People & Places

What you need is a weekend away. But alas, Miamians, you’re already living in the very place most Floridians vacation. So where to go? If you answered the Keys, go ahead and line up in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Seven Mile Bridge. (Besides, it’s the same pastel motels, just more coconuts.) Instead, steer the car north like you’re heading for Disney, but bypass all the mouse-touting exits and that spooky biblical theme park called the Holy Land Experience. Deep in the Ocala National Forest is Wekiwa Springs State Park, where you can spend the weekend camping in a backcountry Florida Shangri-la. Here’s the scene: Moss-draped oaks canopy the park’s springs, and pristine blue water nestles in natural rock that, thanks to the Floridan Aquifer, is always a cool 72 degrees. As for lodging, choose one of the campsites in the inner circle for the best shade, and kayak the Wekiwa Lagoon for some guaranteed gator watching. Camping costs $24 a night, or for primitive camping, $5 a person. Otherwise, park admission is $6 per car. For noncampers, the park is open 8 a.m. to sunset.

It seems obvious, but the secret is there are some hidden gems in the Collins Park area that few motorists bother to look for. Like the fact that after the Bass Museum of Art is closed, you can park after midnight for free in the small lot on Park Avenue near the gift shop. Most drivers worry they’ll get towed, but rest assured you won’t. Also hidden are the two public lots on 23rd Street across from the Plum TV offices and AeroBar. Both are small and easily forgotten if it weren’t for the public-parking signs. If all else fails, most of the curbside spaces around the museum, library, and Miami City Ballet are available, and thank the parking gods that the public lot between the W South Beach and the Days Inn has reopened.

There’s a great South Florida wonder between Miami and Naples, and we’re not talking about the skunk ape. He’s gotta be somewhere in Big Cypress National Preserve, that great, big national park in Miami’s back yard. Every year from late November to April, the national park service offers ranger-guided tours through a variety of wilderness activities in the area. And they’re all free. Our favorite is the wet and wild swamp walk, a muddy trek through sometimes waist-deep gator water. You’ll get mud-soaked and wet just like the early Floridians exploring the amazing diversity of plant and animal life. Also awesome is the guided canoe trip. You’ll fly through a mangrove tunnel, propelling your vessel via monkey-bar arm swings through the low branches. All equipment is provided; you just have to make a reservation by phone or in person at the Oasis Visitors Center, 50 miles west of Miami on the Tamiami Trail.

Many attractions in Miami are so crowded, as Yogi Berra once said, no one goes there anymore. That’s why a trip to the Kampong in Coconut Grove is so darn special. Once the home and gardens of Dr. David Fairchild (the botanist behind nearby Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden), the Kampong is a serene swath of lush tropical greenery and old Miami history. It’s the only location outside Hawaii included in the National Tropical Botanical Garden. What’s more, Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, and Alexander Graham Bell all stayed at the Kampong house, one of the oldest domiciles in Miami. But most Miamians have never heard of the house and gardens. They’re tucked away behind a thick hammock of banyan trees and a limestone wall. Also, the place is open only Tuesday through Thursday from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. That means regular working drones will have to wait until their next self-imposed mental health day to visit. Self-guided tours cost $5 to $15.

Anytime it pours in Overtown, the gutters teem with a rapid flow of discarded crack stems, broken glass, empty heroin bags, cigarette butts, tall cans, and blood spilled on hard concrete. Welcome to reality. Give thanks that Lotus House has offered about 130 homeless women and children a year’s respite from the storm and an opportunity to build a vessel to sail our troubled waters. This safe port protects them from abusive relationships and keeps them off drugs, off the streets, out of jail, and in the arms of a supportive staff and loving community. The ladies receive job training and placement, classes in art and computers, and help dealing with the dire situations endemic to life in one of the poorest neighborhoods in America. Wife beaters be damned — the ladies of Lotus House will not see you in Hell; they’ll be too busy making their way up the high road to a brighter future.

People With Money + Drink Sponsors = Hot Girls. Hot Girls + Free Drinks = Best Parties. Best Parties + Tourists + Art World + Miami + Free Drinks + Hot Girls + People With Money + You = An Amazing Scene.

The hottest pop singer in the world performing at the most over-the-top hotel in Miami had scenesters in a tizzy as they fought to score tickets to this unprecedented New Year’s Eve soiree. The Fontainebleau hosted the most in-demand NYE party on the international circuit with more than $1 million in presales. (Rumor has it that Lady Gaga herself picked up a cool $300,000 for 20 minutes of warbling.) Gaga’s poolside concert didn’t disappoint either. Beginning her show at midnight, the pop icon made four costume changes, stripped to her skivvies and fishnets, sang five songs (including “Bad Romance”), and electrified the 3,000-plus crowd. Celebs in attendance included young Hollywood types such as Chace Crawford, JC Chasez, Stacy Keibler, Kevin Connolly, Hayden Panettiere, and Frankie Delgado. While the afterparty continued at LIV, Lady Gaga decided to jump into the pool with her BFF, former Miamian Perez Hilton, instead of clubbing it. For that, we fell in love with her even more.

Like the quiet kid in class, burlesque dancers are intriguing because of what they don’t show you. Unlike strippers (who show too much) or ballerinas (who show too little), the sexy ladies of Shameless Burlesque understand the art of the tease. These pierced and tattooed vixens — who look like a gang of SuicideGirls — use music, film, and dance to create a mood that is both sexy and artsy. They seem made for a Quentin Tarantino flick: There’s Holly Peño the classic Latina fetish dancer, Miss Kiara Deville the sword-swallowing makeup artist, Audrey Rose Lautrec the fire-dancing pin-up girl, and Morgan La Rue the latex-loving fetish queen. Expect an eclectic mix of soul, oldies, and upbeat indie rock. Check them out at the Vagabond, Purdy Lounge, and Oceans 234.

Many single females in this town tend to think they’re better, smarter, and more worthy than any single male. So gawking from the opposite side of a bar or spitting out slick lines poolside might not get the average prowling male very far. Not to mention that ladies often travel in packs, so guys must first penetrate the often jaded BFF posse before getting to their lady of interest. So why not approach a woman when she is alone, calm, and in tune with her inner-single self? At Coconut Grove’s new yoga locale, Dharma Studio, start with the Gentle Stretchy Yoga class if you’re a beginner, or the Vinyasa Yoga class if you’re feeling brave and limber. Bring your own mat, or rent one there, and unroll it right next to the gal who catches your eye or can hold the lotus position longest. Owners Natalie Morales and Loree Shrager opened the Zen spot in January, and members say it is quickly becoming the Grove’s go-to studio for South Miami, female yogis of all ages and types. Classes are small, usually no more than 20 people and sometimes under five, optimal for practicing your yoga breathing — or your game. The quaint one-room studio exudes peace, from walls accented with paintings of Buddha to soothing, lingering aromas of incense. A single drop-in class costs about $15, the price of a drink on the Beach, and the yoga studio is on the same street as some of the Grove’s most popular eateries and bars — just in case class goes well. Oh, and the female-to-male ratio is 75 to 25, so go forth and namaste.

Without warning, a woman brandishes two bushels of tree limbs and proceeds to beat our friend Lourdes from toes to shoulders. Between sweeps of the soggy branches, the woman dumps bucket after bucket of cold water on our friend. No, she’s not swabbing the deck of a fishing boat. She’s helping Lourdes relax with platza, one of the traditional spa treatments available at the Russian and Turkish Baths on Miami Beach. The baths attract Miami’s ultimate relaxation-seekers, those who are willing to abandon modesty, vanity, and sometimes plain old comfort if it gets them closer to bliss. Women and men in barely-there bathing suits, heads wrapped in towel turbans, endure the volcanic heat of the schvitz as if sweating were a way to absolve past sins. A skeletal older man stands under a heavy waterfall that pounds on his bony shoulders. He raises his head, eyes closed, waiting to be beamed up to the mother ship. Make your way through the rest of the grotto-like rooms and hear the cries of those jumping into the icy polar tank; catch glimpses of red flesh, pores screaming from the extreme heat, and shield your eyes from the meaty woman having the mud hosed off. What are you looking at, you perv? Pass the wet branches and wait your turn. A day pass costs $30, and the baths are open from noon until midnight.

If a charity can be simultaneously sexy and socially aware — like Al Gore in a corset — these girls can pull it off. The Aqua Foundation for Women raises money for breast cancer and promotes equality for lesbian, bisexual, and transgender ladies. But don’t get them wrong: These chicks know how to throw a bash. Take, for example, a certain sex-crazed, booze-soaked annual lesbian pool party. Volunteer at their annual weeklong event, Aqua Girl, and count on making friends. You’ll help with comedy shows, live music, and a jazz brunch, to name just a few events, with smart and witty gals. You’ll talk about culture, global affairs, sex, more sex, politics, and — naturally — women. They’ll make you want to do some good, damn it.

No, you can’t tell what his face really looks like. And, yes, perhaps he is hiding a ring under that Freddy Krueger glove, which, by the way, he happens to be wearing on the wrong hand. But just for tonight, you can be sure that your masqueraded mate is the pick of the litter. Why? This annual event seems to attract the guys with money, honey. Tickets cost about the same as a bottle of Dom ($125 for general admission, which is more than some club thug is willing to spend on a few shots of Patrón, for sure). And just the idea that Mr. Mystery turned down a few Pimp ‘n Ho party invitations to schlep all the way out to Vizcaya for a four-hour-long fundraiser is a sign that the guy’s got class. As for why the gents flock to this event, well that’s elementary: they know they have the best chance to meet hot chicks already willing to play dress up.

Let’s be honest: The truly genius guys are stuck inside their homes after failing to figure out how to unlock the front door. What you’re looking for is one notch below, a man who’s as comfortable discussing the latest Jonathan Lethem novel as he is changing a tire. We can’t believe you haven’t considered looking here yet, but may we suggest the University of Wynwood? Its student union, courtyard, and — heck — even parking lots are teeming with intellectuals. Young students laze about on the school’s lawns, Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past in hand, as distinguished elbow-patched faculty members roam the sidewalks, mulling over string theory. These guys are ready and willing to hear all about your master’s thesis on German silent film director F. W. Murnau over Glenfiddich single-malt Scotch or an icy frappuccino. Naw, just foolin’. Although it does have a women’s jai alai team, the University of Wynwood doesn’t exist in a brick-and-mortar sense. However, its spoken- and written-word events in Miami’s galleries and bars do attract the local hipster literati. Those with burly beards, geek glasses, and impractical graduate degrees flock to UW poetry readings en masse. Just bring a net and a copy of The Believer.

In Miami, too many dudes follow the path of accused Ponzi schemer Nevin K. Shapiro and cracked-out music producer Scott Storch to woo the ladies. However, just because you can check into a W Hotel beachfront suite for a few days, rent a Carolina-blue Lamborghini Diablo, and buy bottle service at every Opium Group venue on South Beach using other people’s money or plastic credit doesn’t guarantee she is all into you. In fact, she and her friends will probably end up playing you into paying for a few shopping sprees at Neiman in Bal Harbour before dumping you for the next poseur multimillionaire. We suggest you show her a little of your fond appreciation for nature and the creatures with which we share the world. Pack a picnic basket with watercress sandwiches and scones, but forgo the tea for a bottle of rosé. Pick her up and take a ride on Florida’s Turnpike, get off at Exit 16, head west on SW 152nd Street, and make a left when you see the sign for Miami Metrozoo at 124th Avenue. After enjoying your picnic at one of the shaded tables outside the zoo, escort your cherie into one of the county’s treasures. The zoo covers 740 acres and is home to more than 2,000 animals. Two years ago, the county opened Amazon & Beyond, an exhibit that spans 27 acres and features 100 astonishing species including giant river otters, jaguars, and anacondas. Chances are that you will leave quite an impression on the fair maiden by your side. Nothing stimulates a woman’s interest more than a man with cerebral curiosity.

The best part about a second date is that the ice has already been broken, the introductions are out of the way, and that awkward get-to-know-you phase has passed. Now it’s time to kick it up a notch. And you do that by going to a place that not only has great food, but also is bathed in romantic ambiance without the overwrought clichés you’ll find in other fine-dining restaurants. Tucked away at the tail end of Matheson Hammock Park, Red Fish Grill features an atmosphere that is both romantic and casual. Built with authentic coral rock, the scene is lined with palm trees wrapped in white lights and speckled with the soft glow of tiki torches. The best time to reserve a table is just before sunset, when you can sit on the beachfront patio overlooking a saltwater lagoon. There you can sip a glass of Montes Cherub under a lilac sky as you settle into your evening. Start your meal with conch fritters or the seared tuna cooked with a hint of wasabi aioli. You can then dig into the pan-fried red snapper with lemon-ginger vinaigrette, or the Chilean sea bass baked with shiitake mushrooms. Leave room for the delectable homemade key lime pie or caramel flan. Then impress your new significant other by revealing that Red Fish Grill was a setting for the films There’s Something About Mary and Random Hearts. After a night like this, consider your date fully smitten. Dinner is served from 6 to 10 p.m. Tuesday through Friday and 5 to 10 p.m. on weekends. Entrées range from $20 to $40, and you don’t need a reservation.

So the two of you have monkeyed around at the zoo; eaten some aquatic life at Red Fish Grill; caught a movie; taken a long walk on the beach; gotten some ice cream; gone bowling, ice skating, fishing, and ice fishing (in the middle of the rink where you went ice skating); gotten kicked out of said rink; snuck back in after hours; TP’ed the place; gotten arrested together; and now, you figure, it’s time to really get to know one another. That’s why we suggest a main-stage improv show at Just the Funny Theater (at 9 and 11 p.m. the first Friday and Saturday of each month). Why? Well, because they’re only $10 a ticket. Plus JTF’s interactive shows thrive solely on suggestions, made on the spot, from the audience — so think of a date here as somewhat of a psychological inkblot test for your potential full-time ball ‘n’ chain. For instance, when an actor asks the audience for a color to inspire a scene, what does your date shout out? Pink? (Translation: superfemme.) Black? (Depressed.) Green? (Jealous.) Puce? (She ate paint chips as a child.) Or when the actor asks for a location, does she scream “dentist office” (masochist), “igloo” (aloof), or “Castle Grayskull” (nostalgic)? And when a game of “Love Machine” — a spoof of The Dating Game where an audience member is pulled onstage and asked to choose one of three irresistible bachelors for a date — begins, does she choose a Jewish hip-hop artist from Pinecrest? A man who thinks he’s a superhero? Or does she choose you, in a romantic gesture, by busting out a roll of Charmin — and a blowtorch — and then demanding the address of the nearest ice rink? Now that’s what we call armoire!

