Arts & Entertainment

This place is smashingly good fun in addition to bringing out the artist in folks of all ages. Using bits of broken glass, ceramics and tile (all tumbled to remove sharp edges), patrons turn frames, candleholders, coasters and vases into colorful works of art. Actually, the place has a threefold purpose: It’s an art studio, a showplace for commissioning pieces and an art gallery. Owners Robin Franklin and Tracy Graivier are ready to help with ideas. If you prefer doing your smashing and gluing at home, they have take-home kits to get you started. Graivier has even written a book, Crazy Mosaic, which is filled with ideas and hints. So, if you happen to break a piece of Granny’s china or knock over her favorite lamp, just scoop up the pieces and head on down. There’s art in such disasters.

If you like your reading fast and gritty, with lots of bad-guy chasing and a liberal sprinkling of sex with the scams and body count, Dallas’ A.W. Gray is your man. He’s been spinning best-selling mystery tales for years, beginning with his popular series about local private eye Bino Phillips (Bino, Bino’s Blues, etc.). And here’s a little secret: When you think you’ve read his complete body of work, there’s plenty more. The prolific writer has several pen names. Want horror? Try Crossland Brown’s Tombley’s Walk. Jeffrey Ames (Lethal City, etc.) is a Gray crime fiction nom de plume. For his legal thrillers, look for the name Sarah Gregory (In Self Defense, etc.). He/she can be found in better bookstores everywhere.

Like Riverdance performed underwater by fat people, clogging has its own strange appeal…or not. If you just can’t get your fill of mature ladies in sensible shoes making their skirts fly up over their panties, you could see a psychiatrist, or you could call the number above for the Texas Clogging Council and get specifics on next year’s Texas Clogger’s Rally, to be held March 5 and March 6. There’s always a big audience. Maybe you know why.

Say you’re a lonely Howard Dean supporter, a witch, a native speaker of French or a pagan (same thing), a John Kerry supporter, Web logger or Goth, and you want to meet others of your tribe. Meetups is the place to go. Operating by Web and all over the world, Meetups arranges get-togethers in local venues for people seeking their ilk, whatever that may be. Plans are still in flux, for example, for the next Dallas-area meet-up of people who are Elvis. But there are already 53 of him signed up. Hey, even if you’re not Elvis, how could you miss? There’s a movie in here somewhere.

If we were up for drinking games at 8 a.m., this would be the quickest way to get shit-faced. The rules would be as follows: One drink every time Scott Sams mispronounces and/or gives the incorrect name for a local charity, council member or day of the week. Two drinks every time he makes a blatant pass at the eternally uncomfortable Grecian Goddess of Mixmaster Traffic, Alexa Conomos. One drink every time weatherman Greg Field’s voice cracks, and another swig any time any one of them tries unsuccessfully to create “colorful banter” after underestimating how much time they have left on the air before the signal mercifully switches back to Good Morning America. We’ve formed an addiction to Daybreak and watch it religiously before heading off to work. It’s funny and gets us going. Don’t believe us? Just watch. It’s like Laugh-In with extended forecasts.

Before anti-abortion senators helped pass legislation that mandated a 24-hour waiting period for women seeking abortions so they could have a period of reflection and read literature about abortion’s possible hazards, pro-choice senators made a fevered pitch to exempt those women who want abortions because of rape, incest or their own health. Senator Robert Deuell, who lives in Greenville and plays a doctor in real life, rose to speak against these exemptions. “There are many hundreds, if not thousands, of women who have been raped and carried that pregnancy and had the baby and have been very happy that they have done that…I still feel strongly that even as tragic as some of those circumstances are, they have been a blessing to many, many people.” Rape as a blessing bestowed upon the victim? What’s next? Armed robbery as an expression of God’s will?

Over the years, Emma Rodgers’ store has become a full-fledged cultural force in the community, sponsoring literary and political discussions, promoting local authors, bringing African and African-American books to Dallas that otherwise would never get here. But it’s still at its core a great independent bookstore, where you can expect surprises and delights every time you browse–all the stuff that never gets into the mega-stores. If you took this store away, Dallas would be a different city.

It’s rare that we stray from our Dallas best, but the political courage of Senator William Ratliff is so exemplary that it deserves being celebrated, even though he hails from Mount Pleasant. With conservative Republican Governor Rick Perry so partisan he can make David Dewhurst look like a statesman, it’s damn refreshing to find a moderate Republican who has the political huevos to do the right thing rather than the thing that is right. He is honest (chastised his brethren for not raising taxes), brilliant, savvy, and if not for his refusal to bend to big-time Republican money, he might still be lieutenant governor today. During the regular session, he smoothed out the extreme edges of a tort reform bill and made its passage possible. But his most impressive act of defiance came during the special session when he refused to roll over and play dead for the redistricting designs of the Republican guard. Siding with 10 Democrats, this lone Republican derailed at least one map that would have “Perrymandered” the state in a manner that he felt would have diluted the voting strength of rural Texans. We can only hope they appreciate it–and him–as much as we do.

You wouldn’t think that a former assistant district attorney who was named “Prosecutor of the Year” by law enforcement boosters for her zealous pursuit of child abuse cases that had grown old and cold would make the most impartial judge. It might prove too difficult to keep an open mind so that both sides–prosecution and defense–get a fair and unbiased hearing. But the book on newly elected Susan Hawk, who at 32 was the youngest candidate running for a felony bench, is that she has acquitted herself in a fine fashion. Although she has yet to preside over the kind of high-profile case that might really try her sense of justice, she is a good listener, a good learner and someone who strives to do the right thing. What more could you want from a new judge?

This election cycle was supposed to be the year of the Democrat (remember the Dream Team?), particularly in Dallas County, where 24 Democratic judicial candidates tried to bust up the Republican monopoly over the courthouse. But the lone Democratic candidate to win a bench had a long history as a Republican. Sally Montgomery had switched parties and turned Democrat after Republican voters sent her packing in a bitter primary defeat in 2000. Yet with the help of her old contacts within the Republican women’s club circuit, she managed to pull out an upset victory over her Republican challenger. If her election represents the sea change that Democrats were hoping for, they had better find more Republicans to run on their ticket.

Although he’s busy as an instructor at the University of Texas at Dallas, Greg Metz is still a master in the world of sculpture and installation. His art carries energy and a bit of controversy. To Deep Ellum regulars, his most public work is the set of faces that adorns the Club Dada building. To activists, his work is familiar and includes “Diner” (an Airstream trailer with the atrocities of the meatpacking industry on one side and a “last supper” incorporating famous vegetarians instead of disciples), a mobile exhibit that recently toured Europe, receiving praise most of the way. He’s been arrested for his work (a sculpture downtown protesting the Silver Springs monkey testing), participates in Houston’s Art Car Parade every year and often exhibits in gallery shows (including at UTD). Dedication to his art seems to be as much a part of him as his skin. And politics are a large part of his work. His latest statements include having two obviously foreign men dressed as guards frisk people as they entered the Touchy Feely show at Sydney Patrick Gallery. And the inaugural show for the Sallad performance series at The McKinney Avenue Contemporary was called “State of the Loonion,” which Metz says is “a confrontational revision of this administration’s new patriotic agenda.” Greg Metz, we salute you.@choice:

Some people run for their health. Some run for charity. And others would run only if someone were chasing them. But some (God bless ’em) will run for beer. They’re the Dallas-Fort Worth Hash House Harriers, or hashers for short, and every week they gather to embark on a common mission: booze. This self-proclaimed “drinking group with a running problem” meets at various places throughout the Dallas area to begin a three- to five-mile trek through fields, streams, woods, streets or wherever the trail is set. When the journey is complete, the party begins. Now we’re not runners ourselves. And, in fact, we’re getting a pain in our side and a potential shin splint just thinking about it. But this hashing stuff? This is a reason to run…and just so you know, walking and jogging are acceptable on the hash trails as well. Call the hotline for specifics on run times and dates.

It not only offers a step back into a kinder, more communal time but a complete inventory of fabrics, patterns and books for the beginner as well as the expert quilter. In the back of the store, a variety of classes are offered by Alice and Dave Cooksey, who purchased the store from quilting icon Betsy Chutchian. But Betsy’s not gone. She’s still teaching classes. Lone Star also is the meeting place of several quilting clubs. There’s the Loose Threads and 19th Century Patchwork Divas, who gather to quilt and socialize. “We’ve got a good mix of those who have been quilting forever and those just learning,” Alice Cooksey says.

Each fall and spring, budding Cassatts and Renoirs have the opportunity to participate in the DMA’s Art Exploration Classes. Small groups of kids 3 to 5 years old, each with a parent or guardian, spend an hour on a single artistic element such as color, patterns or texture. And because the classes explore the DMA as well as create there, they provide the perfect demystifying opportunity for kids to learn to feel comfortable in a museum. “We begin by pretending that we’re detectives as we search the galleries for examples of the topic that we’re studying that day,” says Catherine Norman of the DMA. “Then we go back to the studio and do exercises centered on that topic, and they leave with a piece of art.” Norman says both kids and adults “behave really well” during the classes, and the artwork is particularly treasured because two generations are involved. And it’s a bargain: The classes cost $5 for DMA members and $15 for non-members. This fall, classes will be October 4 and October 25.

Portraiture isn’t exactly a lost art, although fewer painters choose it as their area of specialty now than they did in the time of Renoir. The demand has changed a bit since the camera was invented. Even well-intentioned, sentimental people who ache to capture the charm of their 6-year-olds, or their moms, dads and grandmothers, spend great wads of cash at some high-priced photography studio, only to be slightly disappointed in the great, glossy, hyper-realistic, frozen midsmile images that they dutifully hang over the fireplace. There is, of course, an alternative. Dallas boasts one of the most innovative, creative and recognized portrait artists in the Southwest. Known for her expressive nature and wide-open personality, Connie Connally paints unique and personal portraits that reveal little nuances and details about her subjects that surprise and delight the people who commission her work. She has a nontraditional approach to portrait “sitting,” preferring to visit her subjects in their homes, making animated sketches and taking photographs while she talks with them. Connally takes her research into the studio and comes out with dramatic, detailed faces with exaggerated cheekbones, poignant and expressive eyes and determined chins. Connally’s instant affinity with the people she paints is her secret, although years of study and work have honed her technique. In 2000, she crafted 90 portraits into a piece of fine art called “People I Know,” which debuted at Craighead-Green Gallery and was selected for exhibitions through 2003 at galleries throughout the Southwest and California.

