Best Of Miami® 2007 Winners
People & Places
Who cares if noted fashion designer Michael Kors said her clothes concoctions "belong strictly with flip-flops on Ocean Drive." No one cares what a stuffy old queen has to say anyway. We, on the other hand, love Uli's "Miami-esque" fashion designs. And though she came in second place to dirtbag designer Jeffrey Sebelia and lost out on $100,000, a Macy's mentorship, and a Saturn Sky Roadster, Herzner still got a dreamy opportunity: to show off her line during New York's famed Fashion Week. And her shimmering silvery minidress was sold for $3425 during an online auction on www.projectrunway.com. By comparison, Sebelia's garish striped dress fetched only $2900. Take that, punk rock loser! It won't be long before Uli says auf Wiedersehen to Miami for fashion stardom in the Big Apple.
Ever sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, laying on the horn because the ding-dong in front is not moving, and you're in a hurry because you're late for work, and you still have to drop off the kids and get to the bank to deposit some money so your checks don't bounce, but you're almost out of gas and you're not sure if you're going to make it, but if you stop then you'll be even later, and if you're late again you'll get fired, and then you won't have money for anything, so should you chance it and risk getting stuck and getting fired because you don't show up at all, or stop and risk getting fired because you're lateç Dude, if this even remotely resembles your brain, you seriously need to take a break before it melts. And the best spot for escaping from the daily grind without spending a small fortune (provided you have a rich friend who owns a boat, that is) is right here in our back yard: Elliott Key. Located about nine miles from Homestead in the aquamarine waters of Biscayne National Park, this is the largest of three keys in the park's 172,000 acres, and is only accessible by water. Once harboring a thriving community of pioneers, today this idyllic island offers camping — complete with barbecue grills — picnicking, swimming, wildlife watching, and a hiking trail, along with showers, toilets, and even fresh drinking water. The coastline is predominantly rocky, but the clear waters make it ideal for snorkeling. And there are some small areas of sand if you feel the urge to bronze. What's more the place is large enough to never get overcrowded, yet small enough to feel like your own private paradise (especially if you head there on a weekday). Best of all, it's free. So grab some grub, anchor offshore (low tide is less than three feet high), and chill. Sleep under the stars and bathe in crystal clear ocean waters ... you deserve it. It sure beats waking up to reality.
Best Reason to Stay in Miami for the Summer
Sacred Sevens Selebration
Last year's summertime calendar brought us 6/6/6, the apocalyptic number of the beast. Some predicted the Antichrist would appear on that hot as hell June afternoon, but it didn't happen.This summer will bring 7/7/7, which is sacred and mystical, according to various traditions. On that day Miami will host the Sacred Sevens Selebration. (In case you haven't checked, July 7, 9007, will fall on a Saturday; of course, the town will be either underwater or nuked by then.) It's all organized by the people at MysticalFlorida.com, who put on the Tropical Fairy Festival at Coral Castle every October. "This festival will raise positive energies and provide an outlet for people to experiment with their spirituality," says Atina Komar, the festival's organizer, "and honestly, days that don't appear very often give us an excuse to throw a party."The festivities will be held at the Unitarian Universalist Church in South Miami. There will be drum circles, live bands, magicians, spiritual workshops on well-being and self-healing, as well as performances by jugglers, dancers, and singers. There will also be games and a costume contest for children.
Want the moon to yourselfç Haul your bike out to Shark Valley after sunset and have at it. There's nowhere better to check out that massive cheese wheel in the sky than the River of Grass. Cruise around the fifteen-mile paved loop with wind in your hair, bird songs in your ear, and mysterious water splashes every few feet, as the glowing disk makes its way across the evening sky. It's beautiful — especially the view from the observation tower halfway into the ride — and it's free after 5:15 p.m (the gate closes at 6:00).
You make the 45-minute trek to work every day. And every day at least two jerks cut you off or give you the finger. At work your micromanaging boss breathes down your neck because he's a sadistic maniac. The kids fight, your visiting in-laws are annoying, and you're behind on your bills again. Does the Mobius bandlike cycle of stress ever endç Sure you can plop yourself down on the couch and wish your life was copacetic as Shaq's, but that's a poor excuse for relaxation. What you need is mental and spiritual rejuvenation, both of which can be found at the Wat Buddharangsi, a Thai Buddhist temple in Homestead. Wat's Eastern-influenced architecture is striking; ascending steeples are adorned with red tile and gold decoration. The same color scheme can be found inside, with a large Buddha as an inspiring centerpiece. An aura of serenity permeates the inside of the temple as bright sun rays fill the quiet, open spaces. Patrons are encouraged to forget material possessions and control their lives during the temple's many ceremonies and prayers. Some rules for visitors: dress conservatively, remove shoes upon entering, and avoid making loud noises. The temple is open to the public every day from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. and hosts special events at least once a month.
It's not that the sand is whiter or the sea greener. Nor do those few feet of ocean boast more waves or fewer pesky sea critters. It's just that Third Street — not Second Street, not Fourth Street, but either side of the lifeguard stand on Third — is where the cool kids hang. Week in, week out. It's where the hot Brazilians can be spotted in their pseudo-Speedo trunks, flexing taut muscles as they battle through endless games of foot-volleyball. It's where the Latinas and the Euros throw caution to the wind and discard bikini tops without so much as a flinch. Coolers stacked full of beach essentials (i.e. beer), lithe bodies, and paddleball games abound. In all its skin-baring, sweaty glory, Third Street beach epitomizes this city we call home.
Metrozooç Go south until you smell it, turn west until you step in it ... oh, hell yeah. Stinky jokes, offal puns, and a heap of fun arrived at animal land this past October to January when, we shit you not, the clever hypesters at Miami Metrozoo laid waste from an assortment of critters on tables, the floor, and — well, the stuff was everywhere but in the fan. Think of it: bird turds, big-cat scat, doo-doo from the greater kudu, and maybe one damn huge steaming dollop from Dahlip, the approximately 40-year-old Asian elephant. Based on a book by Dr. Wayne Lynch called The Scoop on Poop, this 5000-square-foot traveling exhibit made perfect scents to garner youngsters' interest in animals — nothing like poop to pique the curiosity of kids. It worked. The display of fauna feculence made national news and received plenty of coverage by local TV news — for once, they literally broadcast crap. Field trips from many schools visited the stools, and attendance soared by about a third more than typical of the three-month time period. "Best turnout in five years," says a spokesman. So hold your nose and hope that The Scoop on Poop becomes as much of a tradition as Metroboo, Bear Days, Egg Safari, Ball of the Wild, Venom Week, and Feast with the Beasts. As for the last — eat up, you productive creatures. Your output is needed, so just doo it.
Best Local Boy Made Good
San Francisco 49ers running back Frank Gore
During a game in Detroit against the Lions this past season, on his way to a 1695-yard rushing season and his first Pro Bowl appearance, Frank Gore showed us why he is probably the best running back to come out of the University of Miami. Around the 50-yard line, the former Coral Gables Senior High star lowered his helmet and scampered through six Lions defenders during a breathtaking 61-yard touchdown run. What made Gore's scamper even sweeter is that the 49ers were facing third and sixteen. And it's only his second season. The last time we saw such unbridled explosiveness from Gore was during his 2000 senior year at Coral Gables (in which he rushed for 2353 yards and scored 34 touchdowns). Gore made it to college despite a childhood learning disability that required him to take special classes throughout his elementary, middle, and high school education. He helped raise two younger siblings and care for his mother Liz, who has a kidney ailment that requires dialysis (she remains on a transplant list). But his breakout as a Hurricane was cut short when Gore tore the anterior cruciate ligament in his left knee in March 2002. Things didn't get better the following season when he blew out the same ligament, but in his right knee. You felt bad for the kid. But he was drafted in the third round by the 49ers in 2005. Last year Gore finally blossomed into the star running back we always knew he would be. Yet Gore hasn't forgotten the people who helped him reach the big time. He invited his former coach, the Hurricanes' Don Soldinger, along to Hawaii for the Pro Bowl. "He's the best I've been around," Soldinger says of Gore. "He has a good feel for what is right and what is wrong. Frank is one special cat."
Miami is among the worst cities in the nation when it comes to finding peace. The bayfront is privately owned, the streets are jammed, and if you don't own a boat, it's hard to find a quiet place. Greynolds Park, boys and girls, is the glorious exception. There's something for everyone in this 249-acre beaut, which was donated to Miami-Dade County back in 1936 by the head of a rock-mining company. On one side, you have a golf course. Nearby, there's a large and quiet nature area. There are also several kids' playgrounds and great places to throw parties. You can't find a better place to take the family on a Sunday afternoon — that is unless you can hop on your Lear Jet and head for Switzerland.
Best friends forever Petey, a Boston terrier, and Loverboy, a (female) yellow Labrador retriever, meet just about every day for a rumble. Baba, a shih-poo (shih tzu–poodle mix), maintains a wary but curious distance, but Pepe, a miniature poodle, isn't shy: Soon he's attached himself to Loverboy's hindquarters, and Petey is having none of it. It's all in good fun, though: Dog owners know better than to bring antisocial mutts to this six-and-a-half-acre park, which contains separate but adjacent large- and small-dog pens. As this pack of sociable hounds demonstrates, owners usually congregate in one spot or the other, and dogs of all sizes romp together. After your pooch has worn himself out, you can enjoy a peaceful walk along Indian Creek, the park's eastern border. But the best thing about Pine Tree Park is its ample shade. Its dozens of old banyans and other fine shade trees, combined with that ocean breeze, will keep you and your four-legged pals cool on even the most draining dog days of summer.
Former state Rep. Ralphie Boy, of Hialeah, was once a rising star in the Republican Party. The onetime school teacher was elected to the State House of Representatives in 2000 with 70 percent of the vote and then worked his way up the ranks in Tallahassee, sitting on the education, appropriations, and insurance committees. He also became chairman of the Pre-K-12 Committee and vice chairman of the Education Council. But he had a little problem with running his mouth. Back in October 2006, our own bigmouth called fellow state Rep. Gus Barreiro, a Republican from Miami Beach, on the phone. One call — probably by his brother-in-law — went like this: "Hey, bitch. You're nothing but a bitch. You ain't nothing but a bitch, brother. My nigger. Fuck." Just a few days before that infamous call, Barreiro had filed a House complaint against Arza, claiming the arzhole had used the n-word repeatedly when referring to Miami school superintendent Rudy Crew, who is black. Ralphie apologized, saying that anger got the best of him. Ralphie resigned. Good riddance, Ralphie.
It's not easy seeing green in this city — so Barnes Park is nothing less than a 65-acre oasis from the mean streets and concrete deserts of Miami, and a great spot to round up the crew for a picnic. There are dozens of grills available for public use, and the picnic sites are spacious and well spread out. The park is one of the last pine rocklands in the area, and the trees provide ample (and oh-so-rare) shade from the South Florida sun. According to the Audubon Society, Barnes Park is one of the best places in the county to see migrating birds, and there are nice paths for walking or bike riding. There's even a nature center for the kids, which houses the Miami-Dade Fire Department Anti-Venom Unit's collection of snakes. The park is open from sunrise to sunset; group camping is available as well. Entrance to the park, of course, is free.
She's the first county commissioner to receive a recall vote since 1972. At taxpayer expense, she hired lawyers in an attempt to stop the vote on the strong-mayor debate. Pushing her personal vendetta even further, in November 2006 she proposed cutting the mayor's salary from $229,083 to $12,000. Carlos Alvarez called the suggestion "childish." She backed moving the Urban Development Boundary. She called her detractors anti-Cuban, saying, "These are a bunch of racists from South Dade who don't want us in power." She epitomizes everything that's wrong with single-member districts (or, for a loyal constituency in Hialeah, everything that's right). Seijas has made herself unlikable in the past — in 2002 she told then-county commission chairwoman Gwen Margolies: "Today is the day you might just leave here in a body bag" — but never so much as in the past twelve months. Commissioner Seijas, we salute you.
A quick survey around New Times headquarters about flying kites unearthed a multitude of childhood memories about Tropical Park. Enter through the Miller Road entrance and there's a hill by the lake. Climb the hill, assemble your kite, take a deep breath, and run down the slope. The string will unwind from the spool and the kite will catch a breeze from the lake. With a tug, it will suddenly catch an updraft. Sweaty and exhilarated, slow your pace. Watch it soar.
When colorful attorney Ellis Rubin died of cancer in December, most people remembered the 81-year-old for his unconventional — some say theatrical — legal strategies and larger-than-life clients. In fact he is known nationally as the first lawyer who wanted to use the now-common "TV intoxication" defense in the notorious 1977 Ronnie Zamora murder trial. What people didn't know was that this same attorney also wore a white hat. He consistently battled racial discrimination, and in 1954 the Florida Junior Chamber of Commerce named him one of the "most outstanding young men" of the state for defending — free of charge — scores of indigent young African Americans. However, he said his proudest moment was being jailed on a contempt of court charge for refusing to represent a client he knew was going to perjure himself. His list of clients was equally impressive. He represented Mercury Morris, Jackie Mason, Hedy Lamar, the Guardian Angels, and another recently deceased local, E. Howard Hunt.
What the hell is pine rocklandç It's what used to cover much of the Miami Rock Ridge and other sections of South Florida. Much of this ecosystem is now gone, but there are still outcroppings here and there where you can get a taste of what this region used to look like. A.D. Barnes Park is one of these natural museums, and a magnet for bird life that has not yet moved out to the country. The National Audubon Society has named it one of the top ten birding locations in Florida and it is part of the Great Florida Birding Trail. Over the years almost 200 species of birds have been spotted here, including the swallow-tailed kite, ruby-throated hummingbird, cedar waxwing, red-shouldered hawk, greenback heron, red-wing blackbird, and a few lost parakeets as well.
Mary Athalie Range started out as a typical Miami transplant, but her decades of civic activism and public service became one of the city's great stories. In the late Forties, conditions at her children's Liberty City school jump-started the activist in Range. Her successful work in the PTA opened doors that eventually led to her becoming the first African-American woman to sit on the Miami City Commission. There she fought hard to correct the injustices that had long made life difficult for African Americans and other minority groups. By 1971 she had proven her effectiveness so thoroughly that then-Gov. Rubin Askew appointed her the secretary of the Department of Community Affairs for the State of Florida. When she passed away this past November at age 91, she was still active as the chair of the Virginia Key Beach Park Trust, and busy with restoration of the historic black sections of Virginia Key. She earned many citations for her public work, but she was also successful in the private sector as director of Range Funeral Homes, which still operate today. Thank you, Commissioner Range.
We all know Pennekamp State Park is for the tourists and Biscayne National Park is for the serious snorkelers, but sometimes you just want to swim off the beaten path. A few miles west of Pennekamp is a popular snorkeling and recreation spot called Indian Key Historic State Park. It lies unconnected to the Overseas Highway, which means you can only reach it by boat, kayak, or heavy-duty swim fins, but rentals and tours are available from nearby marinas. (Robbie's Marina is a popular one, where you can also hand-feed large tarpon.) Instead of a sandy beach, the island has a coral/rocky shoreline with plentiful sea life just inches away from shore. Dolphins, manatees, sharks, rays, crabs, and lobster are seen frequently in the flats, while large fish are visible in the channels. The island itself is a historic site. It was the former Dade County seat (until Monroe County was established in 1836), and is home to a sunken galleon salvage fleet and Dr. Henry Perrine's botanical garden. Native Americans used it for thousands of years before that. Though most of the buildings are gone, lots of artifacts — including Perrine's plants — remain. Don't forget your diver down flag.
It's the day after Thanksgiving! What should we doç We could eat turkey sandwiches and draw cartoons. Or go to Wal-Mart at 5:30 a.m. and jostle Christmas shoppers.... Hey, I know! Let's put on our FBI polo shirt and fatigues. We can pretend our fake machine gun is real. Then we can barricade ourselves inside the newsroom of El Nuevo Herald and proclaim ourselves editor! The mayor, the police chief, the FBI, CNN, the local news media, and various SWAT teams are probably bored as hell. They'll love it! Whyç What do you mean, "why"ç
The future is now! Well, almost. Somewhere along the way, the Jetsonesque future that baby boomers envisioned disappeared. Instead of personal space ships, we got the Segway. Instead of Rosie the Maid, we got the Swiffer Sweeper. Instead of incredibly tall, funky-looking skyscrapers ... oh, we did get those, and we also got living quarters under the sea. Though it's not the quite the Taj Mahal of futuristic sea labs, Jules' Undersea Lodge is probably the only chance you'll get to sleep with the fishes — the easy way. Basically this is a completely submerged hotel — even the entrance is underwater. It also doubles as an artificial reef, so there is guaranteed sea life to observe through the large windows. As well as the usual hotel amenities, they have a chef, and offer scuba instruction so that novice guests can enjoy the facility to its fullest. Maybe you'll even meet a mermaid and robotic dolphin and invite them over to watch TV.
He was born Alberto R. Cutié in San Juan, Puerto Rico, to Cuban parents. An imposing presence at six feet tall, the 36-year-old sports a thick head of closely cropped black hair and blemish-free, tanned skin. When he smiles, his piercing blue eyes sparkle affectionately and his lips part to reveal a gleaming row of pearly whites. But it's not his classic good looks that draw in the crowds. It's his no-nonsense, flexible take on the Almighty. See, the mild-mannered, witty, and humble Cutié is a celibate priest who leads the congregation at St. Francis de Sales Catholic Church in Miami Beach. And he's a favorite among congregations both here and overseas — he hosts a popular Spanish-language TV show that airs on Telemundo, and a spot on Radio Peace, which broadcasts nationwide as well as in every country in Latin America. He doesn't shove narrow-minded opinions down your throat; he doesn't point fingers, yelling "sinner"; and he doesn't think gays should burn in Hell. Simply put, at a time when organized religion is drowning in a man-made sea of scandal, Cutié is a breath of fresh air. Not to mention easy on the eyes.
Best Stargazing
Solar viewing at Miami MetroZoo with the Southern Cross Astronomical Society
Sometimes the best stargazing happens only in the daytime. The closest star to Earth is, of course, the sun. Its blinding light hides a spectacular show that gracious members of the Southern Cross Astronomical Society (SCAS) reveal for free once a week with their specialized equipment. Flares, sunspots, and prominences regularly dance across their viewfinders, but that's not all a budding astronomer can see in the daytime. The recent comet McNaught was only visible to skywatchers in the northern hemisphere during daylight hours, and there is usually a planet or two that rewards a little attention from snooping telescopes.
It's not so much that time forgot Chokoloskee. It's more like Chokoloskee forgot time. A magical little community of stilt houses and trailers spanning out from a postage stamp-size downtown, Chokoloskee is just south of Everglades City on the far end of the Tamiami Trail. It sure feels like the far end of something, what with the literary ghosts (Peter Mathiessen's Bone by Bone is set here), and distinctly unhurried pace (golf carts are a common mode of transport). Little more than a sandy rise amid the Ten Thousand Islands wilderness, this is the west coast's most southerly community. No hurry here; just hang out in front of the "Chokoloskee Mall," basically a general store and post office; have some clam chowder at Big House Coffee and soak it all in. Shake off the stupor with a paddle — there's easy access to the Gulf Coast Visitor Center, and gorgeous nearby canoe/kayak routes such as the Turner River and the Wilderness Waterway.
