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There's a lot of sadness going around at the Richard E. Gersten Justice Center in Miami this week; the Jessica Lundsford murder trial is well underway. The state and the defense rested their cases Tuesday afternoon. Accused killer John Couey declined to take the stand; jurors are shaken by the trial's horrific details.

There was a bit of levity outside the courthouse, however, something that could only happen in Miami. At around 2 p.m., on a postage-stamp-sized patch of grass, a plump, white rooster with a red crest happily snacked on bread crumbs as suited-up lawyers and thug-looking defendants paraded by.

"It's a fat one," remarked a woman in Spanish. "Good for soup!" She then tossed him part of an arepa.

The white rooster eventually crossed the street and foraged under a bush, with two other handsome, green roosters. Courthouse veterans say the roosters are frequent visitors to the justice building's entrance. --Tamara Lush

As we drove down Okeechobee Road toward Club Rancho Grande last Saturday, my friend started recalling the last time she was there: She got stuck in traffic for an hour, she remembered, because a gunshot victim was being airlifted from the rancho next door. That was Rancho Gaspar, site of more than one act of violence (a body was found on the rural road leading to the club in 2001), which has since closed.

What is a rancho? It seems to be a Hialeah thing, a nostalgic throwback to Cuba. Basically it is an outdoor barn-type arrangement with food, drink, dancing, and sometimes even pony rides. After turning off of Okeechobee onto a rutted dirt, we passed mataderos offering lechon-slaughtering services, pens of goats and geese, and at least one cow. In spite of a thorough frisking at the door, Club Rancho Grande seemed to attract a non-violent -- though scantily-dressed -- crowd.

Gnawing on rabo encendido, trying desperately not to think about the fact that I seemed to be eating 100 percent beef fat (it tasted good), I spent the rest of the evening watching the people who didn't grow up in the Midwest dance salsa and bachata. One kind, elderly gentlemen took pity on me and kindly guided me to the dance floor, where I proceeded to step on his toes for the course of an entire song. It was a fun night. --Emily Witt

The Cocounut Cup annual homebrewing competition came to its boozy finale at the Titanic Restaurant and Brewery this past Saturday around five in the afternoon. Judging began at nine in the morning (the fourth consecutive day of heavy judging/boozing for most present) with Belgian entries, then progressed into fruit beers. Unlike wine tasting, it is not customary for judges to spit out samples, save for extreme circumstances. One modest spittoon remained half-empty for the duration of the contest.

New Times arrived on the scene in a bullet proof vest, coming just off of a Purple Haze-guided tour of Opa-Locka to find a room of about 25 salty aficionados buying raffle tickets and crossing their fingers in the anticipation of free yeast and hops.

Sunlight shone freely through the open front and back doors and the smell of spilled beers cemented the atmosphere of an ancient Irish public house. Curious patrons stood idly by while every brewer in the southern half of the peninsula agonized over beery minutia —turning up noses, slurping measured sips and getting progressively more merry.

Tables located at the center of the room abounded with reject bottles: everything from coconut stouts to lychee meads.

The Miami Area Society of Homebrewers took six gold medals, six silvers and four bronzes. (This reporter's H.R. Chubbykins III Esq. Southern English Brown Ale took a gold medal in its category).

While Best in Show went to a man from West Palm Beach for his Coconut Heffeweizen, the Miami Area Soceity of Homebrewers will maintain the Coconut Cup (a middling wooden trophy) at the Titanic for yet another year. --Calvin Godfrey

Miamarina at Bayside was relatively quiet Wednesday night, as a small squad of handlers put the final coats of wax on the sailboats in preparation for this weekend's Miami International Boat Show, which is expected to draw more than 200,000 visitors this weekend. On the way out to the docks at sunset, a yellow-shirted security guard could be seen dozing in her chair.

At 86 feet, the tallest mast at the downtown marina (site of Strictly Sail Miami, the "all-sail" show) belonged to a gorgeous, teaked-out, 54-footer. The Hanse 540e was being tended to by my brother and one of the partners in his St. Petersburg-based boat detailing business, Sunfish Marine. The vessel gleamed in the twilight, newly painted with a coat of Stars & Stripes Blue. You could smell the freshly applied teak oil wafting off its deck long before you caught sight of the boat.

Hanse is headquartered in Greifswald, Germany, a port town where (according to company literature) "boats have been built since 1361." But the company's push into American waters is new; like the rest of East Germany, the company and its hometown only recently shook off the chains of communist rule.