The piercing blue eyes of executive assistant P.J. Vitruk stare from a page of Paul McKay’s sample book. The crimson of the regal chair in which she poses seems to infuse her silver hair, as one elegant index finger rests lightly on the rim of the object she holds, the focus of the portrait: her martini glass. You want to have a drink with this woman. “I don’t paint photographs,” says longtime Dallas artist McKay. “I try to bring the subject’s personality to life by letting the colors collide and bounce off each other.” He thumbs through the book of faces, famous and otherwise, and you begin to see what he means. One of the most striking of the images is a self-portrait done almost in pointillist style. Rendered and surrounded by surprising color choices, the amazingly youthful, nearly unlined face of the 73-year-old artist invites you to look beneath the surface at the creative mischief within his heart. Many portrait subjects seek to be flattered by the removal of pounds or years. McKay flatters through a revelation of the soul. Prices start at $3,500.

Until 2001, University Park had the peculiar distinction of being the nation’s largest city without its own public library. Until then, residents had been able to use the Highland Park Library without charge. When that changed, an energetic group of volunteers called Friends of the University Park Public Library held book sales and other fund-raisers, allowing the new library to open in a bank building. Last year, librarian Lee Schuey, a veteran of 30 years with the Dallas Public Library, was hired. Now, according to Friends President Carol Ann Luby, the library boasts more than 50,000 books, videos, CDs and audio books. “We offer evening lecture programs in the fall and spring and have just completed a kids summer reading program,” Luby says. “And our catalog is going online at www.uplibrary.org.” Best of all, there is no University Park residency requirement, so all are welcome. Hours are 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Tuesday and 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Wednesday through Saturday.

For the past nine years, this writing and illustration competition has been making a difference in the lives of students at this mostly minority school in East Dallas by matching them with professionals who mentor them through a semester-long project. The mentors and young writers and artists usually meet for about an hour each week during the fall, and the work is assembled into a glossy booklet distributed at the program banquet in April. According to KWC founder Larry Estes, “Working with adult professionals helps our young writers develop skills and discipline that they just can’t get from normal class work. Moreover, since many KWC participants come from homes where English is not spoken, this program gives them confidence in their abilities. Nearly 100 percent of our winners [three prizes are awarded in both the writing and illustration categories] go on to Talented and Gifted DISD schools. Since most of the mentors return year after year, it’s obviously rewarding for them as well.” Estes says there’s always room for more mentors and those interested should give him a call.

America loves an underdog, the saying goes. And we do, too. While it’s consistent in the quality of the exhibits it organizes, Photographs Do Not Bend doesn’t get the shower of praise some one-hit-a-season wonders do. PDNB represents artists working in a wide range of photographic styles and also owns a specialized archive of pictures. No matter what the exhibit is–themed collection from the archives, semi-famous contemporary photographer–it’s worth driving down Routh Street and looking for this little house.

The best public sculpture is something that doesn’t blend into the background of everyday life. No matter how many times–every day, once a week, once a year–that it’s seen, it never ceases to attract attention. Meet “Harrow,” a steel sculpture in Lubben Plaza Park. It always amazes us. A giant rust-brown cone that resembles a household screw enlarged to the size of a child revolves around a sand-covered track, making a complete circle once a day and creating rings in the sand. Artist Linnea Glatt designed it to move slowly and effortlessly, so you never actually see it making its revolution. But pass by it a few hours later, and you’ll notice its progress and the concentric circles. And you’ll keep noticing it.@choice:Pegasus – Atop the Magnolia Hotel 1401 Commerce St.

Don’t get us wrong. We like UFO stuff and The Lost City of Atlantis and health supplements and crop circles and magnetic shoe arches and secret government experiments. This is the stuff of life, the fruit of the twisted imagination. We just have a difficult time taking it in its raw, unadulterated form. When filtered through the monthly debunking machine of this sharply edited newsletter, though, it’s perfect. We get our Face on Mars cake and a list of the bizarre ingredients, too. It’s like reading Hollywood gossip crunched and analyzed by The New York Times. Brought to you by the fine minds of the North Texas Skeptics club, the newsletter features short items and long essays written by an array of local physicians, scientists and academics. Of course, you have to join to get it or, like us, pretend you are a member of the Fourth Estate. For details, visit their Web site at www.ntskeptics.org.

We’re looking forward to the day when someone clones Mayor Laura Miller. That woman is so busy busting nicotine addicts and one-legged beggars–and fixing to drive the Dallas Cowboys away–that we’re certain she does the work of two Laura Millers. And wouldn’t a second Laura Miller be a treat for Mr. Laura Miller! This year, however, Dr. Zech Dameron’s cute little longhorn clones are the best in the barnyard. The good doctor had three of them–exact copies of his monster longhorn Starlight–but he sold one late last year to an exceedingly wealthy individual from Houston. With the endless march of scientific progress, the Observer is looking forward to making this an annual “best of” category. If you clone someone or something–livestock, reptiles, city officials, whatever–please drop us a line, and we’ll put your clone to the test.

Dallas’ big Soviet-style downtown projects–the stalled and poorly named Victory development, for one–get all the ink and ire. The city center’s real victories have been won where someone has thought small: the Jeroboam restaurant, the Umlaut bar and a host of others that are just getting out of the blocks. This year, Stone Street Gardens, in the heart of the grid, added itself to the list, and it’s a consumer hit. A handful of restaurants, including local chains Campisi’s and Izmir and the stand-alone Metropolitan, have sprung up on the block-long walkway, and they’re frequently packed. The city center’s first news/coffee/bagel stand–and it’s not a Starbucks–halfway down the pedestrian thoroughfare adds a touch of urban sophistication. Although they did it with a chunk of city money, they did it without a grand, 10-block, five-year plan.

She booked out of Dallas right after graduating from Walden Prep School at 16 and worked her way through New York’s Hunter College as a stripper at a Manhattan joint called The Doll House. Got your attention? OK, skip to the present, when 37-year-old Victoria Alexander, now living in SoHo, is the highly praised author of two novels: Smoking Hopes, which was published in ’96 and deals with life in an Upper East Side Japanese hostess club, and her most recent, Naked Singularity, which addresses the subject of euthanasia. Publishers Weekly calls the latter “gut-wrenching and eloquently written.” Nothing is ordinary about this rebellious and gifted writer who says the reason she left Dallas for New York was because “it’s easier for a nerd to fit in up here.”

It’s our annual fave, and the other local comics shops should not take offense; when you’ve experienced the prosecutorial hell Keith’s Comics has been through of late (“Comic Appeal,” August 14), you deserve at least honorable mention and then some. But Jeremy Shorr’s place on Bachman Lake, twixt a dollar store and a karate classroom, rings up this annual accolade because it’s a pure comics shop–back issues that go way back to the Golden Age take up most of the space, ringed by walls of new stuff from the majors (DC and Marvel) and the minors and dang near every indie this side of Hoboken. Shorr, aided by a knowledgeable and friendly staff, has also taken to carrying an estimable library of comic-book histories, in addition to boxes full of old mags about comics; it’s a history lesson in here, as well as a sneak peek at the bright future of a once-accursed medium that now provides the movies with endless source material.

How does this college theater do it? Using student actors and non-pros cast from open auditions, Quad C consistently offers professional-level productions that outshine Equity-heavy downtown stages. In three acting spaces, including the 350-seat John Anthony Theatre, Quad C produces enormous, spectacularly designed shows. Last fall’s elegant and disturbing A Clockwork Orange featured a huge cast of promising young actors, particularly Plano native Brian J. Smith, now off to complete his acting studies at Juilliard. Quad C’s dynamic artistic director, Brad Baker, has earned a national rep as a teacher, director and writer (he penned the Clockwork script). For the donation of a new stuffed animal (gathered at the box office for a local charity), tickets to most Quad C shows are free. Quad C’s new season starts out with a bang October 2 with Assassins, the controversial Stephen Sondheim musical. Also on the season lineup are a trilogy of Horton Foote plays and a production of Neil Labute’s latest, The Shape of Things.@choice:Contemporary Theatre of Dallas – 5601 Sears St. 214-828-0094

Look at the wildly diverse work versatile director Rene Moreno has helmed for local theaters recently: the romantic two-character musical The Last Five Years at Plano Rep, the raucous comedy Buford Gomez: Tales of a Rightwing Border Patrol Officer for Martice Productions in the basement of the Majestic, Michael Frayn’s difficult drama Copenhagen at Theatre Three, the abstract Crave for the Festival of Independent Theaters and the warm Southern comedy The Exact Center of the Universe at Fort Worth’s Circle Theatre. He also managed to fit in some acting with an intense performance in Harold Pinter’s Old Times at the Bath House Cultural Center. This SMU MFA grad also directs for Milwaukee Rep, and he’s worked at the Guthrie Lab in Minneapolis and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Actors say they trust Moreno’s directing because he casts his plays wisely and doesn’t mess around with a good script. Directors too often get the blame when a production is panned and don’t snag much credit when it’s a hit. Moreno is the secret behind much of Dallas’ best theater. Up next for Moreno: Love’s Fire at SMU’s Margo Jones Theatre scheduled for October 23 through November 2.

Playing a charming psychopath, a frat boy, a wild-haired anarchist or a suave sophisticate, Regan Adair, 29, manages to bring to every role he plays a relaxed authenticity that makes his performances fascinating to watch. Trained as a fashion designer, Adair turned to acting four years ago and over the past few months has popped up in productions at half a dozen area theaters. He’s onstage now at Dallas Theater Center playing Rosencrantz in Hamlet, one of the few local actors director Richard Hamburger personally has recruited for a role (DTC casts mostly out of NYC). It was Adair’s riveting performance in Crave at the recent Festival of Independent Theaters that caught Hamburger’s (and the critics’) attention. One local director describes Adair as “a character actor trapped in an ingenue body.” That’s a nice way of saying he’s immensely talented and really cute.

