Mike Inglis is the opposite of a homer. Unlike his TV counterpart, the unctuous Eric Reid, Inglis calls it like he sees it -- through a half-empty glass, pessimistically. His stoic sidekick, former Heat guard John Crotty, is often left to pick up the pieces after Inglis drops a despairing on-air monologue: "I don't know about you, John, but as glad as I am that the Heat are up by 30 going into the half, I can just feel disaster coming if these guys don't start making their free throws. Maybe not now, but soon. It's just pathetic to watch these guys at the line." (It's not all doom and gloom, though -- Dwyane Wade's acrobatics often have Inglis rejoicing.) Miami Herald sports columnist and 790 AM sports talk host Dan LeBatard is an Inglis fan. "I want truth undistilled, even if I don't like what I'm hearing, instead of sugar-coated crud from propagandists who don't utter a syllable without remembering who pays them for said syllable," LeBatard rants in an e-mail about Inglis. "I don't want to be lied to by people paid to pull out the peppy pompoms."

You will probably walk past this tiny bar three times before noticing it, but once you finally slip inside, you'll find cozy seating, a comfy bar, and a totally different vibe than you've ever experienced. This wonderful little hole is filled with the cutest boys we have ever seen in South Beach. If you've been wondering where they've been hiding, wonder no more. You won't find annoying spring-breakers or have to compete with those chicas in their South Beach slutwear, but you will have to decide between the guy with the awesome hair who looks like he should be on tour with My Chemical Romance and the hipster with a soul-patch, black-rim glasses, and vintage shirt. And these beautiful boys are not afraid to approach pretty girls wearing Anthropologie skirts and "Reading Is Sexy" T-shirts. With candles all around, alternative and indie-rock tunes that are never too loud, and a great selection of wines and beers (including one of our faves, Chimay), this is a place where you'll want to hunker down and stay for the night. The excellent specials (like $3 pints) are just right for putting everyone in that feel-good, love-is-all-around mood.

Don't even get us started.

Realistically the way to meet single women in Miami circa 2006 is to go online and start cruising Match.com, JDate, Craigslist, eHarmony, et cetera. Send e-mails. Exchange photos. Then date. Let's say you're different, though -- a traditionalist, who longs for the ways of the shagadelic Seventies. You appreciate the art of the one-liner. You love the quest for a freshly written phone number. The place for you, my old-school friend, is Novecento on Brickell. It's a sleek, stylish Italian-Argentine restaurant that has branches in New York, Buenos Aires, and Punta del Este, Uruguay. Not surprisingly, Novecento is popular with Latin American financiers hunting for señoritas. It's a particularly swinging scene after work, between 5:30 and 8:00 p.m. You can capitalize on happy hour (4:00 to 7:00 p.m. daily, beer $3, wine $4, mojitos $5, martinis $6) to build up some liquid courage. Then assess the crowd. Your targets: 24- to 30-year-old, largely Latina, young professionals. And yes, most important, they are single -- and attractive. Bring your A-game. If things don't work out at the bar, then relax and try Novecento's Argentine-style skirt steak ($12.95).

Few things are as entertaining as watching a talented actor having a ball with a bunch of roles at once. That is what Erik Fabregat did, with relish, in Mad Cat's Painted Alice by William Donnelly. With accent after outrageous accent and a chameleon's way with physical transformations, Fabregat took little bits in this little play and piled them up into a pig-out of acting exuberance. The man is shameless, not exactly a matinee idol, but definitely the sort of actor by whom you find yourself riveted no matter who else is onstage. That raises the bar for everyone, incidentally, which makes for good theater.