For all of those jazzy people in SoFla searching for a little musical healing, look no further than Jazz in the Gardens. Forget the pot-smoking, drunken hot mess that is every other music festival in MIA. JITG is an arena where megamusicians come to spread their melodic wings, and mature concertgoers come to watch them fly. Celebrating its fifth anniversary this year, Jazz in the Gardens has grown to become one of the most highly reputed festival events in the nation. Last year’s festivities hosted nearly 40,000 attendees who enjoyed performances by Kenny G, Babyface, Frankie Beverly, Roy Ayers, Erykah Badu, and a slew of other world-renowned artists. This year’s fest included performances by Mary J. Blige, Robin Thicke, John Legend, Boyz II Men, and Jon Saxx. The festival, which takes place at Sun Life Stadium, also includes a variety of great food and merchandise vendors from around the world. Tickets range from $55 for one-day general admission to $145 for a two-day prime reserve slot.

Let’s face it: Sometimes Dade denizens need to visit our dull Caucasian neighbor county to the north. Until this year, that usually involved a gas-guzzling trip on traffic-clogged I-95. It still does — but now the Miami-Dade and Broward transit agencies pick up most of the tab. The 95 Express Bus makes rush-hour trips from five locations in downtown Miami to eight stops in Broward, stopping as far north as Fort Lauderdale. The brand-new vehicles travel along express toll routes and cost $2.35 per one-way trip. There’s only one catch: Once you’re in Broward, you have to figure out why in hell you wanted to go there in the first place.

Your typical gym is crowded at rush hour, smells of antiseptic, and plays a rotating soundtrack of groaning jocks and bad house music. It’s pricey too. Commissioner Marc Sarnoff should know. He works out at Coral Gables’ Equinox, which, for a base rate of $129, could probably keep a few of those laid-off city employees on the ledger. So in November, he used some of his quality-of-life funding — nearly $30,000 — to create the antithesis to Equinox: an outdoor gym. Located at Kennedy Park, a jog away from city hall, the gym is equipped with all the basic workout gear: a couple of sit-up benches, a leg press, monkey bars, and several elliptical and rowing machines. Out in the open, the Crayola-green equipment is constantly in use, seven days a week. It’s not hard to see why. The only shrill noise you’re likely to hear is kids playing or the occasional Frisbee zipping by. And there’s a bonus: Sarnoff still works out at Equinox, so you won’t have to see him doing squats on an otherwise beautiful afternoon. Open since November, the gym has been so popular that Sarnoff wants to install similar ones at Margaret Pace and Legion parks.

If you live in Miami and you’re not the type to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Elián saga by screaming and burning photos of Castro and Janet Reno outside Versailles, there’s a good chance you’re pretty cynical about Cuban rights activism. And who could blame you? Enough hot air comes out of Calle Ocho’s daily coffee-counter arguments every afternoon to power a transatlantic flight. That’s why Raices de Esperanza (or “Roots of Hope” for the gringos among us) is so refreshing. President Felice Gorordo, a 27-year-old Miami native, cofounded the group while he was a student at Georgetown with the simple goal of opening a dialogue among young Cubans about how to better their lives. Now the group has 3,000 members at 55 universities and sponsors an annual conference to foster communication and support emerging bloggers such as Yoani Sánchez. Gorordo’s brand of activism won its biggest victory yet last September, when Colombian pop singer Juanes announced a concert “for peace” in Havana’s Independence Square. Miami’s hardliners raged, stalking Juanes at his Key Biscayne home and smashing his CDs in Little Havana, but Gorordo took a different tack. “Let him go, and we’ll judge when he comes back,” he said. “It’s worth a shot.” Sure enough, the Juanes show drew hundreds of thousands of Cubans, and he used the stage to preach freedom. Most agreed the concert bettered the cause for human rights. Raices de Esperanza’s embrace of dignity, innovation, and communication prevailed over screaming and empty posturing. That’s a revolution we can all get behind.

Miami is a town where clubs spit out adjectives like exclusive, VIP, and upscale like an overchewed piece of Juicy Fruit. But WALL Lounge is actually one of the few places that can blow hard without bursting its own bubble. Jessica Alba, Gabrielle Union, the All American Rejects, Erykah Badu, Swizz Beatz, Jamie Foxx, Jason Binn, and Selita Ebanks are just a few of the celebrities who have walked through WALL’s infamous doors. Other guest sightings have been rumored, but unless the press snaps a picture, they’re almost impossible to confirm. In fact, it’s nearly impossible to get a photo of the place, period. WALL’s success lies in its size; it is so boutique it does not merit a VIP section — the lounge itself is the VIP. So if you’re lucky enough to get in, keep the video phone ready — you might catch a TMZ-worthy moment.

When children get sick in South Florida, there is only one hospital dedicated to accommodating every one of their pediatric needs. In order to keep this inspiring medical facility running, a charity was developed. Today, Miami Children’s Hospital Foundation is a nonprofit organization whose only mission is to create awareness and generate funds for Miami Children’s Hospital (MCH), the only licensed specialty hospital in South Florida exclusively for children. MCHF hosts various events each year to keep donors, patients, families and the community in touch with the foundation and the hospital. Although the majority of its programs are conducted at the grassroots level throughout the year, MCHF concentrates on two annual fundraising events: its Diamond Ball, which raised nearly $2.5 million last year, and the Hugs & Kisses children’s fashion show, hosted by the MCHF’s community council. MCH, a 289-bed, freestanding facility, is renowned for excellence in all aspects of pediatric medicine, with several specialty programs ranked among the top in the nation. MCHF continues to keep Miami Children’s Hospital and stays true to its mission of ensuring that all children, no matter where they live or their economic standing, are able to receive the best medical care possible.

Laundry or dinner? As grim a Sophie’s choice as we’ve ever had to make. What if there were another way? Welcome to Mary’s Coin Laundry. Materials: two loads of dirty laundry, lots of quarters, spare cash, ravenous appetite, preferably spurred by misguided late-Sunday-night marathon of Dazed and Confused. Instructions: Panic. The workday begins in a couple of hours, and there are exactly zero clean pants. Begin a sartorial search party. Socks should be under the bed; boxers inside the oven; pants, T-shirts, and ties in the bat-infested cave that is the closet. With duds in basket, drive to Mary’s Coin Laundry. Inside the cramped 24-hour Laundromat-slash-cafeteria, take a minute to enjoy the aroma — ah, nothing like detergent and butter in the morning. Drop $2.75 into adjoining Speed Queen machines. Choose heavily soiled or normal wash? Heavily soiled. Add detergent, push Start, and let the Queen do its business. Order a choripan, $4.50. Ten minutes to go. Mamey milkshake, $3.50. Watch the clothes spin as hypnotically as the shake swirls. Extract wet load, deposit four quarters into the dryer. This is the last stretch. Get a cortadito, 75 cents. Some things aren’t meant to go together. Watching television in the bathtub, sex and pastrami, dinner and laundry. Somehow you’re doing it. The dryer trills. Load finished. Laundry: $6.50. Dinner: $8.75. Getting it all done in less than an hour: priceless.

So there you are, lounging by the pool at your fancy hotel, when it hits you: You forgot to bring your $350 gold handcuffs! You also left your $25 fake eyelashes at home! And, dammit, you didn’t pack your $400 marabou feather vest! Well, don’t worry your pretty little head. The vending machine at Mondrian South Beach — the glittering, chandeliered, luxury waterfront hotel on West Avenue — is stocked with all of those things. There are no candy bars or soda inside this sleek white contraption, which takes only credit cards and sits across from the hotel bar. Dubbed the “Semi-Automatic,” it is also full of T-shirts, sunglasses, and best-selling novels. Oh, and the keys to a $90,000 Bentley Arnage T. (A voucher is printed and the vehicle is delivered to the hotel in minutes.) You know, just in case you left yours at home.

Prudes freak when they see the glass-door bathrooms at Balans in Brickell. That is, until they flip the lock to the left and realize the door magically fogs up to provide discretion. Totally private stalls? Priceless! Not having to hear your neighbor deal with his or her gas or nausea? Refreshing. Knowing no one is looking under the partition at your chipped toenails or underpolished shoes? Much appreciated. Plus a sensual sink delivers water in fountain-like fashion, and guests have their own personal hand dryers. Entertainment value + privacy + nice décor = a squatting experience like nowhere else around.

From an early age, kids show a glowing fascination for trains and train sets. Maybe it’s because they’re drawn to the power and ingenuity of a train, to the rumble of steam and coal and thundering wheels. Maybe it’s the innate sense of exploration that only a locomotive can satisfy. Or maybe it’s because trains are just so friggin’ cool. But that inherent love has been drowned out in a digital world of exploding videogames and screaming cartoons. It’s still there, though. You can find it again at the Gold Coast Railroad Museum, which features more than 30 historic trains, including an authentic president’s car that was once used by FDR, Harry Truman (the same car where he took his iconic “Dewey Defeats Truman” photo), and Ronald Reagan. With more than three miles of track out back, kids can hop a link train, as well as a vintage coach that everyone can ride. The museum also boasts a massive model train collection and offers several fun and interactive activities. Admission is $6 for adults and kids 12 and older, $4 for those under 12, and free for children under 3. All aboard!

The streets of Wynwood are one big outdoor museum. There’s no entrance fee, the art is world-caliber, you can stay as long as you like, and (almost) no one will get mad if you piss in the bushes. Take that, MOMA! It’s mostly all thanks to the folks behind the world’s largest site-specific street-level mural installation project. Every year, some of the best street painters in the world converge for Art Basel week. Since 2006, a guy named Books IIII has corralled the talent, mediums, and paint for a creative explosion called Primary Flight. If the names London Police, Ron English, Shepard Fairey, Dolla, El Mac, Retna, and Typoe (to name a few) mean anything to you, you already know. If they don’t, you need to examine the acres worth of fantastic, bold, and vibrant imagery that adorn wall surfaces all over this hood.

There have been entire books dedicated to Miami’s street art, but we’re fascinated by the handful of Obama murals that grace the streets of Little Haiti and Liberty City. Depending on the neighborhood, his skin tone and ethnicity varies. Some portraits look like something the Oval Office would commission: Obama flashing a reassuring smile, an American flag waving in the distance, and the grand architecture of the White House sitting like a palace in the background. He’s been painted alongside Martin Luther King Jr. under I-95 overpasses and then subsequently removed by order of the FDOT. But there’s one on a corner in Little Haiti by local artist Serge Toussaint that captures the president rather than the campaigner. Donning a Mr. Rogers-esque blue jacket and a red tie, Obama gazes up, over the blighted gas station across the street. His brow is furrowed with concern, and his mouth is ever so slightly agape. It’s as if Toussaint, who completed the mural before the election, had visions of the recent shitstorm. He saw the housing bubble bursting, the Dow tanking, unemployment numbers peaking, and birds in the Gulf of Mexico covered in BP oil.

In 1987, some hippy artists lost their pad in the Grove, formed a nonprofit, and bought an old bread factory in Wynwood. Back then, the area’s main offerings were heroin, guns, and abandoned bread factories. Nowadays, the neighborhood is the epicenter of Miami’s art world. While a new gallery seems to pop up and shut down every week, the Bakehouse Art Complex is thriving in its 24th year in the game. Here, more than 70 professional working artists use their studios, two common galleries, photo and print labs, and wood-working, ceramics, and welding areas to express themselves. They are handpicked by a jury and come not only from Miami but also all over the world. The Bakehouse is open to the public every day from noon to 5 p.m., and guests are welcome to visit and interact with the artists in their environs. There are also art classes, membership opportunities, and a monthly art party. This is one awesome place.

The concept is simple: Keep the spirit of Wynwood’s emerging street art scene, only curate it more tightly. Commission 15 muralists from around the world to cover the outdoor space. Add grass, tables, and a basketball hoop. Open it to the public free of charge. That’s what collaborators Tony Goldman and Deitch Projects did on a still-gritty stretch of NW Second Avenue, next door to Joey’s Italian restaurant. At the bright, enclosed space, each painter gets his or her own towering wall, which serves as a sort of urban canvas. It’s a great place to sit, have a cup of coffee, and talk. One wall displays the face of a Burmese woman; another boasts a cartoon duck; a third shows spacey, graffiti-like patterns. The project began during Art Basel 2009. Now, 15 more walls are on the way, and it still feels like a secret.

Value — like good looks, wealth, and the quality of Will Ferrell movies — is all relative. A good hotel value along the Champs-Élysées, for instance, won’t much resemble a value motel along North Biscayne Boulevard. So, what exactly is the meaning of value on Ocean Drive, the beating heart of South Beach’s triple-priced, sidewalk-model-hawking tourist-trap racket? In our book, it’s a halfway decent-priced beer or rum-and-Coke poolside, cooled by a soft ocean breeze and surrounded by hundreds of tight-bodied partiers dancing the night away. That’s exactly what you’ll get during happy hour at the newly refurbished Clevelander Hotel, a posh, over-the-top, über-South Beach party zone in the heart of Ocean Drive. From 4 to 7 p.m. every Monday through Friday, every one of six draft beers, 11 bottled beers, all well liquor, and all house wines are half-price. Did we mention there are nine bars inside, all wrapped around a huge pool right on Ocean Drive? Sounds like value to us.

Except for the beaches, South Florida is one big swamp. So why not show off the primitive, more adventurous side of the party town, throwing in a little dash of danger for good measure. Billie Swamp Safari is more than 2,000 acres of wilderness stretching through Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation in the heart of the Everglades, close to Alligator Alley. Witness wildlife in the vastness of the Florida wetlands on the Swamp Buggy Eco-Tour, and spot deer, antelope, bison, several species of birds, and, if you’re lucky, the elusive Florida panther. Or take an exhilarating high-speed airboat ride across the river of grass and check out all manner of snakes, turtles, and fish. The summer-wet season is the best time to spot alligators as they wade through the obsidian waters of this fragile ecosystem. But for folks really thirsting for adventure, stay overnight in an authentic Seminole chickee and take a special nighttime tour of the fabled Everglades under the moon and stars. Sure beats sitting in traffic waiting to arrive at an overcrowded beach. The park opens at 9 a.m., with airboat rides beginning at 10 and swamp buggy tours beginning at 11. Rates start at $15 for airboats. It’s best to arrive early; tours and rides run every half-hour.

Say you’re a new mayor and you want to make a splash. Say your city is known for malfeasance. And say you just whacked the pain-in-the-butt police chief because he wouldn’t do your bidding. What do you do? You arrest a bunch of chumps on corruption charges to show the size of your mighty cojones. Problem is, Miami Mayor Tomás Regalado overstretched this past April when he pushed his new top cop, Miguel Exposito, to arrest three cops, one city worker, and four people who work for nonprofits that received taxpayer money. Prosecutors quickly denounced the arrests, which were mostly for penny-ante crimes. Then, a month later, they dropped charges against four of the alleged miscreants. We never thought the day would come when we would miss former Chief John Timoney, but this fiasco convinced us.

