Spending a Wednesday at Twist is like stepping into the fantasy realm of Gay and Gayer. We love Miami for giving us that option. Things are likely to get rowdy, especially because the superstar Ms. TP Lords hosts the night with more sass than a kitten. Enjoy $5 Long Island iced teas and join the gaggle that congregates at the weekly evening. On past Wednesdays, Twist-goers have seen unpredictable costume contests, hip-swaying karaoke, and saucy performances guaranteed to knock you off your six-inch stilettos. The guest DJs, such as Maximus 3000 and J Felix, are there to keep the music hot and heavy, and a free attitude is strongly encouraged on the dance floor. If it's your first time, come prepared with as little clothing as possible and your credit card (for the bar tab, dummy). There's never a cover at Twist, but a dragging good time is always guaranteed.

There are $100 bills on the floor, empty bottles of Cristal in the trash, and nudity everywhere. Or as noted hustler, Maybach Music boss, and Carol City poet laureate Ricky Rozay would say, "Somebody call the Brinks truck... [King of Diamonds] got the baddest bitches waiting on a nigga." In a city with a strip club on every corner, the big-money ballers and rap-game shot callers like Ross, Lil Wayne, Drake, DJ Khaled, and Gucci Mane choose this North Miami Beach nudie mecca (and even write strip-club love songs about the place) because its 300 big-booty strippers can and will do almost anything. You know, slip and slide down a 30-foot brass pole like Spyda. Talk politics with MSNBC's Joe Scarborough over corned beef hash and coffee like Tip Drill and Skrawberry. Wash your whip for charity like Queeny. Hijack your Drizzy-drizzling heart like Blac Chyna. Or fistfight for money on a Monday like Ms. Tocka. Come straight from the clink like Gucci and Weezy. Chopper down for your b-day like Rozay. Or roll up in a broke-ass 1999 Toyota Celica and pay $100 for a parking spot. Just don't forget your garbage bag of plastic-wrapped money bricks at home. 'Cause ballin' like a boss at KOD ain't cheap, son.

For all y'all midlevel ballers looking to get outta that part-time gig at Macy's and into the VIP, here's some advice: Empty your savings account, rent a Rolls, and spend the weekend at SoBe Live. Any given Thursday, you could be running wild with Atlanta spitter and Brick Squad boss Waka Flocka Flame, spraying coeds with champagne, smoking a sticky Swisher, and "standing on the chair like ya really don't care." Less than 48 hours later, you'll be back in the club, rubbing up on XXX diva Cherokee D'Ass while she whispers tips about breaking into the adult biz, making the perfect baby-makin' mixtape, and filing taxes as an LLC. And then come Sunday, Uncle Luke and 100 fat-assed party girls are gonna be hosting a master-level seminar on freakiness that you just can't miss. Straight up, this South Beach hip-hop spot is Miami's headquarters of hustle. It's where the deals go down and the coochies get popped.

Yes, the prudish goofs who run North Miami Beach are totally grossed out by a gay bar with a "sexually explicit" name such as Swinging Richards — not to mention the icky idea of full, frontal male nudity. But that's no excuse for uptight residents and overzealous city officials to go trampling on a homosexual man's right to pay another dude to rip off his G-string, shake that manly junk, and perform nonstop ball drops all night. In November 2011, this local outpost of an identically named Atlanta gay male strip club took over a neon-lit box building at 17450 Biscayne Blvd. that had been occupied by hetero nudie bar Queen of Diamonds. The club quickly hired a supersexy stable of bartenders, waiters, shooter boys, and 75 strippers; adopted a strict "no-clothes policy," and opened for business. Unfortunately, this combination of gayness, nudity, and drunkenness irked certain members of the North Miami Beach community. And latching onto a generally unenforced law banning nudity and booze in the same establishment, these people insisted that Swinging Richards be shuttered. So far, the club hasn't quit shaking its junk. But the struggle to save Miami's best gay bar still isn't over. So help stop NMB officials from shutting down this "all-male, all-nude, all-night" nudie spot, sign the club's petition, and swing your Richard for equality.

