The Aragon Avenue block between Salzedo Street and Ponce de Leon Boulevard already boasts Books & Books and the Coral Gables Museum. But with the arrival of the Coral Gables Art Cinema across the street, the strip has become a mini cultural mecca. And among the recent boutique movie theaters opened in Miami in the past couple of months, the Gables art house stands out for doing just about everything right. It threw open its doors last fall with the Florida premiere of Freakonomics and continues to nab indie and foreign flicks before they hit the multiplexes. But the programming extends beyond the silver screen via special events. Canines were invited to the opening night of My Dog Tulip, an animated movie about a man and his German shepherd. And when Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune opened, Coral Gables Art Cinema paired the doc with an open bar, free food, Folk Club of South Florida performances, and an interactive, live telecast with Ochs director Kenneth Bowser. The theater even has small-scale stadium seating (just enough to give unobstructed views but not so much as to induce vertigo), and films screen for a week or more — meaning there's ample time to hear about a great flick playing and then get your procrastinating ass to the theater.

Codependency is normally considered a bad thing, but sometimes, when it allows people to produce creative ventures or share their smarts, it becomes a dysfunction that's kinda sweet. The End/Spring Break is a nomadic art project and proud enabler of Miami's grassroots cultural scene. Organizers Domingo Castillo, Patti Hernandez, and Kiwi Farah have created an innovative project that is accessible, productive, and amazing — plus money-making. Spring Break takes place during South Florida's busy season (winter), and the End happens during the sweltering summer, when no one wants to be here. Launched in the past year, the project has hosted more than a hundred events for thousands of people. The End/Spring Break's organizers fill unused spaces with traditional and innovative events. They've hosted film screenings of high- and lowbrow flicks (think Werner Herzog and Encino Man), kimchi-making demonstrations in an art gallery, poetry readings (one was from Ballerz, a journal of basketball poems), talks about the history of punk in Miami, and live musical performances. The locations are offered to the project for free and have included spots such as the Bas Fisher Invitational and a booth at the Miami International Art Fair.

Whatever is playing on the outdoor screen of New World Center's 2.5-acre public park, Soundscape, is probably better than the romantic comedy you're thinking about watching at Regal. It's also cheaper — as in free — and easier to sneak in a bottle of wine. In fact, bring a whole picnic basket and really impress your date. Maybe even surprise that special person with tickets for a postdinner orchestral performance by the New World Symphony inside the Frank Gehry-designed architectural masterpiece. Hello, culture.

Little Haiti is a hood notorious for crime and impoverishment. Every block seems to have a dope hole, a church, a school, and a liquor store. The truth is, although criminal activity abounds on the streets, it's also a working-class neighborhood full of law-abiding people. All the drugs and guns, however, leave young residents with a dilemma: Thug it out and get rich or die trying, or work toward something greater. No movie has so realistically depicted Little Haiti, its citizens, and their customs as American Zoe. The fictional film's documentary style and its success are a direct result of producer Jonas Antenor's involvement. He and his friends, all Little Haiti residents, along with award-winning playwright Susan Kari, collaborated to achieve a socially realistic vision of the streets with a powerful narrative and a happy ending. That 17-year-old Antenor and four other teens were found dead of carbon monoxide poisoning in a Hialeah motel December 28, 2010, is tragic, but this great movie lives as a tribute to the community they loved and the story they chose to tell about it.

Sure, scripted series such as Burn Notice and Dexter might do a stand-up job of representing rich and interesting but ultimately fictionalized versions of the Magic City, but it's been a long while since the small screen has captured a more realistic and recognizable side of the city. You know, the side obsessed with image, status, gossip, and catty back-biting. The side that slips itself into a tube dress two sizes too small and paints its acrylic nails fuchsia only to have them broken off later that night during an impromptu bitch-slap fest. For that, you have to turn to VH1's Basketball Wives. The cadre of groupies, exes, and wives of NBA players assembled by executive producer (and Shaq's ex) Shaunie O'Neal doesn't make for the most intellectual programming on television, but these folks sure are more entertaining than all of those other vapid reality shows set in Miami. How can you watch the air-humpingly happy Royce Reed square off in verbal tiffs against Evelyn Lozada (who exudes a certain effortless I'm-the-head-bitch-and-I-know-it vibe that's so necessary for good reality television) and not be entertained? Sure, other shows set in the 305 might have more cultural value, but few really represent a certain segment of our culture quite so well. Ask yourself when was the last time you walked around town and saw a spy shootout or serial killing spree. Now, when was the last time you saw a chick with too many rhinestones and an entitlement problem? You're probably within 30 feet of one right now.