Say you’re in the midst of the worst economic meltdown in decades and face a $360 million shortfall next year. As an elected leader of Miami Dade County, you send a clear message to voters by:A. vowing to take public transportation to work.B. joining a car pool.C. getting a BMW 500i Gran Turismo.The final answer is exactly what Mayor Carlos Alvarez did when he picked out a new set of wheels using $500 a month in taxpayer money. With a car like that, he’ll have to fork out some of his own cash to make ends meet. But that got his minions thinking. On March 4, Miami-Dade commissioners agreed by an eight to four vote to ask voters to increase their pay by around 50 percent, from about $60,000 to $92,500. A little later, reality kicked in and they pulled the measure. Chutzpah? These guys are meshuga!

Wonky TV dramas have nothing on the real-life soap opera that is Miami politics. Take Michelle Spence-Jones’s acceptance speech upon being re-elected to her city commission seat in November 2009, moments before being led away in handcuffs on grand theft charges. The thing was a work of art that would have made The Wire‘s indignant-when-indicted Sen. Clay Davis blush with pride. Spence-Jones spoke in third person, quoted the Bible and Don King, and vowed to return like a vanquished villain at the end of a Batman sequel. Of all the choice quotes, though, our favorite was the one where she called herself “nappy-headed,” obliquely referencing racist shock jock Don Imus and thus equating prosecutors with the cowboy-hat-wearing schmuck. If race-baiting were an Olympic sport, even the mean German judge would be waving a perfect 10 for this one.

Anyone watching the Oscars in March would have seen the normally staid Best Documentary speech shaken up by the unfurling of a sign reading, “Text DOLPHIN to 44144.” It’s no surprise that Ric O’Barry, a Coconut Grove native, pulled a stunt like that. Not only was he featured prominently in the film The Cove, but also the dolphin activist has become synonymous with the movement to free these intelligent sea creatures from aquariums and other unnatural habitats all over the world. Ironically, O’Barry actually worked for the entities he now decries, such as Miami Seaquarium. His brief stint there in the 1960s, and as a dolphin trainer for the popular TV show Flipper, made him aware of the horrors of keeping these mammals in captivity. Since then, O’Barry has founded the Dolphin Project, freed more than 25 dolphins, written two books, spoken at countless international conferences, and become a celebrity in his own right. His latest cause, to stop the slaughter of dolphins in Taiji, Japan, resulted in the documentary The Cove, which won an Academy Award. After that coup, O’Barry was given a show on Animal Planet called Dolphin Warriors, which is being produced by his son, Lincoln. Dolphin Warriors is set to premiere this fall. Despite his fame, O’Barry has not forgotten his roots. The 70-year-old was recently spotted on a sweltering sunny Saturday on Key Biscayne protesting keeping Lolita, the Seaquarium’s killer whale, in captivity.

Liberty City is in desperate need of a leader. When native Houstonian Rev. Gaston E. Smith took over the pulpit at the Friendship Missionary Baptist Church on NW 58 Street, it seemed the troubled community had found one. The fiery preacher was a role model, a diplomat, and a father figure, all stuffed into a linebacker’s build and a flashy three-piece suit. When he’s not booming the Word on Sundays, he’s visiting ailing parishioners in the hospital or coaxing gangbangers off the street. His potential made it even more tragic when Smith betrayed the flock that adopted him: Last year, he was convicted of stealing from a county grant named after Martin Luther King Jr. His supporters claim he was railroaded by trumped-up charges, but the fact remains that he was careless and irresponsible, not the leader Liberty City needs. His sentence was suspended, and Smith remains the church’s pastor, so he’ll get a second chance to make a difference.

OK, technically the bombshell star of ABC’s hit sitcom Modern Family is not originally from Miami. But this Colombian-born actress made the Magic City her home way before she became a famous actress. While living in Miami, she modeled, hit the nightclubs (as Chris Paciello’s onetime girlfriend), and hosted a slew of shows for Univision. After making a noticeable splash in Miami in the ’90s, she moved to La La Land to pursue acting full-time. Vergara scored small parts in TV shows (Entourage, Dirty Sexy Money, Hot Properties, and The Knights of Prosperity) and movies (Big Trouble, Four Brothers, and Meet the Browns). At one point, the sexy brunette even “auditioned” for a real-life role as Tom Cruise’s paramour via a high-profile date at Jerry’s Deli in Los Angeles. Fortunately, that “job” went to Katie Holmes. Otherwise, we would never have seen Vergara play the fiery Gloria who puts Al Bundy — um, Ed O’Neill — in his place repeatedly on Modern Family, which was picked up for a second season. Success is finally coming fast for the 37-year-old Vergara, who has a teenage son named Manolo. She just landed the female lead in the new live-action Smurfs movie (opposite Neil Patrick Harris and Hank Azaria), which is filming in New York. She is also a spokesperson for Cadillac and has her own charity, Peace and Hope for the Children of Colombia. The most remarkable thing about Vergara: The actress has remained as down-to-earth, unpretentious, and spunky as she was when she was modeling in Miami and trying to make it.

Celebrity is a fickle beast. When nude photos of Miami rapper Trina showed up online and were not exactly flattering — think a mysterious pancake-size rash on her arm — her next album suddenly became a “comeback” project. And unlike Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton, Pamela Anderson, and other sexpots who had their most intimate moments revealed to basement masturbators from Topeka to Bombay, you really can’t blame Trina for the leak: The photos got away from her after her cell phone was stolen at an awards show. So, no, it’s not fair that Trina has to fight to get her career back on track. But when your lyrics are all rote sexual boasts — “Eat me like Hannibal Lecter” — you have no one to blame but yourself when your own fetishization comes to a screeching halt.

Before a movie plays at the Gusman Theater, Darrell Stuckey lumbers to his balcony box two floors above the stage. He puts on the slippers he keeps there, sits on his wooden bench, and with the push of a button, turns on the wind turbine on the other side of the stage that powers the 85-year-old pipes of the theater’s Wurlitzer organ. Stuckey is Gusman’s organist, a job he’s held since 1984. At 75, he’s only a decade younger than the instrument he plays year-round. During this year’s Miami International Film Festival — his 17th — he played ten nights in a row. A rare feat anywhere. Few theaters have Wurlitzers anymore, and even fewer use them before the projector is turned on — the organ was popular during the silent movie era, when it provided the sound effects and score to the films. As a volunteer at the Gusman, Stuckey plays at high school graduations and special gatherings, but his favorite gig is the film festival, where he plays the Wurlitzer as it was first meant to be heard. His body is not unlike his instrument: He carries it slowly up the stairs as if the whole thing were being pulled by a complicated system of pulleys and levers, each step creaking louder than the one before. But then he sits at the organ, taps the wheezy keys, and the whole theater shakes, brought back to life by a sound that’s spectral and captivating — like the first time Garbo spoke onscreen.

While Marco Rubio and Charlie Crist have battled it out on the right, throwing tea bags, credit card receipts, back wax allegations, and pictures of man hugs at each other, Kendrick Meek has quietly held his head high and pursued the U.S. Senate seat, one he might actually have something of a chance of winning now. Don’t get us wrong — Rubio and Crist are both adept politicians (perhaps in a slightly more cynical definition of the word politician), but Meek has balanced his duties in the House and on the campaign trail and still found time to do more than just talk about the Haiti earthquake and BP oil spill. In his fourth term in Congress, Meek has gained a respectable amount of power and influence, sitting on the powerful Ways and Means Committee and the House Democratic Steering and Policy Committee. When Meek entered the Senate race, he seemed a sacrificial lamb. Crist was supposed to wipe the floor with any Democrat. Now that Crist is running as an Independent, there just might be a chance Meek could win. We know he can do a good job holding office; the only question now is if he’s as good at getting elected to do a bigger job.

On January 13, Rev. Richard Dunn found himself back in familiar territory: in second place. Dunn, a firebrand community activist and pastor at Faith Community Baptist Church, had lost every election he’d touched since a stint as an appointed city commissioner in 1996. This year, yet again, he lost to incumbent Michelle Spence-Jones, who ran in a special election for her own District 5 seat after Gov. Charlie Crist removed her over a bribery charge. Spence-Jones won that election but lost her second game of chicken with the governor, who suspended her again. For Dunn, second place turned into the golden ticket. The reverend outlasted five other candidates to earn an appointment to fill Spence’s troubled seat representing Little Haiti and Overtown, in exchange for a promise to not run again in the next election. Dunn quickly squashed any suspicion he’d come back to the commission as a placeholder. He’s been a full-on force since January, fundraising in Lib City, spatting over redevelopment plans, and backing a controversial proposal for earlier nightclub hours. And now, in true-blue politico fashion, he’s all but officially reneging on his pledge not to run for the seat again this fall. Welcome back, Rev!

It’s early 2009, somewhere on Florida’s sun-kissed Gulf Coast, and Charlie Crist stumbles out the attic window at a house party, stares down at the drunken crowd around a pool, and screams, “I am a golden god!” Wait, maybe that’s a scene from Almost Famous. Still, that pretty much sums up how Florida’s crisply tanned golden boy felt 12 months ago. After winning the ’06 gubernatorial election with 54 percent of the vote, the guv played it smartly moderate and watched his statewide approval ratings regularly top an astounding 60 percent. The presidential candidates were all begging for his nod of approval; a VP spot might just be on the table. And then, to keep our Almost Famous metaphor alive, came the world’s most turbulent turboprop ride through a rumbling thunderstorm. McCain didn’t tap him for VP. Crist’s hand-chosen state GOP chairman, Jim Greer, turned out to be a credit-card-abusing fiend. And most important, the Tea Party masses rebelled over his support for Obama’s stimulus package. Enter Marco Rubio, a young Cuban-American, former Florida Senate leader. In what seemed like an overnight shift, Crist’s 30-point primary lead evaporated. Suddenly, Rubio the wunderkind was on the cover of the New York Times Magazine, speaking on every conservative show, and raking in thousands of dollars. By April, the tables had shockingly turned: It was now Rubio with a 20-plus-point primary lead, looking like a golden god of Florida politics. Now Charlie Crist is out of the Republican primary altogether and running for Senate as an independent. Win or lose, Rubio’s rise is already a coup for the ages.

For more than 30 years, Liberty City pastor George McRae has toiled with an unpopular specialization: Caring for those living with HIV/AIDS. When he first became pastor of Mount Tabor Baptist Church on NW 66 Street in 1989, AIDS held such a strong stigma that its victims were shunned by many priests and pastors. But Palatka native McRae, who from his first day was out on the streets trying to clean up Liberty City’s most drug-infested corners, has never been afraid to bring anybody into his flock. His church has become a haven for those who might be denied refuge anywhere else, where those inflicted with HIV/AIDS are given hot food, counseling, sermons, and as much of Reverend McRae’s time as they want.

At age 33, Aaron “the Downtown Don” Bondaroff can’t be called a hip kid anymore. He’s just a little too old for that tag. These days, Bondaroff is more a man about town. Two towns, actually. A half-Jewish, half-Puerto Rican high school dropout, Bondaroff initially made his mark during New York City’s mid-’90s Alleged Gallery boom. But unlike other scene stars such as Harmony Korine and Ryan McGinley, the Don didn’t actually make art. He was just the most downtown dude around — a last-minute party promoter, a self-taught curator of the coolest shit, a BFF to everyone who mattered. And Bondaroff eventually turned this niche celeb status into a career with his store-slash-gallery-slash-hipster-clubhouse aNYthing. Now, after a decade-plus hyping, repping, and shaping the Lower East Side scene, the Don (with help from local business partner Al Moran) brought his brand of NYC raditude to Miami — first via killer west-of-Wynwood art space O.H.W.O.W. and then through Bar, a sort of resurrected PS14 with superpowers. Over the past year and a half, the Don’s imported famous friends have included Korine, NeckFace, the Ed Banger crew, Todd Jones, and David Lynch, while he still has tons of Miami buds such as Freegums, Psychic Youth Inc., and Roofless Rex. You know, a downtown dude can never have enough BFFs.

For a dozen years, Sarah Nesbitt Artecona crafted the messages that Miami-Dade commissioners wanted to convey to the public. As director of the county’s communications department, Artecona was their voice. But one too many tongue lashings by the likes of former commissioner Miriam Alonso, and she sought greener (and orange) pastures at the University of Miami as the school’s communications division associate vice president. In 2007, she was promoted to assistant vice president to UM chief financial officer Joe Natoli. During her seven years at UM, Artecona has found time to serve on various civic groups, including the Coral Gables Chamber of Commerce, Goodwill of South Florida, and the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Given the dedication Artecona shows the Magic City, we’ll forgive her allegiance to her alma mater, the University of Alabama Crimson Tide.

When it comes to art collectors in town, there are the Rubells, and then there’s everybody else. Martin Margulies has his own minimuseum, so does Ella Fontanals-Cisneros, but the Rubells opened their 5,000-piece collection to the public a decade ago, before any of those amateurs. By choosing Wynwood as their base, they raised the blighted neighborhood’s profile, which soon turned into a gallery anthill. And they’ve also functioned as de facto cheerleaders to the local scene, with their Art Basel breakfasts a must during that annual week of excess. But it’s their patronage of local artists such as Purvis Young that have made the native New Yorkers our very own Medicis. Don, a former gynecologist, and Mera, a former Head Start teacher, began collecting art in the ’60s, building their collection by spotting unknown artists the way a broker selects stocks with potential. When they came to Miami, they started acquiring our best: Young, Jose Bedia, Bert Rodriguez, and Naomi Fisher are just a few of the names on their walls. Recently, the Rubells bought a $6.5 million property in Washington, D.C., to double as a satellite of their collection. Were they telegraphing moving plans? Mera Rubell would say only: “Nobody should take us for granted.”

Once dubbed “Father Oprah” by his devout Catholic followers, Alberto Cutié’s handsome face and sweet Spanish words reached millions of homes in more than 20 countries via television, radio, books, and a syndicated newspaper column wherein he doled out relationship advice. Ah, the irony. His faithful parishioners took the counsel of a man who committed to a vow of celibacy, only to learn he knew quite a bit about intimacy. After all, he deceived millions of men and women into thinking his steady was religion, when all along it was really a chick named Ruhama Canellis. At least he eventually made an honest woman out of her. In May, here’s what he had to say in an interview with Univision’s Teresa Rodriguez after photos of the two snuggling in the sand surfaced:Teresa Rodriguez: You’re a public figure, right? What were you thinking showing such public displays of affection — kissing her, touching her? Weren’t you afraid someone would discover your secret sooner or later? Padre Alberto: I will tell you the truth. This will sound really ironic and a bit strange, but I knew God was watching.Yes, Father, G-d was watching. And unfortunately for you, so were the paparazzi.