Blessed with a singing voice so powerful it shows up on Doppler radar, Denise Lee, 43, proved this year that she’s also one of the area’s best serious dramatic actresses. In WaterTower Theatre’s production of The Old Settler, John Henry Redwood’s lovely play about spinster sisters in 1940s Harlem, Lee didn’t sing a note. Instead, she wore dowdy dresses and no makeup and gave a quietly moving performance highlighted by some white-hot chemistry with handsome co-star Kes Kehmnu. Lee also was a knockout in Uptown Players’ musical The Last Session. Known for her showstopping way with musical comedy (she’s a repeat star of WaterTower’s annual Rockin’ Christmas Party), Lee does her cabaret thing most Friday nights at Bill’s Hideaway (4144 Buena Vista). And if there’s a production of Once on This Island in the works, she’s probably in the cast. “I love that show,” says Lee, “but it would be nice to be called in more often for roles that aren’t designated ‘minority.'” Look for Lee this fall on television in the role of captured American soldier Shoshanna Johnson in the NBC teleflick Saving Jessica Lynch.

If you said Dallas wouldn’t buy it, and Randall Garrett couldn’t do it, you were wrong. As Garrett opens the fourth season of Plush, even the naysayers are starting to show up at South Akard on Friday nights for the gallery’s “high levels of cultural noise.” Live music, eccentric paintings and sculpture, performance art and a bohemian club atmosphere enliven Plush. Exhibition opening events now attract an interesting cross section of people, and Garrett is likely to host rap poets, ballerinas or skateboard performers with live music to kick off new art shows by new artists. “I have consciously tried to create a space that puts the Modernist white-cube gallery of the 20th century in the past,” Garrett says. “I want a space that is infiltrated by art that pollutes culture and is polluted back every time.” Plush is all that. It’s unerringly cool and as close as our generation and our city will ever get to the heyday of Andy Warhol’s Factory and the insanity of Studio 54.

If public schools paid one-tenth the attention to arts education that the Dallas Museum of Art does, the world would be a better place. Education is at least half of the DMA’s mission, and programming for children, with families encouraged to participate, is plentiful and of exceptional quality. The museum’s Gateway Gallery is the focal point for young children and parents to learn about art–not only the stuff in the museum’s collections but work by local artists who lead free sketching activities, and, of course, hands-on work by the kids themselves in the Gateway Gallery studios. The DMA’s dedicated kids space is interactive with puzzles, books, rubbings and crayons, continuously staffed with volunteers and professionals alike. Family art classes are offered, and the summer season is filled with “Children’s Storytime” and “Family Film” events. Free weekend programming called “Family Days” includes multiple hands-on art activities, treasure hunts, live music and dance performances and a host of cultural entertainment. DMA educators are quick to remind you that arts education isn’t merely about drawing or painting; children develop conceptual thinking, problem-solving, hand-eye coordination, communication, fine motor development, history knowledge and visual skills through art exploration.

When MTV “unplugged” some top rock stars, a whole new generation of young people shivered with the discovery of the sheer power and beauty of the human voice–a cappella or with the subtlest acoustic guitar or piano accompaniment. This, of course, is no big whoop for season-ticket holders of Dallas’ Turtle Creek Chorale, who tingle five times a year as 225 lusty male voices reverberate the rafters of the acoustically perfect Meyerson Symphony Center. For almost a quarter of a century, TCC audiences have applauded the award-winning, Carnegie Hall-playing chorus that, under the direction of Dr. Timothy Seelig, performs rock and pop music, Broadway show tunes, spiritual and religious fare, as well as holiday favorites. When they’re not singing a cappella, TCC selects the best local musicians to accompany them. Either way, they achieve a pure, special sound with impeccable harmonies and robust rhythms.

We took our 9-year-old to this exhibit, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. When children are 9, anything you do, say, present or wish for is declared “booooring.” But this exquisite exhibit, which (too bad for you) just ended, was one of the most impressive Egyptian tours allowed in the United States since the King Tut exhibit. Perhaps it was Osiris resurrecting, perhaps the sarcophagus of Khonsu, perhaps the full-scale reproduction of the tomb of Thutmose III–whatever it was, the kid loved it. The audio tour, much of which has children-specific entries, helps keep them involved as well. In all, it was much more inspiring and educational than whatever was going on in the classroom that day. Not saying our munchkin’s teacher gave us flak for doing this. Not saying that at all.

Generally, we shy away from that which is popular. Popular movies, popular music, popular mayors–we give ’em all hell. But not when it comes to radio morning shows. The No. 1-rated show for years has been Skip Murphy and the Morning Team, and we think there’s a damn fine reason for this: They do radio right. They are intensely local, they love their jobs, they are funny and honest, they make mornings seem joyous. What more could you want from your radio dial?

The credo here is that it is never too soon to encourage a child’s artistic interests and abilities. Professionally taught, once-a-week classes are available for ages 2 to 15 in everything from pottery and watercolor to pastels, charcoal and acrylics–all in an atmosphere of fun. There are pizza parties, birthday celebrations and summer camps available. Still, this isn’t vacation Bible school stuff. The instructors are serious about their jobs. Twelve sessions (three months) run $225, six months cost $450 and a year’s worth of instruction is $835. Says instructor Nora Raggio, “We want the kids to learn and have fun.” If classes are full at the Plano studio, which has been operating for seven years, try the newly opened art-a-rama in Frisco, 7158 Main St., 972-377-9900.

We’re not as down on the new breed of talk-jocks as one might think. Howard Stern is always worth a listen, but we prefer seeing his freak show on E! rather than listening to it. Russ Martin on KLLI-FM (105.3) is indeed talented, but his supporting cast drives us nuts. And some of the new folks at KLIF-AM (570) at least have a pulse. But in the same way we don’t mind reading Maxim but feel better about ourselves after reading The New Yorker, we love turning off the squawkers for a two-hour shot of Glenn Mitchell when possible. Mitchell is not only laid-back and erudite (two must-have qualities on public radio), he also can be whimsical and fun. His guests are usually interesting, and when they’re not, Mitchell somehow makes them seem so. His show is a lunchtime treat.

The obvious joke is that you feel at home on The Range, but it’s true. While other stations dip their toes in roots, rockabilly and Texas music, The Range has taken the full plunge from Day One. They play novelty country, swing, new traditionalists and old sentimentalists. They play Conway and Merle, Max Stallings and Jim Lauderdale and everything in between. Bottom line: They play stuff you can’t hear anywhere else.

As you can tell, we don’t have the utmost respect for anchors. They are newsreaders, as the Brits call them. It is a skill, sure, but it ain’t journalism. That said, we’ve always respected Tracy Rowlett. Not just because he has hard-news chops, not because he’s overly humble, but also because he’s been anchoring and leading TV newsrooms in Dallas since 1975, building up a reservoir of respect that few are accorded. Channel 11 will probably never do as well in the ratings as Channel 8 or Channel 5, and some people continue to suggest this had something to do with Rowlett’s worth as lead TV news figure for his station. That’s ridiculous. You don’t confuse quality with popularity, unless you think that Mike Snyder is the be-all, end-all of Dallas journalism.

We’re not dissing the mayor, who, back in the day, could get us all excited with a string of seven curse words. There was something about the dichotomy of her impeccable taste in clothing, her well-mannered air and her filthy mouth that set us tinglin’. Now that she’s “mayoral” all the time, eh, not so much. No, the powerful female of the moment for us is Dr. Elba Garcia, the stunning councilwoman who would be totally and completely offended at this objectification, and rightly so. At least, we hope she is. We love it when she’s angry.

Skip Cheatham is one of those guys women want to be around and men want to be, a smooth-talking, slang-dropping fella with his finger on the pulse and his foot on the beat. While it’s a 24/7 party at K104, it only hits its peak when Skip’s behind the mike, whether he’s spinning records or spinning yarns, which is one of the main reasons K104 absolutely destroys all comers in the ratings. Here’s two more: He’s also the station’s program and music director, a true radio triple-threat. K104 has a deep bench, but Cheatham is undoubtedly the team’s all-star.

This spot on the radio dial is beginning to look like that stretch of real estate where nothing ever catches on, that place in Deep Ellum where one bar after another comes and goes, rarely sticking around for more than a few months. The Zone didn’t work. Neither did The Merge. The Bone looked like it might, darting up the Arbitron ratings for a few books running. And then the bottom fell out. Turn off the lights on your way out, gentlemen. Maybe it’s time to stop trying.

If you can make it here, well, you can probably do better elsewhere. Say, NYC, for instance. Ask Ben Kweller, Todd Deatherage, Corn Mo, the Secret Machines, Oceanographer (formerly Panda), N’Dambi and a handful of others, almost all of whom went on to bigger and brighter things once they ditched D-FW. Even Norah Jones cut bait before selling 10 million and counting.

Yeah, yeah, we know: the fake-drug scandal, the snit over salaries, turmoil at the top, demoralized troops, the crime rate. Why on earth would we name the Dallas Police Department the best government agency? Well, we haven’t been shot, stabbed or otherwise assaulted in the past year, so that’s a big plus. Then there’s this: Somehow, through the enormous shit storm of the past two years, hundreds of loyal, honest officers have gotten out of bed each day, strapped on pistols and simply showed up to do a very tough job. That’s gotta be worth something.

What, was there another contender? Of course, Terrell Bolton’s firing was the political moment. Shoot, if we had a category for best shoddy melodrama, we’d give Bolton’s dismissal that one, too. (No, wait. That would be redundant.) So, what was your favorite part of the show? Bolton breaking down weeping at a news conference? The wholly inappropriate comparisons to a public lynching? The hypocritical claims of racism coming from people carrying “wetback” signs and demanding that the next chief be black? Or simply Bolton’s bewildering poleaxed smile as he contended that he didn’t see the pink slip coming? This one had it all.

This blog by the editors and friends of D magazine is snarky, youthful and vibrant. They discuss political, social, topical and spiritual subjects with an diversity of thought you don’t find in the magazine. Not that we don’t enjoy going online to find out what the “Top 472 Plastic Surgeons in North Dallas” are up to, but we would rather save that suprise for when our monthly subscription arrives.

