Key West or a sundowner in Bimini? You may just meet a guy even Daddy will approve of.

You know that adage, “God helps those who help themselves”? It may be true, because we’ve just found heaven in a glass at American Social. The Las Olas pub has something that no other South Florida establishment has — yet: taps at your table. Two tables are equipped with four taps where lucky patrons can help themselves to as much beer as they like (the portions are measured, and you pay as you pour). The taps are rotated on a regular basis from the 40 or so draft brews available, but there’s always a good selection, since the restaurant owners strive to always have an IPA, a lager, a pale ale, and one other unique beer at the ready. There’s also a “wall of taps” where you can help yourself — much like those frozen yogurt shops where you can get as much self-serve as you like… only this is beer we’re talking about. Beer that we can pour ourselves as we see fit? We’ve just found religion. Could this be why they call a beer opener a “church key”?

According to Wikipedia, the cougar, also known as the puma, mountain lion, panther, or catamount, is a large cat of the family Felidae native to the Americas. While Florida panthers may be highly endangered, South Florida cougars proliferate. And they can frequently be found in large numbers at Blue Martini. This species has a distinct set of traits: highly visible cleavage, long manicured claws, and evidence of much time spent at spas. With a cosmo in hand, this Cougar stands waiting, searching for her prey. Possibly you, if you give her the chance. Just order a drink, throw your Beemer keys on the bar ­— if you don’t own one, you can always rent — and wait. You’re about to be prey — and probably have the time of your life.

South Florida is littered with foreigners. We’re certainly not complaining about that: makes ’em ripe for the picking, especially at Waxy O’Connor’s. In addition to the superfine and (mostly) expat bar staff, the majority of the customers at this Irish pub has at least a twinge of an accent. Fort Lauderdale is America’s boating capital ­— where yachts, superyachts, and megayachts are bought, sold, tricked-out, and repaired — and thus a busy hangout for yacht crews circling the globe. And Waxy’s is their de facto clubhouse, so you should have no problem picking out some lonely, wayward sailors. Want to try a taste of South Africa? Yep. English biscuit? Got it. Thunder from Down Under? No problem. You get the gist. Ahoy!

South Florida is definitely one of the gayest areas in the country. If that wasn’t already apparent, we suggest you take a ride down Wilton Drive; enough said. However, as gay as this region may be, it caters to the men. Surprise, surprise — gender bias transcends even sexual orientation. Well, that’s not the case at Beach Betty’s: This place is for the ladies — mostly gay ladies — but also open to anyone else looking to have a good time. The Dania Beach tiki-themed bar is like any low-pressure neighborhood spot ­— pool tables, filled with smoke, friendly patrons, and bartender — kind of like the lesbian version of Cheers. If you’re looking to play a game of pool, grab a quick beer, pick up another chick, or just hang with the Dania Beach locals, this spot has got you covered.

When Mike and Pete Campbell perform their mind-boggling, hypnotic prog-metal, it’s a difficult phenomenon to ignore. Not only does the complexity of the musical arrangements crack open heads like calculus on acid but it’s executed with joy and a flair so furious that audience members are often too happily captivated to notice that their brains are being rewired. Indeed, it could be the case that the twin-brother duo are up to something secretive and scientific as Mike does finger acrobatics up and down the neck of his ten-string guitar, smiling and shouting with excitement while Pete enters into a bug-eyed shamanic trance while working his 30-piece drum kit — featuring a razor-sharp saw blade and other oddities — in impossible ways. The nonstop, 45-minute ride may feature a salsa bit, a trip through fiery hell, and an extended homage to Zelda. Or maybe none of the above. The duo is constantly at work composing new, brilliantly orchestrated sets for their live shows. It’s what they do. And it’s quite puzzling, in a wonderful way.

