Arts & Entertainment

Dissonant, jangly, raw, powerful. This is the sound of Teepee, and it's one of the most captivating sounds on Miami's fascinating aural landscape. Those seeking rock 'n' roll roots, postpunk attitude, and experimental noise will find something to dance to in this primal yet melodic project. Teepee is led by mastermind Erix S. Laurent and fleshed out by Andrew McLees and Dion Keith Kerr IV, a trio that just wrapped up a nationwide tour with stops in North Florida, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York. Locally, Teepee makes regular waves at clubs such as Bardot and Churchill's. Listen to the ten-track album Distant Love or: Time Never Meant Anything, and Never Will and you might think you've fallen into the glory days of the dark and driving '80s, à la Jesus and the Mary Chain. But this big sound settles nicely into the modern scene as a break from the pop-saturated situation. If rock 'n' roll and analog instrumentation stand a chance of revival, Teepee might just be pointing the way.

While most 20-year-olds are stuck in school or working their way through some shitty desk job, Kairo Gudino stalks record stores and thrift shops as he builds an unstoppable brand. He possesses the kind of talent that makes people give artists everything they need — money, food, plane tickets, a place to stay — just so the magic can keep flowing. You might have seen him on fliers as Chalk.; playing shows at Bardot, Purdy Lounge, the Vagabond; and holding down a residency at Blackbird Ordinary's weekly Tuesday ladies' night. Sometimes he works with Metro Zu and the Raider Klan, and sometimes he even gets on a microphone. But he really shines when he sits behind his laptop. That's all he needs. This sleeper star has enough old-school house, funk, disco, hip-hop, and rock records to fill a boutique. He's prolific, constantly working on six or seven songs a month. His style is smooth, reminiscent of the golden age of soulful house, as if the aura of the '90s era into which he was born tattooed itself on his brain. He might not be the hottest name on the local scene, but that won't last for long. Some of the biggest acts on the underground vibe scene are talking about him and playing his tracks at festivals and clubs the world over. Don't be surprised when you can't escape Chalk. Just remember, you heard it here first.

Xela Zaid has been lurking on the Miami music scene longer than some regular local musicians have been on Earth. More important, in that time his music has grown ever more subversively brilliant, finding an increasingly vital, comfortable niche in Dade's noise underground. Lest you accuse Zaid of diving off some musical deep end, he's maintained a characteristic sound that has never strayed far from his distinctive style. From writing catchy songs in his early years (before he decided to spell his name backward) to his current experiments in ambient dissonance, Zaid remains an original. He's never been one to take any instrument at face value; early experiments included shoving a mike into the sound hole of an acoustic guitar and inventing a unique tuning for the instrument. His strums conjure the aural illusion of a spectral bassist accompanying his hushed, raspy voice. His mid-'90s CD, Motorama, released under the moniker "Ho Chi Minh," remains one of the indie masterpieces that most people have never heard. His even lesser-known followup, 2001's Summerwood, proved he was no flash in the pan. The dude should have become a household name by the time this millennium arrived, but those planets never aligned — or maybe he was ahead of his time. Zaid continued his evolution through a few noteworthy EPs. Nowadays, you might hear him twiddling knobs on a small transistor radio hooked up to a pitch shifter while exploring a new form of ambient music on the back patio of Churchill's, his preferred venue. Few musicians on Miami's scene are as devoted to the journey of music on as pure a level.

If you're privileged (ahem, old) enough to remember the heyday of 94.9 Zeta and the radio station's catchy rock rotation, you'll appreciate the driving force that is Day Music Died. The men behind the alt-rock-meets-jazz band have been rocking the scene for more than ten years. Gabriel Fernandez (vocals), Tony Guilarte (rhythm guitar), David Alvarez (lead guitar), Eddie Planas (bass), Nick Lebess (drums), and Humberto Casanova (keyboard/sax) recently released their second studio album, Elephant in the Room, a followup to 2005's The Cardboard Score. DMD's sound ranges from songs such as "Maybe," a haunting melody with something hidden —"I'd like to forget the past/'cause maybe you would stay/maybe you would stay if you knew" — to the catchy, driving, yet honest chorus of "Rid of Me." Catch the Miami six-piece live, and it's clear these guys aren't lying when they say they're together not only for the love of music but also the chemistry and brotherhood they feel onstage.

R&B, for cool kids at least, has been out in the cold for years, looking in from the outside as hipsters embraced every genre from roots country to cumbia to metal. Now, finally, R&B looks ready to re-enter the fold of what's cool, relevant, and fresh, as artists such as Frank Ocean and Abel Tesfaye not only receive wide-spread accolades from music critics but also sell tons of records and concert tickets. Growing in that same vein is Miami's own Steven A. Clark, who imbues his soulful songs with a distinct gravity. Somehow he doesn't lose the airy elegance and grace from note to note that's always been characteristic of the best R&B songs, from Seal's classics to Ocean's modern odes to smoothness. Clark's body of work — a debut EP, Stripes, and the follow-up LP, Fornication Under Consent of the King — showcases a diverse sense of style and a keen sense of musicianship that become all the more palpable when you take into account that nearly every one of the songs, which can all be downloaded at Clark's website, was not only written but also produced by this silky-voiced, provocative singer-songwriter. Listen to tracks such as "F.U.C.K. Pt. 1" and "The Haunting" and it's tough to argue the point that R&B is damn cool again. Even better, thanks to Clark, Miami has its very own contribution to the world of grooving seduction and lyrical lovemaking.

Who would have thought the once-bratty Johnny Rotten (né John Lydon) of the pioneering mid-'70s UK punk band the Sex Pistols would front a follow-up group that would still have any sort of creative verve in the following millennium? Yet when Public Image Ltd took the stage at Miami's Grand Central last October, they put on a brilliant, vital show with musicianship and social consciousness to boot that would shame most hipster acts of today. Many a young musician could learn something from PiL. For aged punks/postpunkers, the talent onstage was consistently impressive, and — in an even rarer move for Miami shows — they started right on time. Guitarist Lu Edmonds occasionally played an electric saz (a Middle Eastern stringed instrument) and shone during songs that never lost their unrelenting groove. Lydon's voice shifted and morphed from warbles to buzz-saw growls and barks across many a meandering song, including back-catalogue highlights such as "This Is Not a Love Song" and "U.S.L.S. 1" to brand-new numbers like "Reggie Song." The audience, which ranged from late-'70s punks to kids who grew up in the '90s MTV alternative nation, mostly nodded along, though an even older crowd managed to pogo for a few minutes at a time. Aging legs in the crowd or not, PiL barreled through a two-hour set as a brilliantly preserved relic with nothing to prove. They were skilled, mature musicians putting on an earnest show for a crowd more interested in the music than making an appearance on the scene. In the Magic City, that's a rare achievement indeed.

Have you seen that new video for that Kodiak Fur song "Lips"? It's crazy. There's this superhot blond chick. She's like a hooker or something. She goes over to this dude's hotel room and strips down to her lingerie. Then she leans over the guy and just starts sucking. I mean, this chick is like a human Dyson vacuum. She doesn't let up. She's slurping up every last drop, and then when she's done, she licks her lips to make sure she's got it all. Wait, Mom, ew. I'm not talking about a porno. Why would I tell you about that? It's like some artsy music video for a promising local electro-dream-pop quartet. She's not sucking, you know — she's like some demon sucking the life force out of this dude's mouth. They barely even touch. It's like some special effects. You used to drag me to all those French films at the art-house cinema when I was a kid, so I just wanted to get your opinion on what you thought it, you know, meant. Never mind!

Some bars are dubbed "dives" based solely on cheap prices and low lighting. But others earn their cred based on more fundamental assets: a perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke, well-worn pool tables, deep-fried foodstuffs, and a colorful cast of constantly inebriated characters. Little Hoolie's has earned its stripes the real way — through years of doling out stiff drinks to thirsty boozers from Kendall and South Miami. Roll up to the strip mall and easily snag a spot in the ample parking lot. Drink a cheap pitcher or two and take the stage for a round of karaoke without fear of ridicule. Play a game of pool with a wannabe hustler. Nosh on the famous Hoolie's Blue Balls, fried ham-and-Swiss-stuffed chicken ($7.95). Happy hour starts at 11 a.m. weekdays, so you've got a whopping nine hours to get your discounted-drink on. Plus you can score $9 domestic pitchers when the Dolphins, Hurricanes, Marlins, and white-hot Heat are playing. It's a southern comfort zone all its own.

Magnum is like that old friend who, no matter how many years pass between visits, always stays awesomely, delightfully, perfectly the same. This piano bar seems to be an anomaly — in the best way possible — in a city obsessed with what's new and on trend. Why shouldn't Magnum be comfortable sticking to what it knows: belting out classic tunes and whipping up stiff drinks. There is no fuss here. You won't find "expert mixologists" or the city's hottest DJ. Instead, the dark ambiance begs you to cozy up to the bar and order a classic dirty martini. (There isn't a cocktail menu here, so don't bother asking for one.) And calling this place a "gay bar" does a disservice to the eclectic clientele that visits the lounge week after week seeking live music, amazing fried chicken, and fantastic drinks. Magnum isn't a gay bar; it's a bar that just happens to be gay. And once this city's obsession with the cocktail tomfoolery ends, Magnum will be there to welcome you back with a drink and a song. Just be sure to tip your bartender and piano man.

Wanna sip thick, creamy pints of Guinness in an authentic Irish pub? Go book a flight to Dublin, you wanker. If, however, you're simply looking to get rat-arsed at a nice, smoky spot while waiting for Aer Lingus jet planes to finish fueling up on leprechaun piss at Miami International Airport, meet us at Bryson's, a Miami Springs bar and liquor store that's painted white and green and adorned with four-leaf clovers. Inside, this joint is all wood paneling, tile floors, neon signs, big-screen TV sets, and fake-leather booths. There's no 1,000-year-old ornamental timber or bloodied shillelagh behind the bar. But the beer is cold. The burgers are thick. The whiskey is Jameson. And the regulars are cops, contractors, ex-military types, working-class drunks, hard-partying gals, neighborhood nobs, sweet chippies, and the like. Of course, though, the ultimate evidence of Bryson's being the dog's bollocks are the house rules, which prove that this brood can get just as weird and rowdy as a real gang of native Irish: "No fighting, shoving, scratching, biting, nor touching of the hair and face." So drink, eat, be merry. But keep those hands to yourself, boyo.

"Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name..." Eh, forget that Cheers crap. What you really want is a solid bar in your hood where you can grab a drink without anyone judging you. In other words, a comfortable spot. When you're in the northern reaches of Dade County, there's no better bet than Our Place. Legend has it a bar patron once walked through the door in pink cupcake pajamas. No one batted an eye. This lovely hole in the wall is situated inside a small shopping center on the Miami Lakes border with Hialeah, right off the NW 67th Avenue exit of the Palmetto Expressway. Inside, patrons include happy lushes soaking up DJ Manny's Top 40 tunes, shady booze-hounds itching for a bar brawl, and smooth-drinking hustlers looking to take a few suckers at a game of pool or poker. Drinks are cheap and stronger than Hialeah Mayor Raul Martinez at the height of his supremacy. With its wood-paneled and red-brick walls, superchill bar staff, and quirky crowd, Our Place has that odd charm that draws you in for a cold brew. Before you know it, you're doing Jäger bombs till last call.

"México Sabroso y Alcohólico":

In the evening I wake

from a SoBe siesta,

mouth dry as a salt lake,

and go in search of fiesta.

Cubans sip cortadito.

Tourists flock to the clubs.

I head to Clandestino

and order some suds.

México sabroso y alcohólico

at Clandestino Pub.

A rare spot for a chico

to get craft beer and grub.

Stouts, blondes, and ales

fill pint glass after glass.

While 80 bottles of beer can't fail

to put me on my ass.

Masks of luchadores,

bright paintings six feet tall,

posters of toreadores,

decorate the tavern walls.

México sabroso y alcohólico

at Clandestino Pub.

A rare spot for a chico

to get craft beer and grub.

Good movies on display,

live music in the rear,

tacos, nachos, ceviche,

and hot dogs cooked in beer.

Other spots I've gone

B-girls have robbed me blind,

But here I drink till dawn

with total peace of mind.

México sabroso y alcohólico

at Clandestino Pub.

A rare spot for a chico

to get craft beer and grub.

Strange thing: In Miami, it's always been hard to find a place that does interesting Spanish-language music. But all that changed in 2011 when art buyer Roxanne Scalia opened PAX in a former Miami Herald distribution center under an I-95 overpass. Scalia and business partner Danny Davila renovated the space in urban chic, or urban cheap, or something like that. It's a secret, cool, interesting place to catch intriguing and entertaining bands such as Spam Allstars, Suénalo, and DJ Le Spam. That's not all there is, though. How about Tango Tuesdays, when you can pay $5 and learn a little something about Latin dance? And there's more than just Latin music here, but PAX is the top spot in Miami for this kind of melody. So head over and baile, you fool. You won't regret it.

Tobacco Road's claims to fame are numerous: Oldest bar in Miami. Ex-downstairs neighbor to Miami New Times' first office space. Greatest outdoor seating this side of South Beach. Now, thanks to a recent revamp that left the nicotine-stained, beer-soaked ambiance but added some gleam to the indoor stage, the Road can add another accolade to the list as one of Dade's premier spots for local bands to rock out. Along with the renovation, the Road hired a new booking agent and new production director, a team committed to bringing original, quality local and touring acts to the space and making sure they sound amazing. Tobacco Road usually throws in a little something extra too, like during the recent South Florida Musicians' Get Together, when a free pig roast and drink specials for the bands came with a day of great jams. Call it proof positive that the Road is one venue feeding Miami's music scene — both literally and figuratively.

There's a reason they call the postwork wind-down "happy hour." Your forced labor is over for the day. You're unencumbered for another glorious evening. Free-flowing alcohol awaits. That, friends, is a truly joyful hour. At Sunset Tavern, you can get sated and sauced during that most magical time of day for less than $20. Call dibs on a wooden booth beneath the hanging Canes flags and wall-mounted Dolphins gear. Get riled up over a Heat game onscreen or just talk some shit with your friends. Snap up a half-priced Magic Hat or one of the endless fruity concoctions. With each drink you down, you can order a $1 app, everything from truffle fries to fried artichoke hearts. It's cheaper than McDonald's, and boozier too. For a few delirious hours, at least, it's easy to forget that tomorrow's daily grind is looming in the background.

What good is 100 percent humidity and skin-crisping sunshine if you can't enjoy it lounging alongside brilliant blue water with a cocktail in hand? A poolside lifestyle is half the fun of living in MIA. But with the douchebag overkill at your standard South Beach pool parties, sometimes locals just need a laid-back place to lay their towels for a Sunday staycation. Pilikia is the place for unpretentious pool-goers. Ease into a hammock, order a $10 mango margarita, and hide your eyes behind mirrored shades. Here, you're just another expat looking to escape. Well, maybe you're more like a cube-dweller trying to maximize the weekend, but it's easy to slip into fantasyland for an afternoon at this hidden oasis. Snag a little piece of Polynesian paradise. This is why the world wishes it lived in the 305.