Over the summer, one of our writers was in a car accident. The woman driving the other vehicle was not only at fault, she was driving without insurance or a license. It’s not that she had forgotten them; she didn’t have them–period. To make matters more complicated, she didn’t speak English. When a DPD officer finally arrived on the scene (45 minutes and two 911 calls later), he refused to write a police report, saying only that he “didn’t have to.” The reporter asked again, saying it would make him feel better, considering that the other driver, having no identification whatsoever, could disappear into the night. “Listen,” the officer replied, “I don’t have to do the paperwork if no one is injured, so I’m not going to do it. That’s it.” Not completely unsympathetic, the officer offered a suggestion: “This is what you do. You sue her.” The reporter told the officer that he wasn’t injured, that he only wanted his car fixed. “So what?” the officer responded. “Sue her anyway.” Nice.

On Friday and Saturday nights, the Inwood Theatre takes us back. Back to a time when things were simpler, back before our childlike innocence went the way of the parachute pant. Well, actually, not that far back, but back nonetheless. With the weekly film series Midnights at the Inwood, the theater opens the vault and screens some of our classic flick faves. Previous offerings have included such tried-and-trues as A Clockwork Orange, This Is Spinal Tap, Office Space and our personal favorite, Sixteen Candles. C’mon, who doesn’t love Anthony Michael Hall? And when Molly Ringwald gets to smooch the hot guy with the dark hair whose name we can never remember, well, all becomes right with the world.

Dallas Morning News op-ed columnist Ruben Navarrette, back for his second straight “best of,” was just warming up in 2002. This year, he truly hit his stride. For the first time in memory, the News has a columnist who: A) has better things to write about than his home life; B) gravitates to local controversies; C) does original reporting; D) is not an apologist for anyone, including members of the Hispanic community, where he appears to be quite well-sourced. Take, for instance, Navarrette’s February 14 column, “Where are the defenders of framed immigrants?” In a single piece, Navarrette broke the news that Dallas police Chief Terrell Bolton successfully stopped the city’s Hispanic leadership from criticizing the department for framing Mexican immigrants with fake drug charges. Navarrette pointed out that there were high-ranking Hispanic officers in the chain of command over the drug debacle, and their jobs were on the line. From there, eschewing matters of race and picking up on those of class, he asserted that “Mexican-Americans have convinced themselves that having more education, more money and more English proficiency than Mexican immigrants makes them superior.” We’ve heard this before, but never in the News. Finally, he ended with an honest-to-goodness conclusion about the chief: “What confuses me is why this man is still drawing a paycheck.” Nice work.

We’ve long contended that “television news” is an oxymoron. Yes, five nights a year a station reports something you haven’t already read in a daily, weekly or monthly publication. But even the Rangers bullpen strikes out the side sometimes; that doesn’t mean they’re worth watching. No, our favorite people realize that television is about entertainment, not news, about pictures, not words. And we think the person who does the best job of maximizing television’s potential good is Mattie Roberts, seen Mondays on TXCN from 8 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. Mattie–c’mon, we know her, we can call her Mattie–promotes herself as “the swami of sparkle” and says her show is “a cocktail of fabulosity.” Is it ever! Mattie gives you the day’s take on fashion, beauty, food, fashion, culture, fashion and other topics worthy of your, and television’s, time. Heck, pair her with John McCaa, and you’ve got yourself a show.

Art? Who needs art when you can look at planes? The American Airlines Aviation Museum is the kind of museum that is fun for everybody–even non-museum types. The museum has a variety of aviation-related displays from the airline’s past. There is a flight simulator, a movie and even an old DC-3 for those who really want to see what the days of commercial flight were like before bargain fares and unsalted pretzels arrived to the masses packed into coach. It’s a great place to take kids, too.

Veletta Lill’s district is now sort of weird: After redistricting, it wound up cradling the Park Cities, taking in a lot of downtown, covering the part of East Dallas where all the refugees from the real Dallas live, then going way up north to the area around Lovers Lane and Greenville Avenue. Maybe for that reason, Lill winds up bringing a broad perspective to the council. For example, she’s strong on historic preservation, but she’s always ready to cut deals that will help develop downtown. Always well-spoken, she never shoots from the hip–she’s like Laura Miller without the crazy.

One of those strange little cultural artifacts of East Dallas, the spring musical production at “Woodrow” is a generations-old tradition. Parents start putting their kids through dance, voice and acting lessons while the kids are still in grade school to win them a place in the Woodrow musical. The production standards are high: professional orchestra, backdrops from New York, extravagant costumes. But the main attraction is a chance to see kids who will go from here to Yale drama school, UCLA, USC–serious young talent, wonderful voices, great acting, mixed in with some…well, you know…high school stuff.

Les Maitres de Dallas! Les Hommes de Dallas! Les Femmes de Dallas! Dallas! Tout Sur Dallas, avec plus de 50 photos. This site also offers an excellent stock of English books based on the very popular 1980s television series. This is your chance to sit around a nationally franchised coffee shop reading a book in French about a television series you never saw based on a totally bogus rendering of your town! The quintessential Dallas experience. And then check a map. Maybe you’re not in Dallas anyway! Dallas: the city that isn’t real. Be there.

Everything about La Duni is magnificent, from the tasteful décor to the incredible pork-loin-filled “slow-roasted lomo.” But the attributes of La Duni are made more apparent after you’ve had several of their signature drinks, especially our fave, the margarinha. It’s a combination margarita-mojito, made with Sauza Silver tequila, hand-crushed limes, sugar, Cointreau and crushed ice. And, yes, it’s as refreshing as it sounds. Is your mouth feeling dry yet? Is it? Seriously, is it?

Sound like a dorkfest? Fine, then call us dorks. Pete’s is a surprisingly rollicking time: Four top-notch key-strokers attack two baby grands, taking requests and playing favorite tunes by request. Sure, it ain’t the Cliburns, but it’s a good time and something unique to do on a Friday night in Dallas. Nothing wrong with that.

With more than 60 acres of incredibly landscaped park to choose from, the Dallas Arboretum can provide a great backdrop to a portrait for anything. The Arboretum has fountains and sculptures, and something is always blooming, so you can wander around until you find a good spot. Even in the heat of the summer, the Arboretum seems like a cool and calming place. Maybe they’re growing poppies.

Sidle up to the bar and order a Lone Star longneck. Then another. Then one for the pretty young thing next to you. Then a round for the people you just met. Fall off your barstool on your way to the restroom. Get lost coming back. Stand in front of the band while it rides herd over a sweet set of C&W, the kind your daddy told you about. Grab another longneck, which is sweating a little bit less than you are at this point. Ask that pretty young thing to dance. Fall down again and come up laughing. Keep doing this until you’re out of money and out the door. Come back and do it again next week. That’s what Adair’s is like. And thank the Lord.

In most large cities, the downtown area is a grid of one-way streets. Easy to understand, easy to negotiate. In Dallas, while the streets curve more than their counterparts on the East Coast, the same concept holds true. So why is it that in cities like New York and Boston you almost never see someone going the wrong way on a one-way street but here in Big D it happens almost daily? Good question, though we have no answer. We offer only proof. If you work downtown, we suggest spending your lunch hour camped out on any corner with a one-way street. Wait there for a while. It won’t be long before you see some confused, oblivious driver pointing his or her Honda Civic the wrong way. Then you can watch, amused, as other motorists honk and point in vain while the fool in the Honda looks wildly for street signs but continues to drive the wrong way anyway. Ugh. In New York, they don’t ticket you for those types of stupid indiscretions; they beat you and leave you for dead.

Elderly Cambodians, a few Vietnamese and a handful of Thais are still in Old East Dallas, remnants of the refugee tide that came through in the 1980s and quickly dispersed to the suburbs. These are the least assimilable. The ragtag little vegetable plots they keep on Fitzhugh Avenue are their tiny fragment of home. On Saturday mornings they sell water spinach, Asian herbs, wax and loofah gourds, snake gourd, vine tips and more. Unfailingly polite, sad and jolly at the same time, they offer a serene beginning for the weekend.

You have to pay to be a member of the Y, but the fees are reasonable, and the downtown branch offers swim lessons for all ages plus water aerobics classes at its indoor 25-meter, eight-lane pool. It’s an easy walk or short drive from virtually everywhere downtown, so office workers panting to take a dip can fit it into their schedules. Better still, along with your swim you can work out at the Y’s extensive aerobics and weight facilities upstairs, though do us a favor and hit the showers before jumping in. We once made the mistake of asking a lifeguard why the water sometimes tastes salty. You don’t want to know the answer.

We all need to blow off some steam these days. Between North Korea, the Middle East and various domestic dilemmas, our chances of seeing the new year are slim. So why not enjoy ourselves while we still have the time? Right. That’s what we say. Want to have some real fun? There’s nothing better than screwing with golfers. If you drive around the Lakewood Country Club, you’ll notice that the golf course is surrounded by iron gates–the kind you can easily see through. That’s the key here. So this is what you do. Drive slowly. Pick out a foursome (we suggest the elderly or the competitive–they always react with excited indignation). Then, when one of them is on his backswing, honk your horn and scream obscenities out the window. At the least, you’ll get to watch them shank the ball. In the best scenario, they’ll jump up and down or throw something your way. All very funny. Feeling particularly blue? Just drive by again. Hey, it’s free. And besides, we’ll all be dead soon from nuclear winter, so it won’t matter anyway.

Between suburban Cedar Hill and Grand Prairie, the rolling landscape along this rapidly developing two-lane road is about as close as you’re gonna get to the Texas Hill Country. The route leads to the popular and picturesque Lake Joe Pool, where a state park boasts nature trails, campsites and bike routes that are hardly overused as long as you skip Fourth of July weekend and Memorial Day. You’ll want to make a quick detour into the tree-hidden campus of Northwood University. In the early evening, it provides a nice vantage point to see red-tailed hawks and big white egrets swooping in for landings.

The spacious ice rink in the center of downtown’s Plaza of the Americas is the perfect escape for any middle-management yuppie who could use a cool break from that three-walled hell known as the cubicle. Located on the bottom floor of a building filled with law offices, real estate agencies, financial consolidation groups and Internet mortgage blabitty-blabitty-blahs, the rink generally will be filled with a mix of businesspeople, vacationers staying at the adjacent Westin City Center and local high-schoolers who make their way over via the Pearl Street DART station. Surrounding the ice rink is a plethora of shops and restaurants ready to provide you with a post-skate snack and some trinkets to bring home. Closer than the Galleria and better than hosing down the driveway on one of Texas’ only subzero days, Americas Ice Garden Ice Rink is a chilly oasis in the middle of our concrete jungle.