In 1993, Phil Davis performed the judicial equivalent of a David Blaine extreme magic act. This year, all the card tricks in the world couldn’t save him. Back in the early ’90s, Davis, then a sitting Miami-Dade judge, had been swept up in a massive FBI sting called Operation Court Broom. The feds recorded Davis on tape accepting a $20,000 bribe from a lawyer. But Davis shimmied out of a conviction in ’93 with a Meryl Streep-worthy performance on the stand. Weeping openly, Davis admitted to snorting cocaine in his chambers and stammered, “I could have been someone!” Jurors bought it, and he walked. But this year, Davis found himself back in court. And this time, karma proved to be a sweet, sweet bitch. Four years after walking on the corruption charges, Davis had started a nonprofit called Miami-Dade Residential College. The smooth-talking disbarred lawyer glad-handed his way into thousands of dollars in county grants for the program, which was supposed to help ex-cons learn real-world skills. Instead, it helped one con in particular — Davis himself — pad his wallet. Prosecutors showed that Davis and his partner inflated salaries, invented expenses, and stole more than $80,000 in taxpayer cash. On the stand in January, Davis broke down again. Tears flowed onto his prison jumpsuit. This time, there was no magic — only justice. Davis got 20 years. Good riddance.

Recently, the idea of moving up the last-call time in clubland has gathered steam. But we don’t think the draconian measure is a good way to dampen the spirits. Move the time up to 3 a.m., and tons of patrons will cozy up to the bar for a last-hurrah booze binge beginning at 2:30. Then they’ll end up out in the street at the same time, only earlier, fighting for cabs or, worse yet, climbing behind the wheel. But if city officials have to do something to score political points, here’s a case we’d like to make: Exhibit 1: Great Britain recently introduced 24-hour liquor licenses and has seen violent crimes involving alcohol actually fall 21 percent. Exhibit 2: Seattle is contemplating doing away with its 2 a.m. last call in favor of later, staggered closing times. We like that second option. Cops can concentrate on different club areas as they let out, and people who need cabs will find them more easily. Is that a last call we hear?

We’ve all seen some things in this city — dirty, nasty, criminal, soul-crushing things. Most of us, with our trademarked 305 cynicism, tend to ignore them. But an anonymous man, going by the Internet handle of DC Vision, is paying attention. In 2007, he began taking photographs of the prostitutes and drug addicts who line the streets of downtown Miami. They wind up on his Tumblr, titled the Street. The site’s header ominously reminds us: “This is an exploration of other people’s lives. Look around you, there are streets like this in every town. They are all connected.” Recently, he began posting mug shots and arrest info for some of the girls he has photographed. Sadly, many of them wind up right back on the streets. The effect is haunting, especially when much of the blatant activity takes place in broad daylight and most of the subjects wear the marks of hard lives on their faces. Some people might see it as exploitation, but it’s a chilling reminder that the city has a long way to go to clean up its streets and that we should be thankful our lives don’t resemble the images in these photos.

Ignacio Rodriguez’s title for South Florida’s chronically anonymous pro-soccer team is a bit oxymoronic — like being a real estate agent to the homeless, or head of the Israeli shellfish harvesters’ union. Attendance at the team’s tin-bleachered Lockhart Stadium in Fort Lauderdale rarely exceeds the single-digit thousands, and the front office has taken to frequent gimmicks in order to stave off extinction: They signed elderly one-named former fútbol demigod Romário and then two recently defected Cuban phenoms, and the players volunteered to shave their heads if fans showed up. But the bleachers remained nearly empty. Through all of these thwarted shenanigans, Rodriguez has remained friendly, attentive, and upbeat — the kind of flack who literally won’t let us off the phone until we promise to show up at either media day or the season opener. Given that most sports flacks act like they’re guarding a stable of 25 popes rather than a bunch of dudes who get sweaty on Sundays, its awfully refreshing to deal with a PR shield eager to make even the most audacious press requests happen, and always prefers a sit-down lunch to an email exchange.

When Virginia Gardens elected J. E. Hardy mayor in 1947, only 50 residents of the small, lush green village were registered to vote. Virginia Gardens ceded from neighboring Miami Springs after that town passed a law banning the keeping of horses — something that didn’t sit well with the transplants from the Old Dominion state. They transformed Virginia Gardens into a community of barns, stables, and a duck farm. More than half a century later, Virginia Gardens maintains its rustic appeal, minus the barns and stables. And residents work hard to keep up the village’s manicured lawns and abundant tree canopy. The Virginia Gardens beautification committee stays busy by regularly planting trees in the swale areas of residences and village property. According to recent U.S. Census data, the population of Virginia Gardens hovers around 2,300, with more than half the residents married with kids. The enclave is tucked between Miami Springs and Miami International Airport.

Tom Falco’s Coconut Grove Grapevine community blog can be irritating. When he’s writing about threatening to take photos of kids “posing” as school basketball players — only to watch them “scatter like rats” — or railing against a woman in a food truck poaching customers from Grove restaurants, Falco has all the perspective of a Picasso. But Merriam-Webster‘s definition of a gadfly is one who “stimulates or annoys, especially by persistent criticism,” which might as well be the Grapevine’s mission statement. There is no louder voice for a community — in his case, the Grove’s business owners — in Miami.

You might not have heard any songs by Fort Lauderdale rapper Lyrikill.com — yes, his stage name is a web address — but if you regularly watch network news, you’ve probably seen his work. The dreadlocked white boy has taken self-promotion to obsessive, highly invasive new levels. For three years, he’s been bum-rushing live telecasts while screaming and holding signs bearing his name. The practice has made him public enemy number one among the perfect-hair-and-mike-lapel set — he’s been threatened on-camera by a pole-wielding producer and had his YouTube account suspended for copyright violations — but the possibility of a Lyrikill.com sighting makes boring ol’ nightly news worth watching.

If you want to instill some peace in angry, hot-headed inner-city youth, have them, like, grab a board and become a mellow dude riding the waves. That’s the idea Maurice “Maui” Goodbeer came up with while surfing the South Beach shores after his brother’s death in 2003. Goodbeer had delivered his slain brother’s eulogy and promised his family he’d find a way to reach out to inner-city kids and help reduce the violence. The organization he launched, Streetwaves Foundation, mentors at-risk youth from Miami’s inner cities and introduces them to the soul-and-sport lifestyle of surfing. Maui’s goal was to create “stewards of the ocean,” focusing the kids’ energy on the holistic effects that surfing could bring to their lives. So every Saturday, he rounds up his troops from local youth centers and takes them out for free lessons. It has gained such good vibes that Streetwaves is up for a much-needed Pepsi Refresh Project grant. The group also needs volunteers to pick up the kids, drop them off, transport equipment, boost them into a wave, and help get the word out. Streetwaves has even tugged the heart of Brooke Hogan, who was spotted on the beach in early May helping instruct students.

Do you find yourself watching UFC fights on pay-per-view, envisioning yourself in briefs decorated with the flag of your native country, with blood dripping down your face and an award-winning case of cauliflower ear? If so, you might be clinically insane and/or interested in knowing that at American Top Team Doral, any guy or girl can take their first step in becoming an ultimate fighter. The name that sponsors nationally recognized fighters such as Thiago “the Pitbull” Alves and former WEC featherweight title-holder Mike Brown opened its doors about a year and a half ago. The gym now allows brave run-of-the-mills to take classes in Brazilian jiujitsu, Muay Thai, and mixed martial arts alongside individuals who kick ass for a living. Step into the long, massive, open space covered with mats, punching bags, and a fairly intimidating octagon for a range of classes that feature matched-up throwdowns. ATT is headquartered in Coconut Creek, but many wannabe fighters get their foot in the door at the Doral location. And if you start kicking some amateur ass in class, the ATT Doral owners might eventually offer to sponsor and schedule you in fights. So if you’re fearless, want to get in ridiculously good shape, and don’t care too much for your facial aesthetics, get your martial arts mixed at ATT Doral. The gym offers first-timers a free one-week trial. Prices are $190 a month for unlimited classes or $140 for two classes a week.

Every Miami club kid has had the fantasy of spinning records with one hand in the air while a sea of bodies sways to the beats. You know the one — the dream where everything is in slow motion and your favorite celebs just can’t get enough of your set. Well, at the Scratch DJ Academy in the Design District, any music junkie can train with professional DJs to whip that fantasy into reality. Envisioned by the late Jam-Master Jay of Run-D.M.C., the DJ-school concept began in New York City in 2002, and Scratch brought its turntables to Miami three years later, moving into the Design District in November 2009. All of the instructors are pro DJs with lesson plans for six-week semesters, giving the classes a legitimate college feel. The methods have been honed to cram what used to be years of training into a single course. It seems to be working. The school has produced some of Miami’s slickest DJs and even has a deal with nightclub Love Hate to help get gigs for Scratch’s up-and-comers. Wednesday nights at the South Beach lounge are dedicated to the musical styling of the most impressive students. And every DJ at Scratch says all you need to start spinning is a love for music — and maybe some type of rhythm and the $300 to cover a semester.

Her rock-gray back snake-winds through the green life on a shark’s path through this sacred, ancient land. Every segment of humanity Miami has ever hosted has recognized her as a transport route. Tequestas, pirates, pioneers, settlers, farmers, builders, artists, killers, doctors, liars, cocaine cowfolk, and suburban homeowners have all staked claims along her highway. Today this engineer’s line through Coconut Grove is as lush as a jungle in a concrete landscape. The sun glows through the hot, wet air, lighting up the branches of the canopy with a luminance resplendent in the dusk.

If you’ve ever ventured into Doral, you’ve probably had to brave the nauseating, car-sickening, I-just-want-to-get-out-of-my-car and-stab-someone traffic, especially on Doral Boulevard, AKA 36th Street, AKA 41st Street (maybe the confusing three names have something to do with its madness?). So do three other factors: insane construction on adjacent streets, which draws escaping traffic to the boulevard; the proximity of Doral Academy (elementary, middle, and high school), which jams the street with a sea of parents, guardians, big brothers, sisters, and abuelos dropping off and picking up the kids; and the omnipresence of police officers filling their quota of fines. So avoid Doral Boulevard, because attempting to drive on it will cause you to commit some random act of vehicular violence.

For locals, the thought of downtown Miami conjures visions of our mega arena, contemporary skyscrapers, and the 17-story Spanish-style building that holds more history than all of its steel neighbors combined: the Freedom Tower. The building’s ornate details, intricate points, and curves reminiscent of the Giralda Tower of Seville, along with pale peach and yellow tones, provide a stark contrast to the surrounding sea of modernism. Constructed in 1925, the building is Miami’s version of Ellis Island. Between 1962 and 1974, the former home of the Miami Daily News became el refugio, a U.S. immigration station for Cuban refugees flooding South Florida. Today the National Historic Landmark is part of the Miami Dade College Wolfson Campus and is used for events and exhibitions. So next time you’re downtown and see Dwyane Wade’s face shining on the arena’s three-story-high LED screen, turn around, stand proud, and soak up Miami’s ultimate landmark. To get a closer look, visit the tower Tuesday through Sunday from noon to 7 p.m., or call for a private tour. Most art exhibitions are free.

Most TV news talking heads, even the dudes, look and act like failed beauty queens trying to make a second career for themselves. But WSVN’s Belkys Nerey bucks that trend. The 42-year-old Emmy winner is a solid, straight-up anchorwoman — telegenic but still intelligent. Born in Havana, Nerey spent her childhood in Long Island before tripping down I-95 to South Florida. Once here, she studied radio and television at Miami Dade College and Florida International University, got her start in cable news, and earned a spot in the Magic City’s media parade as cohost of local gossip institution Deco Drive. Today, Nerey is cruising through the post-Deco phase of her career, holding down WSVN’s nightly newscasts alongside Craig Stevens. And whether it’s a celebrity sex scandal or a political con job, she always delivers the day’s stories with appropriate seriousness. Case in point: Unlike some of the lesser faces populating the public airwaves, Nerey never falls prey to that annoying TV anchor tic of flashing a vacant smile after reporting Miami’s latest murder.

Many people familiar with 31-year-old Alfred Spellman probably don’t realize the wealth of knowledge and topics that the Rakontur producer (Cocaine Cowboys, The U) frequently tweets. While most Twitter users babble about nonsense on the social networking tool, in 140 characters or fewer, Spellman lets us know about inner happenings at Rakontur (FYI, Dawg Fight, the back-yard fighter documentary based on a 2008 New Times story, comes out this fall) and comments on drug-related news and general Miami fucked-up-ness.Choice tweets include:”wonder where this guy’s headed: Former Nazi and convicted child molester dies in Chile at 88 (New York Times)””Electric Pickle, why’d you have to cross the picket line and let Jersey Shore shoot?””keepin it classy, GOP ——> Republican congressman shouts ‘baby killer’ at Stupak on House floor during vote.”

When the county mayor holds up one of your emails at a news conference to rail at your alleged “bias” for exposing him and his inner circle for feeding at the trough when he’s cutting services, it’s a nice feather in any reporter’s cap. Matt Haggman, who holds a law degree, worked his way up in Miami’s infinitely small print-newspaper industry. He started out writing about lawyers at the Daily Business Review before moving on to the Miami Herald, where he toiled in the business section. In 2008, he was one of three reporters on the daily’s ground-breaking series about rampant mortgage fraud called “Borrowers Betrayed.” Buyouts and layoffs finally prompted the Herald‘s editors to give him a beat where he has really blossomed as a daily reporter. If you want to know what’s going on at county hall, read Haggman.

The Miami Herald is not the venerable newspaper she used to be. The digital age, employee buyouts and layoffs, and the real estate meltdown have left her ragged and battered. She’s even fallen to fifth place among the largest dailies in the state. (Great Alvah Chapman’s ghost, Batman!) Yet more often than people give her credit for, the Herald shows her old feistiness for dogged reporting. Our favorite was the March 28 Sunday front-page sordid crime tale penned by reporters David Smiley and Arthur Jay Harris. The duo retraced the evidence and witness statements that pointed to serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer as the man who kidnapped and subsequently decapitated 6-year-old Adam Walsh in 1981. Before he was murdered in prison in 1994, Dahmer told Hollywood Police detectives that he was in South Florida when Walsh disappeared, but he denied killing the boy. Smiley and Harris interviewed several witnesses who firmly believe Dahmer was the killer. The story eerily describes how Phillip Lohr saw a “man carrying a struggling, freckled child out of Sears’ toy department exit” and putting the kid inside an illegally parked blue van that matched the description of a vehicle Dahmer was driving at the time. Smiley and Harris detail how cops did not follow up on a tip from two truck drivers who saw Dahmer fumbling with a bucket next to his blue van, which was parked on the side of the road off Florida’s Turnpike. The creepiest anecdote was the revelation by Terry Keaton, who was 10 years old around the time Walsh disappeared. Keaton recalled that one week before Adam vanished, he was almost kidnapped by a man he now claims was Dahmer. Keaton’s quote: “In my heart, I truly believe that was the guy who tried to get me that day.”