Chances are that you, like most Miamians, don't have a basement. That might be for the best, because if you did, you'd forever be jealous that it wasn't anywhere near as cool as the subterranean lounge beneath the Gale South Beach. Rec Room looks and feels like your grandma's New England converted cellar with a makeover that's equally chic and kitschy. Wood paneling dominates the walls, while brown leather couches slither through the space to provide ample seating. The interior design is topped off with winking touches such as vintage board games, a party-ready naked mannequin, a hodgepodge of garage-sale-worthy junk, and, perhaps most important, an in-house record collection. Like the décor here, the beats tend to be of the retro variety, including old-school hip-hop and classic disco. After a few hours, you might not want to head up above ground again.

With Angela Merkel holding Europe's financial markets in her hands like an angry physician giving an unnecessarily rough testicular exam, it's easy to think of Germany as a sour and severe place where movies are still made in black-and-white and people scowl during orgasms. But nicht! Nicht, mein Freund. Germany loves you. It loves you so much that it sent its emissary, Alex Richter, to Miami many years ago to open his Royal Bavarian Schnitzel Haus. Step out of the summer heat and stroll into Richter's shaded beer garden. Here, the steins are full, the schnitzels are simmering, and David Hasselhoff politely asks over the radio, "Is everybody happy?" before reassuring you that you're "gonna have some fun." Choose from five types of draft beer, ranging from the light Falkensteiner Hefe — perfect to wash down a flaming appetizer plate of honey-garlic Brie — to the Köstritzer Schwarzbier, a malty dark beer that goes well with pork chops and mashed potatoes. The Schnitzel Haus also does birthday parties like the Berlin Wall is coming down all over again. Just call a day or two in advance to ensure that Richter can serve enough schnitzel or special orders for everyone. So sit, sip some Bavarian beer, and let the Hoff soothingly sing your stress away: "Forget your troubles and your aggravations. We're gonna have ourselves a celebration."

Eros Lounge is known as neither a late-night hook-up spot nor a sweaty danceteria where the muscled and shirtless reign as demigods. Which, in Miami's too often homogenous gay scene, can be more than a welcome relief. One of the few homo-inclined watering holes in the city of Miami proper, Eros hosts a regular bevy of events — bingo nights, karaoke, drag shows, reality-TV viewing parties, Monday-night LGBT film screenings — and even gets a bit naughty on Friday with go-go boys. But Eros hasn't forgotten the ladies, and once a month it hosts one of Miami's few lesbian nights. Or if you want to keep things simple, pop into the two-for-one happy hour seven days a week from 5 to 9 p.m. Perhaps the best feature of Eros, though, is the fact that it tends to attract a more local crowd. Which means that cute dude eyeing you across the bar is a lot less likely to break your heart by having to catch a flight back to Stockholm in the morning. A happy hour, tons of fun weekly events, and a local crowd: Really, what else could you ask for in a bar?

Sports, wings, and beer are a better threesome than the Stooges, the Musketeers, and the Kardashian sisters combined. And those three key elements are what Sports Grill, a well-worn bar tucked away in a South Miami strip mall, does best. When the Heat plays, the crowd lights up like a South Beach sunrise. Craft beers are aplenty, and good thing, because any Marlins loss is easier to take with a 7 percent ABV IPA in hand. Luckily, Sports Grill has a myriad of choices, from Terrapin Hopsecutioner to Sixpoint Apollo. But you can always score a Bud Light pitcher too if you're into that sort of thing. If it's wings you want, crisp, juicy chicken parts come in a variety of flavors, from the tongue-torching Miami Heats to the special grilled — arguably the city's best. That's the kind of combo that makes Sunday afternoons bearable, even with Monday right around the corner. And let's face it, the clever name choice makes this place an obvious pick. Well played, Sports Grill.

When the Broken Shaker opened in 2011, the craft-cocktail mecca brought a new, much-needed wave of bars to Miami. Venues peddling overpriced, overhyped neon-blue slushy drinks with cheap vodka are a dying breed. And taking its place are savvy, classy, and smart watering holes. If the Broken Shaker began the movement, the Gale Hotel's Regent Cocktail Club is pushing the next step. The 1940s-era décor makes the place seem like a speakeasy in the middle of tourist-ridden South Beach. Dim lights, antiqued furniture, old champagne glasses, and a cocktail menu fit for Frank Sinatra are all part of its perks. Unlike the clichéd fluorescent SoBe slushies, Regent's concoctions make the old new again. Classic drinks include sazeracs, original daiquiris, old-fashioneds, sidecars, French 75s, Manhattans, pisco sours, mai tais, and mint juleps. This type of menu is rare these days, and with some of Miami's finest mixologists — Julio Cabrera, Angelo Viera, and Danny Valdez — at the helm, the experience here is far from SoBe ordinary. In short, the Regent does what every neo-bar in town has been trying to do for the past five years: make the past hip again.

Blue-and-white-striped linen sofas, white tea-light candles placed atop mahogany tables, and an oversize picture of Sophia Loren hanging behind the stage: The Hoxton definitely lives up to its "urban beach house" philosophy. Yet while the Hoxton's cool, relaxed décor gets a lot of the praise, its savory, aromatic cocktails do all the talking. There's the refreshing Quincy Cooler, made with citrus vodka, cucumber, and mint and topped with soda and fresh lime; the smooth Honey Ryder, featuring fresh lemon juice, blackberries, bourbon, rosemary, and homemade honey syrup; and the Hoxton Lemonade, combining vodka, fresh lemon juice, basil, strawberries, and ginger beer. Priced around $12, each of the handcrafted concoctions is prepared with fresh, locally sourced produce that creates an enticing explosion of flavor.

Kids today, with their free-range, cruelty-free gourmet cocktails and their macrobiotic arts-and-crafts beer. Pshaw! As if getting buzzed were all about being fancy. Look, when it comes to drinks, all you need is the following: (1) lots of alcohol, (2) some other tasty ingredients to make sure your throat does not burn by drinking lots of alcohol, and (3) something that keeps you cool (a South Florida-specific requirement). Which is exactly what Let's Make a Daiquiri specializes in. Besides the titular multiflavored libations, this place also has one of the tastiest piña coladas you'll ever try. If you can't decide between the two, you can have them mixed. Plus the two Let's Make a Daiquiri locations are smartly situated at Bayside Marketplace and Dolphin Mall, two spots no local over 21 should ever endure while sober. So put your drink snobbery aside, accept the fact that there's a reason tourists love frozen drinks so much, and go make a daiquiri.

If you want to predict the fun-slash-danger level of an average night at any boozing establishment, simply inspect the floor, walls, and bathroom stalls. Waxed, clean, and pristine? Too tame. Blood-puddled, puke-stained, and shit-slathered? Too extreme. But soaked in suds, papered with NSFW party pics, and covered in a phone book's worth of numbers "for a good time"? Welcome to Tavern in the Grove, the perfect dive bar, where the booze is cheap, the boobs are out, and no one can remember your name. Drafts come in only two sizes: the standard 16-ounce pint and a 36-ounce "wonton soup container." But either way, you won't need anything larger than a $5 bill. Unless it's Monday, when $13 buys all-night, all-you-can-drink light beer. Oh, and a final tip: Don't try calling for a reservation. The Tavern doesn't serve dinner. The stools are always empty. And it's not like this place has a damn phone.

In the swanky South of Fifth landscape, there are more $20 martinis, $75 steaks, and $200,000 Bentleys than you can shake a Louis Vuitton bag at. Luckily, for less-than-monied locals, service-industry staffers, and club-weary tourists, there's Ted's — a welcome respite from the sensory overload of luxe elsewhere on the Beach. Although marked by a pink exterior and sprawling purple neon sign, it's surprisingly easy to miss. But once you're inside, it's hard to forget. The smoky, dimly lit interior is a level playing field for boozers. Yacht owners toss back Fireball shots with restaurant bussers. Locals ante up quarters to shoot pool with out-of-towners. Jimmy Choo-shoed hotties hunker down with wheezy, gap-toothed day drinkers. Heat games flash on TV screens. Classic tunes echo from the jukebox. And all while smokin'-hot, unpretentious chicks in fishnets and corsets happily serve Yuengling, Jamo picklebacks, and taquitos. There's no ennui, no affectation, no douchebags allowed. Just good times, stiff drinks, and new friends. It's an easy escape for an hour or two — or ten. Time slips away at this little hideaway.

Neon glow. Ambient buzz. And the crack of 15 balls scattering toward empty pockets. Open till 4 a.m. and tucked into a corner unit on the second floor of a strip mall in swank Sunny Isles Beach, this Collins Avenue pool hall is just a single narrow room full of sunburned hustlers, Russian teens, hot mamis, arcade games, and well-worn pool tables. During the daylight hours, Sunny Beach Billiards certainly doesn't seem to be the sort of place where paychecks are lost. A Black Flag song on the jukebox is a buck. Pitchers of Bud are only $10. And you won't go broke playing the $15-per-hour tables. But as dark settles over the parking lot and midnight drifts past, the hustlers come out, the games go long, the lights grow dim, the drinks get stiff, and the bets get stiffer. So grab your billfold, after-dark shades, and custom two-piece cue in a leather case. But watch you don't get snookered. Cash up. Eight ball down.

What do Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody," and Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" have in common? Besides the fact that you regularly embarrass yourself fist-pumping to them in your car while stuck in traffic on the Dolphin, they're three karaoke tunes you can belt out at Sing Sing Karaoke. Inside this Washington Avenue haunt, there's a traditional karaoke bar for those who love being in the limelight to down a $6 shot of signature Liquid Courage, grab the mike, and harmonize to any of the more than 120,000 songs in 13 languages. And for those who'd rather unleash their inner diva behind closed doors, there's another option. Sing Sing Karaoke has 17 private karaoke rooms equipped with couches, cocktail tables, two mikes, sound-activated lights, and a remote-controlled karaoke system (although those spots have to be reserved). Come during happy hour from 5 to 8 p.m., when room rates are half-price and drink specials are available. After happy hour ends, karaoke is also available at the bar for $2 a song (you also get a complimentary song with every drink over $5). At that point, everyone will sound more like Whitney Houston and strangers will become your number one fans.

For ladies tired of hitting the same dingy spots for boring drink specials, Viceroy Miami has put together quite a glamorous girls' night out. Every Friday, the luxurious Brickell resort inside the Icon Brickell hosts Indulge, an "ultimate ladies' evening" that will leave the fairer sex feeling like Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby. The festivities begin at the hotel's Mediterranean-inspired restaurant, Eos, a sexy, bold establishment with an innovative wine list and signature cocktails on the 15th floor, where free drinks are served from 8 to 10 p.m. Then the party moves up to the deluxe lounge in the sky, Fifty. The rooftop spot's stunning interior features grained marbles and woods, Japanese woodblock-inspired prints and plants, and salt air and fresh blossoms scenting the high-altitude atmosphere. The sweeping vista gives partygoers an unparalleled perspective of Biscayne Bay and the downtown Miami and Brickell skyline. Ladies can dance under the stars with free entry and 50 percent off drinks till midnight — and end the evening by jumping into the spectacular Asian-inflected pool.

We had heard for months that the weekly drag cabaret show at Solare Coliseum is a must-see, but as single, working alt-weekly types trying to support two kids, we found it difficult to drive to Doral at 1 o'clock in the morning on a Monday. But being lovers of men in fishnets and wigs that reach higher than Marge Simpson's beehive, we phoned the baby-sitter, prepared to call in sick to work the next day, and made the trip. We were not disappointed. Sure, as gringos, we might have understood only half a dozen words all night, but head diva Marytrini and her crew put on a spectacle set to Latin pop songs and ballads whose lyrics we didn't have to understand to appreciate. There were matching costumes, choreography, back-up dancers (of the shirtless male variety, naturally), singing guest stars, and a cavalcade of some of the most polished queens in Miami. Never mind that this is a drag show; few weekly shows of any kind are quite as spectacular, and this one costs only $10 at the door. This is for sure: El Show de Marytrini is the only thing worth the trek to Doral after midnight on a Sunday.

In a city with few open mikes, and even fewer that are consistently good, Stone Groove is a breath of fresh bohemian air. Tuesdays at 10 p.m. at the Vagabond, some of Miami's finest poets read and recite their works while the weekly MC, Marcus Blake, keeps the artistry flowing across the stage in a steady but powerful stream. The Vagabond puts first-timers and veterans alike in the same spotlight at a venue that's ideally suited for intimate but impactful performances — dark, moody lighting and enough space to seat scores of audience members who tend to be very supportive of those on the mike. Voices of rebellion, of discontent, of sublime exaltation become enriched and emblazoned by the Stone Groove's weekly band, which keeps the funk churning and fills the atmosphere with keen sounds to match the mood of each respective poet. The vibe is low-key yet vibrant, and the ambiance, composed of potent words and smoky air glowing in soft red light, immerses listeners in the moving performances that flow from the microphone. Sure, it breaks the mold of Miami open-mike nights. Maybe that's exactly why it's become so popular.

Certain nanny states (such as California) have decided that ladies' nights are unlawful because they're a form of "discrimination based on sex." In Florida, though, even the dudes say, "Screw that crap!" There is absolutely nothing wrong with weekly promos offering fun-loving females deep discounts on cover charges, alcoholic beverages, and/or other services. Especially when Casey Zap is planning the party, Chalk is choosing the tunes, and Ms. Veronica Gessa is serving the free slices of pizza. And indeed, for the past year, Mr. Zap's Ladies' Night has proven to be a straight-up party paradise for all of South Florida's fun-loving femmes and the dudes who wholeheartedly support them. Originally, this Tuesday-evening, estrogen-friendly hang-around hosted its "arm-wrestling tourneys," "worst-dressed contests," and "Mayan virgin sacrifices" at Midtown's Ricochet Bar & Lounge. Sadly, though, Zap's beloved "Camp Ricochet" abruptly closed down in April. Yet ladies' night lives on — now at Brickell's Blackbird Ordinary and still deeply dedicated to "campfire songs, making out in the woods, spin the bottle, Twister, dodgeball, ghost stories, and a bunch of adults acting like children and staying out late on a weeknight to drink like school's out for summer, forever."

When it comes to keeping it classic, Barracuda Bar & Grill in Coconut Grove does it right in every sense of the word. Instead of succumbing to the futuristic, flat-screen jukebox mounted on a wall, Barracuda owner Lee Kessler opted for a more nostalgic, bulky box with a dash of technology. It's equipped with a touch screen offering thousands of songs. If the track you want isn't on the playlist, the jukebox goes online to find your tune. "I think this bar lends itself more to a traditional-style jukebox," the 38-year-old Grove native says. "It's worth the four square feet of space it takes up." Kessler purchased the bar more than a year ago to ensure that Barracuda remains an institution in the neighborhood in which he grew up. Popular with the college crowd, this watering hole has been serving suds and greasy bar food since 1995. Since then, the tavern — decorated with wood salvaged from an old Florida shrimp boat — has been a staple for locals and tourists to eat, drink, and play. The food menu features Barracuda's famous sandwich of fresh snapper or mahi-mahi on crisp garlic bread, along with a large selection of bar favorites. Grovites can attest to the friendly staff, local history, and attractive happy-hour specials. It's an ideal spot to play beer pong and billiards while crooning to the sweet '80s glam-rock sounds of Whitesnake or dropping verses from '90s gangster rap like Dr. Dre's The Chronic. "During the day, people play more classic rock," Kessler says. "At night, when we get a younger college crowd, the selection is more bass and hip-hop music. It definitely varies."