Thought it was going to be some techno club, huh? Well, hang on, because Red River has its share of mainstream and country music. Hear us out on our reasoning. The venue has a house band when it doesn’t have a scheduled concert, dance lessons (because there’s nothing worse than turning the wrong way, causing your new dance partner to lose an eye) or one incredibly entertaining mechanical bull. The joint has drink and cover specials most nights and the aforementioned lessons two nights a week. It’s a bit like an amusement park for drinkers, really. Grab a Bud, slide out onto the hardwood dance floor, spin for a few, go for a ride–and on occasion the ladies can race and claw their way to cash, thanks to a balloon drop. Red River is chaos, it’s country and it’s fun. Give it a shot…after buying us one, of course.

Ah, yes, the dreaded 972. Depending on the area and particular social circle, the three-digit prefix is anything but innocuous. Those who have chosen the manicured grass, SUVs and loooong exit ramps run a constant risk of being shunned by their Southern, city-slick brethren. After all, there’s no way some “Yankee” can handle the nightlife of the real Dallas, right? On the contrary, roughnecks…the Main Street Liquid Co. in Richardson offers 214-esque carousing in the coziness of the suburbs and consequently presents an alternative to the suffocating blitzkrieg of corporate sports-bar hell. The no-frills environment is apparent even before you step into the warmly wooded interior of the tavern, as the identifying neon above the door succinctly (hence tastefully) reads “BAR.” Once inside, a new patron must acquire a free card before that initial libation is poured, but don’t let any notion of exclusiveness fool you; everyone willing to belly up to the well-stocked bar and engage in a game of billiards or traditional elbow rubbing is welcome. It has the dimly lit cramped charm, it has the regulars and it has the specials that translate to downtown drinking north of the “border.”

There is no spot we know of where the soul (some would say soullessness) of Dallas is on display more than at the West Village on Saturday night. Young, toned bodies fitted into stretch-fabric outfits. Quick and quicker gaits. Grand entrances. Primo automobiles. If your Benz is in the shop and you’re stuck for the night with the Aerostar van, you’d better park it three blocks away, maybe by the trash bin behind Texas Land & Cattle Co. Among the chic restaurants, bars and grown-up movie theater, there’s a lot in this quarter to attract the attractive. Former Mayor Ron Kirk once famously said that nobody comes to Dallas for the scenery; people come here to get rich. He was dead right, with at least one qualification. People come here to at least look rich, and when that’s on the agenda, this is definitely the place.

The last time we were there, Cosmo’s was buzzing with so much chatter and laughter that it was hard to know where to begin our conversation. We watched another fellow on the other side of the bar checking out the waitress. He told us later that this was his nightspot after leaving work on Greenville Avenue. The waitress caught his eye because he was bedazzled by the “architecture of her ass.” In the front of the room by the doors, a birthday party was in full motion. To the delight of that group and much of the bar, the birthday boy was doing his best to improvise new steps to “Billie Jean.” Everybody still loves Michael Jackson. But a group of ladies in the back of the room made everyone’s night by reminding us, in a jukebox sing-along, “What’s Love Got to Do With It?” What better testament is there to the power of a juke?

There are busier happy hours; there are more tricked-up happy hours. But we’re partial to this one because it’s simply classy and smart–not unlike us. From 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., all draft beers are half-price. No muss, no fuss. The place is nice enough to bring a date or a client but not so stuffy that you can’t walk right up to the bar and order a Bud Light, if you like your beer old-school. If you need to nosh while you sip, the appetizers are great, and the wood-fired pizza is delicious (the “M” gimmick they use on the menu, in which they come up with several clever names using the letter, is a bit much, but we’ll let it slide). The waitstaff is attentive and friendly, the drinks cold, the bartenders knowledgeable. All of which makes us happy, happy.

Whether you’re looking for a romantic escape or just a respite from the big-city traffic and street repairs, the Baroness Inn is only a 45-minute drive away. Host Evelyn Williams offers visitors a taste of yesteryear’s peace and quiet with all the modern conveniences. For prices ranging from $100 to $160 per night, you can sleep in the comfort of billowy linens, soak in your in-room whirlpool, then lounge in the plush robe you’ll be provided. Williams serves a gourmet breakfast, complete with fresh baked bread and buttermilk scones, at the civilized hour of 9:30 a.m. –and you’re invited to raid the fridge for ice cream or dip into the always-filled cookie jar at any time. If you want to get out and about, bicycles are available. The pace is nice and slow, so plan to veg out.

Whether you’ve got a kid or just feel like one, the model trains at Children’s Medical Center look really cool. More than a half-dozen trains run on an elaborate set of tracks complete with landscaping that includes mountains and a variety of scenery. There is no charge to view the trains, and if you don’t spend more than an hour there, you can park for free.

It’s not, strictly speaking, a scenic wonderland. But this is North Texas, so you probably already knew that. If you want your nature tamed, try the Dallas Arboretum. L.B. Houston offers a narrow dirt track winding roughly four miles through wooded Trinity River bottomland. What will you see? The backsides of a bunch of trees, the river, brush and the occasional squirrel, turtle or water moccasin. You know, nature. Don’t worry about the snakes, though. Just keep your eyes open for the bicyclists, because this trail is popular with what we laughingly call “mountain” bike riders. In North Texas. Snort.

There are several elements to a good bar. A good bar must have an outdoor sitting area to enjoy the six days of nice weather we have each year. (Check.) Inside, the bar must be dark, for ambience and illicit hookups. (Check.) The waitstaff must be friendly but not fake, knowledgeable but not pushy. (Check.) The beer selection must be ample. (Check.) The clientele must have a median age above 29 but have enough pieces of 21-year-old male and female eye candy to make the view pleasant. (Check.) It must have good food. (Oh, sweet heaven, is that ever a check. The calamari, the fish and chips, the mussels, the cheese board…) And it must have a pub-like, worn-in feel. (Check.) That is the Old Monk. That’s why it rules.

Sense
Yeah, yeah, yeah. You have to be on some sort of list to get into the place, which seems like nothing more than an appeal to snobbery in the extreme. Yet the list is not based on the patrons’ net worth, on the cars they lease or on more ephemeral measures–such as “cool.” Any resourceful person can maneuver his way into the exclusive club by working connections, placing a few calls, befriending the right bartender. By limiting entry to those who really wish to hang out there, Sense ensures a vibe unique to Dallas nightlife. People on the inside mingle and talk and flirt without regard to real-world status. The setting is pleasant, with low-slung leather seating and a pulse that facilitates rather than dominates conversation. As a result, young and old, gold diggers and suburbanites, trend-followers and common folk rub shoulders and even (gasp!) communicate as equals. A good bar makes you feel comfortable, and Sense is just a good bar.

It’s a little out of the city, but the 10-year-old wooden playground is as popular as it ever has been, and for good reason. The castle, swings and bridge are probably the biggest attractions for little kids, and the playground has a pavilion, barbecue areas, ball fields, 18 picnic tables, restrooms and a hiking and bike trail. The city will celebrate the park’s decade anniversary in October. Because it’s one of the city’s most popular parks, it’s advisable to call to reserve space at the pavilion.

After a nasty deadline, a fight with the guy at the cleaners or a good ol’ traffic jam, sometimes we just don’t wanna go home. We need time to wind down, catch our breath and have a drink. The Landing is our place. Out of downtown, but close enough should nighttime activities bring us back, it’s in a great location, has ample parking and touts a fine menu should imbibing not be the only plan. The staff is fast, friendly and exceptionally welcoming (even late at night and even if business is slow). The jukebox rocks out with Iggy Pop, Hank Williams and everything in between, and that’s just the way we like it. The Landing feels like home, but with people-watching options and no telemarketers calling…and pool…and television…and the fine, smile-inducing memory of the greatest bartender to walk the earth, Lucille.

We love everything about Nikita: the Bond-girl-gone-bad waitresses, the vodka bar-restaurant’s chic Eurostyle, the surprisingly good food. But there’s nothing we love more about Nikita than les femmes. If you’re always hearing about the big, beautiful, rich Dallas girls but never see them, stop by here. Flesh, loud music, pricey liquor–what doesn’t this bar have?

We speak from experience, and we know others who can, too. Open the tattered, straining door and enter a world of music…and romance? Yep. To be honest, we don’t have enough digits to count the many couples that have met browsing the racks of CD World. Maybe it’s the small space that urges one to take notice of a hottie picking up a mutual favorite. Maybe it’s the fine selection that automatically validates the taste of anyone who dares enter the land of the music snob. But as music snobs ourselves, we require our significant others to share our musical snobbery, and we value a place that limits the Ronstadt and somehow incites romance. We’re serious. It’s a hot spot for the young and musical; we just counted 15 CD World-born couples, and we haven’t even finished.

It’s not as though Dallas is much to look at, really, no majestic mountains to awe the mind or emerald oceans to stir the emotions, no cozy walk along the Trinity River with freeway traffic zooming by. Not yet anyway. So we romantics have to content ourselves with things more man-made. And the thing that moves our hearts and opens our wallets is a weekend getaway at the Four Seasons Resort at Las Colinas. Without even leaving the county, you and that significant someone can while away a sizzling summer day at the hotel’s lagoon-style swimming pool, which is built for intimate conversation. A pampering waitstaff keeps the iced towels, ice water and frozen margaritas flowing. For as little as $175 a night, you will also have access to the hotel’s well-rigged health club. Massages, golf and other amenities are likely to raise the price, though packages are available. But we are talking about one night, leaving the city without leaving the city, a quiet 24 to 36 hours so you can rediscover why you fell in love in the first place. And for God’s sake, don’t be foolish enough to take the kids. They’ll be fine.

Go ahead, head to Half Price on a Sunday night. Go to the art/photography section. Peruse the shelves and pick up a book. Flip through it, gaze at the pictures. Ten bucks says that unless the store is inexplicably empty, you’ll get hit on. Not into art? Fine. Just head to mystery, true crime or philosophy. The plan is the same; the people and interests have just changed a bit. The accuracy of the description of this phenomenon given to us by an employee truly astounded us. We didn’t believe a word, even chalked it up to retail boredom-related hallucinations. Then we went. We stood. We perused and picked up. We flipped and gazed and then…tap, tap. “Hmm, are you a fan of Man Ray, too? I’m Rob.”