John Dufresne is one of those great authors who write a lot about writing. And not just in his classic how-to books, such as Is Life Like This?, a step-by-step guide to writing a novel in six months, with chapters ingeniously broken into week-by-week advice for the aspiring wordsmith. No, even Dufresne’s excellent fiction often treads into the meta territory of exploring the process itself. Take his latest work, 2008’s Requiem, Mass, about a novelist named John who abandons his latest literary effort to write a memoir about his childhood in Massachusetts. If that sounds an awful lot like Dufresne’s own upbringing, it is, yet he uses the structure of a novel to expand beyond self-reflection and to tell a touching, absurd, and ultimately beautiful story about the fictional author’s life and his struggle to write it. So it should come as no surprise that Dufresne is awfully reflective about the process of putting words to the page. He has churned out two decades of great writers as a creative writing professor at Florida International University and travels the country teaching writing seminars to emerging authors. Every other Friday, Dufresne even holds free workshops at FIU to coach any young Hemingway who makes the drive. Dufresne not only writes magnificently but also makes other authors better every day.

Jennine Capó Crucet burst onto the literary scene last year with a voice as fresh and welcome as a whiff of strong Cuban espresso. In her debut collection of stories, fathers spend weekends under their cars, aunts parade like the pope in their new sedans, girls meet predate disaster while removing facial hair, and the parish church is not haunted by Catholic saints or even Yoruban deities but by that patron saint of working-class Cubans, Celia Cruz. The 11 stories in How to Leave Hialeah offer a funny, touching portrayal of growing up in two worlds: one inhabited by working-class exiles tied to the past, the other by their pill-poppin’, hard-rockin’ offspring. That the universally recognizable characters happen to be Cubans living in Hialeah makes the stories all the more familiar. (You can hear the shuffle of dominoes and smell the fumes on the Palmetto Expressway.) Capó Crucet took off a decade ago for the Ivy League and now lives with her husband in L.A. But don’t believe the title. In her heart, she never left.

Parrots always creeped us out a little. It’s like, “Dude, you’re an animal — why the hell are you talking to me?” If we wanted to hear the opinions of a being with a walnut-size brain, we’d turn on cable news. And then there’s the parrot’s long-standing relationship with pirates. Not cool. So, anyway, we were pretty happy when Parrot Jungle left Pinecrest. Because the 22-acre plot is a beautiful spot, full of lush tropical vegetation and wandering trails. And with the sleazy birds having been evicted, the park is now free of charge. Plus a petting zoo, botanical garden, and splash fountain make Pinecrest Gardens one of the county’s best parks for children — or marijuana-addled adults. It’s open sunrise to sunset.

Here at New Times, we think every pooch — from the mangiest of mutts (we’re looking at you, Pabst, winner of 2009’s Ugliest Dog Contest) to the purest of breeds — has the right to choose its very own spot to frolic, fart, and fetch. So, with that in mind, we wrote this description of the grrrrreatest dog park in Miami-Dade in language that only canines (and, quite possibly, Cesar Milan) can understand. While you’re barking this out for your favorite four-legged fleabag, have fun trying to debunk our top-secret code: Bark, bark, yelp, woof? Perrine Wayside Dog Park! It’s bow-wow-wow! Ruff, ruff, large central POND (!!!), splash, pant, you can SWIM in! Woof, ruff, bark, sniff others’ butts without a leash! Bad leash. Good boy! Cat! Where, cat, where?! Sniff, sniff! Aw, no cat, just small dog in a roped-off area for little dogs so that big dogs don’t mistake Chihuahua for cheeseburger. Cheeseburger, good. Cheeseburger want! See Frisbee overhead. Now want Frisbee! Chase Frisbee in spacious area, lush with plants to sniff and pee and sniff and pee on again and again, ruff, woof, scratch, chase tail, and sanitary bags available for when puppy makes pebbles! Lick, lick, go on WALK (!!!) around POND on a TRAIL. Do not get dirty! Hose on hand, so you may get B-A-T-H if you get muddy. Grrooowl… Whimper. No like bath. Wet. Mad. Do I want cheeseburger? Yes! Tail wag! Lick, lick, lick your face, try to lick your mouth, no mouth, lick cheek. Lick, lick! I love you! I love cheesebur — oh, cat!

If beachside routes are as popular and predictable as Top 40 radio, this tour is like NPR: You’ll learn something if you pay attention. Witness the confused chicken clucking around NE Second Avenue. This is her home, and she is not afraid of you. Head west and wonder, What’s that noise? It sounds like a party, but it’s actually a church. Peek inside: They are dancing. Down the street, a hair weave has been tossed to the sidewalk, ominously. Wonder how it got there. Loop back south and spot that new Obama mural. Mr. President is smiling again. Breathe in the smoky barbecue smell; see the ghostly foreclosed buildings; marvel at the gang graffiti. Roll by Churchill’s and end with a beer. Then make a toast: To Haiti. To one hard year.

At first glance, Morningside Park looks like the VIP room of open space. But don’t let the arm gate and security guards fool you: It’s available to everyone. Tucked away in what feels like a secret nook, a few happy joggers sweat next to a bay dotted with sailboats. The sun rises over the water while they heave — hearts fluttering — on a paved path shaded by trees. Women stretch on yoga mats as old Cuban guys fish next to rocks in the distance. Nearby, shirtless men do chinups on an obstacle course complete with monkey bars and balance beams. Three times around a winding, partially shaded, teardrop-shaped path is suitable for an easy Sunday morning jog. To push yourself, venture to the outside neighborhood, where cars are scarce and houses are colorful. Open from 7:30 a.m. until 9 p.m. weekends and 8 p.m. weekdays. Free parking.

Want a daylong kayak adventure? Hit the emerald waters off Key Biscayne, cut through bridges and canals, and explore historical sites while spotting stingrays, tropical fish, sea turtles, and the occasional pod of dolphins or manatees, under the open canopy of stark blue and sunshine, with the downtown Miami skyline as your backdrop. Paddle the coastal edges and examine the parrotfish, crabs, and shrimp that skim the sea-grass beds swaying in the shallower parts of the water. Explore the dunes and sandbars that wedge themselves out of the azure Atlantic a few yards off the various beaches. Then hit the open waters, gliding over the crests borne from the light, brisk trade winds, and explore places such as Vizcaya and Mashta House, and gawk at the multimillion-dollar houses that line the interior parts of the bay. End the day by traversing into the deeper waters one mile south of the southern end of Key Biscayne and explore Stiltsville, the historic wooden stilt homes built in the middle of Biscayne Bay in the 1930s. You can launch off any beach on Key Biscayne, while places like Crandon Park and Sailboards Miami offer hourly rentals and even group tours.

Michael Putney doesn’t tweet. He doesn’t pop up when we search his name on Facebook. And as far as we can tell, he doesn’t blog. No, sir, Michael Putney is decidedly old school, and in this Internet age, we couldn’t appreciate him more. While most TV reporters seem to come and go, Putney has been covering local government and politics in South Florida for nearly 30 years. Add to his incisive reporting a hosting gig on This Week in South Florida, one of the few must-watch local programs, and his occasional columns in the Miami Herald (which often upstage the newspaper’s regular gaggle of columnists). There are few voices on local airwaves we trust as much as Putney and who report on politics with such authority.

The only way to get into a pick-up game at any number of basketball courts around this city is to either be really patient while waiting to get into a game or to anticipate someone’s knee ligament exploding and then hoping his teammates choose you to play. That will never happen, because the pick-up basketball gods hate you. The best solution to this, however, is to find an out-of-the-way court, where the wait is short and the odds of you actually playing in a game are greater than the odds of you sitting on your basketball, sipping Powerade, and watching a bunch of strangers play ball. Located in the backstreets of North Miami Beach, Victory Park is where you’ll find sanctuary from the three-hour wait-a-thons. It offers two courts, which are smooth, clean, and well maintained. Nestled between a playground and a few unassuming apartment complexes, the courts are well lit in the evening and have nets that are actually clean, threaded perfectly, and fully intact. Victory Park courts are open to the public from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily.

These courts, a stone’s throw from the centuries-old Spanish Monastery and just a mile or so from Aventura Mall, are perfectly kept, reasonably priced, and run by the top pro in South Florida, Desi Pierre. Twelve clay courts save wear on your knees, and there are six hard courts. No waiting here, except maybe on megabusy weekend mornings. Want your racquet restrung? They do it here. Play racquetball? Four courts. The place opens at 8:30 a.m. and closes at 9 p.m. Monday through Thursday. Fridays and weekends, it closes a bit earlier. There’s a great tennis academy for kids too. Pierre, formerly the pro at the Sheraton Bal Harbour and the Fontainebleau, was recently named the region’s number one coach by the United States Professional Tennis Association. Play and you’ll enjoy it. Guaranteed. Oh, and there are two paddle ball courts. Cost: $7 during the day and $8 at night.

Say your boss just reamed you out at that bank where you work downtown. You’ll resort to violence if you don’t find a release. Head only a few miles north to the range at Miami Shores Country Club, where you can swing under the lights until 9 p.m. seven days a week. Or stop by before work. It opens at 7 a.m. Buckets of balls are priced at $5 for 30, $8 for 60, and $12 for 90. Bring along your mate to watch through the plate-glass windows from an air-conditioned bar while sipping a margarita or eating a fine meal. There are chipping and putting areas nearby. Monday and Tuesday, when the grass gets refreshed, you’ll have to hit from a mat made of artificial turf.

We want to work on our Charlie Crist-grade tans without having to play beach-blanket bingo in the shadows of the high-rises that dominate most of Miami Beach. In fact, many of us wouldn’t mind a beach experience sans the concrete, snowbirds, and tourists that are hard to avoid on most local sands. Thankfully, there’s North Shore Open Space Park, a scenic stretch of sun-bathing-worthy shores right in the middle of Miami Beach that hasn’t been given over to developers. Instead, there are picnic tables, shady trees, lots of greenery, and relatively clean restrooms. Plus the metered public parking lots across the street never seem full. It might not have that certain air of manufactured glamour where the views to the west are as artificial as half the topless chicks, but sometimes it’s nice to leave the Versace thong or Armani Speedo at home and get in touch with one of the few things left on Miami Beach vaguely resembling nature.

Sure, there are the obvious spots: Crandon Park for sun-soaked cookouts and Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden for a quiet day in the shade. But this 22-acre park is the kind of untapped green space that will make you forget you live in the city. The place looks like a scene from FernGully. Located in North Miami, the park is covered in most parts by a thick canopy of trees. Don’t be surprised if you see dozens of yellow butterflies fluttering about. Or a pony trotting by. Arch Creek juts through the center, attracting creatures of both the feathery and scaly variety. Here you can escape the rest of the world, drink beer in the sun, or throw a birthday party for your kid. There are grills, sheltered areas, a butterfly garden, and even horse and pony rides. Pavilion rentals are available for North Miami residents at a cost of $100; nonresidents pay $200. There is no fee for entrance or parking.

Look, how you spend your free time is your own business. But if you’re planning to use your next day off to snorkel in the Upper Keys or ride your BMX through Flamingo Park, we’re going to just say it: We think you’re boring. There’s a town just an hour and half north that’s named after a planet. And as if that weren’t enough of a draw, Jupiter is home to a museum celebrating the most virile man to succeed in Hollywood, Burt Reynolds. That’s right — the mustached man is a Florida boy. He graduated from Palm Beach High and played football for Florida State University. The Burt Reynolds & Friends Museum started as an acting studio and dinner theater. It now houses film stills and memorabilia from Reynolds’s illustrious career. He had starring roles in Deliverance, Smokey and the Bandit, and more recently Striptease and Boogie Nights. Reynolds was even asked to fill Sean Connery’s shoes as the next James Bond. But he realized he could never pull off the well-coifed, martini-swilling hero. His brand of manliness was too steeped in Americana: dirty fingernails, faded blue jeans, and the musky BO of a hard day’s work. Gawk at the Bandit’s black Trans Am and his sheriff boots from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. But the museum’s pièce de résistance is the infamous canoe from Deliverance. This time, it’ll make you squeal with delight. Hours are 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Friday through Sunday, and admission is $5.

If you spend all of your spare time secretly polishing 300-year-old firearms, dressing like an authentic Appalachian mountain man, and hiding in your neighbors’ bushes, there’s a club for you. It’s called the Palmetto Muzzle Loaders. For more than 50 years, the members of this antique gun group have been getting together to celebrate their shared love of early America, the Second Amendment, and frontier fashion. Mostly, the Muzzle Loaders do the obvious: blast off rounds from their fine collection of forefather-approved pistols and flintlock rifles. But every brother and sister in good standing also handcrafts his or her own buck-skinner gear (leather shirts, knife sheaths, moccasins, etc.) and takes part in the re-enactment of primitive living conditions, i.e. getting lost in the woods for a weekend to see if he or she can make it to Monday alive. So you wanna join? There are only two prerequisites for new prospects: Get your National Muzzle Loading Rifle Association membership, and pay your yearly $20 club dues. The Palmetto Muzzle Loaders meet every second Sunday at the Trail Glades Sport Shooting Range for a day of gun games. Be there in your best bearskin vest.

Air travel has really gone to shit. You’re either waiting in lines or on the tarmac, paying for the luxury of bringing luggage, forced to go barefoot, or just merely uncomfortable as a brat kicks out the beat to “Single Ladies” on the back of your seat. Really, jetpacks can’t be invented soon enough. Until then, recapture the thrill of flying by chartering a private sea plane. For $350 a ticket, you can soar over the Everglades, swooshing safely above alligators and snakes while not disrupting the soft river of grass or slicing up any manatees. Or get a tour of Miami and Fort Lauderdale’s coast from Boca Chica to Port Everglades. You’ll spy swarms of sharks and posses of dolphins, maybe even a homemade raft or two. Coastal and beach tours cost $225. The most affordable trip is the $150 skyline tour, where you’ll get a bird’s-eye view of downtown Miami. Fall back in love with the city as you see it from its most attractive side. The best part: The drug dealers, swindling politicians, crooked cops, and armed high-schoolers look so tiny from up there.

The 1940s structure nestled in South Beach’s “seedier” area is perhaps Miami-Dade’s most luxe spot to throw a party. Just ask Cartier, Range Rover, and Swarovski — they’ve all used the film/photo studio and event space to launch their brands. What started out as a movie theater became in 1992 a flexible space, converted by owner Eugene Rodriguez. Since then, it has hosted some of the city’s premier parties and events, including the Leather & Lace Ball during Super Bowl XLIV and Diesel U:Music with Santigold and Kid Cudi. The stark-white space is easily adaptable to any kind of bash, and with a recent zoning change that allows the space to hold theatrical events, this should be a busy year for Paris.

