A Miamian's dilemma: You want to enjoy all the great things about Lincoln Road — the unparalleled people-watching, the sidewalk-café ambiance under gently lit palms, the crackling South Beach energy. But you're a local. You're not about to fall for the ol' hot-Ukrainian-model-waving-a-menu-in-your-face ploy, and you're sure as hell not going to spend 200 bucks just to relax in the shade for a couple of hours. Who would have thought that a wine bar, of all the bourgeois haunts, would come to the rescue? Eno's Winebar Café is a slim and stylish storefront in the middle of Lincoln Road Mall, lit with an audacious red chandelier and stocked with hundreds of wines. Best of all, Eno's rotating cast of vinos is hooked to a high-tech sampling machine. You can "charge" a plastic card with as much cash as you'd like and then taste away with a splash of that Armand de Brignac or a full glass of the Leroy Bourgogne Rouge. Shady outdoor tables alongside a gently gurgling fountain are the perfect setting for finally enjoying Lincoln like a local.

It's 5 p.m. on a steamy Tuesday, and the plumbers have disappeared. So too the electricians, the produce truck driver, and the neighborhood retiree in ratty golf clothes. Intrigued, you spot Jim, the welder wiping his brow, tossing his tools in his pickup and heading along Red Road. So you follow, past Coral Way, into the heart of West Miami's main artery, where Jim parks next to a rusty blue jalopy with a surfboard strapped to the roof and buoys dangling from the tail fins. The sign is a little confusing: "Se7as Bar," it says. But when you wander in, it's all forgotten: From floor to ceiling, the perfectly dim, smoky enclave is packed with yellowed nautical doodads: naked mermaid mastheads, wooden ship effigies, diver suits. And there, drinking dirt-cheap Buds around a solid wooden bar, are every workmanlike fellow and lady in the hood. The bartender knows their names. She'd like to know yours too.

After drunkenly dipping the tip of your cue stick into a stranger's beer, you somehow sidestep a fistfight. For a moment, your luck looks good. But there's still this last shot, and it's a tricky one. The eight ball is trapped against the cushion between the three and six. You chalk up. You take your shot. You scratch. You lose. You pay out another $20. Man, it's time for more tequila. The clock says 5 p.m., and this is happy hour at your favorite pool hall. There's grit and smoke and tough old hustlers working their evening scheme. Behind the black bar, lurid red neon spells it out in a cursive scrawl: "Sharp" to the left, "Shooters" to the right. Suddenly, some boozer kicks the jukebox and Merle Haggard begins singing: "Hell, we'll wake up the roosters if we drink them real slow/Well, let's have a double and a six-pack to go." Those words make you feel like Minnesota Fats. You order a $8.10 pack of Marlboros and another round of cheap booze. A table usually costs $6.50 a person per hour, but two happy-hour drinks get you free games till 8. This reposado is your fourth. It's time to play again.

Think fast! What's the capital of Uruguay? Who won the 1982 World Series? Who in hell sang the hit 1964 song "My Girl"?! You're slamming pint after pint of frosty imported beer — such as Slovakian Golden Pheasant, Ayinger from Germany, and Belgium's Wayerbacher — and banging your head against the table in a futile effort at pummeling your brain into cooperating. There's a lot on the line here. Abraxas Lounge, a cozy converted house in the South of Fifth neighborhood jammed with low-slung couches and scarred bar stools, is packed as always on a Tuesday night. A dozen teams are squinting at the video board, desperately trying to talk their way into an obscure bit of trivia locked in the lower depths of their subconscious. To the victor: a sizable chunk of cash toward the night's bar tab. To the loser: the eternal shame of not remembering Montevideo, the '82 Cardinals, and the Temptations, you idiot! It's free every Tuesday at 8:30 p.m.

You got fired. Your live-in girlfriend dumped and robbed you. The rent check bounced. The car has a flat. There are ants in your cereal. Your own dog mauled you. The sun is going down, and the electricity just got cut. When fate is pressing its sharpest knife to your throat, a three-day, beer-soaked vacation from reality is the only option. Behold South Miami's bender mecca, Cervezas, a no-bullshit sanctuary from the ever-increasing absurdity of human existence. This place is cool, dark, and packed so full of brew that you could easily drink for 72 hours and never see the bottom of your bottle. There are 200 kinds of local, microbrew, import, fine, and not-so-fine suds, including Florida's Native Lager; Cooperstown's Ommegang Abbey, Canada's Labatt Blue, and Belgium's St. Bernardus Abt 12. Almost nothing costs more than $6. So get drunk and wash the curse away, if only till sobriety brings your bad luck barreling back again.