Shots Miami might be best known as the spot where you have to wear a sombrero, sing a song, or otherwise embarrass yourself in front of your friends before pounding some liquor. But there's another reason you should know this Wynwood joint: Thirsty Thursdays, when $3 and $4 shots can be had all night long. In a city where the average price of a shot is $10, the $3 to $4 price (plus $1 tip — always tip your bartender) can't be beat. Soon after downing three or four of these appropriately priced drinks, you'll forget where you put your dignity, strap on an inflatable prop, and dance around the table. As the master poets of LMFAO once said: "Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Everybody!"

The Voice continues to grow louder. What began as a pirate radio station in 1967 has become one of the most powerful college radio stations in the nation. And we mean "powerful" quite literally. Last fall, WVUM, the University of Miami's student-run station, underwent a massive signal boost, which means listeners can tune in from up to 30 miles away from the Coral Gables transmitter. That upgrade doubled the station's reach, and it can now be heard as far north as Fort Lauderdale. Watt quantity is nothing without quality, though, and WVUM remains on the cutting edge. Sure, new students filter through every year, putting their own unique stamp on the station, but for more than a decade the Voice has favored an eclectic playlist that embraces everything from folk to electronic to world. It's a station that kicked the stereotype that college radio plays only forlorn indie rock. The staff's eclectic music taste fittingly remains as diverse as the community it serves.

The walls at Audio Vision Studios are pure gold and platinum. Owned and operated by brothers Ron and Howard Albert, along with TK Records alum Steve Alaimo, this North Miami operation and the dozens of hit records, framed and hanging in the lobby, are monuments to Miami music history. Throughout the '60s and '70s, Ron and Howard, longtime local studio pros who were recently inducted into the Florida Music Hall of Fame, were chief engineers at Mack Emerman's legendary Criteria Recording Studios, shaping songs and albums by the Rolling Stones, the Allman Brothers Band, Eric Clapton, the Bee Gees, Barbra Streisand, Kenny Rogers, Dionne Warwick, Dolly Parton, and Crosby, Stills & Nash. Meanwhile, Alaimo was holed up at TK's Hialeah shop, producing and polishing the funky disco and smooth soul sounds of KC & the Sunshine Band, Betty Wright, George McCrae, and Bobby Caldwell. And now, 40 years later, Ron, Howard, and Steve share Audio Vision, where superstar clients such as Lil Wayne and other local hip-hop heavies cut Top 40 rap tracks. "I think we have 40 gold records to our name," Howard once told New Times, "and about 30 or so platinum." Of course, there's always room for another dozen.

With an ever-thickening catalogue of raw offerings from Leroy "Big L" Brown, Sex Sells, S.K.A.M., Sishi Rösch, and a bunch of other hard-core party boys, this 305 label is all about that deep and dirty booty-tronic sound. Run by filthy EDM genius Jesse Perez (AKA the musical mind behind "Dejen de Comer Tanta Pinga," "We Get Fucked Up," and "Interracial Booty Calls"), Mr. Nice Guy Records has a simple priority: ass-clapping! "Been grinding on all types of females since I was 5," Jesse once told New Times. "I used to get thrown out of United Way school dances for dry humping." But even if the track titles and related come-ons are raunchy as hell, Perez and his crew's stroke is smooth and sophisticated. "I just look for real talent, no phonies," Jesse says. "We push a very distinct sound from what everyone else is doing. Some call it hood house or gangsta house. I refer to it as ass-clapping music or bump 'n' grind." It's sticky. It's stanky. It's real. Or in the words of the boss: "No hype, no all-American smiles. Just talent and dick length."

Traditional radio is boring and predictable. Your music-discovery engine needs a swift kick in the ass — a jolt even. Just turn off that old FM receiver and plug into the constant stream of melody on JoltRadio.org. Playing the best in local, national, and international jams, this is homegrown internet radio you can enjoy all over the world. It drops indie, dance, classics, hits, and anything with a progressive sound. Tune in and you'll catch anything from !!! to the Shins, Grimes to the Magnetic Fields. Even though an internet base makes Jolt global, it represents the 305 in everything it does. Its website offers an in-depth look at all of Miami's happening bands, producers, and musicians, plus a calendar of events cataloguing the best live music in town. You can even stay up to date with artist-of-the-month spotlights. Give Clear Channel a rest; it's making plenty of cash without your car radio. Get involved with your city and your community instead — all by listening to some great tunes.

How can anyone fill an 18,000-square-foot club night after night after night? Ask David Grutman, the man behind Miami Marketing Group (MMG). After cutting his teeth at Tantra and the Opium Group, Grutman started MMG and later launched the Fontainebleau's LIV in 2008, creating one of the most talked-about and hard-to-access nightclubs far from the pulsating heart of South Beach. But when you have the iconic Fontainebleau as your home, it's not exactly difficult to draw the well-heeled clientele needed to sustain such a massive space. To prove he wasn't a fluke, Grutman partnered with the Fontainebleau for its second nightlife space, Arkadia, and then launched Oro Nightclub at the Hard Rock Hotel in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. But his biggest success to date might be Story (136 Collins Ave., Miami Beach), which is located in a troublesome spot that's seen many endeavors come and go. So far, at least, it seems to be a runaway success, borrowing cues from downtown Miami's nightlife (more relaxed door policy, riskier bookings, more dance-music-oriented) along with South Beach staples (bottle service, beautiful girls, and elegant décor). What's next for Grutman? Who knows. Whatever it is, put your money on a hit.

Metro Zu has a message for the galaxies, and it's available on all of their 39 — yes, thirty-nine — wildly experimental albums: Art over everything. Between Lofty305, Ruben Slikk, Freebase, Mr. B the Poshtronaut, and a universal gang of allies, the Zu collective has generated a rapidly accelerating interest in the sound of young Miami by reaching out and making fans through the cyberwebs and through touring the world's capitals in physical reality. Just because they rhyme words over beats doesn't make their music rap. And just because the music is electronic doesn't mean they're robots. By surfing the collective consciousness of wholly improvised lyrics on an ocean's worth of ever-shifting beats, they're creating a tsunami of musical energy that's just about to crash ashore.

It's a tough racket being a DJ in Miami. In a nightlife capital that moves to that uhntz-uhntz beat 24/7, there's bound to be a constant surplus of hungry wannabes fighting over gigs for their measly share of the limelight. Only genuine talent, hard work, and dedication set apart the pros. Take Miami clubland mainstay Jason Baez, known professionally as BAEZ. After patiently and diligently working his way up in the competitive local scene since the late 2000s, BAEZ has emerged as the go-to DJ for practically every promoter of underground house and techno nights in Miami. There are few DJ booths in town he hasn't graced, and he's opened for some of the biggest names in the game, including most recently Maceo Plex and Damian Lazarus at Club Mansion. There's also the matter of BAEZ's own Sub-Motus parties, which bring serious international bookings to Miami every month, and his budding work as a producer with releases on labels such as Wehppa and Deep Tech. In short, BAEZ has risen above the noise by being the hardest-working DJ in Miami, without ever compromising his commitment to pushing underground and cutting-edge dance music.

Finding a DJ in Miami who still hauls a crate full of vinyl from gig to gig is as rare as stumbling across a mint-condition, lost '70s funk classic wedged under your grandma's couch. But there is one DJ who won't give into the ease of Traktor, Ableton, and other spinning software. DJ Benton, AKA Benton Galgay, has an insane encyclopedic knowledge of music that comes only when someone is whole-heartedly devoted to worshipping the cult of vinyl. He's spun everywhere, from Electric Pickle to Grand Central to Bardot, but currently calls Friday nights at Gramps home. From Kraftwerk to Talking Heads to the latest DFA release, Benton's mixture of the old and new always seems to be a crowd pleaser. And while there are plenty of other DJs in the city with name recognition and aspirations of a Skrillex-level career, Benton seems perfectly content to DJ as an exercise in musical education for those within earshot. If you wander into Gramps and can't find him, don't worry: He probably just disappeared behind the decks for a moment to rummage through his crate.

Yes, Red White & Blue is a thrift shop not a record shop. That's doesn't stop it from stocking a constantly evolving, always surprising music selection for a variety of tastes. Whether there's a secret High Fidelity-esque character manning the shop's record section or it's just pure chance, Red White & Blue's vinyl seems carefully curated. You'll find everything from great jazz to rock records, and these aren't your run-of-the-mill million-sellers of the '70s and '80s or dead people's detritus from the '50s and '60s. You might just find early Stones, Beatles, and Doors albums or a rare piece of vinyl from the '90s. If you're really lucky, you'll stumble upon near-mint copies that only need a good cleaning for a pristine sound. Plus, the average price of an album is $2, though some sought-after records can go for as much as $4. That still beats $20 at a record shop. Store personnel use a permanent marker to price the records, but it's a small knock in value for the price you'll pay for quality vinyl (cash only, please). A new stack of records appears at least once a week, if not more often. (Keep this on the down-low: If you visit around 3:30 p.m., you'll be first to the prime-time restocks.) Plenty of commercial dealers and serious collectors swing by Red White & Blue to raid the vinyl (sorry, guys, the secret is out), so be prepared to throw some 'bows for those primo picks.

Remember the tail end of the 2000s, back when Miami was clamoring for any midsize live music venue to open? Really, when we didn't have a single one and had to drive to Fort Lauderdale for our indie music fix? Even in those dark days, we couldn't have imagined how profoundly downtown's Grand Central would answer our prayers. Grand Central has committed itself not only to showcasing live acts that would have never even considered Miami as a stop on their U.S. tours five years ago, but also to providing a common ground for our unique homegrown melting pot of musical tastes. The international talent gracing Grand Central's stage has included everything from indie Latin showstoppers like Los Amigos Invisibles to '80s legends like A Flock of Seagulls and hip-hop biggies like Cypress Hill. But perhaps most important, the venue continues to provide our hard-knock local musicians with a much-needed launching pad for the exposure they simply won't find anywhere else in town. Welcome to the future, Miami music-heads — thanks to Grand Central, it looks a hell of a lot better than the past.

Miami Beach doesn't have a lot of small live music spaces. And no, drunk people singing karaoke at Studio at the Shelborne doesn't count. But if one spot has consistently impressed as a live music haven in South Beach, it's Jazid. Rarely do local bands cross the causeway to play live on the barrier island, but when they do, most go to perform at the bohemian space. From Lanzallamas to Jahfe to Spam Allstars to Suenalo, most local acts favor this cozy room as the go-to place to perform live on the Beach. Who can blame them? The bar has a fiercely loyal local clientele and a prime location on Washington Avenue, which attracts tourists looking for a good time. Jazid proves one thing: Even Miami Beach wants a break from the DJs and bottle service from time to time, especially when the alternative is a consistently great lineup of local musicians.

"Air conditioning. Cold beer. Cocktails." Those words grace the façade of Wynwood's newest bar, Gramps. Sure, it's nice and cold inside, and yes, there is plenty of Tecate and PBR to go around, and indeed, the expertly crafted cocktails are worth bragging about. But the sign is missing a key element: "Live music." Because there is plenty of that here too. Since December 2012, Miami's indie music scene has had a new place to belt out tunes in front of a willing audience. Local outfits such as Jacuzzi Boys, Dim Past, Beat Machines, Cop City Chill Pillars, Holly Hunt, and the Dewars have all graced the outdoor stage or backroom. And even national acts like Kool Keith and Lars Finberg of the Intelligence have stopped by. Considering that Gramps has been open only since last year's Art Basel, there's a great chance Miami will see even better live shows here in months to come. There's no better combination in town than drinking a signature Penicillin cocktail and feeling some rock bass rumbling your ear canals.

It's not often we see an authentic underground club take off in Miami. Most local nightclubs, even the big-money commercial spots in Miami Beach, end up being flashes in the pan with shelf lives shorter than a ripe avocado. But downtown Miami's the Station reeked of underground vibes right from the start. Introduced as an "art-lounge/restaurant" concept by owners Alex Saladrigas and David Silverman when opened in November 2012, it soon became apparent that people weren't flocking there simply to eat and look at paintings. Within a couple of months, word on the street was that the Station was the hottest new after-hours club in Miami — a speakeasy-like secret destination for die-hard revelers looking to keep the party going past last call, a place to catch international techno stars such as Seth Troxler and Guy Gerber playing intimate, impromptu after-hours sets announced last-minute and by word of mouth. Of course, the secret was bound to get out by the time Winter Music Conference and Miami Music Week rolled around, with the venue hosting a number of high-profile parties. No matter how big the Station might get in 2013, it has already made an indelible mark on Miami's underground dance music scene.

After Amnesia's "comeback" fizzled out, Miami Marketing Group took hold of the Bob Sinclar-fronted club and shut it down for a couple of months, promising a complete overhaul. MMG kept its word, reopening the spot as Story — a name that earned some early mockery that quickly disappeared once the bookings began pouring in. Everyone from Avicii to Luciano to Seth Troxler have gotten behind the decks. The caliber of DJs has been spectacular and risky. Story seems to book a mega-wattage DJ one night and bring in an underground maestro the next. Though there's plenty of SoBe bottle service to be had, it's the risky "downtown attitude" and corresponding musical approach that have set Story apart. Trust us, this is a D-A-N-C-E club if there ever was one. Skip the couch real estate and the pricey bottles and get your ass into the pit directly in front of the DJ booth.

Only in Miami can you find a 24-hour sports bar that doubles as a downtown after-hours spot. Sure, you can go to other 24-hour establishments and listen to world-class DJs pump it until an ungodly hour. But honestly, most sane human beings still partying at 6 a.m. only care about keeping that sweet buzz going — DJs be damned! Will Call is the perfect spot for that. There is no loud, heart-palpitating music to distract you from what really matters the most: the drinks. And once you feel ready to black out, just ask to see the menu, because food is served until 7 a.m. Sure, you might not always remember precisely what you ate or drank after leaving Will Call, but your friends will tell you the truth: You had a blast. Take their word for it.

Sure, Miami Beach is home to some of the world's best nightclubs, but somewhere along the way, that neighborhood forgot what nightlife has always been about: the music. And a relentless focus on the latest and buzziest in dance music is exactly what the selection of venues in mainland Miami now excels at. Of course, the giant of downtown and Park West's nightlife scene will always be Space (34 NE 11th St.). Even with that megaclub under new management, there's no reason to expect this dance music mecca to go anywhere. Then there's Grand Central (697 N. Miami Ave.), the city's premier midsize live music venue, along with its upstairs sister, the Garret, which host club nights favored by the city's hipsterati. And don't forget Mekka (950 NE Second Ave.), which breaks off into several smaller venues including popular gay hot spot Discotekka. Or perhaps you're looking for an after-hours drink: The Corner (1035 N. Miami Ave.) is the best option for a 6 a.m. nightcap. There's even proof the district is ready for rebirth with the recent addition of Therapy (60 NE 11th St.) and the remodeling of Goldrush (29 NE 11th St.), which should be back up and running later this year. Thanks to a special zone carved out by commissioners, the whole hood can operate 24 hours a day — the best foundation for a nightlife monster sure to be pulsating for years to come.

To say SL Miami is cozy is like saying LeBron James is kinda popular in Dade County. This bar is small in every sense of the word. That's why getting in can be somewhat challenging. You better be beautiful, rich, famous, a combination of all three, or hanging out with LeBron himself. With space at a premium, SL Miami can afford to be selective. Wedged into the James Royal Palm, it's an outpost of Manhattan's Meatpacking District lounge of the same name. Catch Miami, the über-chic restaurant inside the James, is situated nearby. And with so many of Miami's beautiful people and visiting jet-setters already stopping by for a bite to eat, SL has become the sort of VIP room where matters of whether someone will be going to Saint Barts for the winter and the Hamptons for the summer can be overheard in normal conversation. There's a small bar serving (expensive!) drinks, but here it's all about the bottle service. (Any other way and you're doing it wrong.) Hey, no one said the VIP lifestyle is cheap.