XPO Lounge’s Thursday-night sing-along, hosted by DJ Mr. Rid, is the gold standard for karaoke, bringing in local musicians and locals who just think they are to play human jukebox. DJ Mr. Rid brings an impeccable lineup of songs from which to choose, from karaoke classics (Frank Sinatra, Cheap Trick and such) to rare finds such as Pulp’s “This is Hardcore” (which was lovingly laid down by The Falkon’s Wanz Dover on a disc capturing the Scaraoke magic, XPO Gold). The songs get better as the night goes on and the liquor goes down. Or maybe we just think they do.

Is it unprofessional to admit that, on occasion, we’ve attended press screenings with triple Maker’s Marks in hands that should have been holding notebooks and pens? It is? Then we’re not admitting anything, only suggesting that if every theater had a well-stocked bar like the Magnolia’s, then maybe Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star and Cold Creek Manor might seem a little more tolerable; if everything’s good on weed, then everything’s at least OK on hooch. Hey, you can see Matchstick Men anywhere, but nowhere else in town can you see it all drinky, and nowhere else can you take a bathroom and smoke break without having to leave the building. (At Cityplace, we go in the parking lot.) We love the Magnolia for the movies, but we stay for the drinks. Because we have to sober up.

Something about those big old whatever-they-are whole fish with the gnarly teeth and frozen eyeballs in the seafood department, and you know you’re not in a white-bread Anglo-two-shoes store anymore when you come to Fiesta. Mariachi music on the PA system, a light sprinkling of lettuce fragments on the floor, the world’s most complete assortment of hot sauces, babies speaking Spanish to their grandmas: This is the place to come when you need a break from Martha Stewart. And Fiesta has waaay better shrimp than the gringo stores.

If you’re into Mexican or seafood, or Mexican seafood, you’ll be into La Acapulquena, an unassuming little place that bumps up against a laundry. Which comes in handy if you start playing fast and loose with the salsa. But the real draw here is the mariachi duo that makes its way around the restaurant at night, providing a pleasant soundtrack to a pleasant meal. Plus, on the way home, you’ll probably be in the mood to recite a few of your favorite lines from Three Amigos (pretty much anything El Guapo says, for example), and that’s always a good thing.

White Rock Lake meets our short list of essential criteria for a perfect picnic spot. It’s clean and close by, with choice scenery, and hardly anyone ever gets murdered there. White Rock Lake spans 1,873 acres and offers so many interesting venues, it would be tough to get tired of it as a picnic paradise. People fish, feed the ducks, walk, run, bike, sightsee, bird-watch, paddle and sail, enjoying the water, six playgrounds, 11 miles of trails, Dallas’ first dog park and historic buildings such as Bath House Cultural Center, created in the 1930s.

Consider Sambuca the Rafael Palmeiro of local nightclubs, a consistent and sometimes exceptional performer that is constantly overshadowed. Forget about jazz joints: No one else in this city, no one else in Fort Worth or Denton or Plano or wherever even comes close, save for Sambuca’s other location in Addison. Here’s the deal: The acts are always solid, and the atmosphere is even better. If there’s something else that makes for a good jazz club (or a good club, period), then we must not know about it. Or, more likely, it doesn’t really matter. There’s no spot better than Sambuca, and none more versatile: The music is great whether you’re looking for a soundtrack or a solo, whether you want it in the background or right up front. It’s an oasis in a city full of empty water coolers. And like Palmeiro, Sambuca is having a Hall of Fame career even though it will probably never be MVP.

There are many reasons to admire this Gaston Avenue watering hole. Good cold beer selection, great shuffleboard table, killer juke, tasty pizza next door, etc. But what distinguishes it for us is the fact that it’s always loaded with loaded doctor types. OK, maybe not doctors, but inside there are always plenty of young, nubile, employed men and women in scrubs from Baylor hospital next door.

Also known as Best Gay Bar, BJ’s may be a gay club, but doing shots off the toned bellies of 20-year-old boys is not just a gay-man habit–not if our wife has anything to say about it. And she does. Which works out well, because at least a few of the six-packed boys wearing low-slung jeans and not much else–BJ’s calls them your waitstaff, but we have another name for them that begins with “meow”–are actually straight guys making loads of money off drunken gay guys. Given that gay women have been teasing money out of straight guys at strip clubs for decades, we think that’s a good plan.

Hell, you just met the person. You don’t even know his or her name. Why risk embarrassing stammering over breakfast or the cost of a motel when perfectly good backseats and semiprivate parking lots exist? Running east from Duke’s Original Roadhouse to the Tollway, a string of parking areas offers everything you need (minus the backseat and the man or woman of your inebriate dreams) for a few moments of risky, soon-to-be-forgotten-or-regretted pleasure. There are large lots near Duke’s and narrow, tree-lined spaces a block to the east. The darkest lots, if shyness is an issue, sit between the restaurants of Belt Line Road and the British-style pub The Londoner. Come to think of it, if you pick up someone there, you may need to find the darkest spot possible.

This is now an outdoor event, thanks to the health Nazis down at Dallas City Hall. But a quick date with a Marlboro on the cascading steps outside the Angelika at Mockingbird Station makes you happy you had to step out. If you have to ruin your health, you might as well do it at the most interesting crossroads in the city. Besides the film crowd, which is constantly coming and going, the DART line brings in a diverse enough bunch that there’s always someone to watch. The steps themselves have plenty of smokebird perches–various steps and fountains–but you’d better act fast. In the near future, we’re fairly certain, it will be illegal to smoke sitting down.

Acoustic Chaos in the Liquid Lounge can get pretty chaotic. When the doors open at 9 p.m. Wednesdays there’s always a line of guitar strummers waiting to sign up to grace the lighted stage. Even if you sign up early, be prepared to play late, because every host has way too many friends, and those friends have friends, too. This lounge is good for crooners of all sounds for two main reasons: The bartenders serve hump-day drink specials, and the players have a walk-in crowd to win over. We’ve caught the tail end of a conversation about what’s the best Slo Ro song to cover. We’ve even experienced the rare pleasure of hearing the singers of South FM and Jibe wailing two powerful voices as one. It gets more packed as the night progresses, and the stage often gets inundated with a variety of tunes from musicians who won’t be heard anywhere else in Deep Ellum. It’s the hype Wednesday hangout for musicians to meet, mingle and compare chords.

This glorious old church was long past its prime and in terrible shape just a few years ago. Dallas resident Herschel Weisfeld has carefully restored it to its former glory and named it for his parents. The center’s interior is a breathtaking combination of ornate fixtures, arched windows and restored wooden pews. Weisfeld rents the center out for weddings and other events.

First, we have to give props to the Magnolia Theatre for being active in the local film community, hosting the Asian Film Festival of Dallas, Out Takes, Forbidden Media’s former weekly screenings and taking its own “best of” collection to the starving art film masses in Fort Worth with the Magnolia at the Modern series. But for the ordinary $10-burning-a-hole-in-our-pocket, wanna-read-some-subtitles kind of day, we’re headed to the Angelika. There’s better parking (skip the driving circles or garage and head for the DART lot), better seats (feels like home, not public transportation) and a better bar (you can actually squeeze between the comfy seating and the bar to order). And, oh yeah, the movies are good, too.

We were with a buddy recently, walking around Highland Park Village doing some window-shopping, when we realized we weren’t looking at the windows. We were staring at the people who were window-shopping. Not to put too fine a point on this, but the Highland Park women who spend their days working out at Larry North Total Fitness, eating Paciugo and shopping for designer apparel need to check themselves before they wreck themselves. How can one concentrate on, say, not falling down when rich women walk by wearing 3-inch pumps and 23 inches of fine fabric? Highland Park Village was declared a National Historical Monument in 2000, and now we think we know why: because the talent there is indeed historic.

Spend a week at Rubber Gloves, and there’s a good chance you’ll never get the same kind of show twice. Spend two weeks there, and the odds change only slightly. DJs one night, a singer-songwriter the next, No Depression country rock after that and so on down the line, guitars giving way to turntables giving way to laptops giving way to kazoos without breaking stride. From space-rock symphonies and garage-rock growls to below-the-radar hip-hop and off-the-charts experimentation, Rubber Gloves is a one-stop shop.

When a friend told us his band was playing at a new place called the Double Wide (yes, as in trailer) and he began to describe it, his voice trailed off and our imagination took over. We pictured him sitting behind his drum kit, dodging beer bottles as the trailer-park regulars battled over their trucks, their old ladies and who’s gonna buy the next round of Pabst Blue Ribbon. We were shaken back to reality when we heard our friend say, “So, are you comin’?” To which we promptly replied, “Hell, yeah!” We realized later the white-trash factor was only a façade, a means of decoration. The macramé wall hangings and velvet artwork were just for looks, and the Franzia box wine in the cooler was meant in fun. But even though the clientele didn’t provide the people-watching we hoped for, the Double Wide gets a thumbs up. Where else can you and your buddies sit on plastic-clad furniture, knock back cans of Pabst and Lone Star and put out your smokes in sandbag ashtrays? Well, besides home, we mean.

Nikita Khrushchev once proclaimed the martini “America’s lethal weapon.” And nowhere in Dallas is this weapon as expertly cocked as it is at the Quarter. They’re crystalline, cold and luminous, chilling the tip of the lip just before pricking the back of the throat with heat. Pickling an olive or balancing a twist, splashed clean or murked with pollution, these martinis twist thoughts, curl speech and banish those shabby worries.

We’d recommend Presby if only for the cafeteria in the Margot Perot Center for women and infants–best gyros, like, ever. But, hey, the dining experience isn’t exactly what you’re worried about 31 hours into labor; it’s more like, “When’s this sucker coming out?” and, “Hey, doc, tell me you didn’t just say ‘C-section.'” We worried at first upon checking in and getting shuffled off to the old emergency-room-turned-storage-closet, but things were all uphill from there: We wound up in a lovely room, complete with CD player and VCR (needed something to do for 31 hours besides 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 push) and a shower and rocking chair for those moments when mommy-to-be needed to, ya know, chill. Marathon labor aside, the experience couldn’t have been better: The obstetrician was cautious and cheerful (s’up, Dr. Woodbridge), the nurses were attentive and delightful and the facilities were as accommodating as a mother’s womb. Just as good were the pre- and post-birthing classes for, among other things, baby care and breast-feeding; we thought we knew everything going in, then realized we knew nothing till checkout. And, damn, those gyros are awesome.

