Arts & Entertainment

The veteran sports guy has a couple of things going for him: He was a jock -- a star receiver for the Miami Dolphins -- and he's got great hair. But he also seems to know that a good sportscaster ought to do more than just recite the scores. Recent example: The Miami Heat pulled out a February overtime win against the Bucks in Milwaukee after Jimmy Jackson tied the score in regulation on a last-second three-pointer. But Jackson got the ball on a pass from Eddie Jones after Jones committed a blatant double dribble that the refs somehow missed. Television viewers saw it, the announcers announced it, and after the game Jones admitted it. That night some Miami television sportscasters never even mentioned the critical moment on which the game turned. But Cefalo led with the blown call. Moreover on most broadcasts Cefalo looks like he's actually interested in the subject, even when he's just reading hockey scores. And during the winter Olympics he reported the results of the ice-skating competition as if that were a real sport! Whoa.

The Lincoln Theatre is intimate enough that everyone in the audience can watch artistic director Michael Tilson Thomas's expressions -- they tell the story. His enthusiasm and excitement about music are written all over his face, as when he introduced an evening of works by Soviet-era composers, part of the contemporary-music series he has put together for his youthful orchestra called Sounds of the Times. So you get lucky with a Shostakovich or two from a big, conservative orchestra. But three twentieth-century Russians in one evening? The series opened with a visiting conductor, Reinbert de Leeuw, who led the symphony through four modern French compositions, though Thomas's ardor for new music was clearly present. Then we had American Lukas Foss conducting his own work on his 80th birthday. Great stuff, but you don't have to wait for a special series like this one to come around. All season the orchestra plays fresh and fascinating concerts, from Mahler and Hindemith to Weber and Britten. Okay, so NWS has the dedicated funding that frees it from having to do Beethoven on the beach -- or anywhere else -- to stay in business. Still the mind for programming a gem like Sounds of the Times is rare, and Miami is lucky to have it. With visionary Thomas holding the baton we surely will be treated to more.

It seems shortsighted to begrudge the rain in a year following such a serious drought, but if the rain had to fall so infrequently, why did it always seem to pour on the Rhythm Foundation's outdoor summer concerts? Colombia's vallenato king, accordionist Alvaro Meza, was completely washed out of the 73rd Street bandshell and showers kept crowds away from a cardiac arrest-inducing performance by Congolese soukous star Diblo Dibala. And the elements had nothing to do with the terrible events of September 11, the global reverberations of which kept Senegal's superhero Youssou N'Dour not just off the stage at Level but away from our shores. Yet all was glory on the cloudless night when saxophonist Paulo Moura performed the old-time Brazilian ballroom music gafieira beneath the stars. And when the Rhythm Foundation teamed up with the Miami Light Project to bring Los Muñequitos de Matanzas to Miami for the first time in the Cuban folkloric institution's 50-year career, there was no greater pleasure to be found in this world or any other. Which just goes to show that the Rhythm Foundation can do more in a couple of shows than most presenters can manage in a full season.

She first dazzled the world, or at least her fifth-grade class, with her rendition of "Be a Lion" in an elementary school production of The Wiz. That might explain her courage. After scoring as a dance diva with "Miracle" in 1998, Henry has opted for a much more challenging career built not on the beat but on the shades of emotion the trained actress turned singer casts with her voice. As a songwriter -- even after September 11 -- Henry is not afraid to remind us of trouble in the home of the brave with her sizzling "Red, White, and Blues." Nor is she timid about identifying with the lowest of the low-down, looking at life "through the bottom of a bottle" in the heart-wrenching "Just Like Me." Henry is even a bit of a lioness when she performs standards, songs that before hearing her fearless reconstructions, we thought we knew. In her smoke and honey tones, "Georgia on My Mind" is all hazy afternoon seduction; John Lennon's "Imagine" is a Delta anthem; and an unplugged take on disco ditty "Bad Girls" is deeper than Donna Summer ever dreamed. Buoyed by the guitar wizardry of co-writer, collaborator, and straight man Lou Duzin, the visually and aurally striking Henry is the complete package: brash, brainy, brawny, beautiful.

The Lincoln Theatre is best known as the home of the New World Symphony (NWS), Michael Tilson Thomas's "training" outfit, who regularly blow their older Philharmonic peers out of the water. But as anyone knows who's caught a concert here when musicians of the NWS have hung their strings up for the night, the Lincoln is one of Miami's premier concert spots -- period. With stellar acoustics, comfortable seats, excellent sightlines, and a residual classical vibe that's stately without being stuffy, the Lincoln has provided a welcome home to visiting musicians as varied as Panamanian jazz pianist Danilo Perez and Cuban balladeers Los Fakires. The lack of live music venues is a continual local refrain -- here's hoping the Lincoln's management takes advantage of the NWS's summer hiatus to keep picking up the slack.

Guitarist Josh Sonntag and singer-songwriter Catty Tasso make for the perfect rock-and-roll marriage -- literally. When Tasso advertised for an axe man on a Guitar Center bulletin board in 1999, Sonntag offered her not only a pair of the best plucking hands in town but also his hand in matrimony. The happy ending is Moxi, a band that weds Tasso's hard-hitting rasp to Sonntag's sophisticated stylings in a refreshing brand of intelligent yet accessible rock. With drummer Frankie Martinez and bassist Raul Ramirez as attendants, the pair has been further blessed by the extracurricular participation of Estefan Enterprises young-gun producer Sebastian Krys, who takes a break from pop-polish to deliver Moxi's self-titled debut CD with powerful punch. Moxi captures the burning intensity of the band's live shows, where Tasso's voice breaks in perfect union with Sonntag's guitar mastery. Distributed across the Americas by indie enabler DLN and supported by an upcoming tour, Moxi may make this our last chance to hail Moxi as a local band. Mazel tov.

Spend enough time on the Beach and it can seem as if every sound system marches in lockstep. In 1999 it appeared that the music police were practically forcing every restaurant in town to play the Gipsy Kings -- and nothing else. Meanwhile the clubs were filled with trance's aural whitewash, leaving dancers searching for more soulful fare. Things only got worse the following year: Restaurateurs picked up on clubland's latest fad, trading their in-house flamenco for ear-shattering trance CDs spun on a never-ending loop. Fortunately diners no longer need to ask their waiters to hold the glow sticks. House music has returned from hibernation in all its jazzy, loose-limbed, Afrocentric glory, cropping up in both eateries and nightspots. How long this respite will last is anyone's guess. Local DJs and club owners have embraced the genre's driving bass lines and four-on-the-floor rhythms more out of novelty than a love for the music's own merits. Still, this is dance music. Best not to analyze too much -- shake it while you got it.

What better source for the ethereal strains of orchestral music than an institution of higher learning? And with the recent death of the commercial classical format at the former WTMI-FM (93.1), but for the grace of University of Miami administrators there went any classical music on the Miami-Dade dial. Now we can tune in to "The Voice" (the station's handle) from noon to one o'clock on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for instrumental sounds ranging from baroque to futuristic. For example, two student DJs spun a show that included opuses from Dvorak, Bizet, Debussy, Philip Glass, and Aphex Twin, the brooding Chopin of modern experimental electronica. Isn't that what you're supposed to do at college, think outside the box of conventional categories? Besides, who among us can ascertain what will stand the test of time when the 21st Century grows old? The show's emcees guide listeners through this kind of cosmic trip that includes symphonic standards and pieces from recent films: Finlandia by Sibelius; Symphony No. 1: Lord of the Rings by Johan de Meij; La Dispute by Yann Tiersen; Let Us Sleep Now/In Paradisum from Benjamin Britten's War Requiem; Mad About the Angels from Symphonic Metamorphosis by Paul Hindemith. And WVUM is free of advertisements. Impressionism rocks, dude.

In a pop world where satisfaction is measured by how long a song sticks in listeners' brains, nothing is stickier than a Shufly hook. That's due to the songwriting duo of Scott Smith, whose short, sharp lyrics always seem truthful without every word being troublingly profound, and lead guitarist Mike Sharpe, whose melodies stroke rather than tax the brain. Smith and Sharpe have also had the good sense to seek solid backing in the form of percussionist Mario Palacios, drummer Paul Voteller, rhythm guitarist Mandy Rua, and especially bassist Matthew Coogan, an ensemble that adds depth and musical interest to the shiny surface presented by the frontmen. Just ask any of Shufly's rabidly faithful fans -- regular attendance at the sixsome's shows will leave you feeling "Wonderful."

The pop-radio wars have just begun. Dance-only upstart WPYM-FM (93.1) calls out the big dogs at Power 96 to put up or shut up. Power takes the bait and responds decisively. Sure it plays more commercials, and it saturates us regularly with hip-hop we've heard before, but Power still spins the better dance music, particularly after hours, and it gets bonus points for effectively mixing two very distinct and progressive urban sounds. It doesn't hurt to have competitors dropping Power 96's name so ridiculously often. Latin grooves still reign in the Magic City, but like it or not hip-hop is now and dance is the future. Power has them both covered and plenty of advertisers to keep it in business.

People sometimes wonder just how New Times selects "Best of Miami" winners. It is a highly scientific process devised long ago by a select committee of experts and requires the participation of more than 100 judges from around the world who take up residence in the Magic City for the entire year and do nothing but eat, drink, and listen to music, giving themselves over to every form of diversion and recreation without ever losing objectivity. There is also a lot of bullying by wannabe winners, but we ignore that. Relax, Lee. The judges love the Square Egg, especially those hailing from Hong Kong and Mombassa. What's not to love about a man who can deliver a rap smoother than his pate, celebrating the virtues of womanhood while slinking low on the down beat in just the way your mama warned you about. And the band? All that jazz-funk-hip-hop-blues-soul spooned together promiscuous-like, feeling up your backside, lapping at your ears. We need to be lobbied on this? Just let it flow, baby. The Square Egg will take you there.