All you have to do is watch an episode of The Sopranos to see how the nouveau riche have, tragically, trampled upon all that once was the province of old money from the Old World. Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts might chomp cigars, swig Jameson, and tote copies of the Robb Report while profanely clomping across Pine Valley Golf Club's pristine eighteen holes. Yet there is one world that so far has escaped the grubby attentions of the crass-but-moneyed masses, and that is the domain of equestrian sports. Horses are not Porsche Cayennes, and they require a rather high-octane attention span; it takes time to learn to ride, handle, curry, and bond with a flesh-and-blood ride. You can bling out a thoroughbred only so much. And riding horses -- really doing it well -- isn't easy. So steeplechasing, dressage, and quadrilles remain for the moment a very blue-blood pursuit. The queen of these human-horse sports is of course polo, which pairs extraordinary equine athleticism with equal effort from riders, who basically play a wicked form of lacrosse astride 1000-pound thoroughbreds. In April 2005, Reto Gaudenzi, the master of Casa Casuarina who is also, as luck might have it, a professional polo player, thought to bring his beloved sport here and arranged for a three-day series of matches on Miami Beach across from the Casa at Eleventh Street and Ocean Drive. Polo on the sand was a novelty, but more interesting was that the matches -- played in innings called chukkers -- were open to the public. Despite frequent downpours and blowing sands courtesy of some errant April showers, it was successful. This year -- from April 11 to 13 -- the polo matches, still hosted by Gaudenzi, moved south to the beach behind The Setai on Twentieth Street and Collins Avenue, adjacent to the public beach on 21st Street. The weather cooperated. More children were on hand -- more observers in general -- and the ponies that weren't playing were stationed where scores of little equine lovers could get close enough to inhale. Polo ponies are actually the same thoroughbreds whose cousins race in the Triple Crown, but they are gelded and generally composed of a more compact, stocky body type, similar to that of a quarter horse. Yet in their polo finery -- plaited manes, tales coaxed into pompons or sleek braids, colorful saddle blankets -- they appear majestic. And these horses can haul hindquarters, possessing both sprinting speed and endurance. They are able to spin on a hoof and not get their elegant legs entangled in the dozen others seeking the five-inch-diameter orange ball. The party behind the polo is no joke either -- beyond the expected open bar, both years' tournaments have offered snacks above the norm, from a dozen flavors of gelato to fresh salmon rolls to crabcakes and éclairs. At the end of this past April's tourney, Melissa Ganzi, the only female rider, doffed her pink helmet to a cheering crowd as her Team Kreon emerged triumphant. It was a gracious, graceful spectacle. Don't you barons and baronesses of Brickell get any ideas.

There really are no small roles in Shakespeare. Were it not for the splendor of the cast surrounding her, Kimberly Daniel would have found it easy to simply steal the show as the Nurse in Rafael de Acha's Romeo and Juliet. As it was, she was just right in a character that can easily slip into vulgarity. Shakespeare's bits of comic relief are always on the verge of being too much, too broad, too big a temptation for lazy actors and directors who carelessly bulldoze through the verbal thickets to elicit the easy laugh. Daniel was funny enough, believe us. But she was as real as she was touching. And, for all her bawdy humor, this Nurse's discovery of Juliet's limp body was a heart-rending moment of raw emotion made all the more devastating by her ability to remain true to the play's glorious language.

Although his best fighting days are behind him, it's difficult to beat Arroyo for narrative arc. From rough roots in Allapattah, he became one of the best boxers Miami has ever seen. He's gone seven rounds with Hector Camacho, one of the all-time greats. He's been in Roberto Duran's inner circle. He's fought the world champion in his weight class, appeared on ESPN, and enjoyed a 21-bout winning streak. He also became a crack addict and serial robber who was in and out of jail for twenty years. Arroyo has since turned his life around, hasn't touched drugs in years, and at age 41, is still winning some fights.

Yo, Vinny! Yeah, you, with the putrid, beer-stained, urine-soiled Wayne Chrebet jersey! You've been living in Miami-Dade County for the past fifteen years and you still talk like you belong in a Brooklyn bagel shop! And didn't your wife tell you that mullets and mutton-chop sideburns went out of style back in 1969, the only year your lousy stinkin' Jets won a Super Bowl? I can't wait to see you later this year at Dolphin Stadium so me and my boys in Section 454 can kick your ass and serenade you with chants of "J-E-T-S suck! Suck!" before, during, and after the game. And don't forget to bring the 24-pack of Coronas and the ten pounds of barbecue ribs you owe us from that bet you lost last season.

It's infernally hot, suicidally humid; the hurricane threat looms; and the festivals are gone. Not even Grandma from North Dakota will visit. But while much of Miami whines, we celebrate. The brutal summer heat is, after all, a good thing: Water temperatures nudge past 80. (Go ahead. Hang up that wetsuit.) The nearly windless summer doldrums, trouble for our sailor friends, are brilliant for us. Boat rides out to the reef are easy, no need for Dramamine. Best of all, the heat drives away the crowds; North America's great barrier reef is our playground. And amazing Cousteau-ish encounters with brain coral and fire coral and barracudas and jewfish are all so friggin' close. You can try Biscayne National Park, which runs a charter ($39.95, call 305-230-1100) that departs daily at 1:30 p.m. for a roughly four-hour snorkeling tour. You can also go a little farther south, to John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park in Key Largo. There are literally dozens of reefs and wrecks up and down the Keys. So buy a $25 snorkel and mask, splurge on some fins, and join the happy set.