Everyone smokes in cemeteries. It’s an age-old rite of passage for any pothead. You toke, take a seat on someone’s grave, and let your chemically deranged brain trip on the exasperating enigmas of human existence. The Neptune Memorial Reef, however, is some genuinely next-level shit. Located three and a quarter miles off Key Biscayne, the reef is an actual underwater necropolis where real-deal dead people’s cremated remains lie encased in enormous concrete vessels shaped like giant seashells, starfish, and chunks of coral. With plans to eventually occupy 16 acres of ocean floor and house 125,000 human bodies, this deep-sea burial ground is still in its early stages. Right now, there are only 1,200 plots covering approximately one and a half acres. But even so, the whole thing looks like a mythical sunken city filled with architectural ruins (arches, columns, gates) and gargantuan, algae-encrusted sculptural monuments (a five-ton lion, for example), all of it populated by weird sea creatures including tangs, triggers, eels, and stingrays. Find this stoner mecca by boat, or ride there on Poseidon’s thigh — the GPS coordinates are N25° 42.036, W80° 05.409 — then sink 45 feet to the ocean floor. A cremation and Neptune Memorial Reef placement package costs $4,000. But it’s totally open and free to divers. So get your scuba certification. Hit that spliff. Touch the afterlife.

Last year, two giants of late night faced off in the sort of epic brawl we hadn’t seen in years. It was splashier than Mothra versus Godzilla, cattier than Hillary versus Barack. No, it was not Leno and Conan. It was Alexis Valdés versus Mega TV. In Spanish television, the squabble over Valdés’s contract to host Esta Noche Tu Night, his version of The Tonight Show, was bigger than the Peloponnesian War. The host wanted the classic wish list: better pay, less work, creative freedom. Mega TV scoffed and took him off the air to negotiate. For two months, the network brought in more guest hosts than Regis looking for a new Kathy Lee: Albita and z-listers such as Cuban model Sissi. But Valdés isn’t easy to replace. Since fleeing Cuba in 1990, he has become a meganova of Latino comedy. He has several features to his credit, including voicing a character on DreamWorks’ Madagascar 2. On his show, he confronted Enrique Iglesias with a sendup of the singer’s Lothario father. And his Cristinito, a Spanglish-speaking doofus, has become as familiar as Carnac the Magnificent. This past February, the two heavies reached a deal that would return Valdés to Esta Noche, but only for two nights a week. That’s a pity. It leaves three empty evenings without the king of monologeando, or as Mega calls him, “El Johny Carlson” of Spanish late-night.

You smell Broward before you reach it — a whiff of brine and ambition. Broward, at least the southern bit, feels unsettled. At a certain famous Hollywood restaurant, you can maow a world-class seafood sammich or cheeseburger while sitting on a piece of unpolished driftwood and watching cockroaches scuttle up nearby trees. In Dania, a town constructed of decommissioned buoys and hammocks, you can eat Florida’s most decadent ice-cream sundaes in a place that hasn’t changed its décor since about 1890. (Situated in such an atavistic town, it doesn’t seem retro at all.) Downtown Hollywood and Fort Lauderdale look like the products of a young architect’s unwarranted grandiosity, adolescent stabs at urbanity in places that never needed any — sort of an American’s answer to Dubai. For these reasons, and many more, Broward is a step backward in time — to the days when pioneers roamed the swamps; when plastic surgery was a novelty and not a rite of passage; when life was slow, and when it wasn’t slow, it was lawless; and when you weren’t looked at like a crazy person for speaking English.

Riding a bicycle is fun. Drinking booze is totally awesome. What happens when you mix the two together? Totally awesome fun! And judging from the success of the first Beer Snob MIA-Bicycle Pub Crawl, combining boozing and cycling is an indicator of why Bicycling magazine rated Miami one of its Top 50 cities for bike lovers. Nearly 100 cyclists met at Zeke’s on Lincoln Road this past March 6. Their mission: Savor an array of tasty, frothy, so-sweet-when-it-touches-your-lips beeeeerrrrrr. The South Beach watering hole, famous for its impressive selection of ales and lagers at $4 each, was the first stop on a journey that included the Abbey Brewing Company near Lincoln Road, the Democratic Republic of Beers across the street from the Arsht Center, and Titanic Brewery & Restaurant, the final destination, near the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. A ride like that requires a lot of sustenance — the kind that incorporates barley, wheat, and yeast. Of course, Miami’s cyclists practice responsible drinking, so anyone who got too sloshed was encouraged to take the Metrorail or bus back home. And if you missed the pub crawl, don’t worry — the organizers are planning another one for September.

Once upon a time, there was a little prince who wanted to dress up like a girl. His majesty was named Kenny, and he was not happy in his kingdom. Unhappy he was, for there were no fair maidens he wanted to wed. He preferred to take dance classes, listen to Tori Amos records, and kiss other princes. One day, he moved to a far-away land called Miami. “Oh, how splendid!” he exclaimed and then put on a long red wig and a pretty gown. Suddenly — poof! — he was more beautiful than all the “real” ladies of the land. He got on a stage in South Beach and was christened with the title “Queen.” It was much more fun than actually being royalty. He would henceforth be named “Daisy Deadpetals.” He’d spin records at nightclub Buck15, appear on a TV show called Deco Drive, and perform at the region’s longest-running queer show, Life’s a Drag. Then, of course, he lived happily ever after.

More often than not, it’s difficult to find your daughter and girlfriend in harmonious accord over aesthetic issues. But when it comes to cosmetic surgery, they are in melodious agreement when chirping away at the virtues of Jose Perez-Gurri, M.D., founder and director of Imagos Plastic Surgery in Kendall. Sure, they discovered the talented doctor independently and had their procedures done years apart, yet they speak of his handiwork with a gleam in their eyes that almost borders on religious fervor. Both are members of a sisterhood that commonly refers to Perez-Gurri as the “Bernini of breast augmentation.” And not unlike the Renaissance artist, the surgeon is a student of classical sculpture as well as an avid art collector. His patients, along with the men who love them, typically boast of the dramatic, naturalistic realism of his work. Perez-Gurri likens his approach to correcting nature’s imperfections by executing the virtuosity of a master sculptor teasing out a work of art from unpolished stone in order to help unleash the inner Venus. The good doctor might not be chiseling marble, but Perez-Gurri’s crafty attention to detail and finesse with many a bosom, not to mention an easy payment plan, has landed him on the Cristina Show and Sábado Gigante, while inspiring a cult following.

We love the work of Edouard Duval-Carrié for many reasons. Not the least of which is that we snagged one of his iconic sculptures for $20 at a Wynwood thrift shop during Art Basel 2007. The kiwi-green resin figure represented Agoue, Haiti’s version of Poseidon. It was appraised at $500 by Bernice Steinbaum, the artist’s longtime dealer, less than a mile up the road from where it was purchased. Duval-Carrié’s work is in the permanent collections of the Bass Museum of Art and the Miami Art Museum. He is known for weaving African fables, classical mythology, Haitian and world history, and contemporary events into a rich symbolic tapestry of haunting imagery. When experiencing his work, you can almost hear the resurrection drums tapping out the messages of Haiti’s vodou pantheon, reminding one of that Caribbean nation’s mysterious cultural legacy. This past December at the Little Haiti Cultural Center, Duval-Carrié organized and curated “Global Caribbean,” a world-class exhibit featuring the work of 25 of the region’s top talent. In March, he contributed to the Haitian earthquake relief efforts by hosting a highly successful fundraiser during the ArteAmericas Fair at the Miami Beach Convention Center.

Anthony Spinello’s rise on the local art scene has been meteoric. Just a little more than three years ago, he was organizing tiny yet well-curated shows shoehorned into the even tinier living room of his Wynwood walk-up apartment. Soon the lad’s comet began burning brightly and local collectors took notice, as did South Florida’s emerging talent, who began begging to join the brash young dealer’s stable. Spinello quickly became a staple on the art fair circuit and opened a short-lived space in Wynwood, where his shows were always edgy and popular with the Second Saturday crowds. Today he calls the Design District home, and his annual December group show — a micro fair lampooning Art Basel — has become a must-stop for locals and visiting glitterati during the winter arts confab. Spinello recently doubled the size of his space, and his stable boasts some of South Florida’s top young talent, including Lee Materrazi, Christina Pettersson, Santiago Rubino, Manny Prieres, and Agustina Woodgate. He recently invited the public to do their laundry in a washer installed for an upcoming show. It’s a far cry from when Spinello had to hand-wash his dirty drawers in the kitchen sink while preparing for his first Wynwood show.

This little seen but deftly mounted exhibit, organized at the now-moribund Tachmes space by indie curator Jorge Hulian, featured 37 haunting photographs by Venezuelan artist Luis Brito. The shutterbug transported viewers into the bizarre world of his compatriot Armando Reverón, who died in 1954 following a steady decline into dementia. One of Latin American art history’s most enigmatic figures, Reverón was known for creating a harem of life-size, anatomically correct muses out of burlap sacks and sundry detritus scavenged from garbage heaps. Clad in a loincloth, he lived in a ramshackle compound he christened El Castillete, created from palm fronds and trash, where he communed with nature and led a near-aboriginal existence. Hailed as one of the first multimedia artists of his era, the mad genius used his dolls as models for his paintings and was rumored to have consummated his relations with the moldy muses, later claiming to “fathering children” with them. Brito documented the fetid, moth-eaten carcasses of Reverón’s harem for posterity, and the results on view at the Tachmes space, painted in gloomy twilight tones for the occasion, were hair-raising.

Last year, the Bass took a radical departure from the musty offerings of baroque paintings and uneven programming that led to the institution’s decline. In spring 2009, museum visitors were greeted at the entrance by a local artist who had buried himself in the ground with only his head exposed like an Indian fakir. The neck-craning moment occurred during the opening of “The Best of Bert Rodriguez — Greatest Hits Vol. 1.” The occasion loudly telegraphed that new director Silvia Karman Cubiñá was aggressively riding herd on a cutting-edge transformation of the museum. This past December, during Art Basel, Karman Cubiñá further cemented her reputation among the art world cognoscenti by landing “Where Do We Go From Here? Selections from La Colección Jumex,” marking the stateside debut of the largest privately held collection in Latin America. Owned by Mexican juice mogul Eugenio Lopez Mendoza, the potent display featured 75 head-turning works in diverse media culled from a legendary collection that numbers some 2,000 pieces. Selections included a giant chicharrón, a decrepit wheelbarrow groaning under a mountain of gaudy Christmas ornaments, and a stainless steel door to nowhere and boasted some of the contemporary art world’s top names. It was one of Art Basel’s biggest draws, made funkier by a concurrent exhibit showcasing Carlos Rolon, AKA Dzine, whose wacky retrophilia included a tricked out low rider tricycle that looked like it was hijacked from Liberace’s garage. With Karman Cubiñá firmly at the helm, the Bass shows steady signs all hands are on deck and sailing full steam ahead.

So, what is the Haitian-American community to do when trying to connect with its roots while away from the motherland? Build a 60,000-square-foot museum in a neighborhood with the largest Haitian population outside the island. Located on the outskirts of Little Haiti, the Haitian Heritage Museum is a nonprofit organization committed to highlighting and preserving Haiti’s rich culture and heritage. View the brightly colored paintings depicting scenes of agricultural workers on ox carts, and lush landscapes filled with colonial-era families frolicking under powder-blue skies, or take in the hand-carved folk art scattered across the cherry wood floors. Listen to local Haitian musicians perform on bongos and guitars, and learn about Haitian literature and Oswald Durand, dubbed the Haitian Shakespeare. Kiddies can soak up the rich culture through Ayiti Exposé, the museum’s signature program that provides outreach cultural workshops to Miami-Dade County Public Schools. Visit the only museum in the world outside of Haiti keeping the spirit of this courageous people alive. Hours are 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Friday.

At his freshly squeezed Wynwood space, John Brevard has quickly become the envy of neighborhood artists. His eponymous 4,500-square-foot showroom opened in March 2010 with champagne-soaked splendor that included a red carpet and velvet ropes, $10 valet parking, a jazz saxophone soloist, and a fashion show. Revelers at the inaugural were treated to gift bags and photographed for a spread in a design magazine as they arrived at the swank affair. Brevard has filled his gallery with surreal black-and-white drawings, inspired by a visit to a shaman and his immersion into an altered state following an ayahuasca trip in 2001, and with gleaming, spit-polished sculptures combining steel and petrified wood from his Merging Economy and Ecology series. An eighth-generation Floridian whose ancestors founded Brevard County, the 27-year-old artist had never exhibited with a gallery before. Brevard showcases only his own work in this space.

“McCay back to Baumeister, over to the far side, Frolik takes a feed from Baumeister, he fires, he scores! L.A. face with an Oakland booty!” So goes just one of a myriad hilariously classic calls from Florida Panthers radio play-by-play announcer Randy Moller after every Panthers goal. A former first-round NHL draft pick of the Quebec Nordiques, Moller finished his playing career with the Panthers in 1995 before landing in the booth as their radio color analyst. When 790 the Ticket named him feature play-by-play man, Moller blew up the radio waves, peppering every Panthers goal with pop-culture references from movies such as Wedding Crashers (“He scores! Ma! The meat loaf!”) and Austin Powers (“Score! Get in my belly!”) to classics such as Jaws (“Score! We’re gonna need a bigger boat!”) and Animal House (“He shoots, he scores! Do you mind if we dance wif yo dates!”). Moller has also taken to quoting the likes of Christian Bale (“He scores! Oh, good for you!”) and Tracy Morgan (“He scores! And I draw ding-dongs on people!”) after every goal. The next time you watch a Panthers game, do yourself a favor: Turn down the volume on the tube and turn on Moller’s broadcast. It’s pure fun, as sports should be. And in an industry that features the same old, cliché-ridden, stodgy game-callers, Moller has solidified Panthers games as must-listen radio during the NHL season.

At this unpredictable, prison stripe-painted bunker west of Wynwood, renegade graffiti rat turned fine artist NeckFace parachuted into town for “Devil’s Disciple,” one of the most hyped events of the cultural calendar year. The secretive West Coast gremlin didn’t disappoint with his wicked little drawings of blood-puking babies and raunchy cast of curb zombies and gore-basted amputees. His nefarious doodles where displayed on Mack truck-size crime scene photos of murder victims plucked from Mexican pulp magazines. The creep factor of the artist’s first solo show in the Big Mango was amped up by a garish haunted house where members of NeckFace’s family — gathered here from California — donned ghoulish garb to spook spectators. A screeching wooden ramp featuring a motley collection of skateboarders further entertained the crowd, and a DJ added to the frightful sounds. The monster exhibit morphed into a steaming pile of the abject, drawing more than 5,000 people to a sordid spectacle of decay. Tragically, all great undertakings come to an end. NeckFace’s only-in-Miami moment went flaccid when cops crashed the party before midnight and prematurely ejaculated chemical-addled revelers from the space.

If you’re like us, living paycheck to paycheck, yet suffer from a sweet tooth for the finer things, such as an original oil painting or fine art print to brighten up that dreary futon in your Section 8 walkup, this Wynwood art emporium will warm the cockles of your heart. On any given day, the gritty shop, located in the heart of the city’s fine art nabe, boasts an eclectic stock of canvases and limited-edition prints in the $24.99 to $79.99 range created by names ranging from Ferrante to Thomas McKnight. Most of the blue-ticket-priced items come already framed. And you won’t encounter a traditional art dealer’s high-pressure sales pitch or have to rub elbows with snooty collectors eager to jawbone you to tears. Also, the Salvation Army’s collection is rotated daily, you can haggle over the prices, and Wednesdays you can snag a landscape or still life at half-price, typically the cost of a case of beer, and hang it on your wall without feeling plucked clean by an art dealer.