Think of sound as a galaxy, a shimmering play of lights. Think of guitars, horns, and keyboards as so many sparkling arrows, so many zodiac signs, pointing to the glowing nebula of Rocky Ordoñez's and Erica Boynton's angelic voices. That is how you would see the sound that Christopher Moll, the band's big bang, has created. The six-piece ensemble is not just the brightest star in South Florida's indie firmament but also the surrounding pattern of light and dark, the whole flickering texture that leads the eye there. Our only complaint is that we don't get to See Venus enough.

Being a cineaste in Miami means making your peace with malls. Over the past few years most choice indies and foreign flicks have landed at either the eighteen-screen South Beach Regal or one of the area's other multiplexes -- not our hit-and-miss art houses. So getting your celluloid fix has meant braving arena-size crowds and nightmarish parking. Fortunately the new Intracoastal Cinema has stepped into a comfortable middle ground, consistently earmarking several of its six screens for art fare. Even better, Mitchell and Nancy Dreier, the couple who own the Intracoastal (as well as five Broward theaters including the Gateway and the Sunrise), have moved past the usual Miramax suspects to spotlight such fare as the joyously whacked Spike & Mike's Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation, Charlotte Rampling's haunting comeback Under the Sand, and Mohsen Makhmalbaf's timely Kandahar. Plenty of free parking just steps from the front door, big screens, cushy seats, and (in stark contrast to most multiplexes) a relaxed air all combine to make moviegoing an experience instead of a trial.

This ain't the Waverly in Greenwich Village or anything, but it's as close as Miami gets. Part of the pleasure of going to the Cosford is meandering through that gorgeous, lush (and very non-NYC) University of Miami campus. The magic room on the second floor of Memorial Hall is where we get to see, a year or two after the New York crowd does, the recent labors of European directors and their counterparts in the Americas and elsewhere. Among the films on Cosford's multinational marquee this year were French director Jean-Pierre Ameris's Bad Company, a tale of twisted adolescent love and sex; Runaway, an English-Iranian documentary by Kim Longinotto and Ziba Mir-Hosseini set in a women's shelter in Tehran; and Israeli director Joseph Cedar's Time of Favor, a drama involving a Jewish soldier who plans a terrorist attack in Jerusalem. And let's not forget the latest screen gems from Canada. "Maelström [director Denis Villeneuve's 2001 opus] is the most celebrated work in French Canadian film history," Cosford's program guide proclaims. The theater screens two films each week. Movie nights are Friday through Sunday. The downside to the Cosford: It's closed during the summer. The schedule is online at www.miami.edu/com/cosford. Admission is five dollars for the general public, three bucks for senior citizens and university employees, and free for UM students. Take Granada Boulevard into the university and look for the signs, which will take you to Campo Sano Avenue and the parking lot. Best to call for directions.

Heartily pounding out the rousing "St. Louis Blues" or gently improvising on the tranquil bossa nova melodies of Antonio Carlos Jobim, eminent pianist Eddie Higgins always puts his indelible stamp on the keys. The Massachusetts-born and raised musician gravitated to Chicago to study at Northwestern University and stayed twenty years. Countless Windy City club dates together with a long list of greats including Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, and Cannonball Adderley morphed into a twelve-year tenure at the London House, where he led the trio. The moments out of dark, smoky rooms have been spent touring the world and in recording studios as a solo artist, an arranger, or a sideman to the likes of Wayne Shorter, Jack Teagarden, and Coleman Hawkins. Thirty-two years ago, Higgins landed on the sandy shores of Fort Lauderdale and has been plying his deft skills around South Florida ever since. His elegant playing can be heard at various concerts and during the week at the Van Dyke Café on Lincoln Road. Just make sure you catch him in the high season. In the summer, he escapes to Cape Cod.

Film and theater directors and actors, poets and writers have been allowing audience members to have at them for years in frank exchanges about content and merit, seriousness and triviality. Now the Rubell family, boutique hoteliers and major art collectors, are applying the principle to visual artists. Several times a year accomplished artists like Jeff Koons, Andres Serrano, Ross Bleckner, Cindy Sherman, and Damien Hirst will display their work and appear in the cozy Bamboo Room of the Rubell's Beach House hotel to talk about art with fans and perhaps less-than-fans. So far this year's artists have included Rineke Dijkstra, the famed Dutch chronicler of youth at bay (April 25), and Maurizio Cattelan, the impish sculptor who portrayed Pope John Paul II struck down by a meteorite and got the art world all upset (May 2).

Okay, so it's not an album, it's a three-song EP, but then, as they say, it's not the length that matters, it's what you do with it. And this little disc is more an act of protest than a digital artifact. Dismayed by the faux-phenomenon surrounding Brit crit darlings the Strokes, the Hair did what any angry underemployed all-too-inventive band would do: stroked back. Jeff Rollason and friends burned up a batch of stroke-anti-stroke sarcasm to distribute to unsuspecting fans at the Strokes Billboardlive show -- and the songs don't sound half-bad! If, as the original rock critic Lester Bangs claims, David Bowie's stardust-sparkling whine was a response to the carefully posed amateur cool of the Velvet Underground (who the Strokes flagrantly rip off), there's just as much whiny sparkle here. And as legend has it, Strokes pretty-boy frontman Julian Casablancas even signed a copy!

Most of Miami's rap hopefuls dream of the day their big break arrives in the form of a major-label record contract. Once they've signed on the dotted line, so their thinking goes, everything else is automatic: fame and fortune, groupies and gold teeth. Right? Not always. Take local emcee X-Con, whose independently issued single "Whoa! Lil' Mama" generated enough of a buzz to snag a deal with major Elektra. And if you opened up glossy hip-hop mags such as The Source, XXL, and Vibe last winter, you were greeted with full-page ads announcing the imminent arrival of X-Con's debut album. But good luck actually finding a copy of Dirty Life in the stores: The execs over at Elektra unceremoniously dumped X-Con from their roster immediately upon his album's release, cutting all promotional support, even refusing to answer questions about the matter. A somewhat chagrined X-Con isn't talking either about this mysterious career setback; rumors have been flying, citing everything from an aggrieved CEO with a personal beef to an abrupt change of heart over the rapper's commercial prospects. As to the latter charge, the curious can decide for themselves by rooting around Morpheus or other sites. Your downloads won't get X-Con any closer to MTV, but they won't put any change in Elektra's pockets either -- a dirty life, indeed.

This is no joke. Jim Clark, a former WAMI-TV (Channel 61) sports producer with otherwise good credentials, began whipping Channel 9 into shape in the fall of 2001. Under his guidance we can still witness extraordinary performances by one of South Florida's best acting troupes, the Miami Commission, but now we can enjoy the show without the garbled audio. The station also transmits meetings of other bodies that occasionally make important decisions, including the Code Enforcement Board, the Historic and Environmental Preservation Board, the Parks Advisory Board, the Planning Advisory Board, the Urban Development Review Board, the Waterfront Advisory Board, and the Zoning Board. But there's more. Viewers, and perhaps some of our elected officials, can bone up on the basics of our system of government in the United States by watching On Common Ground. This program is funded by various state governments and the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service. Channel 9 also offers the PBS-produced show Crossroads Café, which is designed for people learning English as a second language. For those of us whose first language is English but still need a little more practice, the station presents TV 411, a production of the Adult Literacy Media Alliance. Call for current program times. The station is carried only on cable within Miami city limits, but Clark hopes to have it streaming on the Internet in the near future.

Really, this is more an award for founder/director Robert Rosenberg than it is for a collection of films. As we saw this year with the Miami Film Festival, there's more to creating a successful event than meets the camera's eye. Rosenberg started his fest four years ago with a combination of love, enthusiasm, a good curatorial eye, and a healthy respect for organization. That great mix shows. Each year the festival has grown, but at a controllable pace. The offerings are not so disparate as to lose cohesion, but fresh enough to give us something out of the ordinary. Films were selected well in advance, as were the dates and times they would screen. Thematically this year the issue of identity broke new ground -- gone are those teenage coming-out stories; in are ones about gay men falling for straight women. Not all the films worked, but the festival itself has a firm grasp of its own identity, the best template indeed.

You'll have to provide your own sweat, smoke, and spilled mojitos, but this live document of the Allstars residency at Hoy Como Ayer's Fuácata party (edited and spliced together in dizzying Miles Davis Bitches Brew fashion) is still one of the slinkiest set of grooves around. DJ Le Spam (that's still Andrew Yeomanson to his mother) drops salsa turntable samples and Fidel's speeches over double-time beats; funky guitar riffs butt up against rapid-fire timbales. And somehow the whole concoction coheres, becoming much, much greater than the sum of its parts.

Pit stop not really required, though for joggers and bikers it's ideal. This roadside fresh fruit, vegetable, chocolate brownie, and fruity milkshake stand, located on an otherwise residential stretch of Red Road, is worth a trip all by itself. Located far (and not so far) from the madding crowds of U.S. 1 and the Shops at Sunset Place, and just down the street from Parrot Jungle, Wayside is a true oasis, a quiet little spot with outdoor tables and chairs beneath a lush South African sausage tree and tall, lanky bamboo, where you can bring a friend, a pooch (dogs are welcome), or a good book. The perfect refueling station for the long, strange, never-ending trip we call daily life in South Florida.