The 540e on display at Miamarina is Model No. 1, and goes for a mere $600,000 — a steal in boat show circles. (At last year's show, a sailboat sold for $2.7 million.) This puppy has an epoxy hull, whatever that means, and a self-tacking jib (ditto). I'm no boat expert, but it looked and smelled good to me, especially the cherry wood-infused interior.

On a recent night, I was out on the beach, pickling my ginger a bit with an oversized bottle of High Life, when I saw two men walking towards me across the sand. I had just stashed the bubbly when they got to me and asked for a cigarette in Spanish. I said I didn't have one -- in Spanish.

That was okay, apparently, because the taller of the two said, "I'll sit down here, okay?" and plopped himself down on the beach chair next to me. The other guy slowly sprawled himself on his back on the sand. Apparently they weren't drunk - they were just really, really tired.

What the hell, I thought, and scooted over, retrieved the bottle, and passed it.

Their names were Octavio and Rixi, they said, and they're illegal immigrants, migrant laborers; Rixi's from Honduras, and Octavio is from Nicaragua. They have family there, and they came here - like a whole hell of a lot of people - to make some money doing shitty work before going back to their families.

Octavio told me a great story about how he got here. He snuck from Guatemala to Oaxaca by boat, stashed in the compartment below deck. He said the waves made his intestines (or some internal organ) fly up into his throat, and he began to fear his demise. "Yo soy valiente, yo soy hombre," he explained. "But on that boat, I cried and prayed to God." From Oaxaca, he caught a ride on a bus, jumping out and hiding behind the tires whenever the Mexican authorities stopped for inspection.

Due to the damp weather, the outdoor wall of stuffed animals at Rios Flowers has been under a tarp for most of the week. The street in front of the store has been reduced to a sand pit, a perilous habitat of orange and white traffic barriers and sinkholes. But the masking of the flower shop's famous Valentine's Day display under a plastic burka and the bulldozer hell we know as Biscayne Boulevard has not deterred customers. They demand flowers, and flowers they will have.

The day before Valentine's Day, owner Geraldo Rios is in automaton mode. He keeps the store open 24 hours a day from February 11 to 14 and says he has not slept in days. He scurries around the shop, dodging a customer holding a heart-bedecked stuffed monkey, stripping roses of leaves, shoving a few more birds of paradise into an arrangement before it ships out. Out back is a refrigerated truck on risers almost entirely filled with bouquets. At the front door, two women stand before helium canisters inflating an endless number of metallic heart-shaped balloons. Delivery men carry towering arrangements to their vans.

Trailing a slow-footed reporter behind him, Rios pauses for a sip of colada from the construction workers taking a break across the street. He then unlocks a side door and gestures inside. An ascent up a short stairway reveals a surreal sight: teddy bears, thousands of them, wrapped in plastic bags and placed in rows. They stare glassy-eyed, some paired with a bottle of champagne and glasses. There are white bears and brown ones, bears holding hearts inscribed with love notes in Spanish and English, bears the size of schoolchildren lolling on couches. Bears are piled against the neo-Italianate sculptures Rios uses for wedding flowers, bears line the walls. They are stacked into pyramids, they hang from the guard rail. Resting under a canopy of helium balloons, the second floor of Rios Flowers holds a veritable army of bears, awaiting presentation by strapping men to their cooing, adoring wives and girlfriends.

At about 1:30 late one night this past weekend, I was leaning on my bike, staring tipsily at my plastic Streetwise Miami map, trying to figure out how to get onto the Venetian Causeway. I'm new in town. I have yet to cultivate the Miami taste for drunk driving.

The next thing I knew, a Miami Beach Police car pulled up to the curb, and a female officer stepped out. "Put down your bike sir, and move over to the car," she declared. I stared at her. "Put down your bike right there," she repeated, "and move over to the car. Now, sir." I was still wearing my helmet.

I leaned the bike against a light post. She told me to put my hands against the car, and started frisking me. "Were you at the pizza place, sir?" she asked as she moved up to the crotch.

"No," I lied. Then, realizing it was true, I practically shouted: "No!"

Another car pulled in and a male officer got out. "You were at the pizza place," he said.

"No I wasn't." I said.

He stared long and hard. "Sorry sir," he said finally, "she's a rookie."

With that, he left. The female officer got in her car.

"Get back on your bike, sir," she barked, and drove off.

A piece of advice for the Miami Beach PD for the next time they catch up with me on the long pedal home: they'd have gotten farther asking where I had been.