The Opium Group has spent the past few months on a renovation spree worthy of its own HGTV show. First was Mansion, which received an impressive and much-needed face-lift that turned it into a 360-degree theater of debauchery. Then, earlier this year, the nightlife conglomerate announced that its ultra-lounge, Set, would be the next property to go under the knife. When it returned in time for Miami Music Week 2013, it had a fresh, new look, including a Zevs-inspired logo, that emphasized the nightclub's strongest attribute: VIP bottle service. Before you write it off as another elitist lounge, though, read on. Set was never really a dance club — there is no dance floor — and the awkward positioning of the DJ booth toward the front of the house was always a bit off-putting. But the redesign moved the booth toward the back and installed an impressive LED backdrop. Geometric designs jut from the walls, while graphic illustrations of half-naked women tower above the room. The new design gives the room a more "punk" feel without losing its opulence. The space also feels smaller, creating a more intimate bottle-service ambiance, which means unless you're seated at a table, you won't enjoy the full Set experience. For that, the Opium Group seems to be making no excuses. And unlike other South Beach megaclubs where table service and dance floors awkwardly coexist, the new Set is dead-set on providing a VIP experience like no other. Did it succeed? The large bill and subsequent hangover say yes.

Miami is the land of 10,000 titty bars. But G5ive Gentlemen's Club isn't just another full-nudity bump 'n' grind joint. With "over 100 beautiful women every night," models with bottles, pro ballers, and famous hosts such as 305 rapper Ice Billion Berg, ATL dope boy Lil Scrappy, and retired exotic-dancing diva Tip Drill, this North Miami Beach strip club has become the preferred nudie spot for bosses and wannabes with a taste for big booties, party rap, premium liquor, private lap dances, and Southern cookin'. Watch silver-G-stringed asses drop from the ceiling like it's New Year's Eve. Snatch up the mike and shout down the fakes. Guzzle Hennessy in the VIP with a lady on each leg. Scrub yourself while sudsy babes perform a rub-a-dub show in G5ive's indoor shower. Order breakfast for two (fried chicken and Belgian waffles with a side of vanilla ice cream) at the bar. Go hard. Go wild. Go broke. Get G5ive'd.

There's no disputing that Wynwood's Second Saturday Art Walk has grown beyond its organizers' wildest expectations by attracting thousands to the bustling arts district every month. Attendees flock to the graffiti-stained blocks for displays ranging from blue-chip, museum-quality masterpieces to cutting-edge experimental works. Lately, though, parking after 7 p.m. seems impossible, and you have to throw elbows like Dikembe Mutombo to fight your way through the throngs outside the best shows. So forget that. Most of the galleries are now open beginning at noon, when parking is plentiful, crowds are comfortable, and the art is just as good. Plus, you can actually talk to the dealers about their programs and chat up exhibiting artists about their visionary works. When you've had your fill, you'll have plenty of time to hit up the food trucks corralled on the corner of NW 23 Street and Second Avenue before the grilled-cheese lines resemble a tribute to Soviet Russia.

Miami street artist Trek6's artistic career began at age 6, when his Puerto Rican grandmother gave him some paint from her art supply store. She was probably just trying to keep the kid entertained. Now, three decades later, it's blossomed into a talent that's created some of mural-happy Miami's most recognizable walls. His Bob Marley mural in Wynwood draws a pilgrimage of art fans, music lovers, and photographers. And last year, in collaboration with artist Chor Boogie from San Francisco, he brought back the famous boombox mural at NW Sixth Ave and 23rd Street. Whether you're judging by quantity (Trek6 boasts about 27 walls in Miami since he started tagging them in the '80s, seven of which are still on view) or by quality, Trek6 is a Miami mural legend. And he's hustling to bring the 305 to the rest of the world. Earlier this year, he participated in Pow Wow Hawaii, a gathering of street artists from around the world designed to create connections and inspiration. The event made collaborations such as those behind the boombox and Marley murals possible. He's also taking his skills to the canvas and beyond by exporting his unique, Miami-grown talent to fans across the country. And he's working on a children's book. This is not your average street artist. Trek6 is making Miami beautiful one wall at a time.

What makes a great museum? Glad you asked! Begin with a jaw-dropping facility, fill it with a consistently enthralling permanent collection, and then spice things up with a consistent mix of programming and special shows. Few local museums have perfected that formula quite like the Frost. The building is first-class — a gleaming, 46,000-square-foot, Yann Weymouth-designed home with a soaring atrium and several expansive galleries awash in natural light beaming through overhead skylights, not to mention a stairwell rising from the lobby that appears to float in thin air. Around each bend, you might discover works celebrating the 500th anniversary of Ponce de León's arrival in Florida or ancient bronze sculptures from Southeast Asia and Benin from the museum's vast holdings. And the touring exhibits are the cinnamon atop the latte. Last year's lineup of memorable shows included the traveling "Ursula von Rydingsvard: Sculpture," featuring the artist's monumental cedar works, and "To Beauty: A Tribute to Mike Kelley — Selected Works From Private Collections," showcasing the late talent's genre-busting, iconic works. If all of that isn't enough, step outside, where you'll find the Frost's world-class sculpture garden. Like everything else on tap at the museum, admission is always free.

There aren't many places on Earth — outside the darkest dungeons of the Playboy Mansion or maybe Gene Simmons' garage — where you can find a bed carved with Kama Sutra positions and four phallic posts sitting next to a giant gold wang that would put John Holmes to shame. Lucky for us, one of those centers of sybaritic excess is right in the heart of South Beach. It's the World Erotic Art Museum (WEAM), the only museum of its kind in the United States that spans styles and centuries of erotic all-stars, from Adam and Eve (the original exhibitionists) to contemporary pinups. Entry is typically $15 for adults and $13.50 for students with ID, but if you want to just snag a bit of erotica to spice up your life, head to the museum shop, which stocks an array of jewelry, games, and reproductions. Take your time while appreciating the beautiful flesh on display — WEAM is open until at least 10 p.m. seven days a week.

Fact: No Locust Projects, no Wynwood Arts District. OK, OK, it might be tough to prove that hypothetical. But when Locust was founded in 1998, it became the first artist-run space in the area and quickly began drawing crowds seeking an alternative to stale local gallery scenes. Since then, Locust has been an alt-haven where artists have been able to take risks early in their careers. Locust has presented work from nearly 250 local, national, and international names and mounted more than 125 exhibits. The nonprofit has become the largest experimental contemporary arts organization in the Southeast. It's not unusual now for shows that start at Locust to rocket to bigger and bigger platforms. Consider Theaster Gates, whose "Soul Manufacturing Corporation" debuted at Locust this past November and drew droves of Art Basel cognoscenti to the gallery. It went on to earn slots in Philadelphia's Fabric Workshop & Museum and London's Whitechapel Gallery. Locust's Out of the Box public art initiative has also made contemporary art accessible to the masses by installing site-specific artworks on billboards and bus shelters across the county. Even if Wynwood would have happened without Locust, no one can claim it hasn't been the engine powering the neighborhood to relevance.

There's a tropical oasis in the middle of Wynwood. The grass there is typically patchy and gravelly. The neighboring buildings look stark and boxy. But gaze upon the east-facing wall of a warehouse just one block from the heart of the Second Saturday Art Walk, and you're transported to a sci-fi version of a lush, mountainous island an entire continent away. The Universal Aloha Wall, created by Hawaiian artists Estria and Prime, with an assist by local street artist Trek6, was completed during Art Basel 2012 as part of Heineken's Open Your World Mural Project. But it quickly became one of the most widely viewed walls in Wynwood — a big honor in a neighborhood slathered in graffiti murals. That's partly owing to Heineken's promotional efforts, hosting a pop-up party at the site on the busiest Second Saturday of the year. It's partly owing to Fabolous' music video "Life Is So Exciting," a love letter to Art Basel in Miami that shows the rapper hanging out with an entourage of sexy ladies in front of the mural. But it's also owing to the trippy design of the mural itself. Estria and Prime painted a Hawaiian landscape, sure — but they also included a colorful blue-and-orange lava spill on one side and a giant burning sun that looks like an eyeball on the other. The sky undulates from a sparkling, purple-tinged nighttime scene to a clear, blue, sunny day and back again as your eyes scan from left to right. And on top of it all, imperceptible up close but obvious when observing the wall from across NW Third Street, there's an outline of the word aloha overlaid across the entire width of the piece. It's not a traditional Miami welcome, but it's still a welcome sight.

During Art Basel, spectacles are a dime a dozen. Think of pink snails, artist-designed carnivals, sex-themed roller coasters, and controversially sourced Banksy exhibits. More rare is art that's arresting purely for its artistic merit. That's just what Baselgoers discovered at Miami Project Art Fair, which quietly set up shop in the ever-expanding cluster of midtown art-fair tents for its Basel debut in 2012. The newbie fair filled its 65,000-square-foot space with works from 65 galleries. Among them, artist Alejandro Cartagena showed his Car Poolers series, poignant photographs captured from a highway overpass documenting Mexican day laborers transported to and from work in pickup truck flatbeds. Nina Katchadourian's Lavatory Self-Portraits in the Flemish Style, which are exactly what they sound like — pictures taken in airplane bathrooms showing the artist dressed in Dutch-period garments made of tissue paper — added a bit of tongue-in-cheek modernity to Renaissance-era portraiture. And Miami native Jen Stark returned from L.A. with her trademark colorful paper sculptures. Miami Project did get away with a few stunts: Karen Finley spent the fair's run painting canvases inspired by "sext" messages, and Joe Zane displayed a taxidermied Chihuahua dressed as a princess. Still, of all the fairs during Art Basel in 2012, this one most gracefully straddled the line between respectability and entertainment. Is classy restraint the next hot Art Basel trend? Doubtful. But at least you'll know where to find it in 2013 — Miami Project will return during Art Basel this year.

The first thing most visitors to CIFO notice is a sweeping exterior mural of tropical foliage composed of more than a million one-inch glass tiles. It's dazzling, but miss out on Johnny Robles' massive, block-size freestyle piece on an adjacent wall at your own risk. Created in partnership between CIFO and Primary Flights in 2011, Robles' wall-swallowing opus on NW Tenth Street depicts the tremulous balance between urban development and South Florida's vibrant environment. Robles employs a luminous tropical palette to create abstract imagery of children playing in mangroves amid flamingos, porpoises, and tortoises. The painting appears to defy gravity as the images melt beneath a baking sun and flow toward the earth below to "begin a new cycle of life," Robles says. The artist found inspiration for his painting from childhood memories of playing outdoors in the Sunshine State, unlike a new generation of urban kids hypnotized by technology. If you can't put down your iPhone and head for the Glades, at least check out Robles' work.

Few artists have scaled the summit of the Magic City's booming cultural scene as rapidly as Agustina Woodgate. Since arriving in Florida from her native Argentina in 2004, Woodgate has combined a conceptual rigor and an inherent knack for experimentation. Often blurring genres from installation to performance, video, and mixed-media, Woodgate has partnered with dealer Anthony Spinello to spin a fresh vision in Miami. Her projects range from a lofty watchtower crafted from 3,000 hand-fashioned bricks of human hair to psychedelic tapestries of multicolored plush teddy bear pelts. For her "poetry bombing" project, Woodgate stealthily visited local thrift stores, hid among the racks, and clandestinely stitched tags inscribed with verse into the clothes. Woodgate's works have been exhibited at venues as far-flung as the Montreal Biennial and Berlin's KW Institute for Contemporary Art. Last summer, she teamed up with a group of international collaborators to transform a derelict Cold War-era German amusement park into a multimedia wonderland. At the most recent Art Basel Miami Beach, Woodgate became one of the rare local names to represent the creative talent brewing in the 305. Her exhibit "New Landscapes" presented sanded-down maps and strikingly re-envisioned new representations of the world. And like the tens of thousands of people from all points of the compass who descended on Basel and experienced Woodgate's distinct vision, we were enthralled.

Mikhail Baryshnikov is a master of movement. After reinvigorating ballet in the Soviet Union, he defected to the West and went on to dance with major companies worldwide before becoming director of the Baryshnikov Arts Center in the Big Apple. During the past several decades, the Latvian-born hoofer also honed his eye as a lensman, capturing with the camera his passion for dance in all its forms. At Nader, Baryshnikov's solo photography show, "Dance This Way," featured pulsating pictures of ballet, hip-hop, and modern dance performers from across the globe. Baryshnikov delivered a backstage view of some of the dance realm's most iconic troupes. His solo boasted images of traditional hula dancers and Brazilian hip-hoppers. A fiery flamenco dancer shot in Madrid and a couple engaged in a scorching bachata in the Dominican Republic filled out the dance card as Baryshnikov showed once again that when it comes to conveying the fluid beauty of a body's rhythmic flow, few can match his sensitivity for the subject — whether onstage or behind a camera.

There's a reason the simple, unpretentious show "Willy Ronis: Paris" drew hordes of gawkers during Art Basel 2012. Ronis, who was a contemporary of Henri Cartier-Bresson and Robert Doisneau, created images of postwar France that were controversial to contemporaries but have since proven to be timeless. At the Dina Mitrani Gallery, Ronis' black-and-white pictures of common street life showed working-class people in a country humbled by poverty and wracked by social unrest while the war-ravaged nation was in the process of reconstruction. The tightly curated exhibit featured 25 classic gems, including the infectiously exuberant Le Petit Parisien (1952), depicting a young boy wearing shorts and a vest as he skipped giddily along a street while lugging a baguette almost his size. Mitrani collaborated with Santa Monica dealer Peter Fetterman to organize the exhibit last December, proving that for lovers of both contemporary and classic photography, her Wynwood space is a must-visit.

Manny Prieres' gothic-inspired solo show, "Lock Them Out and Bar the Door. Lock Them Out Forevermore," borrowed its quixotic title from William S. Burroughs and a phrase he uttered while narrating the 1968 re-release of Häxan, a 1922 movie by Danish filmmaker Benjamin Christensen. The Dane's celluloid scream was originally outlawed because it portrayed sacrilegious rituals and demonic possessions, not to mention imagery of self-flagellation, forbidden sexual gestures, and Inquisition-sponsored torture. Tearing a chapter from the banned and profane, Prieres re-created the covers of more than 30 once-outlawed books by employing elements of drawing, graphic design, silk-screening, and printmaking to craft his elegant opuses. The Miami-based talent's illicit covers ranged from Animal Farm to Slaughterhouse-Five, Tropic of Cancer, Brave New World, and Lolita, reminding us of an age before Twitter and Facebook vanquished the evils of censorship in the West.

"Liber Insularum," Bill Viola's first major U.S. museum survey since 2003, demonstrated the power of art to uplift the spirit. His sprawling video installations at the Museum of Contemporary Art also marked the first time since his 1997 Whitney Museum retrospective that his most important works had been corralled under one roof. At MOCA, Viola's sensory-engulfing installations were inspired by a 15th-century Florentine cleric's tome called The Book of the Islands of Archipelago, which records six lonely years he spent wandering the Aegean. Viola, who typically explores concepts of death and regeneration while embracing both Eastern and Western mystical and spiritual traditions, departed from the cleric's peripatetic wandering to convey his own notion of a conceptual journey across a constantly transforming global landscape. The exhibit transported viewers to a space where universal notions of suffering, joy, and peace combined in a meditative experience of the unconquerable strength of the human soul.