A newcomer arrived in Miami. He drove from the airport through the jungle breeze and sharp metallic colors. He switched the radio on and heard: "Lift up your leg! You must!" in a froggy, urgent roar from an artist he'd never heard. The station, he discovered, was WAVS-AM ("The Heartbeat of the Caribbean") and the DJ was Jamusa, who went on to become the newcomer's favorite after-work unwinding guy, rolling out spools of sound by Beres Hammond, Maxie Priest, Inner Circle, Luciano, Shabba Ranks, and Morgan Heritage -- all citizens you're not going to hear real soon on Power Radio or Mambí or the BBC loop from NPR. The newcomer learned that Jamusa has been at this stuff for 40 years and that he recently received a well-deserved testimonial at Stinger's. But when the newcomer tried to speak with him, he couldn't get past one of Jamusa's deputies, who warily observed, "Me tink you tryin' to headrest wit Jamusa, but Jamusa only headrest wit jah!"

Critics have been proclaiming the death of rock and roll for so long now, the genre's aesthetic demise is almost taken as a given. Buzzsaw guitars? Crashing drums? A lovesick singer whipping his microphone through the air? Uh, what else ya got, grandpa? So why the Strokes were able to take those three familiar fuzzed-out chords and whip up so much unalloyed excitement during their January Billboardlive concert is anybody's guess. The reference points were certainly clear enough -- a taste of Lou Reed's jaded snarl here, a dash of Television's dueling Telecasters there, even an old-fashioned sing-along. But somehow it all seemed fresh again, full of crackling energy, and the packed audience ate it up with a sweaty, body-tossing frenzy.

This bar, restaurant, and marina is more than merely a pit stop for hungry tourists on their way to Key West. It's a piece of Islamorada history, a place to bask in the warm sun and the spirit of the Keys, and it's a popular watering hole for locals. Start your visit with a fresh fish sandwich and a cold beer inside the unpretentious restaurant or on its shaded patio. If you can manage to pull yourself away from the table, stagger a few steps through the hot sun over to the Lor-e-lei's waterfront bar, where you can have another cold beer, gaze out at the calm waters, and eavesdrop on the relaxed conversations. If you're looking to cool off, just walk a few steps to the water and take a dip. Closer to sunset the mood changes as the fishing boats glide in after a day out on the flats, breathing new life into the lazy afternoon. The quiet bar begins to bustle as fisherfolk make their way to the barstools to share perfectly accurate, self-deprecating accounts of the day's adventures. There's no better place to watch the sunset. You didn't really want to drive all the way to Key West, did you?

We know he's duller than dirt. Hell, he knows it. And as soon as he loses a game and/or doesn't win a national championship, New Times, shallow and fickle publication that we are, will hold it against him. But until then, Larry, congrats: You da man!

Whatever alternate moniker he's going by at the moment -- Hova, Jiggaman, or simply Shawn Carter -- New York City's Jay-Z remains one of hip-hop's most talented rappers. And while his paeans to all that glitters (preferably if it's wrapped around somebody that glitters) aren't going to win too many fans from the backpacker contingent, even Jay-Z's harshest critics have had to grudgingly concede that his lyrics, misogynist bile and all, are some of the most head-scratchingly inventive around. But who knew the man was also a bona fide entertainer? At his Billboardlive gig this past September, Jay-Z rolled out much more than simply a greatest-hits revue. Where most rap concerts these days consist of little more than an emcee hollering into his mike, trying to avoid tripping over the half-dozen members of his posse also stumbling around the stage, Jay-Z put on a genuine show. He worked the room, flipped his music's dynamics, and kept the audience rooted to his every gesture (even having them mimic his guttural grunts in unison) for his set's entire 90-minute duration. Minus his "Cristal break," of course.

If there's one thing you want coursing through a rock band, besides electricity, it's moxie. Singer Catty Tasso hit upon the name in Maine. She saw a bottle of Moxie, the weird old gentian-root soft drink that still has a cult-like following. "That's us!" she exclaimed, according to husband-guitarist Josh Sonntag. In the 1880s the beverage was touted as a medicine guaranteed to cure almost any ill including loss of manhood, "paralysis, and softening of the brain." Today some of Moxi's devoted fans will testify that the group's raucous music is capable of producing the same miraculous healings. After first trying "Moxy," the couple discovered that spelling pertained to a group of Seventies-era Toronto rockers remembered not for moxie but rather artless volume. That left the diminutive suffix "i," a nice stroke and subtle signifier of the Miami band's Latin identity. (Tasso was born in Chile, Sonntag grew up in Cancún, bassist Raul Ramirez hails from Puerto Rico, and drummer Frankie Martinez is a Miamian.) In a techno town like this Moxi's members will need a special supply of moxie, and perhaps Moxie, to avoid losing their soxies.

It's the train-wreck effect. No one walks by without slowing down, turning their heads. They lean in close to each other and whisper. "Versace," "shot," "steps." Casa Casuarina, now the property of North Carolina telecommunications mogul Peter Loftin, sits in ostentatiously grand Mediterranean style in the middle of Ocean Drive, awaiting its transformation into an unaffordable boutique hotel. Orange tape surrounds the grand fence. Landscapers stride in and out. But no passersby look beyond the steps where the fashion mogul was gunned down on July 15, 1997. And that's where the tourists pose, in twos and threes and fours, in bikinis and shorts, smiling broadly for each others' cameras. After all, nothing says Miami like a murder site.

It's Cultural Friday over on SW Eighth Street, except there isn't really any culture. For that you need to go north a couple blocks and find this eclectic building. Upstairs: lab6 art gallery, showing new and alternative works, usually by locals. Downstairs: PS 742 performance space, featuring new and alternative productions from here and afar. On the sidewalk outside: alternative types looking for camaraderie or a place to drum or strum for the evening. Both upstairs and downstairs accommodate such desires, usually after 10:00 p.m. Next door: artist Carlos Alves's quirky studio and Adalberto Delgado's 6g music studio. The all-white, 3000-square-foot space at lab6 is new. Owners Carlos Suarez de Jesus and Vivian Marthell moved up in October after closing their appropriately titled show "Intimate Addictions: Living Large in Tight Spaces." PS 742 moved into the old space, which director Susan Caraballo transformed into a black-box theater and began presenting Surreal Saturdays and other nights of dance, song, and show. A highlight of the year: Upstairs and down joined together in celebrating Babalu Aye, or San Lazaro, the patron saint of healing, which brought together all alternative forms of Miami for a nightlong bash.

If Latin alternative music never triumphs in South Florida, don't blame Kike Posada. This tireless crusader for la causa is determined to get the word and rock out by any means necessary: promoting events, publishing ¡Boom! magazine, and in July 2001 convincing the Anglo owners of AM station Radio Uno to allow him a few hours for programming Latin rock. The response was so great not only by listeners but by big-time advertisers such as Budweiser that the programming grew and grew -- with Posada joined over the course of the past year by fellow DJs Ramiro Yustini, Linda Carta, Caferro, Pancho, and Giovanni Morales, who now rock well into the night. So if you're looking for a little relief from the bellyaching of bachata or the relentless beat of commercial dance music, flip to the AM side of your dial and cross the border into the Latinalternative nation.

Radio Carnivale is the first Haitian-owned radio station in the nation (not counting pirate stations and two so-called FM subcarriers that can be picked up only by a specially tuned radio). The Kreyol-language station went on the air in early 2001 after last-minute complications: a name and call-letter change and the resignation of its general manager. But more than a year later Radio Carnivale has proved to be an ever-strengthening presence in South Florida's Haitian community. It's starting to make inroads on the traditional brokered-time programming arrangement that has always ruled the Haitian airwaves, and which has always meant a few powerful programmers are licensed to tell the Kreyol-speaking public anything, including slanderous lies about people they dislike and who may have no way of replying. But Radio Carnivale is a genuinely professional operation featuring music, news, and talk shows. The station is attracting more advertisers, and though it has not been able to avoid brokering (selling) some airtime, it has raised the level of Kreyol discourse in Miami.