Best you can hope for if you’re a blues fan: a not-too-hot summer night on Hole in the Wall’s patio, with a burger in hand and local legend Brian “Hash Brown” Calway onstage. Just about every other visit to Hole in the Wall (and that’s truth in advertising) should scratch your itch–if you can make it inside, at least. This teeny-tiny joint is king of the ever-shrinking hill, and not just because of the unfortunate dearth of blues clubs in Dallas; there could be dozens more and this would still be our pick. If you’ve forgotten about Blind Lemon Jefferson or Stevie Ray Vaughan or T-Bone Walker, Hole in the Wall is here to remind you.

If you can’t take your bong with you to concerts but need a quick way to unwind after having your eardrums perforated by a loud local band, you, my friend, had best go to the Velvet Hookah. This richly decorated Deep Ellum pit stop features a full bar, light Mediterranean meals (think hummus, olives, fruit) and, of course, hookahs in a plethora of flavors, from rose to licorice to orange Dreamsicle. Light it up, take a puff, that’s gooood.

Fear Factor? No, thanks! We’ll take our life-affirming adventures in the safety of a dark movie theater or in a fake, Disneyland-style environment. Even Dallas’ risk-averse will get off on the re-created Orinoco River basin rain forest at the Dallas World Aquarium. Just inside the door, a walkway spirals down through the South American jungle facsimile, where you quickly get used to the warm humidity. Enveloped in sights and smells, you’ll see and hear birds overhead, spiral down through exotic plants, fish and turtles, and nary a poisonous snake or malaria-carrying mosquito will cross your path. The rain forest ends where the aquarium begins, and we recommend that, too. The DWA isn’t a huge facility, but that’s appealing; animals are well cared for, and the place is virtually stench-free. On top of all that, you can step outside and drink too much, eat too much and spend too much money at the touristy West End. Perfect Sunday afternoon.

Is there really any doubt? Since 1992, The Ginger Man pub has been introducing Dallas drinkers to the best array of barley and hops in town. The Dallas location (there are two others in Texas) has more than 60 brews on draft (including Moretti, for you Italians) and about a hundred bottled brands (try Fuller’s London Porter if it’s stocked; good cold, even better as it approaches room temperature). If the scene is too fratish downstairs, try the quieter sitting area and balcony upstairs, one of our favorite retreats from the real world even as you taste the best the globe has to offer.

This answer to the West Village club Nikita was bumpin’ the night we were there. The packed house and good service were nice to see at Mockingbird Station, but what we were most pleased with was the cocktail selection. Great specialty martinis seemed to be their, um, specialty. We particularly liked the apple-pear martini, for its slices of fruit and attention to subtlety. As a bonus, they didn’t flinch when we ordered a Campari and soda–most bartenders stare back at you and look confused when you ask for this Italian staple. Now, they just need to arrange the drinks on the menu by type, instead of alphabetically, and we’ll call it cocktail heaven.

This popular picnic spot is a great place for kids–even better than the zillionth viewing of Jungle Book 2. The plaza provides a sweeping view of airport operations, with takeoffs and landings close enough to smell the burning rubber. The big jets sometimes taxi and stop right in front of the plaza, where kids can wave at the pilots–and they usually wave back. A sound system at the back section of the plaza relays conversations between airplane crews and air traffic controllers. Pretty thrilling stuff for a kid. And free, too.

It’s not exactly Halloween. It’s more of a cross between American Halloween and Mexican Day of the Dead, a sort of strange, wonderful, sometimes nettlesome, mainly joyous commingling of immigrant culture from surrounding East Dallas neighborhoods with the grand home traditions of Swiss Avenue. Tens of thousands of kids are brought here in the backs of pickup trucks, in vans and on motorcycles to make the pilgrimage of the candy-seekers up and down Swiss on Halloween night. Most of the Swiss people are cool: They put on a show and hand out bales of candy. Some new residents don’t get it and hire security guards. A quintessential Dallas scene you won’t see anywhere else.

If the XPO Lounge and the (late, great) Orbit Room had a drunken one-night stand followed by a shotgun wedding, Double Wide would be the result. Or where the reception would be held, at any rate. Open since June, the bar is already a low-culture landmark, thanks to its white-trash environs and white-gold lineup of bands, a comfort-food combination that goes down as smooth as the cheap beer they serve here. (In cans, no less, a fact that is strangely fascinating to many of its visitors, less so to those of us experienced at drinking beer outside of a bar. Say, at 11 on a Saturday morning maybe. OK, a Monday morning. And it’s usually more like 9.) Since trucker’s caps are what the cool kids are wearing these days, it’s the right time for a joint that extrapolates the headgear into an entire shabby-chic world.

If we know anything at the Observer, it’s where to take a date on the cheap and still make a good impression. The Balcony Club is such a place. Located above the Lakewood Theater, The Balcony Club is a smooth little gin joint complete with cozy, dark booths and wood-grained décor. Candlelight gives the bar just the right mood, and jazz music is always wafting through the air. The drinks are strong, good and cheap, and the waitstaff is courteous. If you can’t score after taking someone to The Balcony Club, you may as well give up altogether, because, well, you’re a lost cause, friend.

Some nights you’re not feeling hip. Some nights you don’t feel pretty. The whole West Village, Mock-Station, Deep Ellum, downtown, Greenville Avenue scene just sounds like such a friggin’ beat-down. What you need, friend, is simple: a stiff drink. No frills, no fuss. Just several jiggers of something brown to make you feel better about your pitiful lot in life, if only for the evening. That’s when you go to The Loon. Because they pour drinks so stiff you could iron your pants on them.

Club Schmitz is one of those places where about the only things that have changed since 1953 are the prices on the menu of great and greasy Texas burgers, fries and onion rings. The joint was founded in 1946 when two cousins named Schmitz returned from World War II. The original building burned in 1953, and it was rebuilt that same year. Now it’s run by their sons, two cousins named Schmitz, who have no intention of messing with a good thing. Small bar (if that bar could talk, how it would slur its words), cash only (the only plastic permitted are the red booths and chair backs), down-home waitresses, country juke, pool table, shuffleboard and beer only. What separates Club Schmitz from newer places that try too hard is that it doesn’t try at all. Check out the variety of vehicles in the parking lot–and those greasy burgers.

Wilco. Erykah Badu. Catherine D’Lish. Sub Oslo. Interpol. Earl Harvin Trio. Shabazz Three. What do these have in common? Performers, carbon-based life forms. OK, but the main point is they’ve all played Gypsy Tea Room. Rock. Hip-hop. Jazz. Striptease. Hot new thing. Old guy with guitar and harmonica. Gypsy Tea Room has it all. Not only that, but this venue actually makes going to Deep Ellum worth it. Good sound, reasonable prices, close parking, clean and tucked-away-from-the-stage bathrooms and a bar in the back so you can yell for a vodka-and-tonic without getting a beer bottle thrown at your loud ass in return. The staff also knows how to move people in the doors, out the doors and away from the bar with drink in hand. So you can be close enough to the stage to count the beads of sweat on Jeff Tweedy’s upper lip or hang out in the back and still be able to see everything onstage.

Some parents turn up their noses at the old, somewhat dark and dank Dallas Aquarium, but the kids enjoy it. It’s entirely gimmick-free–no cutesy exhibits, no corporate sponsors, no gift shop and only the purest form of “interactive” display: a station where children can pick up and feel starfish, crabs, sea anemones and other such creatures. The staff is knowledgeable, patient and friendly. Best of all is the price: $3 for adults and children 12 and up, $1.50 for kids 3 to 11. It’s open seven days a week, so carve out an hour to visit and know you won’t end up with a $50 gift-shop bill.

This is a tough category for a city such as Dallas, where most restaurant patios and decks overlook parking lots or city streets. What the city lacks are more public spaces, the kinds of courtyards and plazas found in Europe. The West Village has accomplished this plaza feel (although the traffic is still an issue), particularly outside the Magnolia Theatre, where al fresco dining can be had beside Taco Diner, Paciugo, Paris Vendome and Nikita. All form a kind of faux courtyard, and diners, some with their leashed dogs in tow, can engage friends and loved ones as they make their way to the movies. Although cars can obstruct the view, the venue is an attractive meet-and-greet for the see-and-be-seen set, and it lends itself to that sense of community so sorely lacking in modern times. Or at the very least, a beer.

The party place can be the Ponies & Pals Hickory Creek barnyard or your own back yard, but the cool thing about this party for kids is that it comes with live animals and pony rides. A party can be arranged to include goats, sheep, rabbits and potbellied pigs for petting, and ponies for riding. Operators will also provide a birthday cake, ice cream and more for the junior party-goers and can take the show just about anywhere in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Attendants constantly monitor the children as they interact with the animals.

On any given summer weekend, a couple hundred boats show up at the cove with occupants who are there to party. There is usually plenty of booze, and bikinis become optional as the day wears on. One of the larger boats that usually shows up has a stripper’s pole mounted on the back deck for any of the bikini-clad women at the cove to use at will and perhaps become un-bikini-clad. The lake water is warm and not all that refreshing, so it’s a good idea to bring an ice chest filled with your favorite beverage.

Your 3-year-old could attend any Texas state university for one year for about the same tuition as that of a quality preschool in Dallas. We would win the argument that your money is better spent on your 3-year-old, who is a curious sponge just waiting for experiences to generate his or her love of learning and encourage successful socialization skills with other rug rats. Quite the opposite of the college freshman’s experience, if memory serves. Dallas families eagerly pay the price for their 18-month- to 5-year-olds at The da Vinci School, an excellent preschool with a science-driven curriculum and an emphasis on nurturing individuality in every child. Founding director Mary Ann Greene says science is a jumping-off point for other areas of learning. “If we begin by looking at the solar system, for example,” she says, “we can easily explore the stories of mythology and music from The Planets.” Social studies is a secondary area of emphasis, and Greene says since the school opened in 1987, its students enjoy a fun, creative, stimulating, ability-appropriate, fulfilling and successful introduction to lifelong learning.