There’s a time for lounging poolside, sipping a frozen beverage, and cozying up with the latest issue of Star magazine whilst taking in the wonderful combination of hot sun and cool breeze. There’s also a time for raging poolside, which is what happens every weekend at Fort Lauderdale Beach’s Exit 66. Misting cabanas with bottle service; young, bikini-clad hotties bouncing around giant beach balls; DJs blasting Benny Benassi while bros fist-pump; and bartenders serving two-for-one drinks — is this a pool party, or have we been transported to heaven? At Exit 66, it’s spring break all year ’round, and each Saturday and Sunday, the crew throws a daytime rager complete with a rotating roster of resident DJs, champagne bottle specials, and a crowd of young’uns who just wanna strip off their clothes and relish in the beachside paradise that is the pool at Exit 66. It’s not a swimming pool full of liquor, but it’s damned close, and we’re diving in.

Nestled between the Calder Race track and a strip mall sits the coolest sports bar you’ve probably never heard of. Upper Deck is the place to get your sports, food, and booze groove on. The restaurant features more than 50 flat-screen televisions and three huge projection screens showing all manner of sports events, games, and matches. Upper Deck also has a pair of billiards tables you can hit up when your team’s game hasn’t started yet and a kid-friendly Mega Touch game to keep them occupied while you watch the Dolphins game. There are two full-liquor bars, but probably the best place to catch a game — particularly on NFL Sunday — is out on the 1,000-square-foot deck with overhead TVs, tables, and couches. The deck is covered with a screen, so you can still enjoy the sunshine without burning or getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. Upper Deck features daily lunch specials, starting at $5.99, Monday through Friday. Happy hour runs from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. and 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. on weekdays and 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. on weekends. There’s also Karaoke Night on Friday, and Wednesday is live-music night. While other sports bars are packed and keep you waiting, only to trot you into a dark dining area, Upper Deck gets you a seat quickly and your food and drink quicker and provides a place to watch the big game while chillin’ in the South Florida afternoon beach breeze.

What’s the best thing about a strip club? (*Checks watch.* How much time do we have in these best-of blurbs?) Is it all the titties? Yes, it is. But by definition, all strip clubs have that. So what makes Booby Trap different from most strip clubs writhing in the urban sprawl of South Florida? The intimacy. If you like the giant amphitheater strip clubs, don’t come here. But if you want to see girls get respect — and make a buck or two in the process — then Booby Trap is your place. The girls here come in all shapes and sizes. This isn’t the domain of Barbie doll, South Beach gals — but of ladies who pack spunk and bedazzle. Sometimes, a strip-club patron isn’t looking for the most beautiful girls but someone who can make him feel special for a night.

Sometimes, you just gotta shake off the shackles of your Range Rover-driving, Lacoste-wearing, martini-drinking bourgeois life and let your freak flag fly. It’s times like these when you’ll want to head behind the proverbial curtain at the Green Room’s Black Fridays. There, you’ll find everything from tutu’d dudes in platform dominatrix boots to ponytailed goths with horns and face tattoos. Hello Kitty bondage gear? Cosplay makeup? Furries? Whatever you’re into, it’s probably here. On the dance floor, the black-leather-clad crew will be grooving to EDM and postpunk tunes. Anything goes. Everyone’s moving to the beat of his or her own drum, so whip out those interpretive dance moves and shed your self-consciousness. If there’s any place to let loose, it’s here. Whatever you do, better leave your judgments at the door. Here, everyone’s free to be. So go in with one key rule in mind: Don’t rule anything out. YOLO, baby.

Walking through the doors of the Seminole Hard Rock is like stepping inside a little piece of Las Vegas that’s been shipped over to South Florida. The big-roller vibe is ever-present. Classic rock blasts from the speakers, undercut by the constant electronic chirping of slot machines and video poker. The Hard Rock’s numbers alone are hard to beat: The 140,000-square-foot casino space holds nearly 100 table games and 2,500 slot machines. But serious players — people making weekly stops to casinos to try their luck — know that the key element to any gaming experience is the rewards program. Because let’s be honest: Every time you drop that money into a slot machine, you’re basically dousing it with gas and sparking a match. Pros say the Hard Rock’s Wild Card rewards program wins top honors among the local options. You earn points each time you play, win or lose. Play enough and you can be looking at free tickets to shows, reduced hotel rates, free valet, and other juicy perks.

