Oh, what's that you say? Dude, it's a pilots' hangout? What up? That's like naming a bar that caters to road construction crews The Manhole.

Clarification: The Cockpit is not a gay bar. We repeat: The Cockpit, a neighborhood bar on Marsh Lane, is not a gay bar. Our writer was cracking a joke about The Cockpit's name when he selected it as critic's choice for Best Gay Bar in the September 26 Best of Dallas issue. Apparently, not everyone got the joke. We apologize to all--employees, proprietors, and patrons--for any unpleasant consequences we may have caused.

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.

We could have picked some country road where the traffic is slow and the scenery is beautiful. But this is Dallas and, well, call us sentimental, but nothing warms our hearts like progress. We had this same feeling when Central Expressway was under construction, and we have it again, watching the new merger of Central and LBJ crawl out of the starting blocks, trotting toward a finish line that will undoubtedly get farther away as the years go by. (Check www.dallashighfive.org for updates.) We longingly gaze at the concrete columns (because that's pretty much all you can do around there, given the stop-and-stop traffic situation), dreaming of the day when it's complete.

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.

When we were a kid, last month, used to be a drive up Central Expressway to McKinney lasted a week; 75 was one lane north and south, and it wasn't so long ago. Now it takes 20 minutes, without much traffic, to head up to this Collin County town that's growing every day without losing much of its charm. In fact, it still looks like it did when Joe Camp shot his first Benji up there--giant old homes with rustic front porches, a town square anchored by an old courthouse. That it's slowly been populated by big-city folk in search of small-town charm hasn't harmed McKinney; they came not to speed up the city but to slow themselves down. So they opened quaint restaurants (from cheap diners to gourmet eateries), charming antique stores, homey clothing boutiques, inviting used bookstores and beckoning bed-and-breakfasts. It's a place Doc Hollywood would love, a town where it's Groundhog Day every day, and in the fall and winter we can be found here celebrating "A Dickens Christmas" (the weekend after Thanksgiving, locals dress up in Victorian garb to welcome visitors in the holiday spirit) or drinking hot cocoa in the old county jail that's now a hot dining destination. We hate gentrification as much as the next guy who can't afford it, but at least the yuppies live on the other side of Central, in El Dorado--ya know, where the Starbucks went in.

The space that once held Baby Routh now houses two sister restaurants, Arcodoro and Pomodoro, joined at the hip to form a faux Sardinian village. The patio is especially appealing in good weather and provides a kind of village square where the young cool people, usually from the Arcodoro side, may mingle with old rich people, who tend to hang on the tighter, tonier Pomodoro side. It's just one big Euro-bar community, brought together by great Italian food and credit cards.

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.

Because they have all that a good bar needs: a pool table, a jukebox worth your quarters and cheap beer. Because it's much more comfortable than sitting on the tailgate of your truck, and the cops come by far less often. Because it feels like home within five minutes, and you never wanna leave after 10. Because you'd buy this place if you had the money. Because just talking about Ship's is making us thirsty.

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.