Operated by Adler Guerrier, Leyden Rodriguez-Casanova, and Frances Trombly, Dimensions Variable has been filling a void in an ever-more commercial local scene since 2009. The gallery is also a pioneer of the exodus from the Design District and increasingly unaffordable Wynwood to downtown Miami. Since relocating to the downtown Arthouse building last year, Dimensions Variable has continued expanding its brand of conceptually provocative and experimental offerings, drawing not only art lovers but also other local talent to join them in the neighborhood. This season, DV has hosted "Cut Outs," an exhibit of new works by Jenny Brillhart and Carolyn Salas that tinkered with notions of form and balance while questioning the source of the objects the duo created. Another show that commanded attention at DV was "A Rake's Progress" by London-based artist Julie Hill. She presented a contemporary adaptation of William Hogarth's 18th-century satirical work of the same name, skewering the global financial implosion by featuring a roomful of ambiguous open letters, shattered credit cards, and financial ephemera suggesting the onset of panic. Dimensions Variable has also been involved with international and national artist residencies, workshops, and a slew of community outreach initiatives as part of its ongoing mission to advance cultural discourse in South Florida.

Next time you're ready to hold a Viking funeral for cinema — probably after seeing Transformers 5 on the schedule right after Baby Geniuses 7 at your local multiplex — take a deep breath and a leisurely walk along Washington Avenue. There, surrounded by the worst excesses of SoBe club culture, is the Miami Beach Cinematheque (MBC). The venue, which started in a tiny niche on Española Way, has transformed into a cultural anchor in its new home, the towering former Miami Beach City Hall. What sets MBC apart from other art houses is the amount of civic outreach. Consider some of MBC's recent speakers: Ben Cohen (of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream fame), speaking about Ingredients, a documentary about the food industry; Emmy winning documentary filmmaker Marian Marzynski, presenting Never Forget to Lie, which explores his childhood wartime experiences; and Brontis Jodorowsky, son of legendary cult horror filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky, headlining a Q&A about El Topo, his dad's bizarre Western. Just to top it off, MBC offers a sophisticated yet relaxed environment with a bookstore, library, outdoor seating area, and café. Just laugh off that multiplex schedule. Cinema is alive and well on Washington Avenue.

For far too long, Miami's moviegoers have had to endure a series of horrifying obstacles to see the latest incarnation of Iron Man. Terrifying teenage punks eyeing you from the snack bar. Being forced to watch the antics of Adam Sandler while totally sober. Pushing pregnant women and the elderly aside to avoid a front-row, eyeball-assaulting seat. But no more. Here, at the Paragon Grove, you can choose your seats online in advance, saunter into the theater on Cuban time, and get a buzz with a Heineken or a glass of vino. And if popcorn and nachos don't cut it, you can nosh on Bavarian pretzel sticks or a barbecued Texas burger, delivered to your lap by eager minions. At $11.50 a pop (or $13.50 for premier VIP), it's not the cheapest ticket in town, but for booze, comfy seats, and an absence of screaming kids, it's worth every penny. So take a seat in a back row, don those 3-D glasses, and get your grub on. This is how movies are meant to be seen.

Little Havana's treasured Tower Theater outdid itself in the lead-up to this year's Miami International Film Festival. It celebrated MIFF's milestone 30th anniversary by screening a film from each year in the festival's history: 29 straight days of genre-hopping nostalgia. It began with a screening of, reportedly, the only English subtitled print in the world of Pedro Almodóvar's Dark Habits, a movie that's out of print on DVD and is also the best film ever about nuns shooting heroin. It continued with rarely screened goodies such as Landscape in the Mist, a powerful ramble from Greece about children searching for their deadbeat father; El Mariachi, Robert Rodriguez's microbudget breakthrough; Suture, an underrated, moody noir mystery in glorious black-and-white; and Audition, Takashi Miike's twisted torture-porn odyssey. Sarah Jessica Parker and Jeremy Piven even stopped by for a screening of Miami Rhapsody. The fact that nearly all of these titles were projected in their original, vanishing 35mm format was only the icing on a scrumptious cinematic cake.

In Free Angela and All Political Prisoners, director Shola Lynch tells the story of civil rights activist Angela Davis in a captivating documentary that critics hailed as one of the best docs of 2013. But savvy Miami film buffs had already experienced the movie's charms. Free Angela opened the Women's International Film Festival (WIFF) in March earlier that year, launching a strong lineup of female-written, lady-directed, woman-focused storytelling on the big screen. In five days, WIFF screened 50 such films, tackling serious issues like breast cancer and sexual assault, and more lighthearted topics like aging and romance. Audiences recognized celebrities such as Oscar-nominated actor Sally Kirkland and artist Renee Cox. In February, Halle Berry and her The Call costar Morris Chestnut stopped by a WIFF-sponsored screening. By launching showings of lady-friendly films outside of its annual five-day run, WIFF has joined more established Miami film festivals like the Miami International Film Festival and Miami Gay and Lesbian Film Festival in expanding its influence and diversifying South Florida's movie landscape. And it's doing it all from an undervalued but much needed female perspective. You go, girls.

Dexter Morgan first sank his scalpel into the face of a terrified, plastic-wrapped victim on TV screens across the country seven years ago. Since then, Dexter has kept audiences simultaneously creeped out, fascinated, and strangely rooting for its serial killer with a heart of gold. Have there been ups and downs? Of course. No TV series runs for seven seasons without making a few mistakes. But even as reality-TV programs about the underbelly of South Florida continue to multiply, Dexter is still the best illustration of that old saying about Miami: "Sunny days, shady people." Loyal viewers of Dexter have watched plot lines about strippers, mobsters, and religious zealots. They've gotten to know drug addicts, corrupt politicians, and crooked cops. They've seen murders on Ocean Drive, in the Everglades, and even at Jimbo's. And in its final season, which begins June 30, anything could happen. There's a vacuum of power at the Miami Police Department after the death of Capt. Maria LaGuerta; Dexter's sister Deborah, who discovered her brother's "dark passenger" last season, is still dealing with icky yet fascinating romantic feelings for him; and of course, there's the issue of the dozens of people Dexter has killed throughout the series. Will he finally be made to pay for his crimes, or will America's best-loved murderer get the ultimate free pass? One thing is certain: It'll be fun finding out.

"That's it. That's good. It hurts. I know it does. That's it. Get it." Michael Bay's whole career has been leading up to those words. In Pain & Gain, the director's film based on Pete Collins' series of Miami New Times stories about a bodybuilding heist gone horribly wrong, those words come out of sensitive man-mountain Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson, and they're aimed at a wicked beefy Mark Wahlberg. The guys aren't fighting mammoth evil machines or saving the world from a giant asteroid. They're pumping iron in a poorly lit budget office somewhere in Miami, looking stressed, defeated, decidedly antiheroic, and impossibly, incredibly entertaining. That line could also be used to describe the roller coaster of emotions Miamians are feeling about this latest effort. The director's flashy style, which can read as cheesy when paired with typical action movie fare, feels strangely fitting for this tale of low-level Miami gym rats dreaming of making it big. That's it. That's good. And it hurts, we know it does, especially those who wrote Michael Bay off as a money-hungry bullshit artist with a talent for CGI spectacle. But this pet project of his feels equal parts hilarious and fascinating, with just the right level of cheesy indulgence. Get it?

Some celebrities achieve fame through talent. Others get famous using their looks. In some cases, mostly in the realm of reality TV, a proclivity for hair-pulling and face-slapping will secure your place in Hollywood infamy. The Real Housewives of Miami's Elsa Patton has done none of those things. Instead, she's won the hearts of Bravo-watching America using the tools at her disposal: botched facial plastic surgery, an endless supply of white wine, and the sassy attitude that comes from being a Cuban woman of a certain age who thinks she's a bit psychic. Into the world of artificial luxury portrayed on The Real Housewives of Miami, Patton injects the bizarre reality of the Magic City. She's had a bad nip/tuck; plenty of Miami women can relate. She believes she's a seer; that's some spooky voodoo shit right there. She's even launched her own Cuban coffee truck. Could she be any more Miami? That's the unlikely magic of Elsa Patton: Her face may be plastic, but when it comes to representing Miami, she's as real as it gets. On reality TV, anyway.

Erin Joy Schmidt and Barbara Bradshaw played off each other in a magnificent and effortless symbiosis, with Schmidt as a Republican power couple's daughter — a liberal, once-successful novelist turned damaged soul whose proposed memoir will unburden sensitive family history. Bradshaw played her mother, a sharp-tongued intellectual mind tethered to selfish right-wing beliefs and an absolute need to keep her daughter's literary revelations locked and buried. These political and filial polarities came to a head in a number of epic verbal spats that were as difficult to sit through in their wincing verisimilitude as they were compelling in their train-wreck schadenfreude. Schmidt was heartbreaking as she was reduced to sniveling tears, and Bradshaw struck the great matriarchal balance of tender and monstrous. Director David Arisco positioned his supporting players on the edge of the frame while these two heavyweights duked it out in the center, and they essentially became, like us, rapt spectators to the spectacle.

Matthew William Chizever showed his range of talents this past year in roles in plays as varied as My Fair Lady and Venus in Fur, but the multiple personality disorder that was The Turn of the Screw was a veritable master class in classic archetypes — five parts so distinct from one another in make, model, and year that it's hard to believe they were driven by the same man. For the part of Uncle, a London bachelor, he oozed sexual tension and casual seduction toward his skilled castmate Katherine Amadeo. He soon changed everything, while seemingly changing nothing, to transform into an elderly female housemaid who knows more than she lets on. Later, he assumed the form of a troubled 10-year-old boy. From stooping to kneeling, from British accents to Irish ones, Chizever subtly transitioned through this eerie ghost story like an implacable shape-shifting specter, haunting the floorboards with the many voices in his head. He even created 90 percent of the show's atmospheric sound effects, which were critical to its success.

If separating the play from the production is the job of a regional theater critic, it's a requirement that becomes ever so difficult when the work in question is a piece like Jon Robin Baitz's Other Desert Cities. This is a play with such cracklingly good and bracingly realistic dialogue that it can mesmerize even the most nitpicky critic with its words, engrossing the audience so thoroughly with its content that the form is virtually invisible. But this wonderful Actors' Playhouse production had its cake and ate it too, perfectly honoring Baitz's literate exploration of family secrets and political schisms while showcasing a diverse ensemble of powerhouse performances. At the heart of the production were Erin Joy Schmidt and Barbara Bradshaw as the contentious mother and daughter, unspooling decades of division in front of our eyes. Antonio Amadeo and Lourelene Snedeker played their supporting roles with perfect aplomb, hitting tragicomic notes with the right balance of surface warmth and closeted despair, controlled with fluid precision by director David Arisco. The elegant, artistically canted set design and nearly invisible lighting cues further enhanced this past year's most enriching theatrical experience.

Under the "History" tab on madcattheatre.org, the phrase "we are a theatre company for people looking for an alternative to your mom and pop's theatre company" jumps out at anyone who has ever attended a Mad Cat production. Founded by actor, director, writer, and all-around mad genius Paul Tei, Mad Cat produces theater that is everything good theater should be: witty, intelligent, daring, and thought-provoking. Audience members never know what to expect — you might be handed a bottle of barbecue sauce by an actor mid-monologue or sprayed with a giant water gun by a 200-pound "cat." You never know, and that's the point. Just when you think you've figured out you're watching a solo rant disguised as theater, four cast members bust out into a synchronized modern dance routine. During a Mad Cat production, there might be silly moments, smart moments, and even dark moments, but never a dull moment.

Tarell Alvin McCraney's condensed edit of Shakespeare's masterpiece Hamlet received its share of respectful criticism, namely that its 85-minute reduction didn't capture all the nuance and brilliance of the unabridged text. Fair enough, and it's also fair to say that some characters, such as Polonius and Gertrude, arguably received short shrift, failing to emotionally register on the level they should have. Which is why Ryan George's performances stand out as much as they do: Even in this self-described "action movie" version of Hamlet, George generated a commanding presence, crafting two contradictory characters in multiple dimensions. As Laertes, he was a steely-eyed, smoldering presence whose deep wounds resonated at a deliberate pace in an otherwise speedy framework. As Rosencrantz, he enjoyed some lithe slapstick and commedia dell'arte-style improv with partner Arielle Hoffman as Guildenstern. George conveyed both tragedy and comedy, channeling both sides of Shakespeare's — and McCraney's — gifts.

It's tempting to grant this award to "the women of Ruined," because the production was such a vital showcase for talented, dynamic women of color, whose extraordinary sum could not be realized without each significant part. But if forced to single out one of them, we give the honor to Jade Wheeler, an actress best known for her work in the Washington, D.C. area whose regional breakthroughs at GableStage have been revelatory. Surely, nobody who witnessed her performance as a confident, scheming, buttoned-down legal aide in David Mamet's Race last summer could have anticipated the battered shell of a character she would play next in Ruined. As Sophie, she etched the show's most unforgettable portrait — the "ruined" woman of the title dispatched to Mama Nadi's (Lela Elam) wartime brothel and forced into service despite the fact that a bayonet had mutilated her vagina. The entire way Wheeler carried herself — from her limping gait to the careful combination of squeamishness and terror in her eyes whenever a brutish guerrilla pawed her — was of a heartbreaking piece, performed with tensile poise and an intelligent subtlety.

Sometimes a production can outstrip and transcend its source material. That's exactly what All New People did, creating something radically different from the show's initial London run — and, most observers agree, far better. Director Stuart Meltzer optioned this comedy from Scrubs creator Zach Braff hot off the presses and ran with it full bore, taking a script leaden with sitcommy archness and turning it into a caustically hilarious and endearing redemption song, thanks in large part to a cast so flawless it should be touring this show nationwide. Amy McKenna's manic, quirky, drug-induced real estate agent, Todd Allen Durkin's sexist fireman and erstwhile thespian, Betsy Graver's simple-minded hooker and aspiring musician, and Nicholas Richberg's suicidal straight man thrust into an impromptu loony bin had the kind of chemistry most directors hope for every time and enjoy only sporadically. Each of them displayed expert timing and the ability to reveal new depths of their characters with surprising nuance and conviction.

To say that Ruined — Lynn Nottage's searing drama about life in a shady bar during one of the Republic of Congo's many civil wars — contains a multitude of moving parts is an understatement. On a superlative scenic design that looked twice the size it actually was, Joseph Adler met and exceeded the requirements of this ambitious play during its GableStage production. He created a perpetual motion machine of busy bustle across the beautifully ramshackle sprawl, from the musicians performing onstage right to the pool tables and small outdoor setting on stage left. By loading the show with action on all sides, he successfully oversaw the illusion of real life — music and dance, laughter and leisure, dread and danger — under a soundtrack of machine-gun fire and falling bombs. But this masterful direction excelled in the micro as well as the macro, taking great care to inspire intense performances we've never seen before from the largest cast ever assembled at GableStage, including a top-form Lela Elam as the morally ambiguous whorehouse proprietor.