A reformed journalist who wisely joined our NPR affiliate in 1995, Fields takes the honor this year not because she's done something different but rather because she's been consistent -- consistently good. Her playlist spans decades but is selective and smart. No pop jazz or smooth jazz or acid jazz or faux jazz of any sort. Whether it's bebop, hard bop, postbop, cool, modern, or straight ahead, Fields has an unerring ear for quality, such as Muhal Richard Abrams, George Adams, Pepper Adams, Eric Alexander, Geri Allen, Anita Baker, Chet Baker, Kenny Barron, Gary Bartz, Cindy Blackman, Art Blakey, Carla Bley, Paul Bley, Arthur Blythe, Joanne Brackeen, Michael Brecker, Clifford Brown, Benny Carter, Betty Carter, James Carter, Cyrus Chestnut, Ornette Coleman, Steve Coleman, Alice Coltrane, John Coltrane, Chris Connor, Stanley Cowell, Tadd Dameron, Anthony Davis, Miles Davis, Jack DeJohnette, Eric Dolphy, Lou Donaldson, Kenny Dorham, Billy Eckstine, Marty Ehrlich, Duke Ellington, Kevin Eubanks, Robin Eubanks, Bill Evans, Gil Evans, Jon Faddis, Art Farmer, Ella Fitzgerald, Tommy Flannagan, Chico Freeman, Von Freeman, Curtis Fuller, Kenny Garrett, Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, Dexter Gordon, Charlie Haden, Herbie Hancock, Roy Hargrove, Craig Harris, Stefon Harris, Antonio Hart, Johnny Hartman, Hampton Hawes, Coleman Hawkins, Roy Haynes, Julius Hemphill, Eddie Henderson, Joe Henderson, John Hicks, Billy Higgins, Andrew Hill, Johnny Hodges, Billie Holiday, Dave Holland, Fred Hopkins, Shirley Horn, Lena Horne, Freddie Hubbard, Bobby Hutcherson, Ahmad Jamal, Joseph Jarman, Keith Jarrett, Elvin Jones, Etta Jones, Hank Jones, Philly Joe Jones, Thad Jones, Clifford Jordan, Wynton Kelly, Stan Kenton, Lee Konitz, Oliver Lake, Harold Land, George Lewis, Charles Lloyd, Abbey Lincoln, Joe Lovano, Gloria Lynne, Christian McBride, Steve McCall, Carmen McRae, Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Jason Moran, Lee Morgan, Lawrence "Butch" Morris, Gerry Mulligan, Mark Murphy, David Murray, Melton Mustafa, Oliver Nelson, James Newton, Greg Osby, Charlie Parker, Nicholas Payton, Gary Peacock, Art Pepper, Oscar Peterson, Michel Petrucciani, Chris Potter, Bud Powell, Dewey Redman, Joshua Redman, Dianne Reeves, Rufus Reid, Sam Rivers, Max Roach, Sonny Rollins, Wallace Roney, Gonzalo Rubalcaba, Roswell Rudd, George Russell, David Sanchez, Pharoah Sanders, Maria Schneider, John Scofield, Archie Shepp, Wayne Shorter, Horace Silver, Nina Simone, Jimmy Smith, Lonnie Liston Smith, Dakota Staton, Sonny Stitt, Billy Strayhorn, John Stubblefield, Sun Ra, Art Tatum, Billy Taylor, Cecil Taylor, Toots Thielemans, Leon Thomas, Henry Threadgill, Charles Tolliver, Stanley Turrentine, McCoy Tyner, Chucho Valdes, Sarah Vaughan, Cedar Walton, Dinah Washington, Ben Webster, Joe Williams, Mary Lou Williams, Tony Williams, Cassandra Wilson, Gerald Wilson, Nancy Wilson, Phil Woods, and Lester Young.

He's received this award before. He deserves it again. Not that Snitzer is alone these days in promoting the new, the local, the quality art. No indeed. Genaro Ambrosino's gallery, transplanted to North Miami, continues to showcase just that, as do those gallery-homes that stole much of the scene recently. Still if you only visited one gallery and it was Snitzer's, you would have caught almost every interesting vibe Miami is creating. Passing through his walls, ceilings, floors: the very young Hernan Bas and Bert Rodriguez; the very local Purvis Young; the very Cuban José Bedia and Glexis Novoa; the very diverse Lynn Golob Gelfman and Mette Tommerup; and many many others. Snitzer has also been integral to some of the most exciting art events we've ever seen, such as the site-specific and ephemeral Freedom Rocks and Espirito Santo Bank exhibitions, energy and insight from which continue to reverberate throughout his own space. It's a lot to take in -- thank goodness.

(c)(r)~E(c)(r)~EG1/2?(r)g/~C&!:ê¯(c)(r)~E??y??????????O????f?????f(c)(r)~E(c)(r)~E(c)&!:ê¯?y????(c)&!:ê¯?y??f(c)(r)?????(c)(r)(r)g?f(c)(r)~??(c)&!:ê¯(c)(r)~E??y??????????O????f?????f(c)(r)~E(c)(r)~E(c)&!:ê¯?y????(c)&!:ê¯?y??fE(c)(r)????O????f?????f(c)(r)~E(c)(r)~E(c)&!:ê¯?y????(c)&!:ê¯?y??fE(c)(r)~EG1/2?(r)g/~C&!:ê -- most Thursdays at Churchill's.

The Miami Film Festival's David Poland may have moved on, but it would be a shame if the former director's innovation of showing festival flicks free on the sands of South Beach -- on a 70-foot-high screen beneath the night sky -- went with him. (Organizers of Miami's Brazilian Film Festival have been doing this for years with great success.) Catching Moulin Rouge under those circumstances, with the surrounding crowd of 5000 oohing and ahhing in delight, revealed precisely how that film was meant to be seen: as a larger-than-life spectacle. And if you could tear your eyes away from the sight of a gigantic Nicole Kidman spinning through the air, you'd see the celebrated diversity of Miami come to life: queer couples strolling hand-in-hand past wizened viejos; Beach fashionistas popping open a bottle of wine; Latino families grilling over an open flame; and everybody simply losing themselves in the sheer magic of the cinema. "For the love of film" indeed.

Ever since Chocolate Industries pulled out of town a year or so ago we've been jonesing for a new sonic substance. Luckily local DJ turned entrepreneur Greg Chin, a.k.a. Stryke, has been happy to oblige with his ambitious new Substance Recordings. In addition to his own delicately textured take on techno, Stryke is now imprinting and distributing electronic delights from all over the map by both established talents such as Christian Smith and John Beltran as well as newcomers making their debut with the label, such as Dominican DJ Sheeno. While heavily weighted toward intelligent tech, the Substance motto is "a label without boundaries." Stick out your tongue and open your ears.

New York City had Simon and Garfunkel, so it's only fitting that Miami's most dynamic songwriting duo should have come together in a tribute to our city. Before September 11 Elsten Torres and Juan Carlos Perez Soto had been writing songs separately for years. They had even been writing songs together, off and on, for about two years prior. But when they decided to collaborate on a tune for DESCARGA, a benefit show at Café Nostalgia that marked the one-month anniversary of the terrorist attacks, the partnership took on a new urgency. Moved by a newspaper account of a woman who refused to believe her beloved, killed in the World Trade Center, would never come back, the pair penned one of the most beautiful memorials of that tragic event: "Hasta Que Regreses" ("Until You Return"). Since then the two have been writing and performing together regularly, hitting audiences with the triple threat of songs Torres created for his band Fulano, such as the slinky "Caramelo" ("Candy") and the anthemic "En Nombre De" ("In the Name Of"); Soto's more introspective "Si Te Vas" ("If You Go") and "Duenos de Este Mundo" ("Owners of This World"); and the beautiful "Hasta Que Regreses" as well as the team's lively "Dejala que Baile" ("Let Her Dance") and "Mañana." Now the Magic City has Torres and Perez.

We waited and waited (and waited) for the old Bass Museum to reopen after an extensive, eight-million-dollar renovation and expansion. It turned out to be worth the wait. For more than three years the City of Miami Beach, which owns the museum, suffered through interminable, costly construction problems. First the roof fell in. Then a new concrete floor came crashing down from its broken support beams. Then the new climate-control system had to be completely retooled. Then a water valve burst and soaked the hardwood floors. Then the new roof began to leak. It was as if Job were building the museum. But now that it's open (we hope for good), the Bass is a beautiful structure to behold, thanks to the design of Japanese architect Arata Isozaki. Added to the old Bass's 11,000 square feet is a skylight-connected new wing with twice the room and a spectacular 22-foot ceiling in the second-floor gallery. The lighting is better too. The addition of a café, outside terrace, and typically overpriced gift shop complete the Bass's transformation into a truly modern exhibition space.

McGrath, a Miami Beach resident and professor at Florida International University, moved here a few years ago and then set for himself a Whitmanesque challenge: Write a defining poem about his adopted home state. And then he had the temerity to call it "The Florida Poem." This piece, a highlight of the book, is long, sardonic, and conversational, and as the poem threads its way through the conquistadors and swamp-draining history it is often sad. But McGrath is a romantic optimist, and so he offers hope: "And yet, all it takes/is a day at the beach/to see the slate scrubbed clean/and scribbled anew/by the beautiful coquinas, to witness/the laws of hydraulics rendered moot by the munificent/tranquility of their variegated colonies/thriving amid the chaos of wave-break and overwash."

Who knew Desi Arnaz would come back as a Brit-pop-loving hipster with a penchant for vintage clothes? Only a kid who grew up in Miami could bring such left-field treatment to classics "Babalú" and "Como Fue." Moreno may have a face that teenyboppers love, but his voice is for the ages. Whether in the studio with avant-Latino producer Andres Levin or onstage surrounded by screaming pre-fans, Moreno careens from Clasica 92 (WCMQ-FM 92.3)-style schmaltz to Beatles-with-a-Latin-tinge rock, colliding along the way with the 21st-century sensibility of nuestra america.

Love, like everything else, has imitations, but Dean Fields is the real deal. We just hope we can keep him here, at least for a little while. The curly-topped Virginian has stopped off in Miami for a little booklearnin', but his heart is in his music and it shows. Fields conveys the deepest feeling with the sparest of arrangements, his guitar a simple undercurrent to the emotional surge of his clear, mournful voice. If this is altfolk, we're all for it.

There can't really be a more authentic South Beach tale than the rise of Chris Paciello, the New York small-time mobster who headed to Florida and glamorously reinvented himself as the crown prince of clubland. Splashed across the gossip pages, there he was canoodling with supermodels, dancing with Madonna, downing shots alongside Dennis Rodman inside his nightclubs Liquid and Bar Room, and at his restaurant Joia. It was quite a life -- that is until his goomba past in Staten Island caught up with him in the form of a murder indictment. Michele McPhee chronicles it all in a hard-boiled noir style whose dime-store prose is often as overheated as the lurid tales themselves. Given the literary attention span of most of South Beach's habitues, what could be more appropriate?