No Miami Beach pizzerias contacted by New Times reported a disturbance that night and so far, Miami Beach Police have not responded to inquiries. --Isaiah Thompson

This past Friday night, the imposing gates of Star Island stood open to the rich, the famous, and the lowly media — all invited to the splendiferous casa de la Gloria Estefan to attend a fundraising gala.

Three hundred guests were expected; tickets cost $5,000 a head, but the journalists didn't need them. On the other hand, the ticket price included cocktails, dinner, a performance by Gloria, and -- an important detail -- access beyond her front gate. The media ticket got you some space by said gate to watch the arrivals.

So that's what we did: as the guests began to trickle across the threshold, the (mostly Spanish-language) TV news crews scanned faces and positioned themselves for celebrities; figuring I wouldn't know a celebrity if one performed a root canal on me (without a mask, of course), I just watched the TV crews.

Rosie O'Donnell appeared — that was exciting.

The Florida International Bankers Association, better known by the acronym FIBA (and unrelated to an international basketball league with the same initials), has its annual Anti Money Laundering Conference today and tomorrow at the Radisson Hotel downtown.

Expecting Scarface-inspired crime narratives, New Times attended a pre-conference lecture by David Armond, Deputy Director of the Proceeds of Crime unit for Britain's newly-formed Serious Organised Crime Agency, better known by the acronym SOCA (unrelated to West Indian musical genre of Soul-Calypso). Attendees included forensic accountants, an agent from Customs and Border Patrol (with holstered gun), and at least one criminal defense attorney.

The contestants hoping to win a spot on Our Latin Beauty — the new Spanish-language counterpart to America's Next Top Model -- sat on metal bleachers under a canopy outside of Univision's studios in Doral last Saturday morning. Dressed in a dazzling array of animal prints, lace, various concoctions of satin and even velour, the women aged 18 to 27 looked like a tropical aviary. The waiting area was a rainforest ecosystem that generated its own clouds of perfume and hair products to replenish a root system of stilletto heels and platform espadrilles.

The women all faced the same direction, some with arms or legs crossed, some slouching slightly, others with perfect posture. Their blow-dried, layered hair seemed frozen in place. Their lipstick represented the full spectrum of a Cover Girl drug store display. Bustiers were in full effect.

When photographers approached, the savvy among them straightened and preened. They smiled with the professional ease of an Aquafresh model. One thing was certain: Every woman here thought she was beautiful.

Miami was the second of five cities in the U.S. and Puerto Rico that Univision will scout for possible candidates. Hundreds showed up on Saturday alone, competing for only twelve spots. The show will be filmed here starting in March. The grand prize will be a one-year contract to work as a presenter on the network.

I recently attended a sausage party. Literally.

Guests were encouraged to bring over all manner of meats and spices —anything they would like to see in sausage form. The event mainly involved staring intently at a pink output of ground meat, and making poorly timed jokes.

The winner was a Japanese biotechnical engineer named Nagimitsu.

Bystander: Nagy, have you ever had Japanese sausage? They're really good.

Nagy: Yes. Small and hard.

Before long, the awkwardness of the whole thing had blown over and everyone was standing around, mesmerized, in a cooperative effort to stuff and tie-off pound after pound of meat.

Thankfully no assholes and lips were employed in the making of these sausages. Collagen casings spared us the gross awareness of stuffing an animal's ground flesh back into its stomach.

Still, if the unifying force in this universe turns out to be anything but a bearded dude (particularly a cow or a pig), anyone who has ever eaten a sausage is surely going to hell.

Nevertheless, the resulting sausages (Andouille, Bratwurst, Chorizo, and Pear & Cognac) were sublimely delicious. All those interested in making their own sausages should check out this 138-page series of sausage recipes, including three for Scrapple, sausage's ugly cousin. -Calvin Godfrey

I was grilling zucchini in my backyard, of a Saturday night, and having a damned fine time doing it. But then, the silhouette of a black rat rustled out of the bushes.

"I think I'm going to shoot it," I told my cousin, reaching for the pistol in my back pocket.

"What are you fucking nuts?" she cried. "Discharging a firearm?"

Hmm... this was a tough one. I hurled a rock in its general direction. Nothing. I jumped up and down like a lunatic and it rose up on its hind legs.

"It's threatening me," I shouted. "In my own backyard!" What good, indeed, is a firearm if you cannot dispatch a rat threatening you (and by extension, your zucchini) in your own home?