The crux of Death and Harry Houdini is the titular magician's lifelong battle with death — his perpetual desire to cheat his demise. But beyond that, nothing about the story of this visiting production from the House Theatre of Chicago sticks out. The dialogue and thinly explored romance certainly won't win any awards. But what does impress is the spectacle. The House Theatre specializes in stylized, innovative theatrical experiments, where sound and design elements break new ground. Death and Harry Houdini, which launched the company in 2001 and is continually revived by popular demand, epitomizes its MO. It was a genuine magic show as much as a play, with Dennis Watkins, as Houdini, performing both close-up tricks and ambitious feats, from walking barefoot on a stream of broken glass to escaping a locked straitjacket, swallowing razor blades, and dangling in a booth of water. Video projection, smoke machines, stilt walkers, inspired choreography, colorful costumes, and fun audience participation further cemented an unforgettable sensorial experience.

The PlayGround Theatre's transformation from an ambitious children's theater to an ambitious adult theater — rechristened Miami Theater Center — should have surprised no one familiar with its previous work. But its debut production of Anton Chekhov's Three Sisters pulled so many avant-garde surprises on its audience that it somehow honored the 1900 text while modernizing it and streamlining the theatrical experience to new heights. The unpredictable, period-spanning costumes, up-close addresses to the audience, modern slang, and music translated Chekhov's timeless words into a more contemporary context. And while choreographing a staggering 17-member cast, director Stephanie Ansin used every inch of the largely unadorned industrial-style space, from the aisles to a sprawling three-room set design, parts of which could be accessed only through an intimate seating area that rotated on a pivot. The complicated and airy mise en scène resulted in some occasional problems with spectators' sight lines, but a spectacular experiment beats out a safe, polite success any day.

Everybody on the South Florida theater scene knows Michael McKeever can write. His plays scoop up statuettes every awards season. But this production heralded a new revelation for the prolific actor/playwright: He can design breathtaking sets, too. As aesthetically innovative as it was thematically expressive, his vision for the museum of transvestite German antiquarian Charlotte von Mahlsdorf was that of an oversized dollhouse, compartmentalized into segments like much of the character's fascinating biography. The objects themselves exuded a murky and sepia-toned nostalgia: A gramophone and accompanying painting of Nipper the dog, a stately grandfather clock, a misty chandelier. Working in inseparable tandem with Luke Klingberg's lighting design — which elevated the set to dramatic heights of florid expressionism — McKeever's construction lurked like a behemoth behind Tom Wahl's multi-character tour de force, a constant reminder that his/her past was always present.

When it comes to South Florida theatergoers — many of whose bedtimes are, let's just say, on the early side — there's always a risk of blanketing a show in such extended darkness that patrons are already off to see the sandman by the end of Act I. But Margaret Ledford, who also directed this assured production of The Turn of the Screw, took that risk and ran with it, thriving on darkness and the perennial sense of unease its presence implies. Never seeing the full picture is vital to The Turn of the Screw's success as a psychological mystery, and Ledford's decisions created a shrouded atmosphere that would be attractive to any wayward ghost. The show looked like Henry James' novella reads, with the sense of harrowing visions obscured by unreliable candlelight. We saw into the soul of Katherine Amadeo's frightened governess through the light that isolated her visage, suggesting, to paraphrase James, the inner chamber of her dread.

It's been another banner year for Coral Gables' theatrical powerhouse, GableStage, with Joseph Adler and company mounting superlative regional productions of some of Broadway's best and brightest plays of the past five years. It was a period that included a caustic David Mamet legal drama about a taboo subject (Race); an unforgettable foray into a Congolese brothel (Ruined); a dynamic study of S&M, literature, and gender relations (Venus in Fur); a tender and hilarious buddy comedy about a grieving bicyclist and his Marxist grandmother (4,000 Miles); and, most recently, a provocatively titled play about an unpredictable love triangle (Cock). All of that plus Hamlet, in a version of the antique masterpiece that felt as fresh and vital as the rest of the recent works. Casting-wise, Adler never rested on his laurels; rather than employ actors familiar with the Biltmore floodlights, he went with a number of breakthrough discoveries and risky decisions that paid off, fostering a new generation of talent while enriching audiences with hot-button plays they wouldn't see anywhere else.

When Miami Shores' PlayGround Theatre became the Miami Theater Center (MTC) in June 2012, it didn't just get a name change. It got a new mission: to offer quality theatrical performances to Miami-Dade communities north of Wynwood. And from the beginning, MTC has succeeded at exactly that. Its first show, Chekhov's Three Sisters, was ambitious in both staging and content. The chilly Russian tale of three women's dashed dreams doesn't exactly scream Miami. But MTC founder and artistic director Stephanie Ansin's masterful staging, including seating on a platform that swiveled around the stage, literally moving its audience, earned rave reviews. They haven't stopped since. And that's even more impressive, given MTC's proclivity toward difficult subject matter. This year, MTC has also staged Hate! An American Love Story, addressing the important but challenging issue of bigotry, and Pie Solo, the local dancer and choreographer Pioneer Winter's one-man show in which he appears in a jock strap and performs a tap dance while sitting on a toilet. The theater's partnership with O Cinema, bringing indie and classic movies to Miami Shores, is just icing on the cake. Miami Theater Center has proven that North Miami-Dade, too, can support the edgier side of the performing arts.

Antonio Amadeo, local actor and impresario of the Naked Stage in Miami Shores, thrives on producing unique experiences at his 43-seat black-box theater and uses the space's limitations to his artistic advantage. This was never more apparent last year than in A Man Puts on a Play, Amadeo's debut as a playwright. The self-reflexive meta-play was a show like no other, a touching familial dramedy preceded by a semi-improvisatory exercise in set-design construction. In the first act, like magic, the ensemble cast transformed a bare stage before the audience's eyes into a fully functioning attic set, bolstered by their own light-hearted quips, endearing mistakes, and a potent jazz soundtrack. In the second act, whose dialogue was seen being rehearsed in the first, a simmering conflict between brothers played out in the now-constructed set. Anyone who didn't see this work missed an ingeniously sloppy experiment that revealed how at least some of the theatrical sausage is made.

Never has an exclamation point seemed more necessary to a title than that of Fela! Broadway's high-energy celebration of the life and music of Afrobeat innovator, Fela Kuti (Adesola Osakalumi). It made its long-awaited premiere at the Arsht Center, which was transformed into a subversive Nigerian nightclub circa 1977. Chronicling the musician's rise from middle-class African family to student of black liberation theology and the controversial fusion of jazz, funk, and activism that soon accompanied it, Fela! was a history lesson about the Afrobeat genre as much as its charismatic inventor — albeit a history lesson complete with pot-smoking, booty-shaking, and more motherfuckers than a Samuel L. Jackson retrospective. The wonderful references to the injustices of News Corporation, Monsanto, and Citizens United only cemented the continued relevancy of its lessons. But more than its story, Fela! was a triumph in form, with the impossibly good ensemble of dancers and onstage band of musicians creating an atmosphere of infectious exuberance that spilled out into the audience when Osakalumi prompted the entire Arsht throng of Fela fans and soon-to-be fans to rise from their seats and practice African dance moves.

A male model wearing only black briefs strikes a pose against a white background. To the sounds of dramatic dubstep, he flexes, spins, and broods as the black-and-white camera spares viewers no detail of his physique. No, this isn't Calvin Klein's Super Bowl ad. It's Miami comedian Yamil Piedra's recent parody. The model is Piedra himself, sporting a bald head, full beard, and — how to put this nicely? — a big, round gut to drum up exposure for his new show, The Pretty Rock Project. Piedra, along with Johnny Trabanco, once performed as A Pair of Nuts, a comedy duo known for making viral videos that closed out the South Beach Comedy Festival in 2012. Trabanco and Piedra have since split, but Piedra is still working that multimedia angle. In The Pretty Rock Project, he combines traditional stand-up comedy with sketches in which he plays everything from a Toddlers & Tiaras-style pageant girl to a failed Criss Angel wannabe. He's also incorporated video into the show, and it's as funny-'cause-it's-true as anything A Pair of Nuts ever did. (See Piedra's commercial for the Sexecutive Hotel on Calle Ocho, featuring luxury amenities such as "a garbage can for throwing away garbage" and "a door for coming in and out of the room.") Hilarious, diversely talented, and utterly shameless, Piedra has evolved into Miami's own one-man comedy cabaret. We'll take that over some pretentious supermodel any day.

What do a comedy club and a science museum have in common? No, that's not the opening to a joke (not even a lame one). It's a question that reveals the best, least-known, and most surprising comedy venue in South Florida: the Miami Science Museum. In 2012, with the help of Have-Nots Comedy, the museum hosted some of South Florida's most popular stand-up acts. Denver comedian Ben Kronberg — who has appeared on Comedy Central and late-night shows with Jimmy Kimmel and Carson Daly — and Nikki Glaser, a Last Comic Standing alum who has graduated to the weekly MTV show Nikki & Sara Live, are among the out-of-towners who made pilgrimages to MiaSci last year. But the comedy on the science-surrounded stage skews heavily toward the 305. Case in point: It's where foulmouthed Cuban puppet Pepe Billete made his stand-up debut. Best Comedian 2011 winner Nery Saenz also brought the chuckles last year, as did Best Comedian 2012 Dave Williamson, who recorded his first live comedy album in the space. The Miami Science Museum is getting a new home in 2015, and it's unclear whether the space will continue to host local and visiting comics; it is, after all, moving into a building constructed solely for the serious subject of science. So you'd better catch a stand-up set at the current space before, like many of the species chronicled in the museum's exhibits, it becomes extinct.

In 2010, when the human gremlin known as Lil Wayne got out of jail, Cash Money Records made sure to throw him the biggest welcome-home bash it could. But where can one host a party that is so quintessentially Miami without being cliché? Is there a place where the ironwork sparkles like gold grill in a rapper's mouth and the marble gives the bass that perfect echo? Yes, there is. It's the Historic Alfred I. DuPont Building. Opened in 1939, it is a perfect example of Depression moderne. Like the rest of America, Miami felt the blow of the Great Depression, and the DuPont Building signaled the city's return to its former glory (though Miami would suffer from many further economic meltdowns in the decades to come). Now the mezzanine level is one of the city's most spectacular event spaces. With 22,000 square feet available for everything from high-society events to a spoiled daughter's wedding, the DuPont Building never ceases to dazzle attendees with gilded elevator doors and former bank-teller brass gates with art deco touches. Even Tony Montana would approve.

Missy Meyakie LePaige likes to start things off real nice and slow. She makes her grand appearance in a full-length coat. Strutting across the stage, she resembles not so much a runway model but a warrior queen ascending her throne. Don't be mistaken, though — that's not the show, because once the coat comes off, all bets are off. LePaige is the kind of performer who can kick a leg clear up to her face, twist 360 degrees, and land in a perfect split in one fluid motion. Did we mention she's more often than not doing this at Palace, South Beach's oceanfront LGBT wonderland? Oh yes, she's landing those splits and death drops right out on Ocean Drive's sidewalk. She's the kind of queen who has literally shut down traffic and rolled her body across the street. So when she performs (you can catch her multiple times a week at Palace), you better show up to pay tribute — and bring your tip money with you.

WSRF is the first and only Haitian-owned radio station in the nation. Boasting 10,000 watts of AM power, it packs a lot of juice. Every Monday through Friday from 1 to 2 p.m. on his show, Explosion, Severe Livincoeur uses those airwaves to promote all of the Haitian music industry's rising stars. Monsieur Livincoeur doesn't just spin, though. He spikes his shows with interviews and discusses the best bands, hottest clubs, and latest tracks in lively Kreyol with a rhythm all its own. And his show's perfectly engineered and technically sound audio quality far outshines the competition.

Mamey (as in the tropical ingredient found in Cuban batidos) is a vinyl-loving disco freak whose weekly show for FIU radio is called Supernature. While some DJs fill airtime with self-indulgent chitchat, Mamey Disco lets his music do the talking by artfully blending Miami's disco classics with the rarest of gems from his crate-digging exploits. Featuring a massive collection of freestyle, Miami bass, soul, funk, R&B, and early dance hits, Mamey's two-hour block is a commercial-free ride through boogie music at its best.

Like his lifelong foe Fidel Castro, Armando Pérez Roura refuses to fade quietly into the annals of history. The 85-year-old radio commentator is still the loudest voice of El Exilio hardliners manning the Spanish-language airwaves. Born January 11, 1928, in Mantanzas, Cuba, Pérez Roura began his broadcasting career when he was 15 years old. After fleeing the island in 1962, he quickly became one of Miami's first Cuban-American rabble-rousers. In the 1980s, Pérez Roura founded Radio Mambí, where he still hosts morning and afternoon programs with a single goal: toppling his country's communist regime. Earlier this year, Univision rechristened Radio Mambí's studio the Armando Pérez Roura Studio as recognition for his contributions. He refuses to retire until Cuba is free. At a time when Univision, which now owns Radio Mambí, is broadening the appeal of its Miami AM Spanish-language stations, Pérez Roura is one of the lone voices keeping conservative Cuban-American radio alive in Miami. His diatribes are laden with questionable hyperbole, such as regularly comparing the Cuban plight to the persecution of Jews in World War II. But it's that spooky, conspiratorial tone that makes Pérez Roura a rare gem of originality on the radio today.

An outline of Jackie Nespral's perfectly coiffed bob might as well be the logo for NBC 6's news department. Just a year shy of her 20th anniversary at the station, Nespral is one of Miami's few longtime, on-air veterans left after a series of shakeups, firings, and retirements. She has anchored through a studio relocation, numerous co-anchors, and just about every major news story in South Florida over the past two decades. Perhaps she owes her longevity in this town to her Miami roots. She got her start in television as a model on Sábado Gigante, was an Orange Bowl queen, and has degrees from the University of Miami and Florida International University. She escaped for a few years in the early '90s to become the first Hispanic news anchor on American broadcast TV by hosting the weekend edition of Today. Ultimately, though, Miami pulled her back, and she's been here ever since. We all know what the J in WTVJ really stands for.

When it comes to adding levity to América TeVé's news-heavy programming, the independent Hialeah Gardens-based Spanish-language TV station relies on Cuban-American comic Jose Carlucho to make viewers happy with spicy music, eyebrow-raising skits, and one-on-one interviews with local Hispanic entertainers. For the past year, Carlucho has hosted El Happy Hour, a Monday-through-Friday live variety show in the important 7 p.m. lead-in spot before the station's prime-time news-oriented programs. He's been crucial to drawing younger viewers to América Tevé. In April, the station reported that people in the 18-to-49 demographic watching El Happy Hour grew by 13 percent and increased the number of people in the 25-to-54 demographic by 27 percent during the fourth quarter, compared with the same period in 2012. Carlucho is now pulling in bigger viewership numbers than his mentor, Fernando Hidalgo, who hosts his own variety show on rival station MegaTV. The pudgy, floppy-haired host has been a Miami radio and TV personality for more than a decade. Before El Happy Hour, Carlucho cohosted La Cosa Costra, a live show that tackled local political news with tongue-in-cheek humor. He's known for impersonating former Hialeah Mayor Raul Martinez and Fidel Castro — a damned valuable skill in this town.