People come and go, but Michael Patrick disappeared — and then reappeared, a day later, in handcuffs. The escape artist, who performed escapes at the Key West Sunset Celebration for fourteen years, announced last Halloween night that, in honor of the 80th anniversary of Harry Houdini's death, he'd be departing from the regular program of straitjackets and ropes. He then dove into the ocean and, as far as anyone present could tell, never came back up. Together, cops and the Coast Guard assembled a team of divers, boats, and helicopters to find Patrick's corpse. When they finally found him, alive and well, outside his apartment the next afternoon, they threw him in the county jail and fined him $60,000. Patrick, embittered by the experience, says his next escape will be to get the hell out of Florida.
Fate has chewed you up, spit you out, and left you battered and bruised in the parking lot of the Florida City Wal-Mart Supercenter. You've lost your job, your girl, your car, and your reason to live. You have $3.85 to your name. And then, like an angel out of a Jimmy Buffett song, you see the faint bright silhouette of the Julia Garcia Transit (JGT) bus roll into view. This is your chance to hightail it to the Keys and make a brand-new start, full of cheap beer and shellfish. Sure it'll take four-and-a-half hours to get to Key West, because the bus makes every conceivable stop along the way, but it's all you've got left in the world. And, man, are they dependable. JGTs leave seven times daily, seven days a week, beginning at 5:15 a.m. and ending at 11:15 p.m. Ask the person next to you to wake you up to catch the Keys shuttle, which you can catch at the end of the JGT line in Marathon, in the parking lot of the Brass Monkey Liquor Store. Everything's gonna be all right.
It seemed likely that the appearance of Prince at Dolphin Stadium during the big game would be worth watching. It was. Not for the tiny titan of tuneage's medley of unlikely covers and "Purple Rain," which must have seemed clever at the time because, in Miami's special "please-don't-ever-bring-the-big-game-here-again" way, Super Sunday was supersoaked by a drizzle that began before dawn. Despite the nonstop cloud juice, Dolphin Stadium looked like Friday night in Baghdad, thanks to a spectacular fireworks display. Bombs burst in midair, rockets glared red, and it seemed as if all of Miami Gardens was one big Molotov cocktail. Musta scared the bejeezus out of the Artist Formerly Known as Famous.
Bimini, a tiny island where Ernest Hemingway once drank, has great snorkeling in gin-clear water, excellent fishing, and friendly Bahamian locals. Hotels are cheap, too. But how to get thereç Although it's only 50 miles from downtown Miami, Bimini is not easily accessible. Flights leave from Fort Lauderdale, but not daily, and prices are $200 and up. That's pretty expensive for such a short trip. Solution: Take the ferry. The M/V Bimini Breeze sails daily from the Miami River. The 86-foot long, Swedish-built ship carries 49 passengers and 20,000 pounds of cargo, and arrives in Bimini in just over three-and-a-half hours. The journey is idyllic: You begin by motoring slowly down the Miami River, past the fishing boats and construction crews. Gawk at the cruise ships and the traffic on the MacArthur Causeway and, within minutes, you are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Sit back, enjoy a beer and a hot dog for $5 or less, or eat your own food. Go up on deck and smell the salty air. Say hi to the ship's captain and owner, a friendly Norwegian guy named Kjell. Fantasize about being a pirate. As you get closer to Bimini, the water becomes impossibly blue and clear. It's an unusual and cheap weekend adventure — round-trip fares on the ship start at $150.
Bored with lifeç Need to inject your miserable existence with a dose of daringç Nothing screams, "Holy shit I'm alive!" like stepping out of a perfectly good airplane 13,000 feet above the ground. It's not for the faint- hearted (or the light-walleted), but if you yearn to embrace the adrenaline junkie within, Skydive Miami is a must. For about $320 the team of certified professionals that runs the school will educate you on how not to get killed, dress you in the proper equipment, take you high into the sky, and even tape your fall from grace (it's $249 without the DVD). That way, when your kids tell you you're a boring loser, you can whip out your your custom-made movie and prove to them that you, too, were wild in your day!
You're a developer and city official in town stuck on Concourse A waiting for your delayed flight to Houston. Do you: (A) sigh, crack open your briefcase, and catch up on some reading, or (B) find a Texan named Karl, sidle up to the airport bar, and drop $130 on seven wines, four beers with whiskey, and amaretto backs. If B, then do you: (A) shake hands with Karl and call it a night, or (B) head for the gate and make a scene, demanding the airline provide a hotel room for Karl. If B, then do you: (A) sit down after you realize the police have been summoned, or (B) get more belligerent and throw up your hands at the cops when they react poorly to the question "Do you know who I amç" If B, then do you: (A) submit to excitable officers and await the opportunity to speak with your badass lawyer, or (B) head-butt one cop, kick another in the groin, and crack your head open trying to flee in a pair of handcuffs. If you answered B to all questions, then you might be a jerk, but you've got more chutzpah than you know what to do with. We salute you, Johnny Winton!
It's not every day South Floridians are given the opportunity to cavort in the manner of a lithe Russian gymnast. Miami, though lovely, is a city about as alien to aerial acrobatics as it is to snow (and by that we mean the real white powder). That is, until the Irish-born Marcus Gaffney and his Flying Trapeze School came to town a few months ago. Perhaps because we city folk have been sheltered from the glee that stems from soaring upside-down some 25 feet in the air, performing twirly, awe-inspiring backflips is probably not on your to-do list. But it can be. And it should be. Not only is it fun, but for those who pride themselves on their testicular capacity (meaning do you have any balls, or not?), it's a must. For $10 for a "try and fly" lesson ($40 for a regular two-hour lesson), you too can inch precariously up a wobbly 23-rung ladder and perch on a ledge the size of a bookshelf high above the green grass of Bayfront Park. Sure it gets the old ticker pumping, but that's nothing compared to the feeling of sheer helplessness that grips your entire being the moment you step into thin air. That's when you realize the only way down is to let go of the bar your sweaty palms are wrapped around, grab your knees, and dismount. Backward.
Best New Law
HB 7105: Repeal of the Alcoholic Beverage Surcharge
Jeb Bush signed this baby into law on June 9, 2006, and it will take effect this July. It could generate $30 million in new economic activity in the state and potentially create 400 new jobs for Florida's considerable hospitality industry, according to a study done by the Distilled Spirits Council. Whatever. This piece of legislation means a few more pennies in the pocket of every drinker. Taxes in Florida — one of only two states that applied a per-volume tax to on-premises alcoholic beverage product sales — already make up 52 percent of the average cost of a 750-milliliter bottle of spirits.
On August 3, amid the hubbub of the Republican gubernatorial primary, the state's gun lovers converged on the Rusty Pelican. They were all present for the delightful gala event, which was held in a cheesy ballroom in the waterfront restaurant — with all proceeds going toward Boys & Girls Clubs shooting programs and "educational things" like Eddie Eagle, the lobby's giant costumed mascot, who minces around in front of elementary school children and tells them not to pick up unattended firearms. The audience at the $50-per-plate soiree comprised beefy men in full camo and Latin ladies in cocktail dresses. No one really drank much because some were packing ... and that's against the law. Failed gubernatorial candidate Tom Gallagher popped in to perform a solemn pledge of allegiance and lamented, "There just aren't too many young people today who know what it means to be an American." "I know exactly what it means to be an American," a twelve-year-old muttered while demonstrating his cool hand with a trigger-guard-mounted laser sight. He had pulled the sight (mounted on a plasticine Beretta) off of one of several raffle item tables. Also on sale were shotguns, ornate eagle-related desk pieces, and a variety of hunting knives. One stand featured a trio of pretty young blonds auctioning a revolver using a deck of cards — $10 per card. Ah, Miami....
Best Tour
Miami Dade Transit's Black History and Hispanic Heritage Tours
Normally there's nothing Miamians hate more than taking the Metrobus anywhere — even the more loathsome act of sitting in rush hour traffic day after day seems preferable. (We're not even going to discuss that thing called "walking.") But twice a year some of these same Miamians fight over the privilege of spending their Saturday mornings crammed together riding a city bus. Since 1994 Miami-Dade Transit has offered a free black history tour that winds through the city's oldest African-American neighborhoods. You'll visit Overtown, Coconut Grove, Liberty City, Allapattah, and Brownsville while knowledgeable staff rap about people like D. A. Dorsey and E.W.F. Stirrup, and places such as the Lyric Theater and Georgette's Tea Room. Even though the tour is barely advertised, it is so popular that you have to register in December to make sure you have a seat in February. The transit department added a Hispanic Heritage version in 2000 that travels through Little Havana, downtown, and the Orange Bowl area. It features Domino Park, a cigar factory, and other Hispanic points of interest, while introducing you to Cuban celebrities and revolutionary heroes. That tour is offered in English and Spanish. Both tours are free and last three to four hours. The black history tours are in February; the Hispanic tours are in October. Early reservations are mandatory. See you on da bus.
Okay, so it's bad enough that Miami International Airport is always under construction, and the parking situation is confusing at best and miserable at worst. But Magic City dwellers suffered one more airport-related indignity last year when it was revealed that the long-awaited airport train is $1.5 billion over budget and that its train cars are sitting empty where they were manufactured, in Japan. Yes, Japan. In April 2006 the county commission approved spending $1.98 million to "exercise" the train cars (in Japan) over the next two years. The cars can't run here in Miami because the tracks aren't ready yet. "I think some mistakes were made," John Cosper of the Miami-Dade Aviation Department told NBC News. Ya thinkç
Okay, so it's in Collier County, but it's close enough (about an hour-and-a-half drive) and the drive is more than worth it. Called the "Amazon of North America," this area is unparalleled for swamp-tromping. Twenty miles long by five miles wide, it's an explosion of flora and fauna, from the wetter swamps and prairies, to the drier islands of tropical hardwood hammocks and pine rocklands where Eastern indigo snakes and Florida black bears roam. Its groves of native royal palms are the most abundant in the state. Oh yeah, it's also the orchid and bromeliad capital of the continent, with 44 native orchid species and fourteen different kinds of native bromeliads.
Sometime during the 2006 legislative session, one Republican lawmaker dared to challenge Jeb Bush's crazy proposals on class size and vouchers. That man was state Sen. Alex Villalobos, and his refusal to support Bush's master plan for education cost him dearly. Punishment was swift: Villalobos was stripped of the honor of becoming Florida's first Cuban-American Senate president. Bush backed another Cuban-American to run against him (school board member Frank Bolaños, who was also endorsed by crazy drunk-dialer/state Rep. Ralph Arza). What ensued was the costliest — and meanest — state Senate race in Florida's history. Shady third-party groups spent $6 million to take down Villalobos, and at least $1 million was spent on nasty TV and radio ads in the week before the election. The campaign devolved into a theater of the absurd when Bolaños hired a man in a chicken suit to plague Villalobos at campaign events. Villalobos rolled with the joke ("A bunch of people rushed the chicken because they thought they could get Pollo Tropical coupons," he said), and his sunny nature prevailed. He squeaked by in the election. Now, some political insiders say, Villalobos is untouchable.
Robert Burr was born and raised in the county of Dade. His family came here in 1876, and traces of his ancestors' hard work can be found from Arch Creek Park to Burr's Berry Farm. As you might expect from a seventh generation member of a pioneering family, he knows the nooks and crannies of this city like the back of his hand. On any given weekend Burr is leading one of the many walking and driving tours he's created. He has introduced thousands to the pleasures of the Redland and Coral Gables through his ever-popular Redland Riot tour, as well as his Coral Gables Wine Walk, Gallery Stroll, and Pub Crawl. He's done this in person by leading the procession, although the front-and-center position isn't necessarily his favorite. "I really don't want everyone to go with me, per se. In the Gables, we're doing a wine walk tonight. And people will call and say, ÔOh no, it's already sold out.' And I'm like, ÔYou know whatç Go do a wine walk with you and your friends! I ultimately hope to set an example for how to go do this stuff yourself," explains the affable, silver-haired gent. Burr has single-handedly reinvented the concept of locals discovering Miami on their own. His comprehensive Websites offer print-it-yourself maps that highlight hidden gems in neighborhoods that people usually just drive through. The Gables tours focus on the area's rich dining and boozing prospects, and the Redland Riot Tour (and recently added Redland Riot Road Rallye) leads groups of explorers into the still-lush corners of Miami's rapidly developing back yard. Exploring the Redland is a Burr family tradition. "When I was a kid, when they said, ÔHop in the station wagon, we're going to the Redlands.' That meant we'd get to go see Uncle Charlie and pick some strawberries," Burr recalls. "One of the simple pleasures in life is to pick your own fruit. Someday it's going to be something that's just in the past, picking your own strawberries." The U-Picks are disappearing and the farmland is being converted into little boxes made of ticky-tacky that all look just the same. But thanks to the efforts of Robert Burr, urbanites seeking a weekend getaway will continue to discover the pastoral pleasures of the Robert is Here produce stand, Schnebly Winery, and historic Cauley Square, thereby preserving what's left of Miami's verdant past.
Best Political Miscalculation
Frank Bolaños's entire career in 2006
First he supported the ban of Vamos a Cuba, a 32-page children's book that Cuban exiles said glossed over the harsh realities of modern-day life on the island. The ACLU sued the district over the ban and won. Then Bolaños called for an appeal of a judge's ruling to allow the book on school library shelves, costing the district thousands and thousands of dollars. He was rewarded for this stupidity with backing from Gov. Jeb Bush in his campaign for state Senate against incumbent Republican Alex Villalobos (see above). During the campaign, Bolaños tried to use the book for political leverage among his constituents. His antics (namely a chicken suit) escalated that race into one of the nastiest, and costliest, state Senate contests in Florida history. Fortunately the voters in the district were smart and Bolaños was defeated.
If you have never ridden 100 miles on a bike before, you have no idea (a) how good it feels, nor (b) how difficult it is. Nor do you realize how many billions of calories you'll burn in the process. For those who haven't, the annual Everglades Snowbird Century is a great place to begin. Scaredç Don't be: It's a ride, not a race, and if you think your legs will fail long before your resolve, sign up for the less demanding 25, 41, or 62-mile options. For a $35 registration fee — $5 of which is donated to Everglades National Park — riders travel the rural roads of Miami-Dade County from a vantage point like no other. The route is clearly marked, and every 20 miles or so, participants can stretch out and chill out at rest stops stocked with an array of water, sports drinks, fruit, and bagels. Technicians volunteered by local bike shops are but a phone call away should you experience mechanical problems, so the only thing for you to do is ride. And though you might not realize it at the time, this will probably be the most physically strenuous activity you will ever accomplish. And your ass will never have looked so good.
When heading up the steep, narrow staircase to the second-floor South Florida Boxing Gym on Washington Avenue, a stale odor wafts into your nostrils. It's that unmistakable smell of sweat, which, though rank to some, is actually the first sign of a good gym. It means members are not busy admiring themselves in the mirror, or reading a gossip rag while "running" on the treadmill. It means hearts are pounding, pulses are racing, and people are working out. Since opening the gym almost nine years ago, owner Trevor Cedar has cultivated a following of men and women alike by offering a host of classes — all taught by professionals — designed to suit any age and ability, including technical boxing classes, muay thai kickboxing, and jiu-jitsu. Each participant gets to pound out aggressions on his own bag, and if that's not enough, don a mouthguard and step into the full-size boxing ring for a sparring class. If this place doesn't get you into fighting form, nothing will.
Some said the trees were ugly. Others said they were a danger to motorists when their fanlike fronds dropped on the busy street. And the Florida Department of Transportation said Biscayne would be better lined with oak trees. Oaks! In tropical Miami! In 2006 the New York Times wrote about the planned uprooting of the palms, and indeed the evil, aesthetically challenged state agency did rip out some trees near NE 69th Street. Then, thanks to a group of Eastside residents and Commissioner Marc Sarnoff, an agreement was reached in February: The state replanted palms and other trees between NE 37th and 87th streets. May Biscayne be royal once again.
It took him two years and an exhausting legal battle with the county commission and its benefactors, but Miami-Dade Mayor Carlos Alvarez succeeded in assuming more power over county government. Now Miami-Dade joins major metropolitan areas such as New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, where one individual is accountable for mismanagement, theft, and separating taxpayers from their well-earned dollars. In other words, if another scandal breaks out at the airport, seaport, housing agency, or building department, Miami-Dade citizens can blame Alvarez. And if he doesn't clean things up, we can vote him out. Now if we could only set term limits on the commissioners, get rid of single-member districts, and impose lobbyist reforms. Then maybe Miami-Dade could finally begin to focus on becoming the international gateway to the future.
Ensconced in the foliage of Crandon Park, the tennis center is not only the most aesthetically pleasing place to play, but also offers diverse surfaces. The seventeen hard courts, seven of which are equipped with lights for nighttime playing, are the very courts used in tournament play when the Sony Ericsson Open (formerly the NASDAQ-100, and before that the Lipton) comes around every spring. The park is closed from the first week in March to the third week in April to prepare for competition between the sport's top 96 players, but for the rest of the year the not-so-skilled can play on them for $3 per person, per hour ($5 at night). For those who prefer clay, Crandon has two courts surfaced with red and four with green. And if your favorite movie is The Queen and you watch Wimbledon on television each year — while eating strawberries and cream and wearing absurd flowery hats — the center has two grass courts specifically designated for you and your Anglophile friends. (Grass courts are $10 per person, per hour; a stadium court costs $12 per person, per hour.)
A basket of balls at this public course's driving range doesn't cost any more than one at the other county-run courses, but Crandon Golf at Key Biscayne might as well be another planet. Besides a gorgeous tropical setting teeming with bird life, there is a cafe that serves filet mignon (for special events) and coconut shrimp and a locker room with tile mosaic floors. The driving rangeç It's perfect, ringed with pine trees and palms. Flags on raised faux greens are icing on the cake. Buckets go for $6.26 (60 balls) or $3.26 (30).
We are a polarized bunch here in Miami. The Cubans hate Castro, the Venezuelans hate Chavez, Haitians hate a lot of their leaders, the city people hate the beach people, and the beach people don't even bother with the hot mess that is downtown Miami. But for one brief, shining moment back in November 2006, we all united in our hatred of one man: U.S. Rep. Tom Tancredo of Colorado. He became the object of our ire after he had the audacity to compare our city to a Third-World country during an interview with the rabidly conservative online magazine www.worldnetdaily.com. His quote about Miami reverberated from the colada windows in Little Havana to the fried goat joints in Little Haiti to the martini bars of South Beach. "Look at what has happened in Miami," Tancredo whined. "It has become a Third-World country. You just pick it up and take it and move it someplace. You would never know you're in the United States of America. You would certainly say you're in a Third-World country." Well, Tom, Miami is our Third-World country. And we're proud of it. So let's send a message to Tom, in our respective, awesome three languages:(Spanish) "Vete pa'l carajo, Tom!"(Kreyol) "Get maman ou, Tom!"(English) "Fuck you, Tom!"