David Castillo is a rare bird among Miami’s intrepid flock of art dealers. He is the only one of his tribe other than Fredric Snitzer or Kevin Bruk to crack the mysterious Art Basel blockade on Miami galleries in recent memory. And this year, he became only the second Miami dealer accepted to participate at the Armory Fair in New York. His artists love him because he keeps his stable small and manageable and works tirelessly to place their pieces with museums and private collections, sometimes spending 12-hour days in his Wynwood office. It doesn’t hurt that the Yale grad, who also studied art at the Vatican on a special program, can negotiate with clients in five languages and has expanded his collector base beyond the United States and Latin America to Asia and Europe. Since opening his eponymous space in Wynwood in 2005, the young dealer has also organized more than 60 shows that have consistently ranked among the most memorable of the season, while his artists have been covered by publications ranging from the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal to ARTnews and the Art Newspaper. Oh, and when one of his artists isn’t preparing for a show at the Whitney, Castillo can be found operating behind the scenes on the secondary market, selling works by the likes of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Andy Warhol, and Frida Kahlo or quietly holding a clinic on how to build an art business without the smoke and mirrors and chest-thumping typical of the local art scene.

For his quirky, muscle-powered opus, Neraissance, avant composer Juraj Kojs relied on good old-fangled elbow grease to explore kinetic energy in an artistic context. As part of the Miami Light Project’s Here & Now Fest at the Arsht Center this spring, the Slovakian artist combined human performers, experimental sound, and bleeding-edge analog and digital gadgetry in a rollicking 20-minute spectacle of stunning visual poetry that left spectators breathless with wonder. Kojs used two dancers on stationary bicycles to produce the energy to activate sewing machines, alarm clocks, fans, and strings of holiday lights for his dazzling multimedia extravaganza. Kojs, who is director of music and multimedia programming at Wynwood’s Harold Golen Gallery and a postdoctoral associate at Yale’s Department of Music, conjured a trance-inducing reverie in which a silver-winged fairy and a bride on a tricycle, who later peeled off her wedding gown as part of the surreal display, collided onstage for a performance that was both striking and unforgettable.

It wasn’t particularly brave of director Joseph Adler to mount a production of this extremely controversial play, and that’s because he couldn’t have resisted anyway. Blasted is the ideal play for Adler’s GableStage — a powerfully moral tale wrapped in extremely weird and frequently disturbing packaging. In it, Adler introduced us to a girl with developmental disabilities, and then he introduced us to the man who would soon rape her. He staged the rape and then blew apart a hotel room. He made us feel sorry for the man who committed that rape — even though he was more of a reptile than a person, and even though he probably deserved everything he got. Then Adler brought a baby onstage, which he had killed. Then he made the rapist and his victim reunite — sweetly — and he made us happy they did. Then he made us realize we loved the rapist, because his humanity had been made so obvious and so luminously lovely. Having achieved this, Adler made rain fall from the hole in what used to be the hotel room’s ceiling, and it was beautiful. Look past the rape, the cannibalism, and the mind-numbing violence that made this play infamous, and you’ll find actor Todd Allen Durkin giving the performance of a lifetime, a set design as shockingly ingenious as the script is weird, and a story more soulful than any sweeter tale.

Though Broadsword has not, as of this writing, had its official world premiere, it certainly appeared to be a finished piece of work when it spooked audiences at the Light Box. The farcical concept — basically “old metal band reunites to rescue its savant lead guitar player, who has written a guitar riff so darkly perfect it opened a portal to Hell” — didn’t for a moment obscure the play’s big heart or serious subject matter. This was a play about temptation, loyalty, and friendship, given a fantastically atmospheric production by a ceaselessly inventive theater working at the top of its game. Moving and fun.

Equus is a dangerous play. It’s both talky and impassioned, and in clumsy hands can tend toward bombast. But in a sparse, surreal production at New Theatre, Ricky J. Martinez revealed a heretofore unsuspected sensitivity, imbuing the play’s labyrinthine lines with complexity and nuance. He was mightily assisted by actors David Hemphill and Samuel Randolph (who receive awards elsewhere in this issue), but you can’t thank them for the play’s dark, spare aesthetic — the way skeletal horses’ heads seemed to float like ghosts through the dark or how even Dr. Dysart’s bright office felt haunted. Equus’s elements fit together perfectly and composed perhaps Martinez’s finest work.

A tie is a terrible thing, but there was simply no way that either of these performances couldn’t win. Todd Allen Durkin is a veteran actor who, year after year, blows minds in theaters across Florida. He has won every award known to man, save for a Tony, a Nobel, and a Darwin. And in this spring’s Blasted, he turned in a performance that made everything he has ever done before look like amateur hour. As a sociopath journalist/soldier, he was a man seemingly incapable of feeling, but he turned his cold placidity to pain without seeming to try. Later, when he was degraded beyond all measure — when he is lying next to a dead baby in a hole in the floor of a bombed hotel room, newly eyeless and recently raped — he bellowed for redemption, and it was a sound that haunted your car ride home. As the sensitive yet surly — and more than a little deranged — young protagonist of Equus, David Hemphill delivered the year’s most surprising and most career-making performance. Nobody had played Alan Strang better. In the play’s long and wrenching final scene, Hemphill was more naked on the stage than any actor we’ve seen — and his lack of clothing was the least of it.

It’s almost impossible to add something new to a role as well trodden as that of Amanda Wingfield, but Angie Radosh did precisely that. As an aging Southern mother, wrenched from both the South of her youth and the gentility to which she was once accustomed, she wore her dignity like a summer dress — one that, unlike her other clothes, never frayed. What Radosh brought to her role was a sense of the titanic strength it takes to inhabit an illusion of wealth and entitlement, to breathe life into such an illusion for the good of one’s self and one’s children. In other productions, Wingfield tends to come off as a talent; Radosh made her into a hero, albeit an unsung one, who redeems a flawed world by the power of belief alone.

Stupid actors cannot play smart characters, and smart actors cannot play brilliant ones. Dr. Martin Dysart, a shrink and classics scholar, is an almost frighteningly brilliant character, making abstract connections between the ecstatic religious life of classical antiquity and the spiritual inertia of modern Western existence. James Samuel Randolph understood and felt every nuance of every line, and this breathtakingly wordy role became a window into a fascinating and fully articulated mind.

Radio waves travel through empty space at the speed of light in all directions at once. Smoke on that deep thought. Commercial ones flood the electromagnetosphere with an endless tsunami of horrible adverts and lame, overplayed music. But every Friday night, cool water washes over Miami radio with Sound Theory Live as local and touring bands perform at the WDNA studios and answer questions about their music. So far, acts such as Morning Flesh, Suenalo, Radioboxer, Fusik, Ketchy Shuby, Locos por Juana, Ed Calle, Jacob Jeffries, ArtOfficial, the State Of, Mayday, Afrobeta, Nil Lara, Conjunto Progreso, Jahfe, King Bee, the Spam Allstars, the Big Bounce, and many others have played the show. Since March 27, 2009, Carlos Garcia has volunteered his time and energy to provide this unique venue on the public airwaves and via the global information superhighway at WDNA.com. Born and raised in the MIA, the 38-year-old Belen, UM, and FIU grad — who works as an accountant by day and is the vice president of the Kiwanis Club of Little Havana — shows a true commitment to supporting local music. Got a band? Wanna play live on the radio? Contact soundtheorylive@gmail.com.

The New Century is a tough play. Its challenge lies in taking extremely improbable characters and locating within them a common humanity. Patti Gardner’s character, Helene Nadler, is puzzling over the fact that her three children have become gay. But not just gay — they are peerlessly queer. The eldest is a garden-variety lesbian, the middle child is an M-to-F transwoman and a lesbian, and the youngest, a boy, is an S&M submissive obsessed with scat. Nadler prides herself on her complete, open-minded acceptance, and boldly, loudly declaims her love for her kids all over the place — but pulsing just underneath that confident façade is a deep mourning of the ordinary family life she had imagined for herself in girlhood. It was a delicate balancing act, and Gardner nailed it like few could.

At first, we thought Broadsword‘s cast was too muted. What with Paul Tei, Scott Genn, Greg Weiner, and Erik Fabregat, the play should have been louder than life, as loud as the play’s dark, metallic final song (for which several of the actors had to learn to play instruments). Later their sobriety came to seem entirely appropriate. As a band of aging, might-have-been rock stars from a working-class New Jersey town, these were men whom life had nearly beaten. Their shared tiredness communicated almost everything we needed to know about their shared history. Sofia Citarella, as the band’s former biggest fan, and Weiner, as an impresario with a not entirely trustworthy smile, are the only ones who give off a whiff of life. Together they hint at the joy and the danger the rockers must have felt in their music, back when they still knew how to make it.

Basically, a classy hotel room is demolished by a mortar blast in about five seconds, and the smoking wreck continues to crumble throughout the remainder of the play. The skies open up and rain pours through what used to be the ceiling, squarely onto the face of actor Todd Allen Durkin, who’s half-hiding in a hole in the floor. It didn’t just look like the approximation of a ruin; Tim Connelly’s set seemed to be a ruin, and the darkening sky beyond seemed to be the sky. Then, in a matter of seconds, the whole thing was reassembled and the set became a hotel room once more.

We believe theater comes best in small packages, and the Naked Stage’s space is so tiny that the folks in the back row are closer to the actors than the people in the front row at the Arsht Center. Such intimacy allows the artists to utterly transform a space, to make the audience feel as though they inhabit an extension of the imaginary world constructed upon the stage. There was no more immersive theatrical experience in Miami last year than the Naked Stage’s Macon City: A Comic Book Play. We were in Macon’s ruins, and we could almost smell the toxic ooze sluicing through its overburdened gutters. The Naked Stage has managed this trick show after show. Now if only they would do more. Macon City was their only show in 2009, and for 11 months of the year, we missed them terribly.

This minor Puccini one-act, often overlooked, stole the show from the more famous I Pagliacci in a Florida Grand Opera double-header. It’s difficult to make a bunch of identical nuns look compelling, but director Sandra Pocceschi asserted some cagey blocking to let us know who was whom, and as this brief tale of regret and injustice played out on FGO’s stunning convent set — which featured a huge, weeping Virgin Mary looming like a monster, or a god — soprano Kelly Kaduce’s voice pierced the auditorium like a big, blue laser and sold the opera as the masterpiece that few believe it to be.

There are two words you don’t want to hear at a film festival: technical and difficulties. But when the Borscht Film Festival was delayed, the Gusman audience of more than 1,500 people happily waited two hours while a new projector was fetched from Hialeah. Local artists in the audience entertained with impromptu performances. Afrobeta and Sirens & Sealions played a few ditties, while Jessica Gross and Daniel Reskin brought the laughs. It was the kind of collaborative spirit that makes you want to high-five the person seated next to you. The serendipitous showcase of 305 talent was the perfect kickoff for a film festival started by a couple of New World kids determined to find fertile soil for filmmaking right here in Miami. They’ve been nurturing local film talent since 2005. But in 2009, the Borsht Film Festival finally emerged from the underground. Operating with its first actual budget, the festival moved from the understated Tower Theater in Little Havana to the grand, faux-starry-skied Gusman Center in downtown Miami. The one-night-only screenings drew crowds that could make an international film festival jealous. Folks even tried to buy the free tickets in order to secure a seat. With the new projector up and running, the crowd enjoyed “Borscht Selects,” short films submitted by Miami filmmakers under the age of 30, and “CCCV Stories,” films commissioned by BFF and cofinanced by the Miami World Cinema Center. Standouts included “Velvet,” a Miami New Wave short set in the Design District, a flaneur’s stroll through Liberty City in “Day N Night Out,” and a documentary about the Miami Circle. We’re such fans, we even gave BFF a New Times Mastermind genius grant. It’s our way of shouting, “Do it again!”

You know, we didn’t always have Snooki and various Kardashians shooting brain-cell-killing lasers out of their otherwise empty heads at us through the television box. A long time ago, people actually went to theaters and watched these things called films. You probably wouldn’t know it by looking at the slate of filming permits filed in Miami-Dade this past year, but it’s true. They were these weird things: 70 minutes to three hours, depending on how ballsy the director was feeling. Usually with plots — you know, a beginning, middle, and end. Characters learned things, changed as human beings. In the best ones, maybe the audience did too. I Love You Phillip Morris is one of those films. Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor star in it (maybe your grandparents have heard of them). They play two gay lovers who meet in prison, and then some high jinks ensue in Miami. Wide release of the film has been held up in America because of that whole two-gay-lovers thing. Apparently, this country cannot handle the sight of Jim Carrey wearing a tacky Versace-like outfit while walking around South Beach with a seminaked male lover and then offering him a daiquiri poolside. If the film opens in more theaters, we highly recommend you take your eyes off Snooki’s and Kim’s buns and see it.

Every episode begins the same. A dead body. Forensics on the scene. And CSI Lt. Horatio “H” Caine, played by superserious, melodramatic David Caruso getting debriefed on the situation. Caine looks at the body, assesses the situation, slowly and deliberately puts on his sunglasses, and blurts out a really bad pun such as “Looks like this guy was taken to the cleaners.” Cue Roger Daltrey screaming, “Yeah!” as The Who belts out “Won’t Get Fooled Again” during the opening credits, and you have CSI: Miami. The popular CBS program follows Caine and his Miami-based forensics team as they solve murder cases throughout the Magic City using state-of-the-art science and Horatio’s undaunted instincts. Each episode does its best to capture the city’s diverse ethnic culture while seemingly advertising the 305 as a town where one can play hard and sometimes die hard. Like most shows set in Miami, it’s not actually shot in Miami, with buildings and canals in Long Beach and Los Angeles doubling as South Beach scenery. And like most shows set in Miami, each episode takes place in a backdrop of tropical beauty and beautiful people. So what if it’s not really Miami. The setting is Miami. And every Monday night, the city looks beautiful and dangerous — as it should. Detective: You know, H, this show is shot mostly in California. Horatio: California, you say? Well, I guess you can’t spell SoBe [puts on sunglasses]… without la-la.”Yeaaaaah!

