This bar gets the nod via popular word of mouth from many women in our fair town. Unlike other queer emporiums, Buddies plays a larger variety of music. It also has a bigger selection of patron types, from the butch to the femme to those marvelous individual combinations that mark most of the rest of humanity. Its biggest sell, as one enthusiastic young woman claimed, is that it's the best place in town for a woman-lovin' woman to get picked up by another WLW. And isn't this what makes the world go 'round?

Most honest answer? Only your ears, unless, of course, you wanna break your mother's already fragile heart. What, she's made out of stone all of a sudden? No, no, we kid because we love. If you have to do it, head to Obscurities (conveniently located next door to Trilogy Tattoo), and Pat Tidwell and the rest of the gang will spear you wherever you want.

Acre upon acre of khaki and plaid, plus a regular Greek alphabet soup: Is this heaven or hell? The answer probably depends on the size of Daddy's bank account and your fondness for stupid drinking games. If you're a Greek freak, The Beagle is the place for you on a weekend night. As an added bonus, they play '80s music, which always seems to make the women form circles and sing at the top of their lungs all the words to "Livin' on a Prayer." Like we said, it's either heaven or hell.

With the recession and all, the mother of all Texas car trips--the weekend in Austin--is looking better than ever. Cheap fun here comes in the form of swimming at Barton Springs, pub-crawling for bands on Sixth Street and cheap, tasty barbecue. The city has some reasonably priced B&B's, and it doesn't cost a nickel to hang out by the lake at dusk to watch the bats take wing. Over the years we've sampled a few upper-end spots--a few nights at the elegant Driskill Hotel, or dinner at Hudson's on the Bend. But somehow, the best memories are of sipping a cold one at El Arroyo, being 22 years old, out of college and in no hurry to get a job. With the metroplex and the job three hours in the rearview mirror, it's not hard to recapture the spirit, if only for a few days.

Our high school principals were smart enough to ask for a note to explain any absence from school. Fortunately, our bosses consider such tactics childish, which opens the door for the occasional "dental appointment." On any day at Sevy's, you'll find well-heeled, conversant folks suffering from fanciful ailments camped along the extensive bar. In fact, the establishment even inscribes the names of chronic attendees on bronze plates. The food is great, the people interesting, and the bartender--James Pintello--one of the best in the business. Admit it, there's something spectacular about a good martini buzz on a Wednesday afternoon, about stumbling out of a bar soused to the gills into piercing daylight, about ditching responsibility. Until you lose those responsibilities for good. But then, your principal warned you about the dangers of truancy.

If happiness is a warm gun, then this place is Nirvana--or Charlton Heston's wet dream. It has 18 pistol and six rifle lanes and a 24,000-square-foot store to fulfill all your self-defense needs. (If you live in Kosovo.) These fine folks give private instruction so you can become a marksman, plus they sell a full line of camouflage clothing for all you fashionable wannabe Travis Bickles.

We don't know his name (Marathon Man is a nickname we concocted not long ago), but that's not really important. We feel like we know him anyway, since--for the past two or three years--we've seen him almost every day. On our way to work. On our way home. At work. At the Minyard on Abrams. At various crosswalks in downtown. Instead of staking out a sweet spot in front of one of the dozens of 7-Elevens in the area (the homeless guy's answer to an ATM), this guy's always on the go, from morning until night, keeping a brisk pace and a not-so-comforting look on his face. Whether he's working on his cardiovascular, his tan or a plan to get the voices out of his head, we're not sure. Whatever he's doing, we salute him.

Among the thriving herd of young professionals moving downtown or nearby, it's inevitable that there eventually would be children among them. (Even the best birth control is, after all, less than perfect.) This leaves an obvious vacuum regarding what to do with the kids on a weekend afternoon. Driving out of downtown to entertain them seems to defeat the purpose of moving back there in the first place, and while the winos at the central library are often entertaining, they're not exactly rated G. Instead, take the wee urbanites to America's Ice Garden at Plaza of the Americas. This ice center offers public skating and private lessons and can help you set up ice skating parties for the kids' next birthdays. They also have a pro shop to help you with your skating needs. With a little preparation now, your little one could blossom into the next Tara Lipinski or Rudy Galindo.

Two words: Prince afterparty. Two more words: Snoop afterparty. Get the idea? When the baddest muthas come to Dallas, the real happening is at Erykah Badu's South Dallas club. A 1960s movie house that had fallen into disrepair, the Black Forest has been reimagined as a thriving cultural spot, with hand-painted murals, checkerboard floors, lush green walls, and good sound and lighting. This is all thanks to Ms. Badu, who uses the space as ground zero for a South Dallas revitalization project called Beautiful Love Incorporated Non Profit Development (or BLIND). Semi-regular entertainment comes from Mizz B herself, along with soul, R&B, hip-hop and rock acts from around the community. Notice that word: community. 'Cause even though Black Forest may host some of the biggest names in music, ain't no question whose home this really is. Prince may be on the marquee and Erykah Badu may be on the lease, but this place belongs to South Dallas.

Readers' Pick

Velvet Curtain

www.velvetcurtain.net

C-Shiz is basically a Juvenile video shoot, only with no cameras and no Juvenile. Basically, we're talking lots of Fubu and even more rump shaking. The last time we were there, a DJ was spinning music we weren't terribly familiar with, and, as we were standing by the bar, trying unsuccessfully not to look out of place, a fine young lady backed that thang up, unbidden, right into our crotch and then proceeded to shake that thang in such a manner as to make us think that love really is colorblind.