Bobby banks in an eighteen-foot jumper over J-Rod's outstretched hand. "You can't stop me!" Bobby taunts. The nineteen-year-olds have been going at it, one-on-one, for the past 35 minutes on the asphalt court closest to the train tracks. They have come out here every other day, around the same time, 4:30 p.m., playing with the same beat-up basketball with pieces of leather torn off its hide, for the past two years. "Out here, your ass is mine, chico!" Bobby razzes. They aren't the only playground ballers who make playing at Eaton Park, right across from the Lemon City library on 61st Street and NE Fourth Avenue, a ritual. Young men from all over Little Haiti and the surrounding area come here to polish their ball-handling and shooting skills. Gray clouds fill the sky, casting a cool shadow over Eaton Park — a welcome relief for the eight teenage boys playing a half-court game on the second court. A train horn wails in the distance. The ground underneath the basket begins to rumble. Soon a freight locomotive bound for the Hialeah rail yard roars by. The boys sitting on top of a fallen wood light pole stare as the immense diesel-power steel serpent goes past. Even the teens showing off their hops stop their match. Then a homeless man wearing a brown cowboy hat and a red Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey tucked into his khakis rides a bicycle around the court's perimeter. As he does this, he smiles, rings the bike's bell, and waves at everyone.
Pete Rojas had given himself this award a long time before we did. But he's a good cop, and perhaps the only officer ever to receive a gangsta rap shout-out, much less a cameo in the corresponding video. (In a 2006 song, "Get Yo Money Brisco," Opa-locka rapper Brisco lamented, "Rojas got me calculatin' every move....") In thirteen tumultuous years in Opa-locka, Rojas never lost a single hollow-point .45 round. He recalls pulling his AR-15 out of the trunk only once. People got the message quickly. He received six commendations in 2006, for rescuing a hysterical woman from of a second-story ledge and catching a pair of murderers and a knife-wielding burglar, to name just two feats. Rojas showed no fear in the hood yet treated everyone with due respect. He has since transferred to South Miami, a veritable walk in the park. No doubt he will be missed.
Sometimes someone commits a crime so horrible that we can't even finish reading about it in the newspaper. That's how the 2005 slaying of precious nine-year-old Jessica Lunsford affected us, even though the crime took place some six hours north of Miami in Citrus County. So when her killer, convicted sex offender John Couey, went on trial here in Miami in February (the trial was moved out of Citrus owing to all the publicity up north), we hoped our fellow Miamians would do the right thing. The panel of citizens did, by recommending the death penalty.
While the boardwalk in South Beach boasts stunning ocean views, Key Biscayne a mammoth heart-stopping bridge, and the Venetian Causeway calm idyllic roads, Oleta Park offers joggers a little something extra: shade. Runners know that for eight months out of the year in our scorching city, doing any kind of physical activity after 9:00 a.m. without passing out from heat stroke is nearly impossible. And who wants to climb out of bed before the sun risesç For a solution, head to Oleta. For $3 for one person in a car ($5 for a car holding two to eight passengers; $1 to bike or walk in), daily from 8:00 a.m. till sundown, Florida's largest urban park (1033 acres of land and approximately 200 acres of water) offers runners a host of options that include the densely forested bike trails. If you stay in the fire lanes you can enjoy miles of road that incorporate some manmade hills and exquisite scenery. Run around the picnic area, log cabins, and along the river. But be warned: If you plan on going after a rainstorm, don't wear white. Things get pretty messy.
Best Activist
"Flash," manager and coordinator of the Wallflower Gallery
He responds only to "Flash," and like the nickname implies, he is all about speed and light. Speed: to continually schedule a new and interesting slate of events, meetings, and benefit concerts. And light: to shed upon often overlooked issues that affect our city. The man who hides behind the mysterious nickname isn't the most gregarious dude, but his passion becomes immediately evident when he's asked about upcoming events at the Wallflower Gallery (10 NE Third St., Miami). Flash has worked hard to convert the downtown sanctuary from a funky spoken-word spot and art gallery into the epicenter of Miami's progressive, socially active hipsters. "If you check our MySpace calendar [at www.myspace.com/wallflowergallery], you'll see that we've scheduled a bunch of different series throughout the whole year now," he explains. "That includes a progressive vegetarian social the last Sunday of the month, and activist leadership training the first Sunday of the month. We're doing the Voice of the Voiceless meetings here on the third Sunday of the month, and I'm sure I'll come up with something to do on the second Sunday of the month sometime soon." Besides playing host to that dazzling array of events, Flash's gallery hosts Emerge Miami and regular Green Party meetings. The concept of upcoming Critical Mass events comes from here; recently the ragtag group of cyclists has successfully executed jaunts down South Dixie Highway, and has scheduled a trip through Calle Ocho. Flash is also the man behind the annual Everglades Awareness and Medical Marijuana Benefit concerts at Tobacco Road. Despite his seemingly superhuman efforts to bring creative minds together, raise awareness, and generate fundraising efforts for our local environmental causes, Flash remains modest about his efforts and reluctant to bask in the spotlight. "I'm just trying to keep the circus rolling," he demurs. More and more people are joining him every day.
Nike is not an industry leader for nothing. They know what an athlete needs to get the job done. And let it be said that they were the first to recognize that if Rocky Balboa needed a little "Eye of the Tiger" to get him into the ring, then perhaps you and I might also improve our athleticism with a snappy little ditty to plod along to. With that in mind they created the annual Nike Run Hit Remix, which made its South Florida debut this past December. For a $30 fee competitors enter a five-mile run with legendary artists such as De la Soul performing live on temporary stages along the route. Last December's inaugural South Florida event drew almost 4000 participants to the starting line at the Miami Beach Convention Center. And thanks to the musical stylings of Nineties greats like Digital Underground, Young MC, Coolio, and Vanilla Ice, the majority also crossed the finish line on the sand at 22nd Street. "Yo, Adrian, we did it!"
Before the April fire that burned Umoja Village to the ground, Max could be found grinning and holding his baby boy while sitting on a stained couch in the middle of the homeless shantytown in Liberty City. Part street theater, part protest, the place, which was Max's idea, opened this past October 23 on an abandoned lot on NW 62nd Street. Wooden pallet shacks on the site housed 40 homeless people; they all ate and relaxed in a common area. Inspired by the closing of the Scott Carver homes and the Miami Herald's excellent opus on the housing department scandal, Rameau created Umoja to shame local officials into creating affordable housing. And shame he has. The place was featured in every media outlet possible, from the New York Times to YouTube to Earth First! magazine. Al Sharpton visited (and donated $1000 to the effort), as did Pedro Hernandez, Miami's city manager (who contributed nothing but an annoyed smirk). Max's crowning achievement came during a glitzy week of shameless South Florida self-promotion during Super Bowl activities — when he bused in journalists for a reality tour of Umoja and the surrounding poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Fact is, Max has managed to get under the skin of local officials in a way that few activists ever have. Now that the village is destroyed, city leaders are finally listening to Max's ideas for putting affordable housing on the site — after, of course, arresting him for trying to rebuild the shantytown.
Road biking is a lot like driving. Same stretch of road, same rules. But unlike motor vehicles, which afford their navigators a steel cocoon behind which to hide in the event of a collision, cyclists have skin. It's preferable, therefore, to ride along quieter roads — where the likelihood of a door being swung open in your face, or a senile old woman backing her Lincoln Town Car out of her driveway without looking first — is minimal. So next time you feel the urge to click in your cleats and put power to the pedal, head to Homestead Bayfront Park. Entrance is free, so park the car and head west on SW 328th Street. The views are magical: mile after mile of undisturbed farmland, peppered with the odd truck here and there. Loop around the Homestead Speedway and, if your legs are up for it, head south down Card Sound Road toward Key Largo. And the best part: When you back get to the car thoroughly exhausted from your hazard-free trek, you can grab some much-needed grub from the snack bar. Better yet, if you planned ahead, you could throw a big fat juicy steak on one of the park's grills and really replenish what you just burned off.
This ride will take you, both literally and figuratively, across the tracks for a taste of some of the uniqueness, diversity, and, at the same time, radical inequality that Miami has to offer. Start by the County Courthouse, on Flagler Street between West First and Miami avenues, in the heart of the city's gritty and endlessly fascinating downtown. You can head north on Miami Avenue to see the ghost-townlike buildings around NW Fourteenth Street, but if you don't like riding against traffic, take NE Second Avenue and cut back west at Seventeenth Street, where Miami Avenue opens to two-way traffic. Take Miami Avenue north into the freshly painted Design District. When you've had enough of that take any street east and continue north on NE First Avenue, a quiet, well-shaded, and very pretty little residential street. On NE 48th Street, hang a left, continue past Miami Avenue to NW Third Avenue, and begin heading back south, past some of Little Haiti's fine houses, churches, and shops. Third Avenue dead-ends at NW 30th Street — jog west and continue south on NW Fifth Avenue. Check out the quirky thrift shops, which sell everything from used tuxes to human hair. At NW 22nd Street, make a left and return to NW Third Avenue. Continue south right through the heart of historic — and woefully neglected — Overtown. At NW Seventh Street, head west to North River Drive, and take it the rest of your way south along Miami River. When you get back downtown, grab a bite at one of the many delicious hole-in-the-wall cafeterias — you've earned it!
The Aspira Association is a national nonprofit dedicated to the education and leadership development of Puerto Rican (and other Latin) kids. Since 1961 the group has created programs to teach reading, math, and science; and increase educational resources, health, highway safety, and professional acumen. It's worked in the areas of language, economic development, arts, and culture, and has created a network of information centers and tangential organizations such as APEX (Aspira Parents for Excellence). All wonderful stuff. But worthy of special recognition are the group's recycling efforts, specifically Working Together for a Healthy Environment, a collaboration in early 2006 with Miami Dade College. Aspira also joined Keep North Miami Beautiful, an anti-litter initiative. Aspira is inspiring.
When the South Florida Super Bowl XLI Host Committee needed a public face, its members didn't tap Gloria Estefan, Miami Mayor Manny Diaz, or rapper Rick Ross. Instead they went with the granite jaw, the legend: former Dolphins head coach Don Shula. The man is an icon in this city. For more than 30 years he manned the sidelines for the city's storied sports franchise, engineering a perfect season in 1972. But Shula is more than just a football coach. He is a man of great honor and integrity who still hasn't abandoned his down-to-earth-by-way-of-Cleveland persona. You're just as likely to run into him eating a slice at Gino's Pizza on Washington Avenue as you are at the United Way annual ball. And the 77-year-old steakhouse and hotel entrepreneur doesn't pull any punches, as evidenced by his stinging rebuke of recently departed Fins coach Nick Saban. Now if only someone could convince Shula to run for county mayor in 2008. Then maybe we could really have an inspiring leader.
After entering Everglades National Park through the Homestead entrance, Long Pine Key is pretty much the first stop in. It offers a maze of bike paths, ranging from 20-minute joy rides to half-day adventures. Between the Royal Palm Vistor Center and Pine Glades Lake is a mesh of trails that take you through sawgrass prairie, old farmland, and pineland. One of the longest rides is down Old Ingraham Highway, an abandoned, overgrown road that goes some ten miles out into the Glades and feels like a journey into Jurassic Park. Although it's possible to take a road bike out on these trails, a mountain bike is strongly recommended — as is a spare tube. Entrance to Everglades National Park is $10 per car (good for seven days), or $5 if you come by bike. An annual pass costs $25.
For more than twenty years, Bill Swink has been known among Coconut Grove's homeless population as the "Soup and Sandwich Man." He serves food every Friday afternoon (around 2:00) at the Dinner Key Marina docks by the shrimp boats (3400 Pan American Dr., Miami). He drives up in his white car, pops open the trunk, and sets up his portable soup kitchen. "He is beloved in the Grove," says one anonymous Grovite. "He does not have to do this. Everyone else tries to push us out, but Bill really cares." "You have to survive out here, and I love helping people," says Bill, who works as a lawyer by day, "but I'm a small piece of the puzzle. The ladies at [St. Raymond's Catholic Church] cook the food. The quality is so good because they pay for most of it out of their own pockets." He continues, "There are homeless people in the Grove, but there are pockets of homeless people all over Miami. If people who read this could get motivated in their communities, it would be easy to replicate what I am doing." Bill stops for a second and takes off his glasses. "Publix donates the pastries and fruits; other stores donate food. It really becomes a labor of love."Indeed the soup and sandwiches are always delicious. There are also pastries, fruit, and beverages. When the food is eaten the group cleans up the area and loads the table and coolers back into Bill's car. "Everyone talks about this homeless problem, but Bill makes a real difference," says one woman who lives on a boat. "It is not that hard to treat other people like human beings, with respect. That could easily be you begging for spare change."
Two days, 165 miles, some of the most breathtaking views Florida has to offer. Celebrating its fourth year, the SMART ride — the southernmost HIV/AIDS ride — though not technically a race, attracts hundreds of particpants annually. Approximately 500 cyclists gathered this past March 30 at the starting line in Pinecrest. Each paid a $75 entrance fee and raised at least an additional $1200 to compete. Their combined efforts raised more than $1 million, which was donated to six area AIDS-related charities. And though the event doesn't offer a medal for first place or a purse for the fastest time, riders get to test their physical limitations for a much-needed cause. The ride is fully supported, meaning there are manned rest stops along the way with food and drinks, and a support team that trails the group, providing technical assistance to those in need and picking up stragglers who may be unable to complete the course. Those who do make it to the finish line in Key West are invited to a catered party in their honor on Duval Street.
With D-Wade brought low by injury — and only recently returned — this honor must now go to a mere mortal. Jason Kapono is most definitely human, flawed by his slow feet and inability to fly. But the 6'8" swingman possesses a laudable knack for pouncing on loose balls, plus an unselfish impulse for making the extra pass. He's a dexterous ball-handler and fearless shooter, and ranks among the league's best in three-point shooting percentage — winning the NBA All-Star Weekend's three-point competition was no accident. With his superstar teammates, Kapono has formed a symbiotic relationship: By forcing defenders to come out to defend him, Kapono saves Shaq from double teams and opens up space for Wade to go soaring into the lane. Plus, on a team full of past-their-prime, erstwhile All-Stars (Antoine Walker, Gary Payton, Alonzo Mourning, Eddie Jones, and, yes, Shaq), it's nice to have a goofy white guy hustling back on D like he's lucky to be in the league.
Working the cops beat in Miami-Dade is an inherently sensational experience with no lack of dramatic narratives, but David Ovalle has found a way of lingering after the rest of the media circus has taken down its tents. His assailants and victims are people Herald readers remember. To cover the story of Maria Pacheco, an illegal immigrant whose baby was found dead in a portable toilet at a South Miami-Dade plant nursery, Ovalle vividly described the destitute Guatemalan town that she had left. He related to readers the misery of Edward Quetel, who held his wife Chermaine as she died of gunshot wounds, murdered by an unknown assailant while both were working a shift as Metrorail guards. There was the pigeon trapper whose business once landed him on the pages of the Wall Street Journal, years before he became a crack cocaine addict, and then a murder victim. And then there were occasional moments of dark humor: the college student armed with an AK-47 who was shot in the buttocks by confused police as he chased a burglar. Or "Man Shot, Drives through Fence into Rabbit Cage," in which Ovalle concluded that "It was unclear if any bunnies were also victims in the crash." In sum, his byline is a seal of quality, and — did we mention that he apparently possesses unfailing energyç — it is in the paper pretty much every day.
One Herald Plaza is among the ugliest buildings we have ever seen. This hulking, squat, cube-shape structure reminds us of the Borg's spaceship. Inside you will find journalists stripped of their free will objectively describing what their Borg masters (a.k.a. the McClatchy Co.) tell them to report on. Construction began in 1960 and the Herald officially moved in on March 23-24, 1963, without missing an edition. For better or worse, the bayside HQ has also become a symbol of Miami's angst, thanks to events such as Jose Varela's brazen takeover of One Herald Plaza and Arthur Teele's suicide in the building's lobby in 2005. The sad part is that one day, we will bid farewell to the newspaper's 43-year-old home so we can have more — whoopee — condos. The Miami City Commission has given developer-lawyer Pedro Martin the green light to build up to three high-rises and a massive shopping center on property abutting One Herald Plaza. Martin also has first dibs on redevelopment of the HQ site, where he wants to erect a 60-plus-story tower.
For any Marlins fan who remembers the 2003 World Series and the insanely good pitching that won it, the name Josh Beckett should be honored. Enshrined. Hell, can we apply for sainthoodç Alas, Beckett was traded away to the Red Sox and left some mighty big cleats to fill. One of the players who came here in return for Beckett, through a complicated trade deal, was shortstop Hanley Ramirez. No, not Harley Ramirez. No, not Manny Ramirez. No, not that serial killer. We mean the kid who came out of Beantown's farm system to begin his major league career with the Marlins, under the weight of great expectations. He carried the load and then some. In fact, Ramirez won the National League Rookie of the Year in 2006 (notably, his Marlins teammates Dan Uggla and Josh Johnson were right behind him in votes). It's not just that Ramirez has a .292 batting average, or that he regularly slams homers over the wall, or that he steals bases almost every third game (51 last year!). It's that, bundled together in a speedy package, with his hat cocked sideways on his head and his sunglasses coolly in place, Ramirez (lovingly nicknamed "Shadez") gives us something exciting to watch and someone worthwhile to cheer for. It's too early to guess whether the 2007 Marlins will make the postseason, and it'd be premature to call Ramirez our next Josh Beckett — but hey, you're not calling him Harley anymore.
Anders Gyllenhaal spent twelve years as a reporter and editor at the Miami Herald before leaving to work at papers in North Carolina and Minnesota, where he was editor. In December the Herald's parent company, the McClatchy Co., announced that Gyllenhaal would be returning to Miami to replace longtime editor Tom Fiedler, who was retiring. We think this is an excellent move for Gyllenhaal, a lifelong newshound. After all, the stories in Miami are much more exciting than those in — whattaya call itç — Miny-soda.