This Peruvian native likes intimacy. He uses words (English and Spanish), everyday items, penciled sketches, postcard-size spaces, kinetic video, even entire houses to bring us into the world of the private life. Cordova has described his art as a diary, but his personal life reflects our own colorful, diverse, alienated Miami life, which is one reason his works are so memorable. He's only in his early thirties but already he has left his mark all over our city. His miniature paintings are his trademark so far, but you've encountered Cordova in many other forms. He was part of Miami Art Museum's December video installation (along with an earlier MoCA video show), and his arrangements incorporating stereo bits and car tires were an ingredient in the Kevin Bruk Gallery's "Summer Tossed Salad" exhibit. Cordova has also joined the growing ranks of artists-as-curators. He organized the creatively titled and executed "You were always on my mind" at Ambrosino Gallery, and together with artist Eugenia Vargas took over her home in North Miami and filled it with the intimate and quirky works of seventeen local artists for "Homewreckers: It's Over," one of Miami's first "home shows." For being both at the forefront of creating art and standing behind interesting local artists, Cordova gets our nod this year.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to these three. R-E-S-P-E-C-T so rare for women in the compas industry. Saima, sisters Sabine, Yves, and Martine Francoeur, got tired of serving as back-up singers to a slew of male stars, so they struck out in search of their own spotlight. You'll still hear their roof-off-the-house voices on T-Vice tracks, but the North Miami ladies have proved they can pack their heat with their CD Chale. Last October the trio joined 25 other Haitian artists at a benefit for victims of September 11 to sing the song written by their father, esteemed compas composer Assade Francoeur, "Lavi Telman Kout" ("Life Is Short"). Whether getting down with compas-muffin, getting dirty with hip-hop, or getting serious with a September 11 ballad, the Saima sisters have the pipes and the pip to take on any all-male Haitian outfit anytime.

DJs Oscar G (Space) and Ralph Falcon (Billboardlive) first hit the scene in 1997 with the club classic "Fired Up." In 1999 they avoided the sophomore slump by releasing "Body," a smash hit that swept across dance floors worldwide. Now the duo, along with singer Tamara, have scored again with their latest album Super California, which promises to continue their winning streak with a fresh slew of vocal-driven house that's sure to get the remix treatment. The first single off the new album, "You Got Me (Burnin' Up)," has already enjoyed a number-one slot on Billboard's dance charts, and other tracks are sure to follow. Both DJs enjoy popular residencies here in Miami and are known for their harder edge when it comes to spinning live. But don't blame the boys for cashing in on the vocal style the Funky Green Dogs are making soar.

At the risk of starting a family feud, we'll venture to say that it isn't the accomplished Robert Thiele who's the true shining art star in town. It's Robert's own daughter Kristen, who's returned home from a spell in Chicago to take a studio at Lincoln Road's ArtCenter South Florida. And the Windy City's loss is definitely our gain. Kristen's whimsical use of anthropomorphic cats and dogs may be initially, intentionally goofy and cartoonish, but it's also moving. Like vintage Fifties Peanuts strips, her work disarms with its misleading simplicity and then turns downright sublime. Her latest series, "The Masters," transposes these furry critters into a slew of hallowed works. You'll never look at Mona Lisa the same way again.

You know his work. Or maybe you don't know that you know. Rodriguez is rather hard to keep an eye on sometimes. Like his piece for what turned out to be the Art-Basel-replacement-event of the year at the Bass Museum, "globe>miami>island." His was the music you heard in the freight elevator, on the outside door of which were written the words "The End," those chords from the ending of movies, from The Godfather, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the like. Elevator music indeed. You may know that you know Norberto (Bert) Rodriguez, the recent New World School of the Arts grad who also helps take care of the Rubell collection. Easier to see but maybe not so easy to grasp was his first solo show in 2000, "Bert Rodriguez: A Pre-Career Retrospective" -- wrap your brain around that witty title from a 25-year-old -- a Duchampian exhibit with child's drawings, ready-made objects (not a urinal but a signed toilet-cleaner brush), and clever captions. That was Bert you saw at the "Skins" exhibit at the Dorsch Gallery when you gazed at all those prints of a topless LaToya Jackson on the bathroom walls. Bert too at MoCA's "Making Art in Miami: Travels in Hyperreality," one of the inaugural museum shows to showcase young Miami talent. But maybe you still don't know him. That's okay. His "pre-career" just ended. Now you have time to watch him emerge.

Frankly, Jake ain't that little, but given the scarcity of old-fashioned bass-slappin' rock and roll outfits in these parts, we're not going to nit-pick. And when this slickly coifed, tattooed, and sideburned band gets a good head of steam going, there's no time for semantics; best to just grab your partner and hit the dance floor. True, there's nothing particularly earthshaking going on in the Boss Tones' loving salute to their Fifties forebears, but try telling that to the retro-garbed couples gleefully spinning around Churchill's whenever this group hits the stage there.

For too long, rap in Miami was synonymous in the nation-at-large's mind with Luke's 2 Live Crew. And given that ol' Uncle Luke has been little more than an embarrassing punch line for nigh on a decade now, the ascension of Trick Daddy's gleaming gold smile to MTV is more than welcome. But besides putting Miami back on the hip-hop map with his Thugs Are Us album, Trick also taught the rest of the country a thing or two about his unique Southern flavor. In rapping over sparse, staccato beats, Trick's hypnotic molasses-timbred drawl commanded attention, even when he was just capping off a verse with a signature grunt. Thuggery never sounded so inviting.

The title of this author's fifth book of poetry, The Mastery Impulse, forthcoming from Carnegie-Mellon University Press, pretty much sums it up: Pau-Llosa has got it down. Whether he's writing poetry, short fiction, or art criticism, this Miami Cuban knows how to reach his local as well as international audience. And once grabbed, we're kept. Pau-Llosa's first three poetry collections -- Sorting Metaphors, Bread of the Imagined, and Cuba -- earned him our respect with this same award in 1998. His continued dedication to regional emphasis in 1999's Vereda Tropical, comprising poems such as "View of Miami Across Biscayne Bay from the Rusty Pelican" or "Books and Books," which pays homage to one of our most respected bookstores, ensures him our devotion. As "the fisher of metaphors/that bind the layered water/to bark and fronds," Pau-Llosa becomes not only the literary ombudsman of this strange new world, he succeeds in documenting the mystery of the Magic City.

Why Elaine? Here's one reason: At a recent Perry Ellis fashion show, this South Beach diva famous for her killer Cher impression had the unenviable task of working the crowd following the parade of beauties who had just pranced down the runway. The fashion elites, with their low tolerance for tacky, were restless. Rather than resort to the common drag conceit of outrageousness, Elaine appeared in a stylish gold evening gown, dazzling earrings, and a perfect Sixties beehive. She was classy not trashy. As she well knows, drag is more than just shock value. It's about performance and poise. Flawless in her appearance, Elaine knows there's something even more important: being the consummate hostess. That she is.

The Caribbean, claims Cuban writer Antonio Benitez-Rojo, is a meta-archipelago: a giant sponge spiraling out from the Caribbean Sea to Europe, Africa, Asia, the Middle East, the Americas, the universe, endlessly repeating. The Caribbean, in short, is the rhythmic center of the world. And so the Afro-Polyphonic World Orchestra, an ambitious sixteen-piece multicultural mélange, is a Caribbean band in the most expansive sense -- the polyrhythmic pulse of the universe. Founded by Dominican-born Cuban-American José Elias Mateo and featuring musicians and guest composers from all points converging on and emerging from the Caribbean, the Afro-Polyphonic World Orchestra plays every deep dark beautiful sound ever heard all at once. If the inspiration is diasporic -- the scattering of peoples like seeds -- the resulting concerts are multiculturalism in full bloom.

For the purist, Miami has a wealth of fine jazz musicians who know their way around an Ellington composition or conserve the stylistic touches of Dizzy, Miles, or Coltrane. Jesse Jones, Jr., Melton Mustafa, Randy Gerber, and Paquito Hechavarria are just a few of the virtuosos who keep the flame of jazz alive in the city. Enter the young Turks in the Spam Allstars, a lanky crew of polyester hipsters who brandish trombones, saxophone, and timbales (the lineup changes often). Their regular Fuácata jams at Hoy Como Ayer are held together by the vinyl rhythms of Andrew Yeomanson (DJ Le Spam). Doubtless they are a party band, but their nonstop sets of extended improvisations mix African, Latin, and electronica influences into a concoction that defies all categories. And the Spams never fail to uplift and elevate their minions. While you'll likely never hear "A Night in Tunisia" at a Spam show, you will get a zinging set of polyrhythmic improvisations that are at the heart of jazz.

Was that a wink? Is she flirting with me? Man, she seems happy tonight. Maybe she's tipsy. No, I think she's just flirting with me. Viewers of WSVN's nightly newscasts can be excused for wondering if Laurie Jennings is communicating directly with them via the tube. When she began at Channel 7 in February 1998, she was a mechanically rigid human automaton improbably paired with blowhard Rick Sanchez. After the voluble Sanchez split for MSNBC, Jennings began a subtle but noticeable transformation, from straightlaced news reader to emotive broadcaster with personality. Those saucy little winks. The lead-in comments spiced with attitude. A relaxed posture that hinted at seduction. The change has been a bit unsettling, but ultimately it's just what we want and expect in our love-hate relationship with Seven News, the big show.