Long before the University of Miami was known as "the U" and when Hurricanes football players were more chumps than champs, it was the Lady Canes who brought athletic glory to the school. The women's golf and swim teams won multiple national championships in the '70s. Now with the football team in a (let's hope temporary) rut, it's the ladies once again who are the pride and joy of Hurricanes athletics. Unquestionably, the women's basketball team was the best on campus this year, and it's in no small part thanks to Shenise Johnson. The Canes won the ACC regular-season championship and skyrocketed to the national top ten, while Johnson netted honors as ACC Player of the Year. She was the only player in the conference to land in the top ten for average points, rebounds, and assists. Shenise and her talented teammates ended the regular season with a 26-3 record. Hell, forget best team on the Coral Gables campus. Considering the Heat's sometimes struggles, Johnson might just be leading the best team in all of Miami.

Anyone who can make Perez Hilton leap out of his host chair and yell, "I'm from Miami too, bitch!" deserves some attention. That was the scene at the Bad Girls Club Miami reunion after Lea Beaulieu, arguably the most exciting reality-TV vixen ever, unleashed her Latina temper yet again. Beaulieu was just another sharp-tongued employee at Salvation Tattoo on Washington Avenue when a phone call changed her life. Oxygen's Bad Girls Club Miami was looking for a few photogenic ladies with a penchant for misbehaving. Beaulieu not only qualified but also proved to be the über-bad girl. With her multiple tattoos, piercings, red lips, and perfectly coifed hair, she's like a hipper, more badass version of Grease's Pink Ladies. And though Beaulieu was born in San Francisco and raised by a Brazilian mother, her blood runs pure, hot-tempered Cuban. Her good looks and mean streak proved to be a deadly combo. Over 13 episodes, roommate Brandi became so obsessed with her that she was driven to near breakdown in an unforgettable panini-maker-throwing freakout. And although Beaulieu and roommate Kristen spent more than half the season as bosom buddies, their friendship came to a violent end when Beaulieu punched her five times in the face. Looking back, Beaulieu's downfall — or perhaps greatest skill — was her ability to go from zero to chonga in record time. Among all the bitches on reality television, Beaulieu holds a special place in our heart because her flip-outs were tinged with Miami flair. But maybe it's not fair to judge anyone through the distortion of a reality-TV lens. As she told us, she remembers her Bad Girls Club experience as a "prison with beautiful furniture and lots of booze. It's a lot like a sweet house arrest."

Most TV news anchors are saccharine. They work too hard for our attention, overplaying emotions like freshmen drama school students. Then they end every story on a note of hope, even when the facts are bleak. Not Calvin Hughes. When the Emmy Award-winning WPLG Channel 10 newscaster headed down to Port-au-Prince for a three-part series called "Haiti: One Year Later," he didn't choke up, even when covering earthquake victims with amputated limbs. And he didn't inject false hope into the country's struggle to overcome crime, disease, and poverty. Instead, he reported the story gracefully and professionally, ending one piece by lamenting that most Haitians still lived in "inhumane conditions with an inept government, no leadership, no work, and, dare I say, no hope for some that tomorrow will bring a better day." Growing up in Cleveland and East St. Louis, Hughes learned that reporters' platitudes and smiling sign-offs often hide the intransigence of poverty and blight. His reporting reveals those problems without dismissing them.

We admit we had never heard of Claudia DoCampo either, at least until last winter. That's when the plucky brunette elbowed her way up to soon-to-be-ex-county Commissioner Natacha Seijas and did what no other reporter around had yet achieved: forced her to answer a question. Well, kind of. On January 31, DoCampo showed up to interview Julio Robaina at the opening of a clinic in Hialeah. Instead, she spotted Seijas, who for weeks had been dodging her and other reporters' interview requests. So the scrappy DoCampo cornered the commissioner and asker her about the recall campaign against her. First, Seijas simply repeated, "No, señora," and tried to slip away. But when DoCampo held her ground, the politician shoved the reporter out of the way, banging her arm against a doorway. Even then, the Argentine-American newscaster didn't give up. "Don't push me!" she yelled and kept following Seijas around the clinic. At one point, the commissioner had to stare at a wall to ignore her. Finally, Seijas turned around, grabbed DoCampo's microphone, and said in Spanish: "Ma'am, we are not here for that. We are here for something very special, OK? There is an ongoing lawsuit. I am not going to answer you. Do you understand what a lawsuit is? OK? Thank you." As Seijas marched off, DoCampo shot back, "You don't have to push me or touch my microphone," before adding a sarcastic gracias of her own. In the end, DoCampo didn't get the straightforward answer she and the rest of Miami-Dade deserved. But by exposing Seijas's fear of the truth, the resilient reporter revealed a more accurate portrait of Seijas than if the commissioner had simply answered the freaking question in the first place.

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