Number 99, Jason Taylor, came oh-so-close to retiring, following the Fins' abysmal season, and treacherous Nick Saban's absconding to Alabama. Thank goodness he didn't. Despite participating in an excruciating 6-10 losing record, the NFL's defensive player of the year recorded thirteen-and-a-half sacks, forced ten fumbles, and snagged two interceptions, both of which he returned for touchdowns, including an acrobatic doozey against Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brad Johnson. Down by a field goal, Taylor shed a blocker and intercepted Johnson's screen pass. Taylor then jaunted 51 yards to the end zone, untouched, for the clinching touchdown. Surprisingly Taylor did not return any fumbles for touchdowns in 2006, his specialty since his rookie year. In fact Taylor holds the Dolphins team record for the most career touchdown fumble returns and most career touchdowns by a Dolphins lineman. In many ways Taylor's success on the field has somewhat deflected attention from the star defensive end's tumultuous personal life. His wife, Katina, filed for divorce this past July. Four months earlier, Redmond Charles Burns, a 24-year-old Davie resident, attacked Taylor with a knife during a road rage incident on State Road 84 and Flamingo Road. Despite his troubles Taylor's charismatic candor has made him a media and fan favorite. During a media conference call before the Dolphins' season finale against the Indianapolis Colts, an outspoken Taylor commented against San Diego Chargers Shawn Merriman's candidacy for the defensive player award, noting that Merriman was suspended for four games during the season for testing positive for a banned substance. Taylor suggested that Merriman winning the award would send the wrong message to those who look up to NFL players. This past January 7, during an NFL telecast, Taylor assured Dolfans he wasn't going anywhere. "The day Tom Brady outruns (me), I'll retire," Taylor quipped. "But that day's not going to come quick."
Some need lesson after lesson, but Alex Brenes used the hardscrabble streets of Costa Rica to polish his boxing skills. It sounds trite, and it's the same thing most fighters say, but hanging out with the wrong crowd made him take up the sport. Sixteen years ago he took his street-fighting skills from the asphalt into the ring, and he hasn't stopped swinging since. He has trained with legend Angelo Dundee, held the Florida Golden Gloves title, and has been a member of the pre-Olympic Costa Rican boxing squad. When he's not beating up on your favorite light welterweight, you can catch Brenes at the South Florida Boxing Gym on South Beach, teaching a class or embarrassing everyone with his awesome glove game. His skills and good looks have landed him a starring role in a fitness DVD called Boxing Fitness, in which he translates the fun of fisticuffs to the art of body-shaping. But Brenes doesn't forget the place that made him so damn good. "Everything I do," he says, "I do it for my country. I always represent Costa Rica."
That damn Oscar Corral. First he writes a story informing Miami residents that ten South Florida journalists are on the payrolls of U.S. propaganda vehicles Radio and TV Martí. Then he has the nerve to tell us that none of the $55.5 million in taxpayer money intended to fund Cuban dissidents has reached the island in cash. Instead the bulk was spent in Miami and Washington, or on exorbitant bills to ship goods to the island. And then he reports that most of that local spending was done without oversight or competitive bidding, and that the goods purchased for anti-Castro activists to foster democracy included Nintendo Game Boys, a chainsaw, Sony Playstations, cashmere sweaters, a mountain bike, Godiva chocolates, and crabmeat. He may have been leaking fecal matter and stuffed with tubes, but there was only one man behind this, and he wears an Adidas track jacket and has a beard. Thank God for the freelance columnist at El Nuevo Herald, Nicolas Perz Diaz-Arguelles, who finally put two and two together and took the leap of faith to insinuate what was on all of our minds: Oscar Corral is a Cuban spy. The writer's editor may have cried "blood libel," but when it comes down to it, newspapers are irrelevant to a democracy. Eating truffles while playing Grand Theft Autoç That's a slap in Castro's face.
"A source interviewed for the story on happy hours in Saturday's Tropical Life section misidentified himself to the reporter. Carl Palomino, a lawyer, was not at the Martini Bar. His brother, Pat Palomino, identified himself as Carl and provided his brother's name and profession instead of his own."
The 'Canes didn't do so well this year, at least in the traditional sense, so we decided to choose our favorite player using nontraditional criteria. After his stellar freshman season, the Hurricanes selected safety Anthony Reddick as one of two defensive rookies of the year. The ACC dubbed him rookie of the week after a University of Houston game in which he made five tackles, forced a fumble, and blocked a punt that was recovered by Tavares Gooden for a touchdown less than a minute into the game. In 2005 he tore his right anterior cuciate ligament and was out for most of the season following arthroscopic knee surgery. This threw his future into question. But during the fateful October 14 brawl between the University of Miami and Florida International University, that question was answered. When Panther thugs jumped Miami's holder, Matt Perelli, Reddick charged downfield toward the growing fracas, took off his helmet, and began wielding it like a hammer. He sacrificed the safety of his own face for more bashing power. There's really nothing more football than that.
This scrappy little rag has a new lease on life. With former New Times editor Jim Mullin at the helm, BT has shown a renewed vigor, mixing down-home local interest stories (police blotter and gardening tips) with hard-charging reporting (on a fire-fee scandal and controversial urban planning). Recently the paper has seen the bylines of accomplished Miami journos such as Tristram Korten, Kirk Nielsen, and Kathy Glasgow, former New Times reporters all. Cleaner graphics and interesting, reader-friendly additions such as a city park-rating feature are sure to make BT a crowd pleaser.
In a 5-2 victory over the Tampa Bay Lighting, Florida Panthers center Olli Jokinen passed on an opportunity to score an empty netter, sliding the puck to Horton, who notched his 30th goal of the season. In a way it symbolized the franchise's established superstar passing the torch on to its future, if Panthers management does the smart thing and renews Horton's contract — he's had his best professional season by far. The 21-year-old phenom flourished under the tutelage of Coach Jacques Martin. The six-foot-two, 200-pound right wing is fun to watch, too: In a game against the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, Horton went crashing to the floor, but not before flicking a sizzling wrist shot into the net, tying the score at 2-2. It was perhaps one of the most memorable moments of the 2006 season. And the young man knows how to defer to his elders. Following the victory over Tampa Bay, Horton gushed to the Herald about Jokinen: "He's obviously our best player and means a lot to this team," Horton said. "Him being in our lineup every night gives us a chance to win." And so does having Horton.
From her Buena Vista house, Cece Feinberg and her small team specialize in highlighting the slightly under-the-radar and very hip side of Miami fashion and culture. This comes with a crowd that's similarly more downtown than South Beach, and nonfashion clients seek her out for a cool-infusion at their events. She's almost singlehandedly responsible for raising the international profile of local swimwear designer Red Carter, whose sexy suits have now graced the hallowed pages of Vogue. She was also instrumental in making Karelle Levy's KRELwear line of high-fashion weaving one of the most talked-about local design exports. Feinberg even made fundraising galas at Vizcaya — including the annual Red, White, and Blue "Pre-Independence Day" parties that take over the grounds every July — young and sexy again.
The last time we heard the name Kimbo Slice, it came out of the mouth of an Italian freelance journalist who'd flown all the way to Florida to write about our illicit champion. Apparently bambini in all parts of the boot were pounding one another in their back yards, tussling for no apparent reason, and the name on all their little lips was "Kimbo."Kevin "Kimbo" Ferguson stands 6'2" and cuts a mean figure — 238 pounds of pure muscle. The native Miamian, who claims to have started street brawling at age seven, can be found all over the Internet: sending massive foes tumbling onto hot concrete, dying lawns, and rubber mats. The fights all appear to happen in vaguely familiar Magic City nooks: palm-lined back yards, sweltering boatyards, fluorescent warehouses. Many refuse to get up after a single volley of his terrible punches. Others simply can't. Kimbo appears to have lost only one fight, to a Bostonian copper with a wicked bad guillotine choke.According to the little that's written about Slice, he's 33 years old, a father, and works locally as a bodyguard for the adult Website MILFhunter.com. Plus, he raps.What is Kimbo's appealç Let him tell you himself. "The reality part of it," he said in an interview with touchgloves.com. "I'm a real dude ... that's what makes me different, and I'm sure my fans love that. I'll see you and say what's up to you, and we can get together and share a burger and a soda." So if you see the town's giant champion, ask him what's up. Buy him a burger and a soda. And hail the fury of his mighty fists.
You may have seen him around town: an imposing, ranchero-outfitted bear of a man with puffy, chubby cheeks and a clean-shorn head that he keeps warm under his trademark cowboy hat (indeed his business cards read "the man in the hat"). His shins are covered in scars. He has been bitten by a snake, a turtle, a snake, a squirrel, a monkey, and, of course, several hogs.A golden amulet with shimmering red ruby eyes dangles amid a burst of chest hair: the fearsome head of the feral hog, his one true passion. His wife had it made for him. The head is also rendered on a dinner plate-size sticker that faces out of the back of the massive Ford truck that he keeps well stocked with guns and ammunition. But he doesn't use them much. Instead Ray Casais picks up a cold steel spear, visits the doctor for a spinal steroid injection (amateur rodeo accident), and heads out into the Glades. When he's feeling adventurous he goes out with only a knife, pouncing on his massive, razor-toothed prey and dispatching them with extreme prejudice. The heads of 37 knife kills hang on the walls of his home — all of whom he has kissed, dead, on the lips."I don't drink; don't need to," Casais said one morning at Versailles. "It's a rush. Some people like to race cars, others like to swim with sharks. This is what I do."
We're not sure who actually writes this blog, or where the author is from. But whoever it is — we think it's probably a he, given the macho, misogynistic rants and the fact that he signs each post as Michael Porfirio Mason, a.k.a. "The People's Champ" — visits South Beach often to wine, dine, and scheme while lounging with a couple Gs in the pocket of his Boateng suit. The author's main passions in life are making money via shady enterprises, sleeping with models, and dressing to kill. The blog, which has been online since September 2005, may be totally fake — but it's entertaining as hell, especially when Miami is the topic. Here's an example of his dubious prose, taken from the post "The South Beach War Report": "Regular everyday Guy has no chance in Miami. They are usually finished quicker than it takes an ice cube to melt on Lincoln Road in summertime. Regular Guy doesn't have the tools, the weapons, the experience, the heart, or the Game. Even capable players meet defeat in South Beach. You will see them outside of clubs trying in vain to gain entrance.... Even top players get dismantled in South Beach. I remember seeing a Top Tier Los Angeles playboy get completely dissected in South Beach two years ago ... he hasn't been back since and trust me, it wasn't pretty. I even know a first-rate Parisian playboy who was absolutely bulletproof in Paris and Southern France that was made to look like Swiss Cheese in Miami Beach. There is a certain skill set that you must have if you want success in Miami Beach...." So for all of you players and wannabe international playboys, this is your bible. Otherwise just check it out for a good laugh.
Best Sports Coach
Roland Smith, Miami Northwestern Senior High School head football coach
Early during their undefeated run, the Bulls outscored five opponents by a score of 235 to zero. By the eighth game of the season Northwestern had smoked the competition 359-41. Even then school alumnus Roland Smith couldn't rest easy. Anything less than the school's fourth state championship, and the former Miami Dolphins cornerback would likely be out of a job. So excuse Smith for relentlessly dogging his players, even after impressive blowout wins. The Monday after the Bulls shellacked Hialeah Miami-Lakes 54-0, Smith made the team do a drill in which each player had to crawl 600 yards on his elbows and toes. Not even assistants escaped Smith's Lombardi act. Whenever the Bulls suffered an excessive celebration penalty, Smith made the assistants do pushups. The drill sergeant approach worked. Northwestern finished 15-0. The Bulls defeated Lake Brantley for the 6A state title this past December 9 in front of 24,368 high school football fans — a single-game attendance record — at Dolphin Stadium.
Smart things about Miami are hard to come by. Sometimes parts of our city blow up in a crappy action movie. Occasionally we get to watch rappers pour champagne on naked ladies here. And it has always been that way: Remember Police Academy 5çNobody has ever wanted to film anything in Miami that's, well, serious ... until now. When Dave Hill, a self-described "fat-ass motherfucker from Cleveland," comes to town, his first order of business is to hire a sexy Venezuelan woman to spray-tan him a parking-cone orange. Next he acquires a burly private security detail. His mission, he announces, is to "take over this town." It's all part of Hill's TV show, The King of Miami, which debuted May 7 on the MOJO Network, available to HDTV subscribers. Though the show's concept is rough, Hill's boundless deadpan energy binds his idiotic misadventures through the town's tourist spots into something as soul-quenching as your mom's meatloaf.
Alongside the William Powell Bridge, between the mainland and Virginia Key and the bridging replaced by the new William Powell Bridge in 1985, the scene is almost apocalyptic: On a recent weekend night the pier was teeming with grungy fishermen — many of whom had boomboxes and bicycles rigged especially for carrying fishing gear. ("The bike has two separate chains," said one fisherman as he held back his mutt.) There are drunks, partying high school kids, mean dogs, birds everywhere — it's all the wonder and chaos of Miami condensed onto a single empty road to nowhere. In case that's not enough for you to pass through that expensive toll booth (you miser, you), the old bridge offers some of the best cityscapes of Miami that money can't buy.
You've likely heard about Snoop Dogg, who, when his son came of athletic age, took to coaching small-fry football. Miami's Luther Campbell has been at it for more than two decades, coaching Pop Warner football and thus creating a paradox: The man who has long sponsored, coached, and generally supported young athletes makes music that is for adults only. Along with taking his Liberty City Warriors to a Pop Warner Super Bowl a couple of years ago, Uncle Luke also implemented "the academic progress reporting system," which, he says, has greatly increased scholarly achievement among players. On the field, there's whole new meaning to the phrase "Throw the D."
The Asian palm civet is to beverages as sturgeon is to victuals. The fish produces one of the world's most expensive foods, caviar. The civet produces the planet's priciest coffee, Kopi Luwak. And when we say costly, we mean up to $600 per pound (or around $40 a shot). The stuff is so ¨ber-glamorous that members of the fabulous set sign waiting lists to get their manicured mitts on some. Though Miami establishments like Barton G, 1427 West Ave., Miami Beach (305-672-8881), carry the coffee, it seems like complete crap to the unrefined masses, really. It's farmed from shit. See, the catlike civet (really more like a type of weasel) eats only ripe coffee cherries in the Indonesian jungle, which it then only partially digests. Meaning it poops whole beans that some poor schmuck forages. Sure they clean it up a bit, but that shit-stained bean is the prize. Mmmm, good to the last dropping.
For South Florida visitors seeking retail therapy after being sardined on a tour bus with a bunch of strangers they can't understand, Little Havana to Go offers a welcome respite. Located smack next to Calle Ocho's famous Domino Park, this shop isn't your average carved-coconut and strung-shell souvenir joint. Each week dozens of buses ferrying tourists from the nation's hinterlands, South America, and Europe descend on the colorful shop specializing in Cuba-theme gifts. It strictly caters to those bitten by the nostalgia bug or wishing to take a reminder of Miami's exotic neighborhood home. Customers are usually greeted with the sweet sounds of a bolero twittering on outdoor speakers and a shot of cafecito compliments of the house. Walls offer a riot of tropical-theme art from local talent and shelves brim with CDs of classic Latin favorites, T-shirts, guayaberas, coffee mugs, panama hats, maracas, and domino sets. Most of the memorabilia is emblazoned with the Cuban flag and sold in every price range. During a recent visit we were amazed at how many tourists were having their pics snapped in front of the store, surreally posing as if they were in front of a bona fide landmark.
Every year on a Saturday morning just before Easter, hundreds of kids gather on the playing fields just south of Miami Shores Country Club. They look into the sky hopefully while clutching shopping bags and baskets. Then they scream. It hurts your ears. A helicopter descends from the sky and a hand reaches from the cockpit with a trash bag. Next, thousands of marshmallows scatter around the field. The act is repeated several times. Then the chopper comes to within just a few feet of the ground and blows the darn things all over the place. The kids scream again. It hurts ... again. The parents scan the ground for a handful of golden eggs, which might win major league prizes. The kids scream again. Ouch! Finally the authority figures shout, "Go!" and the tots — as well as bigger kids — sprint onto the field and gather the marshmallows. In the end, they trade 'em in for candy. Then the little ones dance and perform other strange kid rituals under a sunshade. This part doesn't hurt. It makes you giggle.
Give Hialeah's political leaders credit where it's due: They've put together an impressive electronic library system. Anchored by the John F. Kennedy Library at 190 W. 49th St., the e-libraries also have three satellite locations in the northern (7400 W. Tenth Ave.), eastern (501 E. Fourth Ave.), and western (7400 W. 24th Ave.) quadrants of the city. Each e-library is equipped with a dozen multimedia desktop computers; the JFK library offers computer tutoring classes in English and Spanish that teach the basics of using a mouse, creating an e-mail account, using word processing programs, and surfing the Internet. Now if we could only convince Mayor Julio Robaina to do away with the city's individual system of street numbers....
Malika Oufkir's life has been a twisted mix of fairy tale and nightmare, brought to life in her haunting memoir, Stolen Lives: Twenty Years in a Desert Jail. First published in 1999 in French as La Prisoni?re, the book (which later became an Oprah's Book Club selection and New York Times nonfiction best seller) traces the brutal twenty-year imprisonment she and her family endured. The eldest daughter of Morocco's feared General Muhammad Oufkir, the North African-born beauty was unofficially adopted at age five by King Muhammad V, and then by his successor, King Hassan II, after the former died. For eleven years she was a princess's confidant who lived in the unfathomable luxury of the royal palace. In 1972 the towering General Oufkir led a failed coup against the regime and tried to assassinate Hassan. Oufkir was executed and the king ordered the general's wife, Fatima, and six children imprisoned in several secret locations. Malika and her family spent the next fifteen years incarcerated, surviving largely on vermin-infested soup. One torturous night in 1986, after an eight-year stint in solitary confinement, and having barely eaten for 47 days, family members tried to kill themselves by cutting open each other's veins with fragments of knitting needles. But their collective suicide attempt failed. Desperate, they began to dig with their bare hands. In 1987 the family completed a tunnel and staged an escape, only to be recaptured five days later and placed under house arrest. Malika eventually was released and fled her native Morocco almost ten years later. This past fall she published her second book, Freedom: The Story of My Second Life, written largely from her home in Surfside, where she resides with husband Eric Bordreuil.
Best Parking In Miami Beach
Alton Road between Fourteenth and Fifteenth Streets
The locals will kill us if we tell you about the last free spot on South Beach, so we'll clue you into the easiest metered parking instead. The stretch of Alton Road at Fourteenth Street is often the fastest place to grab a legal parking spot; in fact it's so fast that residents of the adjacent zoned sections occasionally rely on it when all the reserved parking is full. The area is a hop, skip and a stumble away from Lincoln Road and within a sobering jaunt from Washington Avenue nightclubs. Parking is a dollar an hour from 9:00 a.m. to midnight, then free.... And now that the locals have stopped reading: There are a few free spots just south of Fourteenth on Alton. They are hard to catch in the evenings, and you have to really pay attention to parking signs, but hey, if you're cheap, well, challenge yourself.
Best Book by a Local Author
St Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, by Karen Russell
"Ava Wrestles the Alligator." "Z.Z.'s Sleep-Away Camp for Disordered Dreamers." "The Star-Gazer's Log of Summer-Time Crime." "Lady Yeti and the Palace of Artificial Snows." If the names of her short stories (including the titular tale) aren't enough to entice you, the prose of Coral Gables native Karen Russell should do the trick. This collection of ten stories, Russell's debut, paints a wondrously unique, highly readableportrait of swampy, sandy Florida.