It's not every day you get to watch a beauty queen turned off-Broadway star turned recording artist turned TV host turned meteorologist deliver the weekday morning forecast. Unless, of course, you tune in to CBS 4 News from 5 to 9 a.m. and at noon to watch Lissette Gonzalez do her thing. The brown-haired, svelte-figured beauty has been CBS 4's a.m. weather girl since 2007. Her bright smile, charismatic personality, and ease in delivering the weather in a simple yet thorough manner make it easy for Gonzalez to connect with her viewers. Prior to covering hurricanes on CBS 4, Gonzalez participated in the Miss University of Miami scholarship pageant and went on to be named Miss Miami, then Miss Florida, and was second runnerup in the 1998 Miss America Pageant. She later landed a gig as Maria in the off-Broadway production of 4 Guys Named José and una Mujer Named María. Her role caught the attention of RCA Records, and in 2001 Gonzalez signed a deal to record with Grammy-winning producers. With her beauty pageant and Broadway days behind her, Gonzalez is doing what she does best: forecasting the weather. Every now and then, the meteorologist is known to step out of the studio and into the streets, where she delivers the weather from major outdoor events such as the Fort Lauderdale International Boat Show. Who knows? Maybe one day she'll surprise South Florida and sing the weather forecast.

Don't let his nerdy looks fool you. Marc Caputo coming at you with a notebook, tape recorder, or camera means you get on a plane out of Miami. If he's writing about you, chances are you're toast. He owned the political beat in Florida last year with timely scoops and exclusives on the state's biggest political players, specifically U.S. Sen. Marco Rubio and his embattled pal, ex-U.S. congressman David Rivera. Conservatives and liberals bash his work with equal venom — solid affirmation that Caputo doesn't kowtow to either team. The reporter, who was raised in Key West, worked with El Nuevo Herald editor Manny Garcia to expose the nefarious campaign of Democratic congressional candidate Justin Lamar Sternad, the former hotel employee accused of being a ringer recruited by Rivera to run against the man who eventually unseated him, Joe Garcia. As a result of Caputo and Garcia's exclusive, the FBI opened a criminal probe that resulted in the recent arrest of Sternad and the temporary disappearance of his campaign manager, Ana Sol Alliegro, a close friend of Rivera's. A laid-back, existential Conch Republican, Caputo landed in journalism by necessity. He graduated from the University of Miami with a general studies degree, with a speciality in early-20th-century author James Joyce. Though penning a thesis on the mysticism in Chapter 10 of Finnegans Wake is certainly an ambitious writing endeavor, it doesn't pay the bills. So he took up news reporting, bouncing around his hometown to Naples, Arizona, and West Palm Beach before joining the Miami Herald in 2003. If you're holding elected office and planning any shenanigans in 2014, watch out for this watchdog.

Rosh Lowe must annoy the hell out of the Miami-Dade State Attorney's Office and have a really friendly relationship with the lawyers at his local coffee shop. The dude can summon the developing-news banner a week in advance of the release of an official affidavit with something as vague as "some cops are in hot water in the City of Miami." No TV reporter can cobble together more dramatic footage for a news package. He can motivate a victim to lie on the ground in front of the camera to reenact a mugging for the sake of the most thorough report. And no TV news journalist working the street beat seems as deeply in touch with mortality as Lowe. He knows the right words to not only get a distraught person on camera but also have that guy break down while considering his loss, adding the right context to remind 7News viewers that they better be grateful to still have their sorry lives.

What if local sportscasters were Game of Thrones characters? (Come on, hear us out. As if you wouldn't pay to see Dan Sileo and Mike Inglis in a medieval broadsword duel to the death.) Dan Le Batard would be Tywin Lannister: cocky, smart, insufferable. Sid Rosenberg? He's Robert Baratheon: a king felled by his own unhealthy appetites. But Joe Zagacki might just be the heroic Robb Stark: quiet, unshowy, but damned competent. Zagacki has been the "Voice of the Canes" for 11 years (and with Hurricanes Radio for nearly a quarter-century), and his style — lightening-quick with stats and relevant info, short on theatrical outbursts — is a perfect sorbet for a market oversaturated with yellers. Listening to him narrate the University of Miami men's basketball team's run to new heights this past season was a sublime pleasure worthy of George R.R. Martin's prose.

In most towns, a blog about transportation would be a snore, but this is Miami. Our shared frustration over the simple task of getting from point A to point B makes our blood boil and unites us all in common ire, for our inane transport system might be the single biggest hurdle preventing the Magic City from becoming a truly world-class town. Surprisingly, it's an issue that often finds itself on the back burner among Miami's media. Thankfully there's Transit Miami, which has been churning out posts on everything from crosswalks to major Department of Transportation projects since 2006. It's transportation-activist talk made accessible to the average man, and its multiple contributors take into account the perspectives of everyone from drivers to pedestrians. In a world where blogging is now dominated by the need for traffic (the profitable web variety), it's nice to know there's a blog out there more interested in vehicular traffic.

Miami is America's dance music capital, so it only makes sense the Magic City should be home to one of dance music's biggest voices — even if he hit the scene less than a year ago. EDMSnob may be a newcomer, but for more than 25,000 followers, he's already one of the most respected sources for music, news, and commentary in the game. Even better, he's funny, from snapping on scene kids — "I swear there's like a bro checklist for music festivals. Dumbass tank top? Check. Flat-bill hat? Check." — to making fun of his ex-girlfriend for stealing his Spotify password to embarrass him with lots of trap. The Snob, AKA Albert Berdellans, was once a mysterious figure, but he recently outed himself to accept the crown as king of the uhntz-ing masses. He's also behind the official @ultramusic Twitter feed, so you know he's got his connects up. The Snob keeps Twitter flooded with hot tunes, new and old, and he's great at interacting with fans. Give him a shout, tell him what you like and what you don't, and stay tuned for the cutting edge of what's what in EDM.

Just when you were ready to knock out the next group of fools filming a "Harlem Shake" video, along came your world champion Miami Heat with its own epic version of the viral dance craze. And it was glorious. The 56-second clip begins with tattooed rebounding freak of nature Chris "Birdman" Andersen hopping and flapping his arms through the Heat's locker room as his teammates stretch out for what appears to be a home game. And then the bass drops and the camera cuts to an awesome sight: four-time league MVP LeBron James — shirtless, a velvet royal cape on his back, and a crown on his head — twerking it like an extra on the set of Magic Mike. Behind him, his partner-in-clowning Dwyane Wade sports a form-fitting red two-piece suit, no shirt, and a massive bear head, channeling his inner furry. Chris Bosh stomps around in a cowboy hat and a gold boombox, while Shane Battier pops and locks in a Horstranaut costume. Team captain Udonis Haslem does a Texas two-step with a black fireman's hat on his head and a wrestling championship belt around his waist. The video showed the world that the Heat, at the time looking to capture a second straight NBA title, knows how to cut loose and have fun playing a boy's game. Whether you hate or love the Miami Heat, you couldn't help but watch the clip, which has generated 44 million views and counting on YouTube.

Filmmaker magazine called it "brilliantly inventive and mischievous." The Huffington Post called it "a delightfully frenetic, sly romp through multiple planes of space and time." Deadspin called it "better than all of the drugs." Sounds like Miami filmmaking at its finest. When Bleeding Palm and Borscht Corp. unleashed Adventures of Christopher Bosh in the Multiverse onto unsuspecting Magic City audiences in December, it made headlines. National news organizations took notice when lawyers for Bosh and the NBA sent cease-and-desist letters trying to block the film from being shown. But after the Borscht Film Festival (and its sister event, the Bosh Film Festival) came and went, the film's buzz went with them. That's mostly because audiences just didn't have the right vocabulary to describe it to their friends, short of "Space Prince," "internet," and "holy mind-blowing shitballs, what did I just watch?" Thanks be to the internet gods that Borscht and Bleeding Palm released the film on Vimeo for free several months later, telling the mystic legend of Chris Bosh's 2011 NBA finals performance and Mike Miller's stunning three-point shots, and even explaining the motivations of the Miami Zombie — and exposing the world to Miami movie madness in the process. You can't describe this film to anyone. You can't casually lay out what it's about. This is a movie that refuses to be summarized. But listen: It has Chris Bosh and Mike Miller. It has artist Jillian Mayer as an evil queen. It has Bleeding Palm's freaky neon aesthetic. It's well worth the 11 minutes you'll spend watching it. Hell, it's worth the full days you'll spend afterward deconstructing it in your mind. It's the most potent hallucinogenic substance to ever come out of Miami, and it's 100 percent legal. So take a trip, and remember: All life is real.

Carolina Garcia-Aguilera is not only an author but also a private investigator. And for more than 25 years, she's tracked and busted the wiliest of evildoers throughout the tri-county area. In 1986, when she took the job fresh out of college, she already knew it would form the basis for a mystery series featuring a Miami-based female PI. Seven books later, her Lupe Solano books are a hit in hardcover, paperback, and e-book formats in 12 languages. Her seventh novel, One Hot Summer, was adapted as a Lifetime movie, plus she has two other books to her credit. The latest by Garcia, who resides in Miami Beach, is titled Magnolia and is published by Books & Books. It's a lust-filled romp through the life of a high-priced "sports geisha" (translation: hooker for athletes), and her adventures at the intersection of G-strings and jock straps.

When it comes to spoken word, beat poetry, and all-around coolness, Marcus Blake is the man. He does it with the grace and flair of Billy Dee Williams, Bob Marley, and Miles Davis. As the face of the Tuesday-night open mike, impromptu beatnik get-together Stone Groove at the Vagabond, Blake busts out the sharpest duds. "When it comes to fashion, I have always been in my own lane for as long as I can remember," Blake rhapsodizes. "Finding your own sense of style comes easy when you be yourself and not follow trends." His outfits dazzle, but with subtlety. He'll accessorize a casual short-sleeve button-down shirt and a pair of comfortable khakis with black latex gloves and shiny brass bangles. Watch him pay homage to Miami Vice by donning white trousers, a white shirt, and white loafers paired with a pastel-colored floral print sports coat and a thick gold rope chain. "I like to wear colorful clothing and all, but I don't need a designer telling me what's in style for the season and what color I should dress with," Blake says confidently. "I find it more practical to follow my own seasonal fashion radar."

The David Rivera campaign scandal was not only a mind-boggling blunder of mammoth proportions but also sheer madness. As it unfolded, Rivera's tale read like a piece of heavy-handed political fiction, something from an episode of House of Cards. Rivera's insane or inane corruption ranged from creating a dummy Democratic campaign to running a Cutler Bay hotel night worker, Justin Lamar Sternad, as a straw-man candidate. The plot became ever stranger. He even funded Sternad with more than 81 grand in illegal, under-the-table contributions, all in order to take votes away from Rivera's actual Democratic rival, Joe Garcia, who won anyway. David, did it not compute that this was possibly one of the most moronic pieces of political espionage since Watergate? Perhaps you simply felt you should represent the proud constituency of Miami. In any case, your masterful piece of inept skulduggery and half-crazed ambition was our number one! Congrats, caballero!

There are scant reasons for anyone in Florida to ever feel jealous of Texas, which outperforms the Sunshine State only in executions, cow patties, and cowboy hats. That's why it hurt so badly to admit the truth: Until this year, Florida was the largest state in the union never to have elected an openly gay legislator to state office. Even the Lone Star State broke that barrier back in the early 1990s. Enter freshly minted Rep. David Richardson, who beat three opponents to snag a seat that opened up in Miami Beach when Richard Steinberg stepped down after a sexy text-message scandal. Richardson, along with a fellow freshman from Orlando, became Tally's first out LGBT face. He hasn't rested on that achievement alone either, using his platform to fight for a foster care bill that would offer greater protections to gay kids and earning awards from groups like SAVE Dade for his advocacy.

When it comes to redemption stories, Kat Stacks dug herself a hole deeper than most. The bubble-breasted hip-hop groupie made her name by bedding just about every rapper to have ever set foot in South Florida and then bashing those same rappers in videos posted on YouTube. Gudda Gudda "pees on the bottom bunk," she revealed. And the Young Money Entertainment rap crew members are apparently some "dirty-ass-carpet-living-ass apartment" dudes. She was also arrested on grand-theft and concealed-weapons charges back in 2009. But in the past six months, Stacks has shed some of her prickly hip-hop persona. Stacks, whose real name is Andrea Herrera, recently revealed that her road to becoming a foul-mouthed rapper's nemesis wasn't exactly voluntary. Instead, she was forced into stripping and prostitution at age 14 until her pimp impregnated her. Stacks also became an unlikely advocate for immigration reform when she was arrested at the Nashville airport and nearly deported to Venezuela, where she was born. But when the judge found out about her horrific childhood, he took pity on her. "Shout outs to all my #DREAMers !!" she tweeted after her release. "Stand together to achieve Justice!" She even hosted a Twitter forum about immigration reform. Stacks now says her days of sleeping around are over, and she is penning a book on her bizarre, border-breaking, booty-popping, rapper-roasting life. "Damn, is the world ready?" one of her half-million Twitter followers recently asked. Her reply: "They better buckle up."

Few nuclear-powered rockets originate in tiny South Miami City Hall, a strip-mall-size edifice wedged between South Dixie Highway and Sunset Drive. But that's the unlikely launching pad for the Tea Party-wooing, Charlie Crist-dismantling, immigration-reforming, cheerleader-marrying, GOP-slaying cruise missile that goes by the name of Marco Rubio. Just a little more than a decade ago, Rubio was a fresh-faced lawyer on the tiny municipality's commission. Then came an election to the Florida House, the crafty ascent to speaker, and the stunning coup de grâce: The shocking 2010 beatdown of Crist to represent the Sunshine State in the U.S. Senate. Since then, Rubio has taken on the mantle of the Republican's Great Brown Hope, a Hispanic face who can talk about immigration without scaring the base. And he's an early favorite to snag a presidential nomination in 2016. Time magazine made it official this past February, gracing its cover with a stark portrait of Rubio and a headline that said it all: "The Republican Savior."

When 20-year-old Karlie Tomica got in her car this past January 29 after working a bartending shift at Nikki Beach, she was probably giggling and waving goodbye to her friends. But life for this self-proclaimed "party princess" would be forever changed when she allegedly hit and killed Stefano Riccioletti, who was on the way to his job as executive chef at the Shore Club. While that's bad enough, Tomica is also accused of leaving the scene of the accident. Turns out a Good Samaritan, Jairo Fuentes, who witnessed the accident, chased her down over 20 blocks to her luxury apartment and phoned police while Riccioletti lay dying in the street. Later, toxicology reports found that Tomica had three times the legal limit of alcohol in her blood. She was charged with DUI manslaughter. At a court appearance, Miami-Dade Judge Migna Sanchez-Llorens told Tomica, "In life, you make choices, and you clearly made choices that night. You made choices to drink. It's indicated that your levels were beyond anything ordinary." Maybe Karlie Tomica isn't really a "bad" girl. But she did make "bad" choices. And her predicament serves as a cautionary tale for all of us who think we're fine to drive home after having a few too many.

Until 2013 rolled around and the bell struck midnight for America's portliest bass-voiced faux-thug, Rick Ross seemed to be protected by some sort of superhuman, scandal-deflecting force field. How many other rappers could base an entire public persona around an image as a modern-day, coke-slinging Tony Montana — only to have journalists uncover his true past as a — gulp — prison guard? When that bomb dropped in 2009, Ross combed his prodigious beard, popped a bottle of 'Dre, and kept dropping verses. But the past 12 months have dumped a Champagne bath of reality on the Bawse. The problems started because the Carol City native name-dropped Larry Hoover, the Gangster Disciples founder, in a few songs. Some real-life GDs responded by uploading videos to YouTube, letting Ross know they'd put a price on his head. Unlike Ross' publicity-hounding rap beefs, this was the real deal. In December, he had to cancel a tour because of the threats of violence. And then in January, real lead flew on Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale. Ross crashed his Rolls into a building when a gunman blasted at him, though he amazingly emerged unharmed. Even Uncle Luke warned Ross in a column to get his act together before his story ended like Biggie's.