After some debate, I convinced my cousin I was right. But the rat had left. "Go ahead and shoot the thing," she said. "You're neighbors may not be happy, but they'll be impressed."

Officer O' Dell at the City of Miami Police Department did not agree. "A rat?" he cried over the telephone. "No sir, you cannot shoot a rat. What if you miss and shoot someone else? Plus, someone might hear the shot and call the police. And you will be arrested."

I am still not convinced.

Calvin Godfrey

You know the Save Darfur cause has gathered steam when people rally in Miami, a place where political activism (except the anti-Castro kind) goes to die.

Perhaps unsurprisingly then, finding Thursday's rally for Darfur at the county government center downtown took a little doing. Originally planned for the outdoor plaza, rain drove the rally inside. No outdoor signs mentioned the change and no one was there to direct people. "I've been standing here for ten minutes," said a damp Pat Johnson.

Once inside, Johnson warmed up. Around 100 people, perhaps half of them teenagers with the Greater Miami Jewish Federation held signs or just listened from the few dozen folding chairs. County Commissioner Katy Sorenson and others were slated to speak. There would be music and singing. There were flyers to read, petitions to sign.

Outside, shielded from the rain by the elevated tri-rail tracks, the business of Miami continued oblivious to the rally. A small crowd gawked at a leggy blonde under klieg lights as a fashion photographer shouted directions. -Rob Jordan

Forget about Lincoln Road or Coconut Grove. The funkiest clothing store in Miami is at 4600 N.E. 2nd Ave, on the edge of Little Haiti and the Design District. It's tucked upstairs from a row of shops, in a converted apartment.

Rag Trade Happy Clothing Co. opened Saturday with a full house and a great concept: bring clothing to donate, get credit for said clothing, then shop. The idea is unique to Miami but common in places such as New Orleans, San Francisco, and Austin (the very excellent Buffalo Exchange runs on a similar concept). The success of Saturday's grand opening shocked even the owner, 22-year-old Stephanie Spiegel. While fashionistas rifled through the packed -- and quality -- racks of clothing, Stephanie was busy taking in more consignments.

"She worked unbelieveably hard on this," said Stephanie's dad, Paul, who sat on a couch in the middle of the showroom during the party.

Despite her tender age, Stephanie seems to have things under control. She has a few rules for donations -- clothes must be freshly laundered, in good condition, no stains or funky smells. Most of the used clothes on the rack are brand name, and the store also carries some new stuff, including totes by WandaBeast and local designer Adrianne Ruffin. The store itself is worth visiting for the ambience -- it's part Haight Ashbury and part Romper Room. (For the opening party, Stephanie had a DJ, wine and cheese, and a bounce house). She's planning some other soirees, including a "Give Back Fur" event, where people can donate furs to shelter animals.

The best part, however, are the prices: most items are under $25. -Tamara Lush

In Everglades City, on the edge of the world, there's a place named Leebo's Rock Bottom Bar. There you will find a drunk named Floyd Brown — one of the last remaining survivors of the 100-man marijuana operation that got the majority of the town's male population thrown behind bars in 1983. The grist rocketed this crazy cracker from Argentina to Guatemala and back to Florida —you can only imagine the terrible things he's done and seen.

Today, at 69, he remains lecherous and unrepentantly racist. He smells like cat piss and around 40 percent of what he says is lost between his rotted bottom teeth and his ancient cracker drawl. But for the price of a drink he will tell you all about being Totch Brown's brother (actually, his cousin, he'll later admit) and all the roughneck craziness that life involved.

To wit:

"After I got shot twice in the leg in South America..."

"—who shot you?"

"South America. Anyhow, I had these crutches. And I came into a bar and set down and four fellas come up to me and tell me they gonna kick the shit outta me. Well, I look over at the tender and I says: 'You gonna let this happen, now?'"

"And he says, 'Floyd, this ain't no church house.'"

"—why did they want to beat the shit out of you?"

"Because I'm a drunk asshole. Anyhow, I says, 'ain't no church house, eh?' And I dials up around the corner, where my four boys stayed at. I ain't seen them in a few months but I call and say: 'Boys, daddy's in trouble.'"

"Well they showed up and they wiped that bar clean. They whomped and stomped every motherfucker in the room — they had to be carried out on stretchers. Like the goddamned Cavalry-Marine Corps. And I looked up at the tender hiding behind the bar and he says: 'Floyd this is a church house.'" -Calvin Godfrey