Best Carnival Center Parking
NE First Court between Thirteenth and Fourteenth Streets
The area around the new Carnival Center for the Performing Arts isn't exactly swanky. For the four-wheeled flocks that descend come showtime, the thought of parking on the street is a piss-in-your-pants proposition. Most would rather pay $10 or $20 to leave their automobile in a lot, or more for a valet. You, however, are a sensible city dweller with your wits and little cash about you. So head west on NE Thirteenth Street from Biscayne Boulevard and turn right on NE First Court. Most nights, especially if you arrive fifteen minutes or more early, you'll find a spot on this somewhat hidden two-block stretch. Nothingç Try Thirteenth Terrace perpendicular to NE First Court. Feed the meter and walk the block or two to your show. No pee needed.
Gray summer storm clouds hang ominously overhead. Small cyclones flare up on the roadside and lightning crashes down. You are trapped in sweltering gridlock. Your eyes cross from a mixture of frustration and anxiety, and your vision goes blurry. As you inch forward a few feet, the image of two robed silhouettes crouched over a crib comes into view. "JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON," a sticker informs you. "What seasonç" you wonder."The sticky, sweltering hurricane seasonç" Has Jesus brought this terrible heat and misery down on you and everyone around youç Whyç And did he allow your shirt to fuse to your back and your air conditioner to breakç What have we done to deserve this terrible season, Angry JesusçBut then, maybe the sticker is talking about Christmas (now seven months away), which was actually started by a bunch of tree-worshipping Norse pagans.As terrible road-slicking rain begins to fall, the Jesus sticker disappears into the awful mess, and you continue with your life a little more confused.
Howard Camner, 50 years old, is nothing if not prolific. He has published sixteen books of poetry and written 1500 individual poems, and his name is listed on a staggering number of Websites (640 at last count). But here's why we like this shaggy-haired, bearded bard: He's from Miami, and often writes about Florida in terse, stark, real verse that would make Hemingway raise his scotch glass in honor. Take his poem, "36 Minutes to Yeehaw Junction": "You can almost taste the stupidity/you can feel it slapping your face like a drunken drag queen/you can swerve to the right or veer to the left/you can plug up the tailpipes and cover your crotch/but it's useless/only 36 minutes to Yeehaw Junction...."
Unlike some local Spanish-language weeklies, edited by ink-slinging politicos trying to hamstring competitors for a city or county commission seat, this rag actually reports local, national, and world news with a critical eye. Recent issues included thoughtful coverage on the Iraq War, citing the mounting body count of allied soldiers and Iraqi citizens "tinting the Tigris red." Not to mention the "hundreds of billions of dollars, along with Bush's credibility" pissed down the drain. Other articles questioned the Prez's blind support of U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales following the controversial dismissal of eight U.S. attorneys that ignited congressional calls for his head. A story citing the squawk between the U.S. and Argentina during Bush's recent South America swing, in which Venezuelan strongman Hugo Chavez tried to make a monkey out of Dubya at a rally in a Buenos Aires, was a scream. As was a squib about boxing promoter Don King's pilgrimage to Rome, where he sought an audience with Pope Benedict XVI. The pugmeister's efforts met a sore end, the paper reported, when the Vicar of Christ dissed King, and the latter had to settle for presenting a "Heavyweight Championship Belt" intended for His Holiness to a papal secretary instead. Couple this stuff with an expansive sports section chock a block with international and local soccer coverage, and a steady diet of immigration advice complementing the news, and Argentina Hoy makes for a great read.
Hometown hero Alonzo Mourning and his wife, Tracy, are both professional success stories. Alonzo is a 2006 NBA champion and Tracy runs her own clothing line, Honey Child. Together they're one of South Florida's most well-known and charitable dynamic duos. "I think they're a terrific power couple," says CBS 4 sports director Jim Berry — who then quotes an adaptation of his favorite psalm: "They walk with kings, but don't lose their human touch." The Miami CBS affiliate teams with the Heat player every year as a sponsor of Zo's Summer Groove, and one of its main anchors, Maggie Rodriguez, just joined the Honey Shine Mentoring Program, founded by Tracy five years ago as part of Alonzo Mourning Charities (AMC). Honey Shine mentors girls between ages eight and eighteen who live in at-risk situations. "I think it's clear that for Alonzo and Tracy, it's more than just Ôwhere we live.' They care about the community," adds Berry. For the past ten years, AMC has raised more than $6 million for local organizations such as 100 Black Men of South Florida, Children's Home Society of Florida, and the Overtown Youth Center. "I've seen that they are genuinely passionate about changing the lives of children who would otherwise lack opportunities in life," says Nelly Rubio, community relations director for CBS 4, who's been involved with Zo's Summer Groove for more than six years. According to Berry, Zo has even hand-delivered turkeys in Overtown on Thanksgiving. "And he's not a bad basketball player," the sportscaster jokes. In 2005 the National Council of Negro Women honored Tracy and Alonzo with the Family of the Year Award. When it comes to South Florida's power couple, these two are a slam dunk.
Don't mistake the "critical" part of the name for more run-of-the-mill blog snark. Rather, Critical Miami features some of the most concisely written, clear-headed commentary around on the city's life and culture. You're as likely to find updates on major construction as anecdotes about visits to offbeat ethnic eateries. The content is refreshingly free of nightlife or celebrity gossip (there's plenty of that elsewhere), and the site's commenters actually, gasp, comment on the issues at hand rather than snipe anonymously. Alesh Houdek, the site's sole writer, is a gifted photographer as well; his documentary-style photo sets illustrate his points and serve as a fascinating, sometimes touching source for the desk-chair urban explorer.
When pro wrestler Hulk Hogan (born Terry Bollea) left his $25 million dream house in his native Tampa, he informed the Miami Herald his clan was descending upon the Magic City like "the Beverly Hillbillies." But even by nouveau riche redneck standards, the Hogans's $12 million waterfront estate on North Bay Road is a symbol of understated elegance. In fact Hulk, wife Linda, daughter Brooke, and son Nick are Miami's new power family. And with camera crews documenting their daily routine for the VH1 reality series Hogan Knows Best, we can witness the Hulkster struggling to communicate with Spanish-speaking-only employees in a Little Havana GNC in one episode. In another, we see the balding grappler and sixteen-year-old Nick traveling obsessively to South Beach convenience stores in order to buy up all the copies of an issue of FHM magazine featuring eighteen-year-old Brooke. The reality stars have also taken full advantage of South Beach, dining regularly at fine establishments such as Smith & Wollensky, taking their canines for yoga classes at Lincoln Road's Dog Bar, and partying late-night at the Forge, Mansion, the Delano, and other hot celebrity hangouts. Nick even gave Bay Harbor Islands residents something to remember this past September 9 when he was behind the wheel of a yellow Lamborghini that caught fire. Helaine Kurlansky and her husband, Paul, live across the street from the Hogans' 17,000-square-foot, two-story villa. During the family's housewarming party, the Kurlanskys got an up-close look at the mansion's courtyard, with the reflecting pool and the floating keystone pathway that has become a fixture on their television show. "They are really delightful," Helaine says. "It has been a pleasure having them in the neighborhood."
Launched on March 1, 2006, Mega TV broadcasts a mix of Spanish-language talk shows, political analysis, comedies, and documentary specials. Spray-tanned dancing girls are at a minimum here: With a stated mission of providing quality programming at a local level, Mega's targeted demographic may be Cuban, but the network holds appeal for every Miamian. Raíces y Recuerdos ("Roots and Remembrances") explores Cuban history and culture. Pronósticos ("Prognostics"), hosted by Carlos Alberto Montaner, ponders the future of a post-Castro Cuba. There's Polos Opuestos, a Crossfire-inspired show hosted by Maria Elvira Salazar, in which special guests like U.S. Sen. Mel Martinez and Cuban intellectual Carlos Franqui explore topics like the strong-mayor referendum and the resurgence of the left in Latin America. Mega also shows the occasional documentary, like one about popular Cuban band Habana Abierta. And then there's the fun stuff: a home-improvement reality show, a comedy about two detectives who are brothers, and, of course, El Corte del Pueblo.
Who needs a zoo when you live in the subtropics? Parrots, pythons, peacock bass, Cuban tree frogs and Cuban lizards, those weird Chinese snakehead fish that walk on terra firma — the area is alive with a biology text's worth of exotic, invasive species. Our favorite invader is the monitor lizard, one of the largest-legged reptiles and a ferocious predator. These beastly bad boys are so abundant that Cape Coral has a bounty on them. An Everglades biologist says, "They can be bait-trapped — something we haven't figured out how to do with the pythons." Maybe they shouldn't be trapped. Tourists might love them. And vice versa.
Best Place to Meet Intelligent Men
Miami Book Fair International
When they aren't ironing their ascots, taking nature walks, or perfecting their gourmet cooking, intelligent men like to read. A lot of them write too. Some even do poetry for intelligent women. In mid-November these ¨bermenschen gather, in between triathlons and winetastings, to hear their favorite writers and poets read at Miami Dade College. They ride the Metromover from their penthouse suites on Brickell while reading Dante in Italian. They stare moodily and idly flex their well-defined biceps, seeking a muse to ravish. Ladies, if you miss them, don't worry. There's always the man on the other side of the table at a book-signing. He may be old and frumpy, but he's probably alone. And hey, he's smart — very, very smart.
A typical local television rundown of a South Florida newscast may go something like this: car accident, pot bust, fire, and some type of weird news or terrorist connection. But at WTVJ NBC 6 they have a jewel, and his name is Jeff Burnside. He's a veteran newsman who goes the extra mile, covering investigative and long-format news stories — the kind that used to be common on the airwaves, before ratings started dictating the "if it bleeds, it leads" philosophy. As part of WTVJ's special projects unit, Jeff often covers environmental stories, and has even become an advocate for the animal kingdom. He has gone undercover to expose how puppies go from puppy mills to pet shops, and may have helped save the whales by uncovering how powerful sonar can hurt them. He's interviewed presidents, exposed white-power extremists and dangerous religious cults, and so much more. He's got more than twenty journalism awards under his belt, including several regional Emmys. Watching the occasional fire story get blown out of proportion is bearable, knowing that Jeff will be reporting some fresh, creative story that day, too.
Progressive thinkers sometimes feel like aliens in this city of aliens. Critical Mass, a bicycling staple elsewhere, is growing here as the city fills with educated idealists. Activist groups Emerge Miami and the Miami Green Party have teamed up with the Wallflower Gallery and Sweat Records to make trips to Matheson Hammock, the Everglades, Miami Beach, and Calle Ocho. So get on your bike and start a conversation about civic responsibility with the girl in the ripped shorts and wire-rim glasses. Just don't forget to ask for her number when the ride ends.
When Phil Ferro moved from Telemundo 51 to WSVN in April 2005, bilingual news addicts wondered whether the suave, Cuba-born meteorologist would successfully make the transition from chubascos to "squalls," or be forced to discuss weather conditions at American Idol tryouts. Thankfully within a couple of awkward weeks, the Emmy-nominated forecaster acclimated to his new conditions, lost his accent, and has been presenting serious and informative weather journalism ever since. Now if we can only get Channel 7 to hand over some of that American Idol airtime to his predictions. Here's to sunny weather.
He came into town from a gig in Texas, bringing his books, his notes, and his notebooks. He was a tall man with sandy hair who left behind in the dusty sprawl all the attitude and arrogance associated with the Lone Star State. His charm, his way of encouraging erudition and enlightenment, was borne of years out west working as a park ranger. Easygoing and endlessly affable, he stood proudly before a roomful of young adults as a real-life lone star, a writer, a fine writer, hell-bent on teaching others his craft. And so Les Standiford did teach, imbuing budding scribes at Florida International University with a mix of passion and precision, relaying tricks and skills wrapped in a love of words. During the late Eighties and into the many dusks and dawns of his academic career, Standiford wrote — publishing novels and nonfiction, penning screenplays, editing the anthology Miami Noir.... And he taught. Finally he accomplished something even bigger, building a creative writing program at FIU the way an old Cuban roller patiently wraps heirloom tobaccos into cigars better than the ones Fidel himself once smoked: one after another, each as good and special as the previous, each worth having and holding, pondering in that ephemeral, internal, eternal way of smoke, each as flavorful and rewarding as the city from which it emanates, a city promising a future of literacy, fun, and enlightenment. A city that's not out west, nor in Texas. But a city that Les Standiford is in.
Best Place to Meet Single Men
Playwright Irish Pub and Restaurant
Since the beginning of time men have fought for stuff. Honor. Women. Countries. Kingdoms. Men like fighting. Though they might not support kicking the crap out of someone to make a point, they will watch. They chanted in the school yard when Billy the bully used to beat up nerdy Norman for his lunch money, and they still chant. So, want to meet a manç Head to the Playwright anytime they broadcast a pay-per-view boxing match — schedule available online. You might have to fork over a $20 entrance fee, but do it! It grants you access to a room that heaves with testosterone. Grab a bar stool, ladies, or nestle into one of the locale's oversize booths and feast your eyes not on the big-screen TVs, but on the opposite sex. The hombres chow, chug, chant, and cheer as grown men beat each other to a pulp. Yum yum.
With the rise of satellite radio, the local FM band is not only bland, it's doomed. Looking for classic rock comfort foodç You can tune in Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" pretty much any time of day at Big 105.9. Fancy yourself an alt-rocker, ca. 1994ç The Stone Temple Pilots are always a button push away at 93 Rock (93.1). ButWVUM, "The Voice of the University of Miami," dares to be utterly unpredictable. And sure, sometimes "unpredictable" can mean "uneven." Or "dead air." But where else but a student-run radio station are you going to hear everything from Brahms to Wilcoç Even XM and Sirius alt-rock stations are unlikely to give you, as The Wave did one recent afternoon, a two-fer of Mono Puff's "Extra Krispy" (It's like once you get down in New York City/You'll never go home again/It's like once you've had Extra Krispy/You'll never go back again) and "Night Security" (I want to know the day custodian/I want to hear his harsh refrain/But most of all, I hear the calling/Of the watchman after hours). Sure the patter can be a little amateurish, and there are those occasionally unintended silences. But we'll take those surprises any day over another soul-deadening rendition of "Iron Man" or — gag — "Light My Fire."
Best AM Radio Personality
Eddy Edwards, host of Caribbean Riddims
It was difficult enough explaining to out-of-towners in the Eighties that the synthesizer tones of Jan Hammer didn't blare on every Miami street corner. Now it's next to impossible to get anyone to believe that salsa doesn't permeate every waking moment of life in the city. Thankfully Eddy Edwards does his best to remind us that there are other immigrant subcultures taking root in Miami. For more than twenty years, Edwards has hosted Caribbean Riddims (now on the revamped WTPS), where he has introduced Miamians to some of the other sounds from the islands. Reggae, calypso, soca, and zouk are the styles you'll hear on his Saturday afternoon show. Scattered throughout the music and entertaining banter are regular features covering news, politics, and public interest issues. The show not only shares the musical culture of the smaller Caribbean islands, but also focuses on the needs of immigrants now living in South Florida. Thanks to Edwards, who is also an events promoter and a longtime advocate for immigrants' rights.
A gay clubç Straight, single womenç Yup. Counterintuitive perhaps, but effective. Score is as lively as they come and attracts an interesting, diverse crowd — more than a few of them attractive women. In the comfort of gay male friends, women are more apt to cut loose, party like banshees, and let their inhibitions run wild. Why notç No one's going to hit on them in a gay club, rightç That's where you come in. Be careful, though. A single woman's night out with her gay male friends is sacred. Don't be a lech, and don't be deceitful — pretending to be gay will get you nowhere.
It's 6:15 p.m. and you're driving home from work, shoulders tense from hovering over a computer or an incompetent coworker all day. You flick on 99 Jamz (WEDR) — 'cause what's a better stress-buster than some bass-thumping hip-hop? From your speakers pours The Takeover, Miami's most popular hip-hop radio show. You might get yelled at by the animated DJ Khaled or you might get an earful of K. Foxx, the lady of the show, a.k.a. "Miami's Sweetest Chocolate Kiss." The 25-year-old Foxx has the perfect on-air mix between laid-back and hyped. Her energy radiates over the airwaves and can slowly bring your cubicle-induced low back to normal. Whether she's politely pounding a celeb for the latest gossip, introducing the next song, or even telling you, "Don't touch that dial," when K. Foxx talks, you listen. A native of Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen, K. isn't that brash New Yawk chick. With her signature "Mmuah!" and a down-to-earth sweetness, she's like your big-city cousin that keeps you in the loop on what's hot and never laughs at your southern twang. K. has been on the air at WEDR for four-and-a-half years, ever since being discovered by the station's head honchos, Ced Hollywood, Derrick Baker, and Jerry Rushin. Now she's one of Miami's most recognized voices, and she is everywhere — appearing on Rick Ross's debut CD, posing as Octopussy in The Source magazine, hosting parties and events all over Miami. Fat Joe even dedicated a respectfully raunchy lyric to her. But K. Foxx's recent turn as a calendar pinup is proving to the world that she truly embodies her motto, "I Am Every Woman." Appearing in full regalia as Billie Holiday, Josephine Baker, and Tina Turner, Foxx singlehandedly kills the notion of DJs having "a face made for radio."
Best Place For A First Date
John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park
The all-important first date. The all-important first impression. Fail here and chances are you'll end with a polite "I'll call you" instead of a spine-tingling game of tonsil hockey. So here's a foolproof plan: A snorkeling trip from John Pennekamp Park. First you have the hour-long Miami-to-Key Largo journey when you can actually talk to your companion to see if they possess any qualities you find vaguely appealing. The park opens at 8:00 a.m., so you also get to see their face as it really is, not through a drunken haze or the overly forgiving nonexistent lighting of a club. Boats depart for Grecian Rocks, a coral reef some five miles offshore, at 9:00 a.m., noon, and 3:00 p.m. daily, and cost $28.95 round trip for adults. Snorkel equipment is offered for $6, making good use of the money test — will she even offer to payç Will he absolutely insist on payingç Once onboard the motor boat comes the shedding of outer clothing layers so you can examine the complete package. Splash around in the crystal-clear waters for an hour and a half and bask in South Florida's glorious weather before heading back to land. All that fun in the sun will no doubt make you hungry, leaving the evening open for a cozy dinner and a cool beer at one of the surrounding casual eateries. A perfect end to a perfect day.
If you've made it to the second date, chances are you've been playing by the rules and haven't put out ... yet. Sure you've gotten all that awkward past-relationship conversation out of the way, and your good boy/girl act was Oscar-worthy, but what nowç The second date is when you really start to get to know each other. And what better place to find out about your potential mate's dirty laundry than at Laundry Bar, where you can drown your inhibitions in a cocktail and peek at your date's undies without actually having to undressç After all, you can tell a lot about someone by their drawers. Is she a G-string goddess or a granny-panty prudeç Is he a boring boxer Bob or a free-balling stallionç And most importantly, do those undies look like they've been run over by a chocolate tireç Well, even if they do, Laundry Bar is fully equipped with washers, dryers, detergents, and plenty of booze to help you forget that frightful sight. And even if you settle for just having a drink, the novelty of a laundromat/bar hybrid will provide you with something to talk about to help ease your jitters.