In Dante's Inferno, murderers are submerged in a scarlet river of boiling blood and fire. It seemed appropriate, therefore, that Joel Lebron appear in a Miami-Dade County courthouse dressed in a prison-issued jumper of virtually the same hue. All January long, a jury heard the heart-wrenching details of how Lebron and four accomplices kidnapped a teenaged couple as they strolled along the South Beach sand during spring 2002. Lebron was the ringleader, prosecutors showed, who ordered Nelson Portobanco's throat slit. The gang dumped his body alongside I-95 and then gang-raped his girlfriend, Ana Maria Angel, in the back of a truck. Finally, Lebron dragged Angel into a ditch and, as she prayed for mercy, buried a bullet in the back of her skull. Miami's most cold-blooded killer might have never been convicted if Portobanco hadn't miraculously survived to testify. Judge William Thomas wept as he sentenced Lebron to death for his crimes, but the 33-year-old killer just glared coldly around the courtroom. The conviction was a decade overdue, but it was justice: You kill an angel, you deserve to burn in Hell.

Just months after Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria screwed this city in epic fashion — selling the star players he had promised in exchange for that $2 billion pustule of a stadium — Stephen Ross had the billionaire balls to go for sloppy seconds. The Miami Dolphins owner is worth $4.4 billion by last count, but that didn't stop him from requesting more than $380 million in corporate welfare from taxpayers to fix up Sun Life Stadium. It was "unfair" for him to use his own money, he argued. This is the same man who used federal bailout loans to refinance his football team, even as he was snapping up private banks. The Dolphins sent out fliers to every household in the county, emotionally and economically blackmailing voters to support the stadium renovation by threatening to leave South Florida and bragging about the construction jobs. When Florida House Speaker Will Weatherford finally betrayed the billionaire by refusing to allow a vote on the deal, Ross pretended to be worried about the little people. "It's hard to understand why [Weatherford] would stop an election already in process and disenfranchise the 40,000 people who have already voted," Ross whined. "The speaker single-handedly put the future of Super Bowls and other big events at risk for Miami-Dade and for all of Florida." If he really wants to give us another Super Bowl, Ross could fix up Sun Life in a snap using his own cash. Instead, he's butt-hurt because he can't pull a Loria and use our money to make himself richer.

Miami is known as the Magic City, but it could just as easily be called "the playground of psychopaths." After all, it's been home to more deposed Latin American leaders, genocidal generals, and African despots than anywhere outside the Hague. Want to wall yourself up behind a phalanx of bodyguards and busty babes for hire? Bienvenido a Miami, señor. Want to snort and drink away your guilty conscience? You've come to the right place. So it was no surprise, really, that millionaire antivirus inventor turned international fugitive John McAfee showed up on South Beach back in December. Brilliant but bonkers, he had escaped from Belize to Guatemala after his neighbor was found murdered. He claimed his fight against corruption had drawn the ire of bad cops, who whacked his neighbor and were coming for him. Belizean authorities, however, said they suspected McAfee not only of the killing but also of manufacturing meth. So he fled to Guatemala, where he was caught and deported to Miami. New Times spent a day with him as he ate sushi, rambled about love and courage, and hit on anything with a vagina. McAfee spent most of the afternoon talking about how his ex-girlfriend had attempted to kill him. As he tried on sunglasses on Ocean Drive, the most interesting man in America casually turned and said, "Women are always trying to stab me in the eyes with needles."

If Miami restaurants have a star maker, it's Larry Carrino. As a partner in Brustman Carrino Public Relations, he is the person whom nearly every restaurateur in Miami has turned to at some point for advice. This guy also holds the key to the Emerald City (also known as the South Beach Wine & Food Festival) and access to all the celebrity chefs who come to play in the sun. Reporters and bloggers love him. Carrino and his stable of beautiful and intelligent public-relations associates (we aren't sucking up, really) have helped to place Miami's culinary scene squarely on the world map.

First dates can be agonizing. They can also be awesome. We've had our crack team of scientists cooking up a formula for years now, and this is what they've come up with: alcohol and art. The first one loosens you up from your boca to your belt buckle. The second gives you a chance to sound smart by saying something like, "That Shepard Fairey mural is the same color as your lips." So here's your recipe for the perfect first date. Step one: Meet for a drink in Wynwood. If your date is bookish, make it Lester's. If not, try Wood Tavern. Step two: Graffiti-inspired groping. Start at Wynwood Walls, but check out murals along the side streets. Make sure you do this before getting too sloshed. Step three: Keep drinking. By planning your perambulations carefully, you can easily pepper your art walk with alcohol. Duck into Shots Miami, where blowjob shots will break any ice left between you. Finally, end the night somewhere you can dance, like Gramps. Step four: Name your first kid after us. Newt Imes, perhaps?

Every February, FIU puts on a student production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues, which chronicles various women's relationships with the vertical smile. In addition to celebrating the female anatomy, the production supports local nonprofits aiming to end violence toward women and girls. Between the student actors, professors, teaching assistants, invited guests, and audience, there is no shortage of well-read women. Any venue where you can have hundreds of people screaming the c-word at once is a place you can find a woman who'll teach you to treat it right. She may also explain the myriad ways the kyriarchy has worked to lock away its true potential. If all else fails, you could always end up with a vagina-shaped chocolate lollipop and still feel good about donating to great local causes.

Most people dress up when they go to court. But the plunging necklines, tight skirts, and stiletto heels on display at the Lawson E. Thomas Courthouse downtown reveal more than a reverence for law and order. Rather, they are the parting shot fired by the lovely ladies of Miami as they finally formalize a divorce, aimed straight at the heart they once cherished. Lucky for you, you aren't the target — at least not yet. Instead, you're a not-so-innocent bystander who reaps the rewards. Show up on any given weekday and search the halls for newly single women. Hell, you can just pretend you're a lawyer and wear your finest suit while doing it. The now-official ex-husbands may be haunted by the female hotness on display, but you won't be. Court(ship) is now in session.

Intelligent men, for the most part, want a partner who can bring something to the table as well as the bedroom. And yet, for all the smarts and years of higher education many Miami males boast, they are pathetic in a grocery store. Guys who may be masters of the universe have no clue how to choose an avocado or haggle with a butcher for a good piece of steak. That's where you and Milam's Market come in. See that man in the scrubs? Chances are he performed a heart transplant earlier today, but he can't tell a shiitake from a portobello. And how about that guy with the glasses? He's a UM professor who can't tell strained Greek yogurt from cottage cheese. Now's your chance to shine. You saunter over and suggest that shiitakes have a richer, deeper flavor. Or you inform him that organic yogurt has less sugar and more probiotics. You've just started a conversation and proved your superior intellect with one sentence. If there is one thing sexier than a smart woman, it's a smart woman who knows her way around food.

(Geek alert: Find the secret message encoded below. Hint at the end.)

You want smart, single guys? Look no further than this tabletop gaming nirvana.

A stone's throw from dim sum dandy Tropical Chinese (perfect for date night).

You can engage in healthy tabletop-gaming competition.

Nice guys don't finish last; they roll for initiative.

Everyone you'll meet there is passionate and intellectual.

Ridiculously awesome board and card game selections keep you entertained.

Dungeon play didn't originate with Fifty Shades of Grey.

LARPers make role-playing in the sack that much more fun.

0 hipsters here — they actually need those glasses to see.

Vampires, witches, and orcs will spice up your love life.

Even if you don't find your man, there's always a Magic: The Gathering tournament!

(First letters!)

Debra and Dennis Scholl are the rare South Florida folks who don't seek the spotlight. They gave a no-strings-attached donation worth millions of dollars to the soon-to-open Pérez Art Museum Miami. Administrators had to convince them to allow a lecture series to be named in their honor. The pair met in law school at the University of Miami. They went on to help revitalize South Beach's art deco district and later aided in the transformation of Wynwood from a slum to an art mecca that has attracted worldwide attention and gentrification. Everything the Scholls do is determined by a two-vote system. "If one can't convince the other, then we don't do it," Dennis said in describing how they decide on art acquisitions and business deals. Debra, he said, seems to always get the last word: "She's the governor."

The house at 42 Star Island was built 88 years ago by Miami architect Walter DeGarmo. It's next door to a building that formerly housed the weed-smuggling Rastafarians of the Ethiopian Zion Coptic Church. But the feud unfolding here is even more interesting. The current owners are the Hochsteins: Lenny's a plastic surgeon who goes by the nickname "the Boob God," and Lisa is a Botoxed Barbie doll of a woman who's a cast member of The Real Housewives of Miami. They purchased the property for the land, intending to tear down the original 1925 structure to erect a boxy mansion with towering columns and arched doorways, looking like a Miami version of the Trianon Palace without the gardens. Unsurprisingly, the preservationists of the Miami Design Preservation League were not pleased. The group filed an application to designate the Hochsteins' home as a historic property. The fight should have ended there, but both sides continued to press the issue. MDPL Chairman Charlie Urstadt penned an open letter in Curbed Miami, bemoaning "the sad spectacle of a property owner applying to demolish a beautiful, 8,000 square foot, architecturally-significant, historic home." The Hochsteins shot back in the media, taking a Miami Herald reporter on a tour of the home to prove it was too structurally unsound to renovate, and telling the New York Times that they felt "ambushed" by the preservationists. Then Lisa Hochstein had enough. The quiet and polite (at least by Housewives standards) homeowner channeled her inner mean girl in a series of tweets aimed at the MDPL, calling the preservationists ridiculous, nuts, telling them they "need a hobby." For now, the fate of the home remains in limbo, tied up in appeals and lawsuits. But don't worry. Whatever happens, you'll be able to see it all unfold on Bravo next season.

We live in a time when every summer blockbuster involves either superheroes or warp drives. The future is now: Geek culture has hit the mainstream. And Miami is a glorious geek paradise. The Borg Cube where all properly assimilated Dade County nerds converge to celebrate their cultural takeover is Florida Supercon, now in its eighth year. It's a convention wonderland for every Trekkie, comic-book fan, gamer, and animation aficionado in the 305, and it's now large enough to take up a Lannister lion's share of the Miami Airport Convention Center every summer. Supercon plays host to major celebrity guests, such as the big score for this year's July 4-7 edition — Star Trek's George Takei, who has lately become a Facebook star with his heavily shared pithy takes on modern culture. He'll be joined by dozens of A-list comic writers and artists, TV stars such as Firefly's Adam Baldwin and The Walking Dead's Laurie Holden, bands like Askultura and Astari Nite, film screenings, vendors with epic loot, and an array of cosplay competitions. Whether you're a hard-core fan with encyclopedic knowledge or you're still trying to figure out precisely what the Avengers are avenging, there is something at Florida Supercon for every manner of fangirl and -boy.

Nostalgia is all the rage these days, what with Magic City, pre-Prohibition mixology and Gatsby-era fashion. And for the ultimate Miami throwback experience, there's the oft-forgotten jai alai. In the 1950s and '60s at this arena-cum-casino, the balls were flying, the cocktails flowing, and the cash registers ringing. Then, the Miami venue of the "fastest sport in the world" nearly faded into oblivion. But with the casino's recent renovation, the lineup of old-school music favorites like Boys II Men and America, and the addition of Vegas-style slots and table games, a resurgence has begun. Nowadays, the action revolves mostly around the slot machines, the poker room, and the dominos, but jai alai is still alive, and some of the world's best players wield their cestas and launch their pelotas on Casino Miami's courts. Miami is one of the only cities in the nation with a venue for this intense, speedy sport, so we should all make the trip.

Of all the spirits in the world, rum has the best fantasy life. After all, it's enjoyed by poets, pirates, and sailors. It usually hails from exotic and tropical ports of call like Tortuga, Cuba, and St. Lucia, and it comes in many forms. So imagine the tales at the weeklong Miami Rum Renaissance Festival. There are pirate wenches, men in tiki shirts, and salty dogs under one roof learning about rum, meeting authors, and being entertained. The star of the show is, of course, the rum. More than 200 different kinds from the farthest parts of the globe are available for your sipping pleasure — some of them not yet available in the United States. There's dark blackstrap rum from St. Croix, amber from Jamaica, and Debonaire from Panama. There are $10 rums, meant to be added to a poolside piña colada, and rare potables that sell for more than a thousand dollars. But the best thing about this festival is that it's a family affair. Robert, Robin, and Rob Burr started it. They're Miami locals obsessed with rum and the city. While their little festival grows yearly, it still has a family feel. And hey, every family needs a pirate (and a few more bottles of rum).

It's not quite the eighth wonder of the world, but it's one of those places you have to visit before you die. Miccosukee Resort & Gaming has been an ocular feast since its establishment in 1999. Open 24 hours a day, it is a destination for people from all walks of life. Catch truck drivers falling asleep in the casino's parking lot after a long drive, decked out señoras at the slot machines, and tourists in puka-shell necklaces hopping from game to game hoping to cash in. If that's not enough, just head to the Cypress Lounge for live nightly entertainment and the Café Hammock for dinner specials: steak and shrimp or steak and lobster for $9.95. So head west and get into some mischief with your buddies, lose some money, or just reenact a scene from Goodfellas (without the body count). Miccosukee won't judge — they'll leave that up to you.

When friends come to town, they'll probably stay in South Beach (unless they're couch-surfing at your apartment). They'll do enough beach-going and Lincoln Road-strolling on their own, so when it's your turn, take them on the Little Havana Food Tour from Miami Culinary Tours. Founder Grace Della grew up watching her mother conduct cooking classes, so her heart is in sharing her knowledge of food with others. The tour takes you to six restaurants where you sample the usual fare — a Cuban sandwich here, a pastelito there, a shot of guarapo con cafecito. But interspersed with the food are some great stories about Cuban culture and politics. You'll also visit art galleries, domino park (did you even know that only people 55 years and older can get in on a game?), and if you're lucky an ominous tree under which you'll find various bones and candles — the result of Santería rituals that are still held (makes you want to tell the chickens waltzing around the neighborhood to watch their backs). After all of that, your out-of-town friends (and you) will have learned something about Miami. And at $59, it's also on par with many South Beach lunches.

Crouching in the dark of night

Hiding from the wind

We get blazed before the show.

Community service — it's not just for parolees anymore. In fact, anybody can do it. Working as a volunteer is a lot like having a job, except you don't get paid, and that's the point. In a city where it's money over everything, community service can be a difficult concept to grasp. But PhilanthroFest, now in its second year, attracts more than a thousand Miami goodniks to its annual festival. And celebrating volunteerism, charitable donations, and pro-social activity has never been so much fun. There are more than 100 organizations representing causes ranging from Guitars Over Guns Organization (GOGO) to Americans for Immigrant Justice to fresh produce for the inner city, and way too many more to mention by name, which is a great problem to have. Being a nonprofiteer is a good time, and time is money, so spend yours wisely and help the community.

When it's summer in Miami, it's winter in South America. And that means the beaches of Rio empty en masse and a veritable bikini-clad army of samba babes fly north to oil and tan their buxom backsides on South Beach. The millionaire playboys who love them follow soon after, and before you know it, South American tourist season is in full swing with families of Disney-bound travelers stopping in Miami to buy cargo containers' worth of electronics to take home. For bartenders, store owners, T-shirt salesmen, body waxers, and party lovers, it's a boom time. And for fans of the beach life, it is too.