Oh, happy dilemma. More than one indie night to choose from. More than two! More than three! This past year has been a great one for the local indie pop scene, with long-brewing enthusiasm finally coming to a boil. But savvy disc-curating sets PopLife above the rest, mixing deep, dark retro with the most daring volleys at the vanguard of new sound. And the setting at Piccadilly Garden doesn't hurt either. The dark wood and lugubrious booths indoors serve as the perfect backdrop for scary cool new music spun by Aramis Lorie and Ray Milian, while the white-walled hip-hop room -- more like a hip-hop booth -- makes it feel like you're dancing inside a beat box with DJ Le Spam. And the outdoor patio allows new live bands and their fans to breathe under the watchful eyes of door personalities Paola Milian and Barbara Basti. Ah, PopLife. That's the good life.

If there were a category for best hair on television, Schmidt would win hands down. That pompadour of his rises at least two feet above his head. Even more impressive is his voice: deep, serious, pontifical. Schmidt could make a routine Krome Avenue car crash sound as important as the fall of the Soviet Union. In fact that's exactly what he's done for NBC 6 on numerous occasions. In fact Schmidt comes across as so authoritative he may even startle himself. As he told one of our colleagues: "Can you believe I'm actually reading the news and that people actually believe what I'm saying?" Sure, man. Absolutely. The potent combination of voice and hair is enough for us to predict big things for this swarthy Wesleyan grad. We're talking national news. Stone Phillips, watch your back.

The table of contents in this four-by-five-and-a-half-inch monthly magazine tells the story. Bartender of the month. DJ of the month. Artist, chef, and model of the month. Concierge of the month. Doorman of the month. Bulwarks of our community. The front line in our noble struggle for the dollars of the rich and often not famous. In their own words. How does Stacey, an Aquarius who works the door at a strip club for women, keep himself entertained? "My job at La Bare pretty much does that," he explains. Each issue the "What's your ego trip?" page, in which local cognoscenti answer that bold question, presents yet another window on our bodies, ourselves, our naked souls. "A full glass of Bacardi 8 with a full breasted Latina," responds an assistant marketing manager for Bacardi. "Fashion consulting," replies a fashion consultant. "Cutting hair," reveals a haircutter. But Ego Trip cuts even deeper with its regular "Fifteen minutes of fame" interview. Look out, Michael Putney. Here comes the prince of South Florida reporting, the journalist still known as Buster, who recently confronted Miami Beach Mayor David Dermer in a historic Q&A. Buster: "During a commission meeting you said chances are there're just as many people doing illegal drugs at the Mix as there are at the Delano." Dermer: "There are some [clubs] that were bad and there were some that were good. I think Pump was actually one that had a pretty good record.... Since the nightlife industry is so important to the city, we want to make sure it's done properly." Ego Trip could be considered an authority on that topic, thanks to experts such as millionaire former club owner Shawn Lewis, who told New Times he bought the magazine in late 2000. Lewis left the South Beach club industry in early 2001 after a nasty legal dispute with former business partners. But such woes are nothing a cheerful disposition and a keen astrological awareness can't cure. "Keep smiling," advises publisher Buzzy Sklar, "because you never know when you might end up in Ego Trip magazine."

You left/and since you left, Castro lost/Miami, no/we hope you'll stay/(Making beautiful salsa/Showing us how it's done)/You left/and since you left CANF is lost/what does it mean?/we hope you'll stay/And now you are the king/of the Hialeah festival in the spring/And now you are the king/of the Hialeah festival in the spring/You've got to be/on top of the ball/on top of the ball/You've got to be/on top of the ball/on top of the ball

There isn't much competition for this category in a majority Latin county, but that's not Volumen Cero's fault. It's been doing all it can to give us a good name. These hard-working boys, with their emo-gothy-hard-rock-en-español (except-often-in-English) sound, have been playing seriously, recording seriously, touring seriously, showing up on time seriously enough to warrant them some serious national attention. Maybe with the imminent release of their second CD it'll happen. In the meantime singer and bassist Luis Tamblay, drummer Fernando Sanchez, and guitarists Marthin Chan and Cristian Escuti have earned our respect. Come on, Miami, show yours.

According to OpenZine editors Humby and Kiki Valdes, this is an "urban subculture magazine." Did you know Destro is back? Bet you didn't even know Destro had left. (That's the name of a straight-edge rock band.) You'd be up on it had you been reading this zine. Just like you'd be privy to what's going on in the head of Kendall's own DJ EFN. "Yo, sometimes I'm like turn off that rock shit," he admitted in one OpenZine interview. "I can't even listen to salsa. My mind is strictly on hip-hop. As much as I love other types of music, I do have my periods where I only want hip-hop." Sons of Cuban immigrants who settled in New Jersey, the Miami-based Valdes brothers started their zine as a photocopied handout in the early Nineties. Humby, a 26-year-old graphic designer, first devoted it to punk/hardcore. Kiki, a 22-year-old painter, later inspired him to include hip-hop, "but with a punk attitude," the kid bro insists. It now is a glossy publication with some color pages (along with the Web presence). A news section keeps graffitiheads, art freaks, and all homies informed of important developments from MIA to NYC. Did you know, for example, that a New Jersey high-school teacher shut down students painting a mural of dead rappers Eazy-E, Tupac Shakur, B.I.G., and Big Pun? One memorable 64-page edition in 1998 included a spread on graffiti art in Miami and, as the editors promoted it, "a funny story about the Cuban Mafia." Three bucks an issue. Order or subscribe online.

Offense may fill the seats but defense fills the trophy case. UM can thank senior safety Ed Reed for playing a major role in delivering the 'Canes' fifth national championship. He led UM with 9 interceptions this year and a school-record 21 for his career there. With Reed calling and delivering the shots, the 'Canes finished the year first in scoring defense (9.4 points per game), shutouts (3), interceptions (27), and forced turnovers (45). Reed also came through with the defining play of the season when he ripped the ball from defensive tackle Matt Walters and romped 80 yards for the dagger that killed Boston College's hopes for an upset.

This award wasn't about to go to Pavel Bure, that's for sure, even if the Panthers hadn't traded the sulking Russian wingman to the Rangers in exchange for -- for, well, absolutely nothing. Bure's simmering discontent affected the whole team and kept the Panthers from seriously improving. Now, with him gone, the squad can build around its strengths, the most promising of which is Luongo. The one and only time the Panthers achieved success, including a trip to the Stanley Cup finals, was when a solid goaltender anchored a team of workmanlike scrappers. The goalie back then was named Vanbiesbrouck. Now, at the start of an era free of plastic rats raining down on the ice, Luongo is positioned to shine.

Following a trade from New Orleans, Williams comes to Miami as a bit of a weirdo (he used to keep his helmet on while signing autographs) and a bit of a slacker (so underwhelmed were the Saints with Williams they drafted another running back, in the first round, only one year after drafting Williams). Yet the Dolphins have every reason to expect great things from this youngster. The Heisman Trophy winner from Texas finally gives the Fish the offense they've needed for years, or at least since Jimmy Johnson returned to town: a big-time running back to anchor a pass-dependent offense. If Williams performs even marginally up to expectations, the Dolphins' offense should finally score some points. Even in the playoffs.

Anyone who needed proof that Zo is the heart, soul, and muscle of the Miami Heat got it when the most intense center in the NBA was knocked out of most of the 2000 season by a kidney ailment. He returned, half-strength, at the beginning of the 2001 season to a team as shaky as he was. But then the star power came through when a reinvigorated Zo rallied a ragged team in the second half of the season, turning an abysmal losing streak into a real shot at the playoffs. That even made the dour Pat Riley crack a courtside smile.

On a young team loaded with prospects and emerging pitching talent, we especially like the promise that Beckett holds. The right-handed pitcher from Spring, Texas, was named USA Today's high-school pitcher of the year in 1999. He was also the first prep pitcher drafted by the Marlins in the first round. After starting last season with the AA Portland (Maine) Sea Dogs, Beckett debuted in the major leagues in September. Immediately he proved he belonged, allowing only one hit in six innings in a victory over the Cubs. In four starts Beckett allowed only one-and-a-half earned runs and struck out an average of one batter every inning. That was good enough to be named the team's rookie of the year by area sportswriters. That's no small achievement on this young team. And Beckett is no small talent.

You know there's something going on when 600 people turn out to watch a football game featuring four-year-olds. Yet that's what happens, dependably, when these two Liberty City parks play each other in Pop Warner football. No matter what the weight class, from the four-year-old pee wees up to the fifteen-year-old midgets, a game between Gwen Cherry and Liberty City generates an astounding amount of community interest. It's not uncommon for dedicated fans to wager a thousand dollars or more on their teams. In the past few seasons Gwen Cherry has held the upper hand, winning most of the games and even winning a national championship last year in the 110-pound weight class. But in Hadley Park, where the Warriors play, they've hardly abandoned hope. "We started the whole thing," one Warriors booster crows. "Our program was the first program in the inner city. Gwen Cherry was a spinoff from us, and they got all the money from the [Greater Miami] Boys and Girls Club and all these grants from the county so now they've got better uniforms and better equipment and that means they're getting better players. But the one thing they don't have, the one thing they'll never have, is Warrior pride. And without that? Shit, man, you don't got nothin'."

After buying the dismantled 1997 World Series champion Marlins from H. Wayne Huizenga, John Henry made lots of promises to South Florida baseball fans, a couple of which he actually kept. In the process he proved the fallacy of the expansion-team philosophy: Add more teams because TV needs more sports and fans will come. He also proved that, these days at least, megamillionaires have a hard time convincing the public of the need to underwrite new sports stadiums, even when they issue threats and plead a kind of rich man's poverty. So Henry sold the Marlins to Jeff Loria for $158.5 million and disappeared from Miami-Dade. But not before plunking down $600 million to purchase the Boston Red Sox.