There are pool halls for day trippers just looking for the one-off evening of billiards, and then there are joints for real hustlers. Everything about the Professionals screams no bullshit. First off, location: stuck in the corner of a shopping center off Stirling Road filled up with shady gun shops and camera stores. Next up, décor: nine pool tables laid out in a room that could easily be an expanded version of your Grandma Rose’s rec room — that is, if in addition to liking simple furniture and wood paneling, your grandma constantly played South American music videos on a flat screen. Service: Mostly Spanish is spoken here, but you don’t need to scale a language barrier to get ahold of billiard balls. Beer: $3, ice cold from a cooler. Burned down to the bare essentials, the Professionals is just that — a place where serious shooters can get down to business without the extra trimmings or distractions.

We know what you’re thinking — the Tropic Cay Resort bar doesn’t have the flash and bang of some of the other, high-trafficked spots elbowing up against the shoreline. We feel you. It’s not an all-in, spring-break, shitface factory like Blondies. It’s not an Ocean Drive-wannabe like the patio at the W. But zero notoriety is exactly what the Tropic Cay has going for it. The bar is out back by the pool at a nondescript, sea-foam-green beachside motel on A1A, a midcentury holdout against the glass condo towers and chain hotels quickly filling up the shore. The open sides catch the sea breeze. The patio floor is well-soaked from the decades of drinks spilled by crusty beach types and rowdy spring breakers. But the Tropic Cay is the Platonic Ideal of old-school Florida. When all points north are shivering through the winter, fighting off the depression incumbent in an ice-bound February, you know that happy mental place they hide out in? The simple bar by the ocean, with cheap beer and an ocean wind, no worries, no problems? That’s the Tropic Cay.

Sometimes you just want to go where everybody knows your name. And sometimes you’d just prefer those people are barely clothed. That’s why you go to Greenbrier Bar & Restaurant. Located in the business park district off of Cypress Creek Road, the dimly lit, smoke-filled bar is host to friendly, scantily clad bartenders of all ages, serving classic pub grub and liquor from a full bar. You can even head over for lunch. The girls are nice. The drinks are cheap. And you can still smoke inside while playing darts.

The sign hoisted aloft in the parking lot says it all simply enough: “Bowl.” And Diamond Strike in Pompano Beach manages to box the whole spectrum of ten-pin pleasantries into one location. That’s quite a feat these days, considering most alleys are going for specialization — either polishing up for the chic crowd or dumpster-diving for decrepitude. Diamond Strike has the balancing act down. In one corner, you have Rip’s Sports Bar and Grill, a no-frills beer joint with framed football jerseys on the walls and cover bands blaring from the stage on the weekends. For the younger set, there’s Rock & Bowl, when the place goes Day-Glo: The lanes are candy-striped with colored lighting; screens above the pins flash with music videos and bright murals. In between, Diamond Strike hosts league play interwoven between nightly specials, from Karaoke Night to Ladies Bowl Free.

Few things on this Earth make us happier than walking into a darkened bar, glancing past mobs of humanity midrevelry, and settling our gaze upon dozens of craft and micro and local brews. Which is exactly what happens at Ye Olde Falcon Pub in Davie. Which one should we try first? There’s the Stone IPA or the Pumpkin Ale or the Young’s Double Chocolate Stout — yes, yes, and yes. Launched as a small wine and beer bar in 1989, the Falcon has tripled its size but still retains that United Kingdom pub charm that afforded the eatery such popularity. And if the beer selection isn’t enough to transport you to the locks of England, try the fish and chips. So turn on the Manchester United game, order a Guinness, and enjoy being as close as one can get to England in South Florida.