Go to the American Legion and order a goddamn drink. Yes, the American Legion. A little patriotism won't kill you, you fucking hipster. Sit your ass down and have a fucking beer. A fucking Bud Light. There's a fancy place around the corner if you want to be a pussy, OK? Take a swig of that shit and ask for Sean. He's a bartender and he's a real straight talker. He's fought in some wars. Just shut the fuck up and listen to him. The dude tells some good stories, you asshole. Also, watch the sports on the motherfucking TV set because that's what you do at a motherfucking vets' hall. Seriously, look it up. Man, sometimes I want to shoot you with my fucking hunting rifle.

Last night's hangover in dire need of a cure? Head to 660 at the Angler's Resort for brunch and choose the bottomless bloody mary bar. The red spicy concoctions are served from a rolling cart, where an attendant dispenses house-made bloody marys. The cart is stocked with clam juice, chianti-cured salami, cornichons, caper berries, celery, queen olives, and house-made fennel salt. Choose what you'd like, and the attendant will mix your cocktail — ahem, cocktails — the way you like. Really, where else does $14 get you an endless supply of good bloody marys on South Beach? Anyone? We thought so. Just don't forget to have some food with that libation. The bottomless bloody mary bar is offered Saturday and Sunday from 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.

Caffeine and alcohol can make you feel like Superman's boozy brother: tossed off the sauce but still invincible. Which is why some folks in Utah have pushed to have the concoction banned. Thank God Miami isn't one of those wimpy places. If it were, we might not have the café con leche martini, a $10 creation that tastes like it was invented by a barista witch-doctor genius. Found only at Wynwood's Cafeina (as far as we know), the cocktail consists of coffee-infused vodka, Amaraula South African cream liqueur, and crème de cacao, topped with ground cinnamon and three espresso beans. It's served in a martini glass by a knowledgeable but unpretentious bartender. And don't worry — there's not enough espresso in the thing to keep you up all night, like that time at the cabin when you drank four Irish coffees, took off all of your clothes, and shouted, "I'm the queen of the world!" Or maybe that was just us.

Summer in Miami pretty much spells out one thing: B-E-A-C-H. And for most people, the turquoise waters, half-naked bronze bodies, and holy-crap heat are the reason to stay in the Magic City from June through September. But for those of us who don't really like sweat invading every inch of our body while baking in a 350-degree oven known as July, there is an affordable, cool, and tasty alternative. It's Miami Spice restaurant month! Eager for a fine-dining experience but not sure if you can afford eating out at one of Miami's finest restaurants? Let Miami Spice come to the rescue. During August and September, Miami's top restaurants offer three-course meals (lunch $22, dinner $35) featuring signature dishes created by world-renowned chefs. Some of the participating restaurants include Vida at the Fontainebleau Miami Beach, Smith & Wollensky, Red Fish Grill, and Bizcaya at the Ritz-Carlton Coconut Grove. Foodies and those looking to stuff their faces with ridiculously expensive cuisine for the first time, discover the diverse fusion of ingredients that makes Miami dining so wonderful and unique. It'll leave you screaming, "Caliente!"

If you wanna listen to the certified medical professionals, booze isn't a reliable preventative or cure-all for ailments such as the common cold, seasonal flu, or imminent plague à la H1N1. They say it kills your liver, sends you into deep dehydration, and numbs you to the actual symptoms of your illness. But we call bullshit. Really, what the hell do those quacks know? As habitual heavy drinkers, we've done the research and we can testify to the magical medicinal effects of alcohol. Take Mercadito's $8 el pirata, whose five active ingredients chase away the flu. First, the El Jimador Blanco tequila pickles your body's sick cells. Second, the pineapple juice replenishes much-depleted vitamin C and natural sugar supplies. Third, a heavy dash of house spices kicks dormant salivary glands back into action, flooding your dried-out mouth and throat with natural lubricants. Fourth, hot jalapeño peppers spike the snot from your sinuses. And finally, there's that dose of beer, wrapping your brain in a beautiful booze hug, dulling the senses and bringing sweet drunk relief. Cazart! You are cured!