We like Don Noe for what he is not. He's not a bumbling grandpa bouncing through the low and high temperatures. Nor is he a slinky siren in a miniskirt relaying the boating conditions in a sweater tight enough to impede speech. He's just a no-nonsense guy, friendly enough but with a reliable weather forecast delivered quickly and without pretense. That's all we ask. Noe is no mere weather reader. He's a certified meteorologist, meaning he knows about the science of weather patterns. Armed with this knowledge, he shines brightest when facing a crisis, such as a hurricane, which fortunately we haven't had in a while. When we do, as we inevitably will, we trust Noe to steer us through it calmly, professionally, and capably.

Reasons the loquacious, pugnacious, and thoroughly informed emcee of Habla el Pueblo (The People Speak) likes his new home at WKAT-AM (1360), Radio Uno: "It's very professional. There's no interference from the management." Compared to, say, WWFE-AM (670), La Poderosa, whose owner canceled Milian's show this past November after the host criticized Miami City Commission candidate Angel Gonzalez. (Gonzalez then paid the station several thousand dollars to use Milian's time slot for campaigning.) Milian had inherited the show on La Poderosa from his father Emilio, whose legs were blown off by a bomb in 1976 after he criticized the violent tactics of anti-Castro extremists. A former Broward County assistant state prosecutor, Milian peppers his aggressive style of public-policy debate with the most elevated put-downs on the Spanish-language AM dial. (Habla el Pueblo airs on WKAT weekdays from noon to 1:00 p.m.) During one show about allegations that Jackson Memorial Hospital is saving money for buildings rather than spending it on suffering patients, Milian offered a characteristically sharp simile: "It's like having money in the bank while your relatives are dying of hunger." He recently upbraided a caller with this: "I came here to live freely, not to live in another dictatorship. The only thing evil needs to triumph is for us to remain silent." Staying quiet is not in Al Milian's program, which he sees as a tool for pounding the moral turpitude out of Miami-Dade's sleazy ancien régime. "We're going to overcome the corrupt bastards," he assures between shows. "I have the sledgehammer."

And girlfriend, we do mean personality. Although Mark Moseley did a decent job for years pretending to be queer, Lita lit up the airwaves with tough-as-nails humor only a real big queen could hammer home. Whether dispensing no-nonsense fashion sense to Hialeah hootchies or dishing the dirt on that tacky J-Lo, Lita told it like it is. We don't care if she did write a column for that other weekly. In these sensitive post 9/11 times, who else dared go where Lita went, beyond bad taste to the cavities where the vulgar becomes sublime? Who else could shut up the whole morning crew with tales of playing hide-the-bin-laden in a boyfriend's deep dark caves? We'll miss Lita so.

Ninoska isn't for everyone, but unlike most of her peers in the anti-Castro radio business, she's not a megalomaniac and she isn't using her high-profile platform as much for her own career advancement as for communicating her passionately held beliefs about her homeland. Ninoska is in fact a good communicator and her shows have more flavor than the endless other exile call-in programs, simply because she makes an effort to be in touch with real Cubans, both on and off the island. These days she doesn't do as much of what made her famous -- those often hilarious crank phone calls to Cuba meant to expose the foibles of self-important Communist Party officials and of the system they uphold. But Ninoska, despite a predictably Evil Fidel spin on everything, still manages to be more on top of Cuba-related events and trends than just about any other exile talk-show host anywhere.

Somogyi gets the nod for her droll, inventive Fifties design scheme, in itself a hilarious social critique. From nightmarish polka dots and pony skirts to her big-shouldered suits for the men, the New York designer brought Red Herring an added level of comedy and social commentary. Somogyi has tailored her craft to this era before. She was the one who dressed up Kathleen Turner as Tallulah Bankhead at the Coconut Grove Playhouse and sent us back, through ball gowns, to Forties post-war America.

Using an all white-set and a series of mobile screens, Becker created an ever-shifting fun house of mobile space, a perfect setting for Lee Blessing's elusive, dreamlike comedy that offered director Michael Bigelow Dixon plenty of staging opportunities. The space allowed the play itself to expand into the marvelous production that it was. If you wanted to see how it's done, this was the perfect learning ground.

This Palm Beach County company serves up challenging productions with a nice blend of local and New York actors and a welcome infusion of very talented directors and designers from across the nation. Artistic director Louis Tyrrell has an excellent instinct for play selection and maintains close relationships with several important playwrights. The result is a sophisticated level of theater artistry that sets the standard in South Florida. Some highlights this season: the sly and sophisticated comedy Red Herring, set during the McCarthy era (hey, red baiting can be a hoot!), and Lee Blessing's Black Sheep, also a dark comedy that takes aim at racial relations, the idle rich, and insipid pop culture (hey, maybe it's American culture in general that's a hoot!).

More kudos for the little Florida Stage that could. But here's why: Stephen G. Anthony, Patricia Dalen, Suzanne Grodner, Kendra Kassebaum, Johnathan F. McClain, and Gordon McConnell. This outstanding cast served up an endless stream of hilarious yet sometimes touching characters in this black comedy, from Anthony's tortured G-man to Grodner's wacky Mrs. McCarthy, the wife of Senator Joe, to Kassebaum's smoldering, sex-hungry good girl. This romp of a production included romance and intrigue, spies and bagmen, nuclear secrets and red scares, hard liquor and clever parody. The cast took the basket of outrageous thematic goodies and ran with spirit, hilarity, wit, and panache. Can't wait for more.

What's the difference between a black box and a full theater? Size, yes. The first is much more intimate. But in the right hands a black-box experience becomes something entirely new. Like when a director decides to ignore the confines of a stage and work with the space as a whole. Like when homegrown writer/director Michael John Garces decides to use Juggerknot's Biscayne Boulevard box for his one-act audiovideo, which blew away just about everything else produced in this town. The other half of the show, land, as well as most stuff performed at Juggerknot, was top-notch, but audiovideo stands alone. We didn't watch actors on a stage. We watched two teenage boys move around our literal and metaphorical basement as they discussed what to do with a lost sex videotape they had made. The directing was so tight, the acting so skilled (bravo to Oscar Isaac and David Perez), the dialogue so clever (the speech is often fragmentary, the boys finish each others' sentences, or let physical acts do the talking) that the audience was left wondering just exactly what they had seen -- that was not simply theater, was it? No, it was simply great.

The trick of a successful comedy is to walk the fine line between life and art, which the local acting troupe Mad Cat did so humorously in their third production, Here in My Car. It cleverly combined a bit of Melrose Place with a healthy dose of The Real World and plunked it down in Miami. This original piece, penned by Ivonne Azurdia and Paul Tei, was a series of vignettes that connected the loves and lives of eleven Miamians. All the action took place in an early-Eighties model Honda, an artifice that gave the piece cohesiveness and a dramatic starting and finishing point. The two writers, approximately ten years apart in age, brought an interesting blend of decades to the writing: references to Paul McCartney and Wings and Less Than Zero spliced with talk of Green Day and Blink-182. What kept Here in My Car from being a narcissistic, "Hey! A Play About Me and My Friends!" production was Tei's excellent direction and the Mad Cats themselves, one of the most spontaneous and adventurous group of actors Miami has to offer.

As Max, a spoiled rich kid turned film critic, Tei turned in an over-the-top performance that stole the show, no small feat in a very strong cast and very strong play. But Tei's done it before, in the fabulous Popcorn last year at GableStage and other productions around town. It was time, however, for Tei to break mold and this year he did, pushing into new emotional territory in his own Mad Cat company's dark tale, Portrait, and as the tortured, sarcastic, vodka-swilling Sergio in New Theatre's Smithereens. Yet Tei's ability to wring humor out of twisted situations is one of his best assets, and as the terminally juvenile Max he did just that, giving South Florida a genuine treat.

Thomas was outstanding as Libby Price, a world-weary black woman adrift in the Southern racial struggles of the Sixties in this interesting production. ("Bee-luther-hatchee" is early twentieth-century African-American slang for a faraway, damnable place, the next station after the stop for Hell.) This was the New York-based actress's first stop in South Florida, and her emotionally compelling work was a model of simplicity and clarity, and left an indelible mark on the memory. With more such roles, maybe we'll be fortunate enough to see more of Thomas on our stages.

Serving up a rogues' gallery of local Miami characters, Castellanos showed off his considerable performing and writing gifts in one of the theater season's highlights. Donning different hats, literally, Castellanos took on the accent, the movements, indeed the appearance of a Haitian jitney driver, a small-time Wynwood ("Wynwooood") Puerto Rican drug dealer, a Cuban vendor, a Hialeah teenager, a black woman, Jamaican man, Jewban grandfather. With humor and an authentic feel for the streets, Castellanos brought home the wonderful diversity that is Miami in the cozy Encore Room at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, a bravura theatrical experience sponsored by the Miami Light Project.

Roza was memorable as a tightly wound professional woman in Manhattan being stalked by a would-be suitor. Her emotional range and willingness to explore the character's ugly sides helped turn Rebecca Gilman's issue-driven potboiler into a dark, troubling character study. We've seen Roza before in other psychological dramas, such as Extremities, where she played a rape victim who turns the tables on the perpetrator, literally and emotionally trapping her tormentor; and in her disturbing performance in Medea Redux (the title tells you something), one of three plays in Bash by Neil LaBute, where she revealed a simultaneous vulnerability and hardness that made us remember why watching live performances by talented actors is a riveting experience.