Perhaps you've seen this sultry vixen, her voluptuous cleavage and her boadacious curves wrapped tightly in a mini spandex police uniform, purring at you from a billboard off the Palmetto Expressway. Her gorgeous hazel eyes and flowing black mane beckon your attention away from the traffic snarl of morning rush hour. Born in Havana five days after the new year in 1973, Machín was raised in a very conservative family. Her father, Pepe Horta, was once director of the famed Cine de la Habana. Machín is one of the stars of El Traketeo, the morning show on La Kalle 98.3 FM, from 6:00 to 11:00 a.m Monday through Friday. With her cohosts Lazarito and Carlucho, she is poised to take over the Spanish-language airwaves, now that the trio's rivals, Enrique Santos and Joe Ferrero, no longer reside at competitor El Zol 95.7 FM
Ask a Kendallite. Your average South Beach resident, Fort Lauderdalian, and foreigner have one thing in common: They don't know the sprawling suburbs of Miami. To them it's just a frightening maze of salmon-color townhouses and strip malls. If you live south of Miller Drive, you need a landmark, and it must be a place that's easily visible from South Dixie Highway. Forget Sunset Place. It's too new. Merrick Park whoç To keep things simple, just tell them you live near Dadeland Mall and you'll get that "ah" of recognition. Maybe it's because Dadeland is one of Miami's oldest malls — it began in 1962 as an outdoor shopping center. Or perhaps it's because of the place's infamous history. The La Madrina-directed machine-gun massacre in 1979 is the stuff of fish-scale legend, and was forever immortalized in the 2006 documentary Cocaine Cowboys. Even the most hip of South Beachers has probably shopped there at least once, and it's no surprise to see groups of amazed customers dragging suitcases on wheels. For Caribbean and Latin American visitors, Dadeland is the number one shopping destination in South Florida (next to Sawgrass, of course). It's probably the biggest thing in Kendall, and thanks to the Romero Britto welcome sign at Dadeland Station, the most recognizable. Try telling a foreigner that you live near the Falls. You might as well say the Corn Palace.
Cigar smoke clings to the air inside the Habana Cuba Cigar Lounge like two teenagers on senior prom night. The baseball game on the giant plasma screen TV set is drowned out by the din of men decked out in guayaberas and dress slacks playing bones on the two tournament tables. They munch on pastelitos and drink Cuba libres. Armando Lopez, a plump Miami Lakes retiree who cautiously nursed his rum and coke on a recent night, avoided the taunts from his pal, Marcelo Llavore, to drink more. "You just want to throw me off my game," Lopez hissed. At another table a bald Cubanazo with a bushy mustache slammed down a nine. "DOMINO!" he bellowed. His opponent gritted his teeth and clenched his right fist. The lounge's owner, Rafael Nodal — who bears a striking resemblance to actor Joe Mantegna — slyly stepped in before the fisticuffs flew. "Gentlemen, por favor, we're not in Little Havana," Nodal chastised, holding a smoldering stogie in his right hand. Last year the gregarious Cuban opened the lounge as a way to promote his line of Cuban-American cigars. Now the lounge has morphed into one of the few places men can release their testosterone-fueled competitiveness seven days a week. "We're all about creating a nice ambiance," Nodal says, "where you can enjoy a good, stiff drink and a fine cigar."
The beast known as Miami's nightlife scene is vicious. Clubs go as easily as they come, regardless of how long they've been around or who promotes them. There's rarely mercy for dying clubs, so it's refreshing when an old favorite is injected with new life. The former Slak Lounge (and before that, Two Last Shoes) was a well-known destination for indie and underground music — the beloved, now-eight-years-running Revolver party was once held there. The venue has now been resuscitated as Circa28. Owner Lynda Hernandez refurbished the space after it had been closed for about two years. "When we got the building, it was a disaster, one step from being condemned," says Zeke Hernandez, Lynda's husband. "We cleaned it up, we gave it the love it needed and deserved, and we tried to appeal to the sensibilities of the art community." Inside, the split-level club is immaculate and decked out with chic decor from bar top to light fixtures. The first floor is warm and inviting, with a bookshelf on one wall and comfy couches against another. The second level is a spacious room where partygoers dance. After the place reopened in December 2006 imbibers quickly began packing the club for its weekly parties. Best of all, there's a smoke filter on both floors to prevent cigarette stink from hiding in your hair.
Despite being tucked into a nondescript second-floor corner of the godforsaken Shops at Sunset Place, Scorpico Gaming Center has a homey atmosphere for a room stuffed with computers. Owners and gaming buffs Cesar and Dany Feghali founded the company seven years ago with the idea of re-creating the good old days, when they threw all-night LAN parties in friends' garages. With 100 computers and game consoles, Scorpico brings that dream alive — especially on Friday afternoons and weekends, when the place is packed with gamers. Most of the crowd is made up of high schoolers, but younger and older players can feel at home here and find someone with whom to share the burden of hours of gaming. Rates are reasonable — $4 an hour for computer games and $6 an hour on Xbox or PlayStation. With plenty of computers and game consoles, reasonable rates, and opportunities for team play and local tournaments, Scorpico is the sociable gamer's home away from home.
Weaving an Ariadne's thread between nature and technology, Wendy Wischer's luminous and thought-provoking sculptures and installations explore how a single set of principles governs the universe. In Night Air, her poetically evocative solo show at the David Castillo Gallery last November, she transformed the space into a magical, twinkling, twilight garden, as if spinning a dreamscape from a tale out of 1001 Arabian Nights. She forested the gallery with a spectacular metal tree, lushly curtained with mirrored leaves, which was suspended from the ceiling and refracted a beautiful web of light across the entrance of the space. The gallery was also bathed in the prism of light glinting off Swarovski crystal-encased stones arranged throughout the floor and from the blaze of rainbow-hued, illuminated wire flowers blooming from a wall. In the project room spectators stood transfixed by Wischer's dazzling light and marble pieces, which hinted at swirling constellations of stars. The artist, who has been teaching sculpture at the New World School of the Arts for more than a decade, has also nurtured scores of promising locals including Bhakti Baxter, Natalia Benedetti, and Jiae Hwang. Wischer, who is among South Florida's hardest-working artists, recently saw her efforts ring up triple cherries on the slots. She has been awarded a prestigious Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant to fund her work in the coming year.
Call Miami the Mural City. From the charming collaborative We're in the Same Boat — created in 2001 by senior citizens of Haitian and Cuban descent, with help from Coral Park Senior High students serving as translators, and from artist Xavier Cortada — in Coconut Grove, to the realistic and powerful Martin Luther King Jr. in Liberty City, to many others, this place lacks not for walls of art. The beauty on an office building on the west side of Biscayne Boulevard at NE 37th Street is lesser known but no less compelling: Adam and Eve shows an Africanized male and female painted in the style of paleolithic fertility figures with large hips, curvey torsos, and small heads. Created by highly regarded local urban artist Daniel Fila, a 26-year-old who's better known as Krave, this work replaced his 2003 Erin, also known as "Booty" or "The Big Butt." Erin featured a rear view and struck a chord during Art Basel 2003. Some criminal painted over it, so Krave came up with the frontal view of a couple in its place. New Times reported last year that the woman whose image inspired both Erin and Adam and Eve was upset by the art, accusing Fila of appropriating her own work and of oversexualizing it. (The two went to art college together in Ohio, where, apparently, no one mentioned that paleolithic fertility figures tend to have a sexual aspect.) The upper left and lower right corners of the wall are adorned with colorful cascading psychedelic abstractions that perfectly center and spotlight the dynamic duo. As with the best of Impressionism, the work is striking both at a distance and up close, the latter view revealing the piece's stunning intricacy and precision. In fact the whole area is artsy — beneath I-195, a wall is painted with black and brown "foliage" (a 2004 rendering by Saá) and even the pillars of the underpass feature large brown and black dots. This is the way to make (fine) art in a public place.
Jazz grooves on the lawn; flashing neon lights; donkeys fashioned from recycled shredded cloth; a puppetmaster's beguiling vision of an underwater kingdom; and a historic exhibit showcasing Merce Cunningham's collaborations with contemporary visual artists, celebrating the dance legend's first visit to South Florida. These are among the many reasons people were enticed to join MoCA's rollicking year-long tenth anniversary bash. Christian Holstad's first U.S. museum solo-show at MoCA's Wynwood annex (404 NW 26th St., Miami), featuring donkey sculptures based on nativity scenes and a snazzy jukebox, was a blast. Pablo Cano's City Beneath the Sea, a whimsical theatrical production of marionettes created from found objects and discarded debris, also featured a cast of dancers and live music to tell the tale of a young girl's magical quest to save her undersea world. Cano's holiday favorite brought the curtain down with a bang. "Elusive Signs: Bruce Nauman Works With Light" showcased the neon sign and fluorescent light installations of one of America's most influential living artists and was among the season's big box office draws. "Merce Cunningham: Dancing on the Cutting Edge Part I" presented actual sets and installations created for the avant hoofer's performances by some of the art world's top talent since 1998. The second part of the exhibit is currently on view at MoCA at the Goldman Warehouse in Wynwood, and spotlights the sets and costumes designed by Miami's Daniel Arsham for Cunningham's recent show here. MoCA complemented its season with a series of popular free outdoor jazz concerts on the last Friday of every month, along with provocative outreach programming, combining educational activities geared for kids with art talks and film screenings that consistently drew crowds. A recently announced $18 million expansion will triple the museum's exhibition space, elevating MoCA's already stellar reputation in the years to come.
We can all appreciate a balcony that looks out over Miami's stunningly colorful skyline and the aqua-blue waters that surround our great city. But residents of the Venetia condo building located at the western end of the Venetian Causeway have us all beat. Those who reside in upper-level units with a balcony that faces north toward the swanky Biscayne Bay Marriott Hotel settle into their patio chairs once every month or so and let out a sigh of exaltation at the views afforded to them by the group of swingers who routinely rent out the hotel's top floor for a party. They disrobe, en masse, and spend the evening satiating every last one of their debauched desires. Naturally, as any good swinger would, they leave the blinds open. Now that's a view worthy of a postcard.
Located on a strip arguably housing some of the city's most stellar art spaces, this gallery stands out for the consistent quality of its exhibitions this past year. Kevin Bruk, who may have Tommy Lasorda's eye for spotting major-league talent, has been hitting back-to-back homers during a season in which one almost needed a scorecard to keep track of his stats. Bruk led off the year with Craig Kucia's stunning solo show, featuring a suite of sprawling, oil on canvas works in which the artist created quixotic, otherworldly outdoor scenes. During Art Basel, the dealer made a run with Fabian Marcaccio's richly textured wall-swallowing works riffing on the Iraq War, including an imposing, larger-than-life, gun-toting soldier fashioned from canvas and paint that anchored the show. After the New Year, Su-en Wong cleaned up with a series of skull-swelling shots, in which she painted multiple versions of herself, often nude or in schoolgirl regalia, to pulverize Western stereotypes of Asian women as submissive sex objects. Most recently Bruk brought in the big-swinging natural, Richard Butler, former frontman for the Psychedelic Furs. The painter's lavish oil on canvas portraits were hard to shake off, and depicted his subjects with freakishly distorted bodies and faces obscured with eerie fetish gear. Oh, and if one needs a better excuse to visit Bruk's ballpark, consider that more often than not, the talent he's been fielding lately has rarely, if ever, shown its stuff in Miami before.
Best New Building
Wilkie D. Ferguson Jr. United States Courthouse
One of the great things about being from Miami is that we relish our quirky uniqueness. Whatever happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but whatever happens in Miami is proudly announced to the world in English and en español. Even the new federal courthouse triumphantly declares where it's located. From a distance the 578,000-square-foot building's playful geometry is obvious, and it only gets better as you draw closer. There's a subtle, nautical theme in both the architectural and landscaping elements — as if a crystal ship is plowing through the waves at Fourth Street. While some of the interior design recalls Fifties/Sixties government architecture, it is nicely updated to fit into the scheme of the building and essence of the city. An eight-story blue atrium reminiscent of a water spout is the jewel in the crown. At $163 million, the blast-and-hurricane-resistant, environmentally gentle building designed by Arquitectonica did not come cheap or without lengthy construction delays. Indeed federal Judge Wilkie D. Ferguson didn't live to see the beautiful building that bears his name. But the beloved jurist and Liberty City native would likely have been proud to lend his name to what is one of the loveliest courthouses in the United States.
During Art Basel Miami Beach, the competition among local artists to catch the eye of the cognoscenti can seem like the machinations of those early PR hucksters like Jim Moran, who took the publicity stunt to an extreme. Moran's finest hour came when he tried to send three midgets attached to kites, plastered with advertising, airborne over New York's Central Park. For sheer audacity, homeboys Sam Borkson and Arturo Sandoval III, who comprise the FriendsWithYou collective, may be Moran's heirs. The inventive duo, known for their zany line of plush and wood toys, curated the first ever Art Basel parade this past December, featuring fifteen art dirigibles that snapped necks along the stretch of sand from Seventeenth to Fifth streets on Miami Beach. Their kooky, helium-filled cosmic critters included a towering volcano, a fanged twenty-foot rabbit, and assorted unknown entities, some of which looked like funky black beans. (A number of balloons were also designed by other artist pals: Ara Peterson, Misaki Kawai, Paperrad, Mwarble Boy, David Choe, and Devil Robots among them). Nearly 200 volunteer balloon handlers helped carry the brightly colored confections during the raucous 90-minute march down the beach. The Hialeah Senior High School marching band led the procession, playing a tune composed by jazz trumpeter Arturo Sandoval Jr. especially for the event. Unlike colleagues who may have tried too hard to make a splash, these artists were among the rare locals more interested in putting on a show for the unsuspecting public than getting swept up in the fair hoopla. They focused on having a good time with family and friends, simply recognizing that no art savvy is required to enjoy an old-fashioned parade.
Drive by Tarpon Bend on a Friday or Saturday night and the place is like a block party. Valet parkers have long thrown up their hands, and the entire sidewalk is covered with booze-happy weekenders trying to flag down a harried bartender. Well, you can only guzzle so many $8 Jack and Cokes ($10 on Fridays) before you gotta go. The ladies' room is located at the end of a long, dim hallway decorated with photos of enormous fish caught a long time ago. A massive doorframe with a bold white W glows from a charcoal gray door. Push it open to reveal a clean, well-lit place with gray-and-white marble tiles and tasteful amber wood finishings. Three amply sized stalls give the ladies some privacy, and the flush function is powerful and decisive — none of that "let's mush your toilet paper into mâché" nonsense here. The real stars of the show are the sinks, which are masterpieces of modern design. These oversize square porcelain basins feature faucets like glorified chrome beer taps, and they take some figuring out for the inebriated. Lift the middle protuberance for a satisfactory gush. Then fix your lip gloss and get the hell out of there — those mojitos aren't going to drink themselves.
The scent of popcorn that embraces you as you enter this cinema might take you back to the old days of moviegoing, but there's nothing old-fashioned about the Regal Kendall Village Stadium 16. Opened in 2004, the theater has every amenity the modern movie watcher craves, from digital surround-sound to stadium-style reclining seats. Tickets can be purchased from the friendly cashiers or from the convenient computerized box office machines inside ($9.50 for adults, $6.50 for kids, $7.50 for a matinee). There's also a large customer service desk in case you want to buy a gift card without standing in the ticket line. The concession stand caters to the latest trends in cinema confections. You can get an iced coffee or a Cinnabon Gooey Cinnamon Roll, a giant pretzel or some El Monterey Southwest Chicken Taquitos. There are also traditional theater foods like nachos, and combos like a large popcorn, two drinks, and a kid's meal for $22.75. If you arrive a tad early for your movie, there are tables where you can sit and pass the time, or — for a little more action —you can visit the video game room, where a dollar buys you a role in The Fast and the Furious.
Best Place to People-Watch
Government Center Metrorail Station , 5:00 p.m.
Metrorail is one of Miami's only mass transit systems, and despite its limitations, every day it transports thousands of people from all walks of life to their homes and jobs. Whether they're lawyers, sandwich-makers, college students, homeless vagabonds, or Brickell Avenue CEOs, they all share the burden of commuting in Miami. At 5:00 p.m., blue-collar, white-collar, and no-collar bodies leave their jobs or posts in the heart of Miami and make their way to the Government Center station. They squeeze into the train cars and try to grab a window seat before they're all taken. Most keep to themselves; a few are belligerent; some panhandle. A mother shushes her two young children. A dust-coated construction worker nods off. High school kids snicker. A twentysomething woman in business attire chats on the phone. Others wait for a seat to open up. A businessman gives up his seat for an elderly bag lady while a young skater nods his head to the blaring music coming from his headphones. Despite the miles and miles of suburbs, the Metrorail and its colorful passengers serve as a reminder that Miami is a big city. As the train reaches each stop, the crowd dwindles as people make their way off. On the Metrorail it doesn't matter where you're from or where you're going, just so long as you get there.
The Women's International Film Festival is an infant compared to the big boy FLIFF, but if this year's lineup was any indication, the new girl in town will be around for years to come. The scope and ambition of this festival is to be admired. This year's four-day extravaganza featured more than 40 films from twelve countries, and included feature-length flicks, shorts, and excellent documentaries. The unifying factor is the celebration of all things female, and there was an inspiring representation of woman directors — admirable when you consider the fact that women only make up five percent of filmmakers overall. Festival founder Yvonne McCormack-Lyons even shone a spotlight on local talent by showing 3GZ's electro-documentary Darkbeat alongside global offerings like the South African Hip Hop Sistaz.Screenings were offered at a variety of locations, from an outdoor opening screening at Coconut Grove's Peacock Park, to the Miami Beach Cinematheque, to the historic Lyric Theater. Besides that, the fest brought some stars to Miami for guest question-and-answer sessions, including the likes of Ruby Dee and Babel star Adriana Barraza, who lost the best supporting actress Academy Award to Jennifer Hudson this year. Not bad for a fledgling film festival. We can't wait to see what's on the marquee next year.
It's only nine miles from downtown Miami, but the leafy and low-key Biscayne Gardens might as well be a continent away. This unincorporated community (read: low taxes) of big lawns (many houses are platted for one-acre lots) and modest Forties-era ranch houses is one of those truly rare creatures in South Florida: a well-kept real estate secret. "It's a hidden paradise," says proud longtime resident and civic association member Krim Hackman. Little more than a collection of pineapple plantations over 50 years ago, Biscayne Gardens has held onto its semi-rural charm and relatively affordable house prices. Homes here go for about half what you'll pay in nearby Miami Shores. Don't wait, though. Developers are increasingly looking to the area — one of the last stretches of green east of I-95 — with lust in their eyes. Biscayne Gardens is bordered by Opa-locka and Miami Gardens to the west, Northwest 167th Street to the north, North Miami Beach to the east, and North Miami and 135th Street to the south.