When the Miami Dolphins made Chad Henne the 57th overall pick in the 2008 NFL Draft, no one was really sure what the team was getting. (This has been the case with any quarterback drafted or signed since Dan Marino retired in 1999.) Hailing from the University of Michigan, Henne was a big kid with four-year starter experience, a bazooka for an arm, and Mr. Spock’s immutable disposition. He seemed to embrace the challenge of being a future franchise quarterback. This could mean that Chad Henne is, in fact, a robot from the ’50s. But it could also very well mean Henne is the long-sought franchise savior. Still, the Chad Henne Era wasn’t supposed to begin until 2010. But that plan was scrapped during week three of the 2009 season when San Diego Chargers linebacker Kevin Burnett crushed starter Chad Pennington’s shoulder into peanut brittle after a vicious hit, knocking Pennington out for the season. Henne came in and finished the game with 92 yards passing, no touchdowns, and one pick-six. But because robots are devoid of memory and shame, Henne bounced back with big wins in his next two starts, against the Bills and in front of a national audience on Monday Night Football against the Jets, where he threw for 241 yards and two TDs — including a 53-yard strike to Ted Ginn Jr. Henne also proved he could hang with the likes of Tom Brady, as he did when he led the Fins to their week 13 come-from-behind win against the Patriots. Even with a mediocre receiving corps, Henne had a fine first season. He finished the year with 12 TDs and a respectable 75.2 QB rating. Now it’s all about finding the Robot some weapons. Once he gets a playmaker or two to pitch in, it will be all systems go. The Dolphins appear to be in excellent shape for the next decade at the QB position. Not bad for the 57th overall pick.

For some inexplicable reason, Miami Heat head coach Eric Spoelstra has a habit of starting Michael Beasley and then sitting him down during the stretch run of games. Even on nights when the team is down a crapload of points in the fourth quarter and in desperate need for someone other than Dwyane Wade to put the ball in the basket — which is something Beasley is especially astute at — Spoelstra has kept his starting forward on the bench, towel over his head, looking pitiful. This has angered many Heat fans, forcing them to jump on Twitter and say nasty things about Spoelstra’s mother in 140 characters or less. But the vitriol is justified. The only thing B-Easy seems to do when he’s on the court is smash opponents’ faces via smooth jumpers and ball-crushing defense. Selected second overall in the 2008 NBA Draft, Beasley has shown flashes of the badassery he displayed as a freshman phenom at Kansas State, averaging 15.3 points per game and displaying an innate ability to take over games whenever he hits a hot streak. Beasley’s shooting range is sick. He can knock down shots from pretty much anywhere on the court and can slam-dunk with the best of them. Plus he knows how to crash the boards like a man possessed. And he’s only 21 years old. Let that sink in for a minute. It’s painfully obvious that Michael Beasley is the perfect Robin to D-Wade’s Batman. He’s a kid with unlimited potential and All-Star talent. If only his head coach were aware of this!

Jorge Sedano is a loudmouthed Miami Cuban (we know that’s redundant) with a morning sports/talk radio show on 790 AM. He and his crew come from the Dan Le Batard school of broadcasting, where pop-culture side talk is just as important to the show as the sports talk they feature. Sedano deals heavily in obscure movie and TV references, rap music, and offbeat interviews. He has talked American conspiracies with Minnesota wackjob Jesse Ventura, pissed off the U with Cocaine Cowboys producer Billy Corben, and let athletes play with Miami legend Uncle Luke. He has also interviewed Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Topanga from Boy Meets World, and Alyssa Milano. So when we say Sedano’s show proudly features Q&As with some of the most recognizable stars of the ’80s, we also mean Hammer, Ernie Hudson, and Chuck Norris. But sports are king, and Sedano talks about them 24-7 not only on the radio but also on Facebook, Twitter, his show blog, podcasts, and videos. He was even featured by the BBC on Tim Westwood’s show explaining a Miami Super Bowl to the entire UK. He also features comics, and the day he interviewed Lisa Lampanelli, he ended with, “That was one big curse fest and one big sexual orgy on AM radio.” Keep up the good work, Sedano.

OK, so shortstop phenom Hanley Ramirez is the best Marlin — until the day he absconds to a bigger market or enters the Hall of Fame with a portrait of a gasping fish on his cap. But baseball connoisseurs will tell you there’s more than one potential superstar on the team. Big Josh Johnson, at six-foot-seven and 252 pounds, is Randy Johnson Lite, a flamethrower who, when healthy, is one of the game’s strongest pitchers. It’s been a bumpy early career for the Marlins draft pick, who made his Major League debut in 2005. After an extremely promising rookie season, his elbow blew out in 2007 and he underwent Tommy John surgery. Johnson recovered from the serious arm operation in near-record time, retaking the mound only 11 months later and wrapping up his abbreviated 2008 with an I’m-back-bitches 7-1 win-loss record and an ERA under 4. In 2009, his first full season in the Bigs, Johnson was absolutely unhittable at times, boasting a 15-5 record and a 3.23 ERA. The surgery appeared to have left him stronger than ever, and we’re pegging him as a perennial Cy Young candidate from here on out. Remember, he’s only 26.

Turns out the Florida Panthers might have known what they were doing back in 2001 after all. For years, fans have looked at the ’01 draft — when the Cats held the fourth overall pick and a chance to turn their struggling franchise around — as a massive missed opportunity. The Panthers took a quick-skating center from Ontario named Stephen Weiss — and then watched him languish for almost a decade. Before 2010, Weiss had spent more years in the minors than the Bigs and had topped out with a 20-goal effort in 2006. Well, consider Weiss the Grandma Moses of the NHL, a classic late-bloomer, because this season, he has straight-up carried Florida’s hockey franchise. Weiss leads the team in goals and points thanks to a season of inspired runs at the net, hard scuffles in the corner, and artful stick work. With fan fave David Booth injured most of the year, it was Weiss who kept the Panthers in the playoff hunt past the Olympic break.

The Miami Dolphins brass has shown a habit of holding back when it comes to big-name free-agent signings. Their philosophy seems to be spreading the wealth at different positions rather than giving one big check to one player. But this off-season, when Arizona Cardinals inside linebacker Karlos Dansby became a free agent, the Fins pounced on him like Tom Cruise on Oprah’s couch. Yes, they went against their own philosophy but, in doing so, filled a huge void in their defense. In his six seasons in the NFL, all with Arizona, the 28-year-old Dansby has recorded 553 tackles, 25 sacks, 10 interceptions, and 2 touchdowns. He posted 109 tackles, a sack, and an interception last season and has built a reputation for being a big-time play-making machine. He immediately bolsters the Dolphins’ lackluster linebacking corps and gives Miami a free-ranging defender who can rush the passer as well as make plays in the middle. The Dolphins made sure Dansby, possibly the best NFL free agent this off-season, visited only Miami, and they immediately signed him to a five-year, $43 million contract, making him the highest-paid linebacker in the NFL. So much for spreading the wealth. But sometimes you have to break with tradition if you’re going to stop sucking.

Apologies to Tony La Russa, Joe Girardi, and Joe Torre, but the best manager in baseball last year wore teal and black and spent his summer afternoons at the place previously known as Dolphin Stadium. Yeah, we said it. Fredi Gonzalez doesn’t have any World Series rings under his watch, but in his short tenure, he has already proven to be the Robert Rauschenberg of Major League Baseball managers, taping together pop art masterpieces out of rusty cans and the lowest payroll in the majors. Don’t believe us? Do a little simple math. Take last year’s Marlins team salary — $36,813,000 — and divide it by the number of wins they picked up last year — 87, almost enough for a playoff berth. The Fish, by that reckoning, spent a little more than $423,000 per win, by far the lowest in MLB. In other words, they got the most bang for their buck in the Bigs — and Fredi, a local Cuban boy who earned the manager’s seat through years of trolling the minors, is the reason why. Best local sports coach? Bah! Try best cap’n in all baseball.

There were plenty of talented young players on last year’s Miami Hurricanes squad, but they still have a few years to prove they’re worthy of such a prestigious award. In fact, we hope they win something that makes even a “Best Of” mention seem small. One of the most surprising players of last season, though, was senior linebacker Darryl Sharpton. Remember his interception and 76-yard touchdown against Duke? That was perhaps the biggest highlight of a fine season. He led the team in total tackles with 106, put in a career high of 15 in the Champs Sports Bowl while the rest of the team slogged, became the first Cane to break 100 tackles in a season since Tavares Gooden in 2007, and took home the final two ACC awards for Defensive Lineman of the Week. Like a fine wine, his career with the Canes got only better with age. And, oh yeah, he just happens to be the nephew of Rev. Al Sharpton.

When the Florida International University women’s volleyball team took on Sun Belt Conference archrivals Western Kentucky University last October 2, all eyes were on Golden Panthers outside hitter Yarimar Rosa. The five-foot-ten Puerto Rico native watched as one of her teammates slapped the ball toward her. Rosa jumped up and pummeled the ball with her fist, sending a line drive over the net. A Western Kentucky player flailed at the ball, sending it out of bounds. Rosa’s teammates howled and applauded another kill for the senior, who ended her FIU career as the school’s all-time leader in career kills (2,083) and career digs (1,053). She guided the Golden Panthers to an overall 32-4 record and 17-0 campaign in the Sun Belt. The team won its second straight SBC regular-season title and finished second in the SBC Championship. Rosa became the first FIU athlete to be named an All-American four times and was named the Sun Belt’s player of the year. A long-haired blonde with an infectious smile, Rosa began playing volleyball when she was 5 years old. In 2003, she became the youngest player to participate in the North, Central America, and Caribbean Volleyball Confederation Olympic Qualifying Tournament. “I just have fun,” Rosa says. “When I play volleyball, I’m just happy.” This past February, Rosa was the first pick in the Liga de Voleibol Superior Femenino lottery draft.

In his first five years as a pro, Miami-born Haitian brawler and reigning WBC welterweight champ Andre “the Beast” Berto posted an undefeated 25-fight record, clear-cutting his way to the top of the toughest division in today’s fight game. His reward: a January 30, 2010 megabout against surefire Hall of Famer and WBA titleholder “Sugar” Shane Mosley. It was Berto’s big shot. At only 26 years old, the Beast had earned the right to fight a legend. But then disaster intervened. On the morning of January 12, a devastating magnitude-7.0 earthquake razed sections of Port-au-Prince and killed more than 200,000. Eight of Berto’s family members were among the dead. His sister Naomi and niece Jessica were declared missing. So Berto called off the matchup with Mosley, traveled to Haiti, found his sister and niece alive, and spent the next month assisting with relief efforts. After an 11-month hiatus, he returned to the ring April 10, meeting journeyman Carlos Quintana at the BankAtlantic Center. Through seven rounds in Sunrise, the punch stats were nearly even. However, from the first bell, it was obvious Berto was landing the bigger blows. And eventually, he broke Quintana down, scoring a brutal TKO at 2:16 of the eighth round. The win gave Berto his big shot back. And it’s now inevitable: By the end of this year, he will finally fight one of the world’s elite welterweights: Mosley, Mayweather, or Pacquiao.

Ode to a boxing queen:Brown-Sub’s hook crushesDollars rain inside the ringAt Monday night fights

There are fighters. And there are head busters. Count Luis “Baboon” Palomino in the latter category. As a member of Team MMA Masters, out of Overtown, the Peruvian mixed martial artist puts on a gritty performance every time he steps into the octagon. The five-foot-six, 150-pound fighter relies on his quick athleticism and awesome punching power. If he catches his opponents with one of his left or right hooks, it’s over. Since going pro in 2006, Palomino has amassed a 12-6 record, with seven knockouts. As a teenager, he grew up between Miami Beach and South Dade during an era when teen gangs wrecked havoc across the county. Palomino didn’t affiliate himself with any colors, but he still had to use his fists to defend himself from bangers in his neighborhood. “It wasn’t easy,” he recalls, “especially when you don’t have 10, 20 guys backing you up.” And in the world of MMA, a little showmanship is necessary, which Palomino doesn’t shy from. Witness all the trash-talking he and his last opponent, Jorge Masvidal, engaged in. The two fought to a split decision at this past February’s G-Force Fights-Bad Blood 3 at the American Airlines Arena. G-Force owner and former Miami Heat player Glen Rice praised Palomino. “Palomino stepped up and got his respect,” Rice said. “His performance was a tribute to his hard work.” MMA Masters coach Cesar Carneiro promises Palomino will one day be a world champion. “No one is going to stop him.”

In an ocean of fiery morning-radio clatter, Bernadette Pardo is a cool, unwavering presence. Her direct approach to local news keeps listeners informed, proving there’s still a place for serious journalism on the AM dial. Coming from a family of respected journalists, Pardo gets to the bottom of the daily events. From 9 to 11 a.m. Monday through Friday, Pardo (along with cohost Jose A. Almora) brings Miami up-to-date while giving our extreme local events a level-headed analysis.

Founded in 2008 by local boy Andy Blazquez and Icelandic filmmaker Ingi Larusson, Life.is attempts to capture everything that makes Miami cool without selling out or looking to the old and tired Magic City tastemakers. Instead, with the help of local hipsterati member Barbie Bertisch, the duo captures the city’s essence through decidedly apt text, video, and photography. “We are trying to boost Miami’s local talent, whether it be art, music, fashion, or film through the site,” Bertisch explains. Life.is has already profiled the likes of Danny Daze, Pirate Stereo, Alexis Mincolla, and Panic Bomber. Expect even bigger things this year — Bertisch vows the site will continue to showcase the city’s talent using an array of media that makes Life.is much more than your average amateur blog.

Sometimes the information superhighway needs a roadmap, and the South Florida Daily Blog is just that, pinpointing all the best posts Miami’s blogosphere has to offer, while adding its own info into the mix. Run by the semi-anonymous Rick, the frequently updated blog is the biggest cheerleader of other local bloggers, offering twice-daily highlights of their work as well as awards for best posts of the week and month. Of course, SFDB isn’t just the cyber equivalent of a den mother handing out gold stars so everyone feels good about themselves. Like all the best bloggers, Rick has a strong point of view and a bit of bite, never shying away from controversy with other bloggers. Just ask Babalu or Carlos Miller. Rick’s political posts, usually of the leftist persuasion, might not be for everyone, but his highlight of local weird news and other Internet LOLs certainly are.

Key West is just 120 miles away, so why do most Miamians think about the island only when they happen to hear a Jimmy Buffett song? Well, there’s that other little reminder: the tangy deliciousness of the island’s namesake pie. Fortunately for us city slickers, Whitney’s in the Redland brings Key West a little closer with its homemade take on the dessert. Owner Glenn Whitney and his wife Christina, residents of the area for more than 50 years, make the pie from scratch using local key limes. They have never altered the original recipe. The pie is thick, creamy, and exudes a citrus aroma that lingers over each slice. Not only is there the crumbling moist crust, but also each wedge is topped with homemade whipped cream. At $2.50 per slice, it might be the best food deal around. The market sells several other items at a concession stand, including tomato soup and fresh bread, all of which are predominately made from ingredients grown in the market’s neighboring fields. In summer 2006, Florida made things official between residents and the limey goodness, finally naming it our state pie. So, Miami, represent the Sunshine State and have a slice of key lime pie at Whitney’s. Hours are 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Saturday, and 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Sunday.