In the land of million-dollar megaclubs, endless bottle service, boob-job giveaways, bleached beaches, and cosmetically enhanced asses, everybody needs a drunk-and-dirty dive-bar reality check. And Mac's Club Deuce is so real that it's unreal. So hide your bloodshot eyes behind smashed shades. Escape the merciless subtropical sun. And enter the cool, lurid darkness of this 90-year-old South Beach boozing spot. The neon flickers. The beer gets spilled. The barflies fight. The jukebox doesn't stop. And happy hour almost never ends. Every day from 8 a.m. till 7 p.m., suck a bottleneck (Rolling Rock, High Life, Corona) and slug shots (Bushmills, Jim Beam, Tres Sombreros) at two-for-one prices. In exchange for six crumpled singles, the bartender will slide a cold drink into your hands and slap a casino chip down as credit for the next round. And here, there's no shame in drinking till dusk or beyond. Watch tales of murder, drug busts, and home invasions on the 6 p.m. Action News, and ogle the pink naked lady on the wall kicking her high heels and waiting on a mate while lying face-down, ass up. Bark at the old fat dog as he licks the floor, weaves between the barstools, pokes his nose in the trash, and sniffs the toes of a sexy 50-something amputee with perfect platinum-blond hair and a dirty martini in her remaining hand. Steal a casino chip from the ancient eye-patched and tatted gangster who just staggered across the street for a taco break. And count down the seconds as a crooked hand crawls across the dirty face of Mac's glowing toxic-green clock.

Welcome to Stoop House, where the only rule is "Stoop hard, get stoopid." It's a newish party spot that belongs to Miami's long, great, and generally undocumented tradition of totally off-the-radar music venues, such as the short-lived all-ages spot Goo. Or remember last year's ill-fated Chum Bucket collective? Or how about the now-dead La Cueva, a Little Haiti music venue above a liquor store? We're talking tiny, no-budget, DIY spaces where punks, skaters, street kids, scene freaks, folkies, metalheads, swag rappers, radical activists, and their friends can get together for house shows, events, food, booze, and good times. Of course, party plans are pretty sporadic. So any wannabe Stooper will need to keep it locked to the Interwebs for updates. But when it's finally time for "some crazy super group togetherness," expect loud music, pesticide-free potlucks, homemade T-shirts, stapled zines, demos on cassette, lectures about sexism in the media, and hours upon hours of crowd surfing with your 16 new BFFs.

When out-of-towners want to shake to the rhythm of Latin music, we throw on a guayabera, linen pants, and loafers and escort the visitors to the American Airlines Arena in downtown Miami. Located behind the Miami Heat's home court, Bongos Cuban Cafe boasts a sweeping vista of Biscayne Bay, which is the perfect backdrop for the thumping beat of salsa, merengue, and reggaeton that fills the 16,000-square-foot supper club Friday and Saturday till 5 a.m. Owned by Miami icons Emilio and Gloria Estefan, Bongos has established itself as the spot for the city's Latin music industry. With its Havana nightspot décor, the place has hosted afterparties for the Latin Grammys, the Billboard Latin Music Awards, and Premio Lo Nuestro, to name a few. Bongos features a large ballroom where hundreds of people show off their salsa and merengue dancing skills every weekend. Just remember to yell, "Azúcar!" every time a Celia Cruz tune plays.

If you're gonna murder a popular song, might as well do it on the fringes of the Everglades. Since 2009, Fat Monkey has been hosting karaoke parties six days a week. Trust us — the trek to deep South Miami-Dade is worth it. Lube up your vocal cords with $5 frozen daiquiris or four bottles of domestic beer for $10. Ladies drink free Friday nights. And once you've built up enough liquid courage, you can have your way with a playlist featuring more than a thousand songs. Located in the heart of historic downtown Homestead, Fat Monkey is tucked inside an unadorned storefront with pane-glass windows. Hours are 4 p.m. to 3 a.m. daily.

On the first day, that great guitar god in the sky made a skull-shattering noise and called it rock 'n' roll. On the second, he smashed his axe, lit the splintered instrument on fire, and watched it burn. On the third day, he destroyed a four-star hotel room. On the fourth, he signed a major-label record deal, transformed himself into a swan, and lay down with a famous groupie. On the fifth, he OD'ed. On the sixth day, he rose again. And on the seventh, he said, "Screw rest. I need someplace to party." And thus, Churchill's Pub was created.

Set back about a hundred steps from SW Eighth Street, a black, boxy building hides in the shadow of I-95. This is the Performing Arts Exchange, also known as PAX Miami. Just more than a year ago, owner and art buyer Roxanne Scalia completed renovations on the former Miami Herald distribution center. She quickly booked a bunch of bands, including Miami jam stars Suénalo, local Latin fusion legends Locos por Juana, and Magic City alt-rockers Minimal. In the intervening 13 months, Scalia's place has become a clubhouse for Brickell and the rest of Miami's best- and least-known Afro-Cuban, compas, indie rock, reggae, and jazz musicians — not to mention touring acts from foreign lands like Haiti, Chile, Argentina, France, and Puerto Rico. A laid-back cultural hub that describes itself as "a progressive independent performing and cinema arts center in a sustainable format, with a local focus and a global reach," PAX is all about promoting Miami's artists and musicians. And that's exactly why the locals hang out here, scenesters sip java and beer at the bar, and the small, low-slung stage is almost never empty.