Until last year, the 1936 building that houses CiFo art space was just another in a long line of bleak industrial fa?ades in the desiccated cityscape of downtown Miami's warehouse district. Ella Fontanals Cisneros, CiFo's founder, commissioned architect René González to create a more appealing welcome mat for her gallery. González delivered: CiFo visitors are greeted by a capacious plaza, studded with bamboo plantings, beyond which lies a stunning custom-made mosaic composed of 4800 square feet of Bisazza glass tiles that suggest a tropical jungle glimpsed through mist. The gallery's interior is an austere industrial shell, its only flourish a high-sheen concrete floor, putting the emphasis on the contemporary Latin American art within. Cisneros founded the Cisneros Fontanals Art Foundation in 2002, the year after she divorced Oswaldo Cisneros, whose family is one of Venezuela's wealthiest. She also founded Miami Art Central, which opened in December 2003. MAC is merging with the Miami Art Museum, which will rise in Bicentennial Park (along with the Miami Museum of Science). The oasis she has bestowed on North Miami Avenue offers a glimpse of the new downtown Cisneros and her foundation aim to help create.
Jostle your way through the box office and concession lines, and find a seat — if you arrive early enough — somewhere where you won't get whiplash. Try to ignore the crying baby, the ringing cellphone, the oblivious conversationalists behind you, the pounding noise from the action movie in the adjacent theater. Wait a minute — this is supposed to be best night at the movies, not typical night at the multiplex. Let's start over.Amble through Bayfront Park to Movies by the Bay, buy your ticket at the "box office" (it's actually a trailer; $9 for adults, $6 for children age five and up, $6 for seniors), grab a beach chair (there are 209 on site), and enjoy the bay breeze and glistening downtown backdrop. Movies by the Bay gets first-run films that cater to mass audiences (300) and families (Shrek the Third), but owners Bill and Susan Hertig also have the good taste to screen more refined offerings like Pan's Labyrinth and The Queen. The "concession stand" (also a trailer) offers the usual salty-sugary fare. They'll even give you something for free, something those multiplexes wouldn't dream of: mosquito spray.
In the past year filmmakers have produced several notable documentaries about Cuba. Nat Chediak's Habana Abierta: Boomerang chronicled a Cuban rock band in exile, while Jauretsi Saizarbitoria and Emilia Menocal's East of Havana looked at inner-island democratization through hip-hop. But local filmmaker and cameraman John Maass's film Casa de los Arabes ("House of Arabs") stands out for its originality. Maass delved into unchartered territory when he followed Cuban-American belly dancer Tiffany Madera, a.k.a. Hanan, to Havana to document how she trained a group of Cuban dancers in the sensual ways of tummy twisting. Throughout the one-hour film, Maass examines the newly formed dance troupe, Grupo Aisha al Hanan, from its practice sessions at Casa de los Arabes, a Havana cultural center, to the streets of the Cuban capital, and on to dance competitions. As the women learn to transform their innate salsa-shaking rhythm into tight belly contortions, another transition takes place. Bodily movement becomes an emotional outlet in the day to day struggles of living under Cuba's tight political and economic system. At the same time the film subtly acknowledges the egalitarianism Cuban women enjoy in comparison to those in many Third World nations. Waving and spinning sheer, colorful veils around their sumptuous selves, these women explain that they're dancing for the liberation of those divas whose societies don't allow them such freedoms.
For people, affiliation with a reality TV show can mean a real-world boost on the fame-o-meter. But what about buildings? Ask The Hotel, a South Beach wonder that has an interior designed entirely by current Bravo Top Design host and fashion/interior designer Todd Oldham. The historic Collins Avenue building known as "The Tiffany" was born in 1939 and gained fame when it was made pretty by Oldham in 1998 (and again in 2002). Oldham's influence has washed the hotel in a sea of bold colors that provide a distinctively cool atmosphere — so cool, in fact, that you feel like you're not cool enough to be there (kinda like reality TV). From hand-cut floor tiles, to tie-dye bath robes, to funky landscaping, Oldham did more than just lend his name and a few signature products. But if the prospect of anything reality TV-related makes you cringe, check out the rooms. They are cozy and chic — and the on-grounds restaurant Wish and rooftop bar Spire are the perfect spots to catch a bite, a drink, or a glimpse of the beautiful people. And there's not an elimination ceremony in sight.
Say hello to my leetle friend — a modest, homegrown documentary that tells the grisly tale of Miami's cocaine wars of the late Seventies and early Eighties with gusto. Scarface and Miami Vice ain't got nothin' on Cocaine Cowboys, which vividly — even gleefully —captures Miami in all the nutty, coke-fueled, gory glory of its drug-addled heyday. At times the doc seems as coked up as its interview subjects once were, and the soundtrack, by Vice themester Jan Hammer, does nothing to temper its generally cheesy production values. But director and producer Billy Corben has done his legwork, binging on vintage television footage and scoring key interviews with traffickers like Jon Roberts and pilot Mickey Munday. And the doc's most colorful underworld figure, the homicidal maniac Griselda Blanco, makes Tony Montana look like Mister Rogers. She's so juicy, in fact, the filmmakers have a sequel about her in the works: Cocaine Cowboys II: The Godmother Returns. We can't refuse!
Thrifting is a labor of love. Sometimes you spend hours sifting through forgotten garments to find that one item that's meant for you. Usually, though, thrifters go home either empty-handed or with a few threadbare fixer-uppers. But at Rag Trade, quality second-hand clothing is in abundance and therefore easy to find. It works like this: You can bring in old clothes and exchange them for money or store credit. Don't expect to reap loads of cash from your retired wardrobe, though — owner Stephanie Spiegel hand-picks items that are unique, and avoids name brands. Rag Trade is also a green business. In addition to selling recycled threads, the boutique offers a selection of new clothing from independent brands that use environmentally safe manufacturing practices. Customers can opt to forgo the bag for their purchases and donate the equivalent cost to an eco-friendly organization. Take a quick glance at prices (written on used party flyers) and you'll find skirts and shirts for eight dollars and pins for two.
Paris Hilton's brain might be void of any factual information, but the bimbette knows a thing or two about fashion. And it's not by accident that she's often snapped by the paparazzi sporting the wearable works of art spawned by the creative genius of one of the planet's hottest designers, Miami resident Ema Koja. Albanian-born Koja first burst into the public eye as a professional volleyball player in the Nineties. But soon after realizing she also had an aptitude for fashion design, she promptly stepped off the court and sat down behind a sewing machine. Conceptualized and created in her small Miami studio, Koja's line — Ema Savahl Couture — comprises feminine and alluring pieces that are all uniquely handpainted and accented. Designs, which will set you back a few hundred dollars, incorporate brush painting, silicone application, Swarovski crystals, glass beading, hand-dyed trims, and gold chain. In short, stunning. And her gorgeous gowns have shimmied, fluttered, and dazzled media on red carpets worldwide. What's good enough for Paris is good enough for Miami.
Defining Code Red was the gutsiest play performed in South Florida this year, a drama that didn't so much penetrate the fourth wall as exist outside of it from the beginning, intersecting with its audience in dangerous and unpredictable ways. On the morning of February 3, 2004, seventh-grader Jaime Rodrigo Gough was stabbed to death in a bathroom at Southwood Middle School in Palmetto Bay. Justin Koren, a Southwood alum who was, at that time, building a theater career in New England and the U.K., got the news via e-mail and was instantly galvanized. Three years later, he had interviewed virtually everybody who had something to do with the event and who was willing to talk about it. Koren then distilled these debriefings into the haunting, unclassifiable Defining Code Red. It's not a finished work, one hopes — there are scenes that could do with some editing, and some that might benefit from getting scrapped altogether — but there are also scenes that you'll remember months later, more clearly and more powerfully than the intervening months themselves. When the action leaps from police station interrogations to the discovery of the boy in the bathroom; as it speeds up past the point of comprehension, the memories too adrenaline-drenched to properly order; as the names of all the country's dead kids are memorialized in a grisly faux-graduation — breaths catch, hearts break, and you are ashamed at your own ability to stay calmly seated. These are scenes so visceral and nakedly passionate that they could only have been drawn from life itself, and a standing ovation seems like a woefully inadequate response.
Architect Cesar Pelli's most famous creation may be the Petronas World Trade Center in Kuala Lumpur, for a time the world's two tallest buildings, but the Ziff Ballet and Opera House— one of two major performance venues at the Carnival Center for the Performing Arts — may be just as impressive. Thanks to Pelli, and to Russell Johnson of Artec Consultants, the place is a masterpiece of acoustical design. In Florida only Lakeland's Branscomb Auditorium is its equal — and that venue has a vastly less ambitious floor plan. To witness an opera at the Ziff is to hear qualities in the music that no performance at a lesser venue, and certainly no record, would ever lead you to suspect.
Some of us Miami natives think that there should be a holiday on March 5 (3/05) every year, where we could put on our 305 hats and parade down Biscayne Boulevard chanting: "THREE-OH-FIVE!" That's right. 305 stayin' alive. This past year brought the NBA Championship for the Heat, and we became Super Bowl City once again. In music, Rick Ross busted out his new album Port of Miami, Trick Daddy showed us how to ride the Miami Donk, and Pitbull was given the title "Mr. 305." On TV, Miami Ink (where you can get a 305 tattoo) continues to show the beauty of our inhabitants and visitors. This is the Magic City, so wear your 305 hats with pride. The best place to purchase themç The USA Flea Market, located across from the Northside Metrorail station.
We imagine the hallways of the New World School of the Arts (NWSA) as being pretty much like a scene from the Eighties cult classic film and TV series Fame: an explosion of students burning with talent, skipping down the hallway en route to musical theater class, and bursting into perfectly unified and choreographed dance routines at will. In reality things are more sedate. Miami's artistic conservatory offers standard academic classes as well as programs in visual arts, dance, theater, and music. Many of its alumni have gone on to become noted choreographers for dance companies of their own. NWSA graduates dance with the Alvin Ailey Dance Company, Martha Graham Dance Company, and the Dance Theater of Harlem, among many other respected ensembles. The school regularly and proudly puts its students' talents on display. So far this year, the visual arts division showcased more than 50 works of student art from the BFA graduating class (the school offers a college degree program as well, through Miami Dade College). The opera ensemble put on Hansel and Gretel at the Carnival Center. Sax legend Benny Golson even performed with the high school student ensemble at GableStage.
Imagine this: You were viciously abused as a child, and now you're a writer. You are totally unsuccessful. Your major subject matter is the torture and murder of children. You're really into it. The children in your stories eat cookies filled with razorblades or are dispatched with power drills used in extremely unconventional ways. At this very moment, you're being interrogated by police officers in the middle of a totalitarian state. These police officers suspect that you have, in fact, been murdering children in real life. Maybe you have: Certainly kids around town seem to be dropping dead in all the ways you describe in your writings. Your mentally handicapped brother is being tortured in the next room. It is highly improbable that you will live to see tomorrow. Now imagine appearing onstage in this wretched condition and getting an audience to not only sympathize with you, but find your entire situation utterly amusing. Sound improbableç Joe Adler made it happen, in an October production of Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman that was funnier and more powerful than the star-studded Broadway production that set tongues a-wagging in Manhattan the previous year.
Best Actor
Odell Rivas in Three Angels Dancing On a Needle, Square Peg Productions
In Three Angels Rivas's part consisted primarily of a monologue called "God's Greatest Invention," in which his character confessed to being madly in lust — not love, just lust — with a man. The whole performance was one long scream of trembling, jittering need, with lots of big, declamatory statements and huge, sloppy emotions. But out of that tempest came a handful of lines that possessed a weird grace and some kind of defeated composure, summoned from who knows where. One of those lines was this: "You said you don't mind doing it with boys. Well—what in God's name keeps you from doing it with the boy in meç" There are more than six billion people on this earth, and most of them have asked that question in some form: Why not meç When Rivas asked, the bottomless dignity in his face and in his voice told their stories as much as his own. This year no other actor even came close.
A branch of the Sierra Club, Inner City Outings is a unique little outfit that takes city kids to a world they rarely see: nature. Teenagers who associate wildlife with gang-bangers get the chance to cycle the Everglades, paddle the Little River, and camp overnight in a state park, among other adventures. Staffed by a small group of energetic outdoors enthusiasts, ICO runs 25 to 30 free trips a year, usually within a few hours' drive of Miami. The group works with local housing projects, social agencies, and neighborhood associations to find about 200 interested kids every year. And ICO is making its own future. Its Youth Leader Program mentors future trip leaders.
Best Actress
Miriam Kulick in Three Angels Dancing On a Needle, Square Peg Productions
The third actor to accost the audience in Assurbanipal Babilla's Three Angels Dancing on a Needle, Miriam appeared as the wife of a man who'd killed himself by jumping off a bridge. She hated him a lot, and his death had done little to soften her rage. For an interminable time — truly interminable; she could have held the stage for instants or epochs — she stood there, body and voice trembling, all her communicative faculties short-circuiting at their inability to process the vastness of her anger, tracing the shape of her hatred with horrific blind references to episodes which are never quite illuminated, allowing the audience's imagination to extrapolate at will and guiding that imagination into very weird terrain. Walking fifty-seven blocks to the morgue to identify her husband's remains, she danced all the way — like a whore, she said, just like her husband's mother. When she did the dance onstage, her hips were like war machines, and her face was like nothing you've ever seen before — a writhing tableaux of electric evil so pure that, if you encountered it in life, it would almost certainly be the last thing you ever saw. Even within the relative safety of the theater, audiences felt an actual, physical revulsion. One spectator said, "If she came any closer to my seat, I was going to scream," and that's about right. It's worth mentioning: According to all reports, Miriam Kulick is a very sweet lady when she's not scaring the hell out of you.
Miami is a rich and meaty cultural stew, but a typical sampling of the sancocho is definitely heavy on mojo criollo and Jamaican jerk. We love it when the less-represented residents of the city come together and share their spice. For that reason we look forward to the Asian Culture Festival all year. The annual affair at the Fruit & Spice Park is the biggie of all the regional Chinese New Year and other Asian fests, and it's been going strong for eighteen years. Organized by the Thai American Association of South Florida, the event is usually held in early March (this year on March 3 and 4). More than 10,000 culture lovers ventured down to Homestead for the recent showcase of Asian flava. Even though the event celebrated the Chinese year of the pig, attendees were also able to enjoy a kaleidoscope of traditional folk dances from Bangladesh, India, Korea, Pakistan, the Philippines, Thailand, and Vietnam. This abundance is what makes this festival so dazzling. Athletic dudes get down with the Malaysian no-hands volleyball tournament known as sepet takraw, while all day long there are spectacular Chinese lion dances, a dragon boat display, acrobats, contortionists, and booming performances by Japanese taiko drummers. The highlight of most outdoor fests is the food, and there's a surfeit here. You can feast on bubble tea, sushi, stir-fried everything, spicy noodles, dim sum, satay, and curry. And don't forget the lychee ice cream. Because the event is at the Fruit and Spice Park, there's also plenty of exotic fruits, fruit and vegetable carving, and demonstrations of ikebana (Japanese flower arranging).
Undiscovered territory while the city waits for the promenade to be connected to the one that runs along Bayfront Park, this is a sliver of unique urban beauty. It's right at the mouth of the Miami River, prime viewing spot for boats headed up and down river, the bay beyond, and the gleaming high-rises all around. The walk is a hundred or so yards long, and is lined with art (tile mosaics, funky steel sculptures, a huge psychedelic statue) and palm trees. And you'll likely have it to yourself.
In a play full of plus-size performances, little Matt Glass dwarfed everybody. David Mamet's filthy courtroom farce was one of the year's funniest shows, and Matt was not only its funniest character but also the most sympathetic. The love-starved boyfriend of the prosecutor, he pranced into the courtroom leaving a trail of handcuffs and dildos in his wake, sat himself on the judge's knee, and proceeded to interrupt the workings of the American justice system with his tale of domestic woe. He was too ridiculous to take seriously — some terrible amalgam of everybody's most vicious stereotypes about vacuous drama-junkie queens —but he somehow made you feel for him anyway. Deeply. Those who saw him do it are still wondering how he pulled it off.
Best Road to Avoid
Biscayne Boulevard between 70th and 79th Streets
There are few other roads in Miami-Dade County with the breadth and scope of the traffic nightmare that is Biscayne Boulevard. Construction has seemingly gone on for years, with no end in sight (one employee at a Dunkin' Donuts said it could last till May; we're not sure if he meant 2007 or 3007). Driving on the boulevard is a constantly changing and harrowing experience. Lanes come and go, orange cones disappear and reappear seemingly by the hour. In the past month, we've seen two accidents with our own eyes that were largely caused by inappropriate signage and general driver confusion. Walking along this stretch is impossible; anyone on foot has to climb over mountains of construction debris. Thinking about trying to patronize a business on the west side of the boulevardç Forget it. You will need a small tank to scale the debris/potholes/boulders. At night hookers, drug dealers, and folks waiting for the bus wander in the rubble. Certain parts (70th and Biscayne comes to mind) look like Baghdad: bombed out and depressing. Whoever planned this project at the FDOT should be fired. Or forced to commute on it every day, like we do. Oh, and don't even think about using NE Second Avenue as an alternate route. That, too, is regularly under construction.
Marcus Davis is not, in fact, an "actress," nor is he even a woman. It doesn't matter. From the moment he stepped to the footlights at the Actor's Playhouse in its production of La Cage aux Folles as "Jacob," a maid/butler done up in lurid soubrette-cum-Mozart drag, he established himself as the most blazingly, supernaturally charismatic female force anybody had seen in a long while. In other productions of La Cage, there has been a tendency for actors playing Jacob to let the script do the work. The lines are so funny, and the character is such an incredible canvas, that you can easily win the hearts and minds of an audience by phoning it in, layering hambone gay stereotype atop hambone gay stereotype until you've got a creature so absurd that it's impossible not to laugh at him/her/it. Davis went a lot farther, making Jacob live and breathe in ways most folks never thought possible, digging not only humor, but affection, intelligence, and yes, even pathos out of a character designed for cheap, easy laughs. And he made it look so easy, so second-nature, that after leaving the show you'd be excused for wondering why no one ever thought to do it that way before.
Best Acting Ensemble
Three Angels Dancing On a Needle, Square Peg Productions
Assurbinipal Babilla called his play Three Angels Dancing on a Needle, but Merri Jo Pitassi, Odell Rivas, and Miriam Kulick did a lot more than dance on that needle — they got skewered on it. If you were lucky enough to be hanging out in the Deluxe Arts complex this past January, you'd have seen one of the most jaw-dropping displays of dramaturgical virtuosity to hit Florida in ... well, who knowsç Three Angels was a play that brooked no real comparisons. Playing characters of pornographic ugliness, reeking of spiritual decay and utter moral desperation, the three actors urged each other on to operatic heights of shame and degradation before small audiences who, by play's end, didn't know whether to clap, puke, or kill themselves. Maybe Three Angels wasn't the most fun way to spend a Friday night, but these three actors didn't give a shit: They were playing for higher stakes than that. What those stakes might have been, the rest of us are still trying to figure out.