Haig's performance in this show (at the Mosaic Theatre in Plantation) was little seen but indelible. An insular literature professor imprisoned in war-torn Beirut, chained in place for the entire play, Haig could barely move, not even stand, but nevertheless managed to conjure up a moving, nuanced portrait of a limited, conflicted man who discovers a well of strength he never knew existed. As a medieval scholar, Haig's character initially seems the frail one, a man living through his ancient texts in an ivory tower into which harsh reality never makes its way. But Haig reveals a man capable of something more, and shows us a strength derived from words, not force. Haig has always chosen intelligent roles, so it's worth your while to choose his performances whenever they pop up.

And the winner is.... Once again the award goes to Adler for his range of work and the professionalism with which it is produced. From gritty naturalism in the creepy and mind-bending Boy Gets Girl to lyrical musical drama in The Dead to the brilliant absurdism of Edward Albee's The Play About the Baby, Adler moves all over the stylistic map and handles each stop with assurance. His direction is marked by clarity, energy, and a palpable love for the actor's craft. It's no coincidence that many actors shine in his productions. Until someone else manages all this in one season, the crown remains firmly planted.

On a metaphorical sea four rafters (a soldier, an explorer, a priest, and an archetypal female) became more than refugees -- they grew into symbols of rebirth and redemption in Teatro Avante's rendition of Colombian playwright José Assad's Cenizas Sobre el Mar (Ashes on the Sea). An enigmatic elixir of magical realism and theater of the absurd, the play, written by Assad in 1989 to commemorate the 500-year anniversary of the so-called discovery of America, concerned four rafters who have been adrift at sea for 100 years. They are symbols of Latin America as a continent of people uprooted, at war, searching, creating and re-creating identities. The key to the play's success? The trinity of theater's most fundamental elements: script, set, and performance. Assad's wonderfully poetic text worked like waves, using the ebb and flow of fixed refrains to give it cohesiveness. Ingeniously, set designer Leandro Soto, an accomplished Cuban visual artist himself, wove together shells, rags, and rope in a circle on the floor, making the raft a blank canvas rather than the site for a real voyage. The actors managed to shape-shift yet remain recognizable. They were at once thumb-sucking and ornery children, raving madmen, soldiers, travelers, and lovers. Cenizas Sobre el Mar revived and reinvigorated the age-old symbol of the sea as the universal metaphor for life, travel, birth, passage, and death. We were lucky to have it wash up on our shores.

Who's afraid of putting on Edward Albee? Not GableStage. And this production of the playwright's mind-bending verbal labyrinth was a dizzying, enigmatic tour de force. Strong all around, from Joseph Adler's crisp staging through the tight and engrossing performances (including some nifty work from John Felix and Cynthia Caquelin). Add to the mix the excellent work of Jeff Quinn, Daniela Schwimmer, and Nat Rauch -- for sets/lighting, costumes, and sound respectively -- and what you get is hard to beat, even if it were competing in a theatrical capital.

Olympic gold medalist and five-time world champion Leonard has done what retired fighters just don't do. He's crossed over from the exploited to the exploiter. He has become a boxing promoter. But Leonard isn't much like the parasitic thugs who control professional pugilism. He says he wants to make boxing shows more competitive instead of producing snoozers staged to build up the records of contenders. In two programs so far this year at the American Airlines Arena, both televised on ESPN2, Sugar Ray Leonard Boxing delivered two IBA world-title fights, including Roy Jones, Jr.'s first-ever bout in Miami, and some quality undercard bouts. You can't give Leonard all the credit for raising the boxing profile in Miami. The first fight program at the AAA -- Don King's Felix Trinidad-Mamadou Thiam matchup in July 2000 -- sold out, and the regular televised shows at Miccosukee Indian Gaming aren't all bad. Some sportswriters are saying Miami is making a comeback as a major fight venue. And the presence of Leonard, who recently signed Miami-based Cuban star Diobelys Hurtado, is definitely a catalyst.

At any given moment, in some time zone, a fashion show is under way. Don't believe us? Just click your cable remote to Fashion TV and observe 24 solid hours a day of runway shows, complete with strutting models, over-the-top haute couture, and bowing designers. The eye candy is equal-opportunity -- there's just as much beef- as cheesecake on display -- and the segments even get historical (ah, so that's what Versace's fall 1999 line looked like). Captured by video crews at events from downtown New York to downtown Moscow, shipped back to FTV's Miami Beach studio, and then beamed around the globe by more than 30 satellites, it's enough to make a fashionista's heart flutter. True, not everyone needs a steady diet of runway walkers. In that case just crank up your television's volume and discover one of our city's best unsung radio stations, spinning 24 uninterrupted hours of cutting-edge beats, down-tempo hip-hop, and a dash of underground rock and roll. (Check your local cable listings for Fashion TV's channel.)

Miami has had its fair share of zines and Websites vying to be the source when it comes to covering nightlife. Clubhoppers comes closest to earning the title. Listing various venues and acts is no difficult task; anyone with e-mail or a fax machine can obtain the info and regurgitate it for the public. Presenting the information with flair, humor, and hilarious photos sets Clubhoppers apart. Its evening guides, accurate and current, are indispensable, but it's the weekly photographs that put this site over the top. Moments of intoxicated bliss, gregarious foreplay, law-enforcement confrontations, and more. Clubhoppers reminds us what going out is all about.

Yes, another nightlife Website. No surprise, given the pervasiveness of nightclubs and the intense competition among them. But this site has a somewhat different feel to it. A little more comprehensive. A little more complex. A little more commercial. But that's exactly what makes it the one you would recommend when visiting friends ask you for clubbing advice upon hitting South Beach. The love child of British expats Nick McCabe and Sarah Lynn, cooljunkie manages to maintain the pair's enthusiasm for the local dance scene while keeping the fluff factor to a manageable level. All the Beach's hotspots are laid out and evaluated, along with informed DJ interviews, coming attractions, and of course, plenty of party pics featuring clubland's ranks (and quite possibly you) hitting the dance floor.

Who else but MDCC's Alejandro Rios could put together a top-flight, ongoing program of Cuban films -- from islanders and directors in exile -- attract full houses, and yet raise nary a peep from our AM talk-radio friends and their noisy shock troops? Maybe a free series with this kind of quality is just too good (and in this town, too needed) to assail.

Major League Baseball engineered this deal, allowing Henry to sell the Marlins, then turn around and buy the Red Sox. To Henry, who constantly cried poverty, tried to cajole South Florida taxpayers into building him a new stadium, and then when they wouldn't, orchestrated the $600 million purchase of the Sox by putting up $150 million of his own money, we say good riddance. And we offer one last bit of baseball trivia: Since 1919 the team you sold has one more world championship than the team you bought, chump.

When Major League Soccer finally catches on in the United States, the decision to fold the Miami Fusion will make America's most apathetic sports town look even more stupid, as if that were possible. (Hello? The Dolphins couldn't sell out a playoff game?) Soccer is followed with feverish fanaticism throughout Latin America and the Caribbean. South Florida has a huge and ever-growing population of immigrants from Latin America and the Caribbean. You do the math. Bad management and inept marketing -- not a starless team with a lousy playoff record -- led to this humiliating loss. But nature hates a vacuum. Professional soccer will return to Miami. It is inevitable.

The seasoned cats who preside over Jazz in the Afternoon play all the cool hits. You know: Kind of Blue, Giant Steps, A Love Supreme (the whole blessed album). This is noncommercial (and unlicensed, meaning "pirate") community radio as it was meant to be. These guardians of the bebop, hard-bop, and post-bop jazz flames liberate the airwaves on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. One way to make a good thing even better would be to extend the holy sounds of Miles, Trane, and Dolphy into weekday evenings, currently the domain of an emcee who preaches to us about things we already know regarding the current state of slavery in America.

Miami has no mountains. There are no hills, buttes, or mesas. But there are clouds, and they appear almost daily on the big palette that is South Florida's sky. Our cosmic placement at the tip of a peninsula located to the east of the Gulf of Mexico, north of the Caribbean Sea, and downwind of the jet stream puts us at the crossroads of breezes and moisture that can produce spectacular celestial works. High up are the thin, wispy cirrus clouds, delicate free-form brush strokes of white that flow and curl against the blue of eternity. In the foreground on a fair day the cumulus play, those billowy shape-shifters, puffing effortlessly by on the breeze. Here are our mountains, inspiring and variable, and our view is unobstructed.

Before finding happiness in a warm gun, the Beatles found a buddy in a Miami Beach cop. Sgt. Buddy Dresner was assigned to provide security to the Beatles during the group's South Florida invasion in February 1964. The Hard Rock Café has no photos of the screaming female mob that besieged the boys when they descended from their rooms for a dip at the Deauville Hotel pool. But there are shots of them at Dresner's house, where Mrs. Dresner served a nice dinner and Paul read to the couple's children. Back in London several months after the two-week February tour, Paul scrawled a letter to Dresner apologizing for not writing sooner. "I lost your address. I've only just got it again -- from George," he wrote. "We'll be out [again] in America soon. That's if they don't start a war or something. For instance, all this business in Vietnam." (The Beatles indeed invaded the States again in late August, as the U.S. military presence grew and grew in Southeast Asia.) Other historic scrawlings appear on a work of abstract art the Fab Four signed and shipped to Dresner after the February visit. The drawing (by one D. Spence) consists of four splotches of black ink dripping to the bottom of a piece of brown paper. On it one can observe hints of the psychedelic wordplay John later embraced: "To good old Buddy, what is our Buddy, good Bubby (get a job Buddy), all the best and thanks from me." In a separate letter Brian Sommerville, the group's agent, penned a sentiment about our subtropical burgh that many still find apt. "I'll never forget that wonderful place and its people," he wrote.