A ton of money went into this gi-normous downtown nightspot, and you can definitely tell. Huge dance floor, great sound system, a beautiful stage backed by the biggest LED screen not in use on a U2 world tour–and that’s just for a start. No expense was spared, which is the main reason we wagered that Blue would be boarded up in six months, 12 tops. But hey, word is they’re bringing in record crowds. Way to go, guys, even though we’re most likely out 20 bucks.

Instead of a party, our young son asked to visit Fossil Rim Wildlife Center on his birthday for the second year in a row. He never tires of tooling along the 10-mile safari course, poking his head out the car window and tossing handfuls of kibbles to zebras, wildebeests, gazelles, aoudads and the many other varieties of exotic animals in the savannah-like environs. You’ll view some 50 species, from giraffes (keep that moon roof shut, unless you want a visit from a giant, slimy black giraffe tongue) to the gorgeous fallow deer, which look like creatures from a children’s fantasy book. Halfway through is a large, well-stocked gift shop, a petting zoo and a restaurant on a cliff that serves outstanding hamburgers as well as gourmet salads and sandwiches. Your children will appreciate that the animals are healthy, happy and free to roam, yet numerous enough (1,000-plus critters) to see up close. At the end of the safari course, cheetahs and black rhinoceroses are on display in spacious pens. Guided tours are also available. For most Dallas-area residents, it’s a trip of about 90 minutes to Fossil Rim, which is southwest on state Highway 67 near Glen Rose. Count on spending some three hours at the park if you stop for a snack.

A trip to the emergency room is never fun. But for a germophobe, it’s an utter nightmare. A cursory glance of the waiting area can evoke sweaty palms, heart palpitations and the unyielding urge to flee. But, unfortunately, sometimes you gotta do it; and if the need arises, Baylor’s medical facility is as good a place as any. So whether you’re the patient or merely the moral support, here are a few suggestions for the germ-fearing among us: 1) Though it will be tempting, DO NOT choose a seat near the exit door, because, you see, it’s also within earshot of the patient interview area. And the first time you hear the phrase, “So, you have open sores…” don’t be surprised if you feel your throat begin to close and your breathing become labored. 2) Don’t even think about the Bath & Body Works anti-bacterial hand gel you have in your purse. It ain’t gonna cut it. Just ease your mind by imagining the Silkwood-style shower you’ll take when you get home. 3) Finally, and this may be the most important, DO NOT engage in conversation with any fellow waiting-roomer. You’ll just have to trust us on this one.

Sometimes the simple pleasures stand out. While other establishments spread multicolored chips or unidentifiable puffed snacks along the bar, the folks at Nana set bowls of cashews out for bar guests. That’s it. Cashews–unadorned but for a dusting of salt and all you care to grab before the bartenders realize what you’re up to. Other places serve all kinds of free goodies for happy hour, but none match the simplicity and the quality. These things are just damn good: very fresh and consistent. Anywhere else, a plastic bag of stale cashews will run you…well, we’re not sure what they cost. We’re hooked on the free stuff. A bowl of nuts, a drink and a view of traffic stalled along Stemmons Freeway make the Nana bar a perfect happy-hour stop.

This is what Dallas is all about: pretense and similitude. Big words, we know, reflecting a city that likes to show off but not stand apart. In other words, the right car or the firmest implants help us fit in with the crowd. Wear the proper clothes (check the fashion mags) and mimic group behavior; that’s all the preparation necessary for an evening of debauchery at Dragonfly. It’s a cool space with a pool outside and a bar scene indoors. Pretty people bump elbows throughout. And everyone glances as fresh meat enters the scene. Yep, we’re saying it’s a pickup bar, and female patrons match the men in aggressiveness. But success here depends on the self-assured manner and hip style that only wads of cash or an overextended credit card can purchase. So send only the bare minimum to Visa, shop the first level at the Galleria and then stroll into Dragonfly as if you own the place. Well, at least as if you own a car.

While to the untrained eye all ice rinks may seem the same, please understand that this is most definitely not the case. Not all rinks are created equal, and the Duncanville StarCenter shows that. It’s true that the competition isn’t steep, but Duncanville manages to distinguish itself from the meager pack in a few important respects: It has two full-sized sheets of ice, it’s relatively convenient and it’s clean. If you’ve been to a lot of rinks in the area, you know that the latter is definitely a factor to consider. And though the Valley Ranch StarCenter may have the best ice–because of its time as the Stars’ practice rink–Duncanville has the best facilities, such as large locker rooms, relatively good food and an upstairs bar/viewing spot for all the parents forced to attend extraordinarily early or late game times. The rink also has a pro shop that is well-stocked with the essentials, though prices run higher than at a normal equipment store such as Peranis or Players Bench. So if you think you’ve got an interest in hitting big guys with sticks, exposing yourself in tights or just want to get out of the heat and into a building that’s always freezing, then this is the rink for you.

The name of this award may be a little misleading, ’cause if you’re at The Beagle, we hope you’re truly single and not just “acting.” Seriously, guys, that is so not cool. But we digress. With plenty of drink specials and tunes by the likes of Tone-Loc, Missy Elliott and David Allan Coe, The Beagle is a pickup point without shame. (Yeah, we know we never even called you by your name, but we promise it’s not because we couldn’t remember it. It was just loud in the club…you know how it is.) And in case you didn’t know, memorizing someone else’s phone number works wonders at a place like this. We suggest your local Papa John’s or maybe one of the “escorts” from the back pages of this publication. We hear Brandi and Vixen are lookin’ for love.

An unauthorized sprawl on the Dallas Museum of Art’s manicured grass in the dark, however appealing, will get you at least 20 hours in the city jail, assuming someone agrees to bail you out. See, they’ve got really priceless art in that building, and plenty of security guards to make sure it stays there. A nighttime prowl between Harwood and St. Paul streets is tempting, though. If you’ve ever had a hankering to wander the DMA’s park-like grounds at night, to look up at the stars between the dark, shadowy outlines of downtown skyscrapers, wait for the summer season of Jazz Under the Stars, and you’ll stay out of trouble. Urban campers pack a snack and bring their blankies for a twilight picnic, complete with live jazz and the murmurs of the city streets. Best of all, the music and the ambience are free.

Why do we lease a Mercedes or Beemer? To impress the valet, of course. Most of us, indeed, consider it acceptable for restaurants to park the hottest cars in highly visible areas, as if the sight of a Ferrari will make the couple cruising past in an ’87 Corolla slam on the brakes and say, “Let’s go mingle with the wealthy folks.” The staff at Javier’s takes the concept a step further, providing stellar valet service for guests driving expensive vehicles while shunning–in the most subtle manner–the rest of the population. Walk out of the restaurant on a busy evening and ask them to bring your 7 Series around, and they hastily pull it within an inch or two of your kneecaps. Call for your Infiniti–or lesser vehicle–and expect a bit of a stroll.

The Dallas Morning News recently mentioned that it visited this downtown establishment and was dismayed by the fact it wasn’t jam-packed with patrons. They point out that they showed up at 6 p.m. Now, far be it from us to call the folks at the daily paper idiots, but, ah, do you think you could try going to a bar after the sun goes down? The last time we were in CT, it was hoppin’: both levels full of folks enjoying the ambience (dark woods, big tables), the cold beer and the downtown scene. It reminded us of a typical neighborhood bar in Chicago, something you don’t see much of in Dallas. Oh, yeah, it also has a little side room upstairs for folks who want to play Golden Tee but don’t want to keep bumping into patrons when their $30 putts come up short. Which makes it extra awesome.

Located in the old Margarita Ranch spot, Stolik is everything owner Marie Grove said it would be. It’s understated, sleek and stylish, with great food (try the foie gras–trust us) and a wonderful ambience. But we especially loved hanging out at the bar with Glen, the ‘tender who introduced us to new brands of sterling vodkas and regaled us with tales from the other highfalutin Dallas places at which he’s worked. Margarita Ranch you always visited for the Dallas cheese. Stolik you’ll return to because it pulls off the hiptown vibe thing with ease.

There’s an undeniable appeal to the idea: Skip work, head to a bar and watch the day sip away into a pleasant haze while others toil away in cubeland. For this purpose, nothing beats Sevy’s Grill. It’s a bright, upbeat space with a steady flow of daytime regulars–including fellow slackers. Daytime bartender James Pintello keeps the conversation flowing and stirs up some impressive sipping drinks. Psychologists and HR professionals give lip service to the value of a little downtime, but they’re generally referring to time- and money-consuming vacations. Before a trip, harried business professionals spend hours clearing projects off their desks. Upon their return, these same harried professionals catch up on hundreds of e-mails and calls and other issues. It may be that a “doctor’s appointment” spent at Sevy’s is all the downtime a person really needs.

Don’t go there to see it. Just open your eyes and turn your head half a nod next time you pass, usually on your way to or from the City Hall area on Young Street, just across from First Presbyterian Church of Dallas: In freezing cold or baking heat, the downtown derelict population camps out on the 500 block of Dallas’ ironically named Park Avenue, a dirty valley of brick and broken glass near a popular soup kitchen. They throw down cots and sleeping bags (or just their own bruised, grimy bodies) on the sidewalk, sleeping it off in an ether of booze and piss. Write your own moral.

Hattie’s American Bistro has become a citywide hot spot, drawing people into Oak Cliff who have never been farther south than Armstrong in their lives, along with an adventurous crowd of veteran cosmopolites and metrosexuals. Eventually they all pour out onto Bishop Street for cigars and shrieking, wandering off down the block to explore Ifs Ands & Butts Sodapop and Tobacco Store, or the Oak Cliff Mercantile, a cool antiques and salvage place that stays open late, or whatever. Every night a few discover again that the cleverly named Venetian Blinds is actually an old place that sells Venetian blinds. All in all, it’s a quiet, amiable, sophisticated corner of the city.

How does Escapade 2001, a club that’s only open Friday and Saturday, regularly ring up the most liquor sales in Dallas County? Because this hangar-sized hangout happens to bring in most of the local Latino population every weekend, turning our East Dallas neighborhood into a ghost town. How does Escapade 2001 manage that? Because they know how to cater to the folks who’ve moved up from Mexico, playing the ranchera and cumbia music that makes boots scoot south of the border. It’s a devastatingly simple formula.