Best Mile of Miami
Flagler Street between the Miami River and NW 22nd Avenue
If Calle Ocho is the undisputed heart of Cuban America, then Flagler Street is the lesser-known capital of just about every other Spanish-speaking group in Miami, especially Central Americans. The mile-long length of Flagler west of the river is jam-packed with niche groceries, discount shoe stores, and food — ah, the food! In that short mile are dozens upon dozens of restaurants, cafeterias, bakeries, and truly awesome Nicaraguan fritanga. Flagler isn't a pretty street, but it's a busy one — the true center of Miami in more ways than one.
Best Theatrical Production
Three Angels Dancing On a Needle, directed by Michael Yawney for Square Peg Productions
There was a handful of productions this year that will stick in audience's memories for a long time, but Three Angels is probably the only one that will have those audiences doubting their memories. Scant days after the fact, it already felt like a dream: the kinky Catholic-voodoo-gothic rituals that sandwiched the scenes; the brutal speed of the monologues; the unearthly poetry of the writing; the unholy passion it inspired in the cast; the purely holy passion with which the actors endowed exiled Iranian writer Assurbanipal Babilla's ugliest, most fevered musings not with dignity, but something dirtier and infinitely more pitiable. After the cast received its standing O's, people milled around, wanting to talk about what they'd seen but not sure what to say. Given a dozen or so weeks to think about it, they might have come up with something like this: By showing us three people who've moved beyond desperation into utter, predatory insanity, and by giving their voices a chance to be heard, Square Peg made it apparent that even monsters can be human. The unavoidable subtext was that if monsters are human, the rest of us must be, too.
You could go to the beach, or maybe some crappy old park. But if you're an urban romantic, try the Rainforest Lounge. Laid out by renowned landscape architect Enzo Enea as a Design District showpiece for Art Basel Miami Beach two years ago, this little oasis is unmatched. Like a giant jewel box, it has funky, copper-color perforated metal walls around it, and flowering bushes and towering bamboo inside. Plenty of cushioned couches and tall stools with tables make brown-bagging it not only serene but easy. And to make things even better, it's next door to the historic Moore Building and in the heart of the Design District.
Unity on the Bay's music ministry says its mission is to "heal, enlighten, and minister through music in order to inspire and transform our world." A very pious aim to be sure, but don't expect Gregorian chants with a hymn or two thrown in on holidays. Unity's choir members tithe ten hours a week to make Sunday church-going a joyous musical experience. That means gospel, but it also means R&B, hip-hop, and jazz — everything from Destiny's Child to U2 to Andrea Bocelli. The choir's repertoire is as diverse as the congregation it sings to, and hallelujahs come as easily as hellos.
Best Class Disparity
Biscayne Boulevard between 69th and 70th streets
Miami has been criticized of late for being a city of the very poor and the very rich, where the middle-class has been squeezed out into the suburbs, or even to faraway North Carolina. There's something to this. A drive up Biscayne Boulevard reveals a Miami of the wealthy (wine shops, designer clothing stores, a car wash named Karma) and the poor (tired-looking liquor stores, hookers). But nowhere is the clash of classes more evident than between NE 69th and 70th streets, where diners at trendy Michy's sup on Turks and Caicos conch fillets (escargots style), while next door, down-on-their-luck folks live at the Saturn Motel for weeks on end. The two establishments are separated by an alley, yet they are worlds apart. For $65 you can sample a few tasty plates at Michy's (or get one bottle of wine) — or for the same money go next door and rent a room. Michy's was mentioned in Gourmet last year as one of the nation's top restaurants. The Saturn has a walk-up registration window with bulletproof glass.
The set of Neil LaBute's tale of aborted love between a sweet fat chick and a not-so-sweet skinny guy was lovingly, elegantly, exactingly, and simply rendered by Lyle Baskin, a designer who regularly sends GableStage's brilliant shows rocketing to the next level of awesomeness. Fat Pig was a brutal, heartless story — one of the play's four characters had the soul of a poet, and she was endlessly shat upon by the other three, all of whom had approximately the soul of a moldering potato — and its cruelty was suggested, not by drab colors and an absence of stuff, but by a preternatural stillness. The opening scene's supposedly bustling cafeteria had the feel of a Chuck E. Cheese in the wake of a plague; the final scene's beachside setting looked and sounded like the beach, but somehow communicated "desert." Scenes set in a sushi bar and an office suggested cheerful surfaces and spiritual death, a hollow classiness created by an intelligence driven to make everything pleasant and nothing personal. One look at Baskin's set, pretty and functional and chilling, might tell you more about Neil LaBute than Neil LaBute could tell you about himself.
Miami's weirdness is difficult to wrap your head around. There's the part born out of poverty and hardship and there's also the share that comes with way too much money. The town has both, for sure, but it's mapped in such a way that you rarely get to sink your teeth into both at the same time (unless you're on Biscayne, see above.) After all, how many places in the city aren't one or the otherçThank God for Metromover. Every day its little Jetsonian tram cars trap the crazy homeless guy on his mission to Mars right next to the umbrella-wielding lawyer commuting from his Brickell Key condo. The resultç Hi-larity. Wheel your way between the skeletal condo projects and rub elbows with the guys building them. Snicker as South American diplomats clap local flaks on the back, congratulating them on the fine money pit. Wait, with bated breath, for the whole thing to simply break down (it often does) and watch your fellow passengers devise a harrowing escape plan along the tracks (instead of waiting twenty minutes for it to start working again). The best part about this grand opera of human absurdityç You ride for free ... well, unless you count the hundreds of millions of dollars that have been blown on building and maintaining it.
Two giants of twentieth-century opera launching a new star for the 21st: That is just part of what happened in this new production that celebrated — and made — Miami music history. The first collaboration between the great Renata Scotto and Richard Bonynge, this local staging of Bellini's La Sonnambula was a demanding and gorgeous romantic opera. Starring Miami's favorite young diva, Leah Partridge, in a role she seemed born to sing, La Sonnambula was opera heaven, a thrilling and impossibly beautiful show for newcomers and jaded operamaniacs alike. One of the sweetest things about it was that, like the the American Ballet Theatre's Swan Lake, the opera was the kind of production that could not have happened in Miami before the Carnival Center's opening. The Florida Grand Opera, one of the prime movers behind getting the center built in the first place, deserves this new Ziff Opera House, with its ideal acoustics and against-all-odds intimate atmosphere. What's the big deal about operaç The Florida Grand Opera, when it is this good, is a good answer.
New York's Susanne Bartsch is not your run-of-the-mill party promoter. Who else would conceive, let alone execute, a plan in which America's most infamous transsexual, Amanda Lepore, perches naked in a bubble bath in the middle of a crowded dance floor (at the swanky Setai, nonetheless, notorious for charging more than $40 for a plate of pad Thai). Bartsch's name is so synonymous with sensational extravagance that A-list hipsters stand obediently in line at her events. Perhaps it's the ambience — equal parts Alice In Wonderland, Quentin Tarantino-inspired porno, and Cirque du Soleil on acid. Or maybe it's the outlandish decorations — think giant dinosaurs for a scenic backdrop and makeshift stages painted the colors of the rainbow inhabited by gyrating midgets and dancing monsters seemingly ripped from the pages of a Star Trek script. Or maybe they show up en masse for the free-flowing booze, compliments of Ms. Bartsch; the soundtrack of sultry hypnotic trance spun by famed DJs; or the chance to mingle with the it boys and girls of the moment. But whenever and wherever her eclectic party is held, the queen puts a little something together and it's always a shocking success. And it always seems to outdo the last.
Every once in a while since this past Independence Day, an Amazonian goddess runs from the beach to the steps of the Palace Bar & Grill at 1200 Ocean Dr., a sparkly gold tiara holding up her flowing black mane. She dials in her invisible plane from a pay phone on the street, whips around her golden lasso to rope off evildoers, and uses her Athenian might to push automobiles out of her way. Honey, Linda Carter has nothing on this Wonder Woman, the Argentine chanteuse Geraldine. The spectacle attracts gawkers — straight and gay, young and old — enchanted by Geraldine's campy performance of DC Comics's most popular female superhero. "Who is more American than Wonder Womanç" Geraldine rhapsodizes. "When I did it the first time people loved it so much I kept doing it. But I try not to do it that often because then it gets boring." Spoken like a true Brodway superstar.And perhaps being Wonder Woman is a subconscious way of channeling her coming-out journey in Miami, where she first publicly showcased her cross-dressing talents upon arriving five years ago. "In Argentina I was still in the closet," Geraldine remembers. "When my family would leave the house and I'd be by myself, I would get dressed up. I would look at myself in the mirror and cry for a long time. Here I bloomed."Of course Wonder Woman is only one part of Geraldine's creative ensemble. On Monday nights, you can catch Geraldine, Fernandcute, and Juicy P performing a show at Laundry Bar (721 N. Lincoln Ln., Miami Beach). The Argentine-born performers dub themselves the Queen Cabaret. "Once a month we do a big production," Geraldine says. "Two weeks ago we did Marie Antoinette, including her beheading.... I love entertaining and making people laugh. I like to make fun of myself."
Best King Mango Strutter
Justin Steak-N-Shake and the Chubbettes
For most of the participants in the annual King Mango Strut, the costume and/or performance is a decision made in a beer-induced flight of fancy. We suspect that beer had quite a bit to do with the performance by Justin Steak-N-Shake and the Chubbettes. The bellies don't lie. This group of gleeful fat dudes was conceived for last year's Strut as a pointed lampoon of the hit song du jour, Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack." Relying on their obvious sight gag (hello, overflowing guts and man boobs), the group cranked things up a notch by performing "Bringing Chubby Back" with one of the members painted in UM orange and green. Go Canes! (You can see the live performance video here: www.youtube.com/watchçv=4Ug64K9_X-g) It's one thing to appear in the Strut. It's entirely another to follow it up with a music video. But that's exactly what the corpulent ensemble did, and it's also posted proudly on YouTube (www.youtube.com/watchçv=5Pdh848QrDE). These dudes have no shame, and we love it.
FIU's rock and roll professor, Armando Tranquilino, teaches all the usual music theory and history courses, but what really caught our attention was a class called "The History of the Beatles." Tranquilino brought a sample lecture to an audience of eager baby boomers — and some of his college students — at a Culture in the City talk in Coconut Grove this past December. The Ph.D. was clad in faded jeans, well-worn black boots, and a nicely cut white shirt that he left untucked under a casual blazer (which, true to rock and roll style, he removed midway through his presentation). Not only did Tranquilino have the gear — a pretty Taylor acoustic guitar and a hefty Rickenbacker bass — but he could play it, too. He played Paul McCartney's exuberant bass line to "I Saw Her Standing There" and exquisitely finger-picked "Blackbird," but his finale — playing along with the immaculate bass line from George Harrison's "Something" — was the real show-stopper. Professor Tranquilino, you rock!
Once upon a time, Miami had a thriving cigar industry. Factories all over the city employed Cuban roleros (cigar rollers) to carry on their native country's well-known tradition for making the world's finest stogies. The industry, like others, has largely moved overseas; most hand-rolled cigars sold in the United States come from the Dominican Republic and Honduras. But a few factories — and a few roleros — remain, and Leo Peraza is one of them. Peraza, now in his sixties, has been rolling cigars for 50 years, 38 of them in Havana and twelve in Little Havana's El Crédito Cigar Factory. He's the factory's most senior employee. Along with owner Ernesto Perez-Carrillo, he attends Big Smoke conferences around the country, demonstrating the fine art of rolling for wide-eyed cigar aficionados. Before he began rolling for Perez-Carrillo, Peraza was a rolero in Big Havana as well, and he remembers the work fondly. He especially enjoyed the lectores — people employed to read to the workers as they rolled. Peraza still makes a fine cigar, but "I don't smoke them," he says. "Not really. Every now and then, maybe."
If your guests' visit coincides with the last Friday of the month and some down-home flava is what they crave, then form a conga line and steer it to Little Havana's juiced-up block party on Southwest Eighth Street and Fifteenth Avenue for a deep-fried slice of Miami's historic Latin barrio. Kick off the evening with a walking tour of the culturally rich neighborhood while local historian Dr. Paul George peels layers off of some of La Gran Naranja's spiciest lore. Hungry after your strollç Try a ropa vieja crpe capped by a traditional aromatic cafecito at the I Love Calle Ocho Cafe. Eager to find out if the future holds romance or a new jobç Pop into Azucar Para el Espíritu, the hood's trendy new age boutique, where Noelia will offer your group a sidewalk Tarot card reading for a mere $25. After tanking up on carafes of sangria and tasty Spanish tapas at Casa Panza a few doors away, check out one of the many galleries showcasing folkloric art on the colorful strip. Or barter a deal for unique jewelry, ceramics, or other crafts from one of the artisans peddling their wares right off the street. Eager to cut a rug and show off those snazzy salsa moves to your friendsç Head over to the main stage, where you might find Suenalo Sound System tearing it up under the stars, or where los visitantes might be dazzled by the seductive bata drumbeats and sultry Afro-Cuban dance moves of Ile Ife. Chances are y'all may even end up serenaded by a crowd crowing, "Oye Tancredo, cómete el corazón!"
An eight-song serenade is $200, but abuelita will cry when she hears "Cu-curru-cucu Paloma" or "Aquellos Ojos Verdes" played by four musicians with sombreros, ascots, trumpets, and gold-filigree suits. If her birthday happens to fall Monday through Thursday, the same set played by three musicians will only set you back $150, and the full song repertoire is available online. If mariachi serenatas aren't your thing, there are Brazilian, Columbian, and Peruvian bands; or romantic trios de bolero. Violinists, pianists, and harpists are available as well.
All of the town's cheesiest couples flock to the Convention Center to roam the carpeted aisles, eyeing naughty doo-dads with a mix of shock and boredom. (Then there are the guys who show up with brusquely amorous messages on their T-shirts: "I FUCK ON THE FIRST DATE," et cetera. Who do they wear them forç) This is the place where you'll run into the stripper you spent too much money on in Daytona; where everyone comes together for the annual Nearly Nude Mechanical Bull-Riding Championship. Marvel as relatively normal-looking people spend hours in line to get a picture signed by Jenna Jameson and Ron Jeremy. Gawk as hundreds of hapless locals wander a gauntlet of vaguely sexual booths trying to figure out how to get back their $25 and, instead, uncomfortably gather in front of a low-rent fetish demonstration. When Exxotica's in town, somehow South Beach feels a little more ... well, itself.
Between Homestead and Key West, the eighteen-mile-long village of islands called Islamorada is probably the most happening of the northern Florida Keys. That's saying a lot: The pace of life is still steady as she goes, and sun-drenched relaxation is the order of the day. But there are adorable souvenir shops, tropical art galleries, and — most importantly — lots of bars and restaurants. A cruise down to Islamorada can take less than an hour from Kendall or South Miami, and sitting in the shade at the Tiki Bar (www.holidayisle.com/rest-bars/tiki.html), you feel like you're on vacation much further away from home. At this thatched frat house of a bar back in 1972, inventive bartender "Tiki" John created the rum runner. For $8.60 you can enjoy the sweet taste of Islamorada history. The Island Grill (www.keysdining.com/islandgrill) is another local favorite, with its own beach and comfortable waterfront seating. Dinner at the Islamorada Fish Company (www.islamoradafishcompany.com) is worth the wait for a romantic waterfront dinner and one last cocktail before heading back to Miami. The front of this vast establishment is a popular fish market with great prices on fresh-caught stone crab, yellowtail ($12.99 a pound, baby!), and delectable, buttery lobsters — you can get a whole one for $8.99 a pound, out of season. Eat dinner on the waterfront — some pretty big fish come swimming up to the marina to be fed by eager guests.
Sure you could have a house party, but then there's the cleanup. Clubs are exciting, but snobby doormen and expensive drinks can put a damper on your night. Area 61 is a hidden gem. Located at the end of a winding road, it looks like any one of many surrounding warehouses. But inside the converted studio is surprisingly cozy and intimate — two musts when it comes to choosing a location for your bash. The parking is free and the urban ambiance is fitting for anything from a small birthday soiree to a banging dance blowout. All that, plus your friends will be impressed with your ability to sniff out a place for an authentic underground warehouse party. The venue also has couches to lounge on, a stage (for drunken antics), cordless mikes, a PA, a projector, and surround sound.
Reville Veillard, employee of Flamingo Taxi, has driven many a drunk partier in his day, and it hasn't always been pretty. "Sometimes they throw up in the car," he says. But despite the cleanup, Veillard doesn't mind chauffeuring the extremely inebriated. Even after twenty years of crappy tips and wasted patrons, Veillard still claims, "They're good people." Yes, better to ruin the interior of a taxi rather than your own driving record — or someone else's life. Now don't go and make Veillard change his mind about these "good" drunks; if you've had a few too many drinks and you're on Miami Beach, call him for a ride at 786-306-3926.
The Barnacle Historic State Park is the perfect environment to enjoy a relaxing high. After you smoke that Philly, step into Old Florida. Walk through the gated entrance, drop some change in the donation box ($1 is suggested), and get a glimpse of what Miami looked like when it was first settled back in the mid-1800s. As you enter the dark corridor of tropical and exotic trees, you can smell the native coffee shrubs that grow wild here. Be careful which plants you touch, because there are poison woods growing here. Look closely and you might be able to watch black sap dripping down their orange trunks (a must-see if you're in the proper state). Inhale the intoxicating breeze as you reach the end of this tropical hardwood hammock, stepping into the five-acre park with Biscayne Bay at its tip. Sit and relax on one of the plush outdoor sofas or rocking chairs as the sailboats on the blue bay slowly float by. Check out the artesian well that was the main source of water for the estate, which was first settled in 1877 by Ralph Munroe, one of Coconut Grove's founders. Take a tour of his house, built in 1891 and the oldest still in its original location in Miami-Dade County.
Best Place to Get Offered a Dildo and Some Blow
Miami Beach Marina
We're pulling out of the Miami Beach Marina's parking lot on a recent Friday evening. We've pounded a few libations at Monty's Raw Bar, so we're not quite sure what to make of the portly man in the denim overalls and T-shirt. His right hand is clutching something inside a plastic bag. Is it a gunç A knifeç Does he want to kill usç He sprouts a grin that spreads from ear to ear. His curly black hair is a mangled mess. He pulls out a gigantic vibrating faux penis from the bag. "Hey, bro, if I give you a couple of lines of cocaine, will you let me stick this up your assç" Ummm, no. He cackles off to a nearby white stretch limo, where he offers the same proposition to a man hanging out of the passenger-side window.
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