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.

This humongous dance club, tucked away on a blah stretch of industrial buildings off Northwest Highway, is the Latin dance scene's least-kept secret. Escapade 2009 keeps the weekends thumping with its reliable mix of Top 40 music and rock en Español, along with live bands on some Thursdays. Giant video screens and fog machines give the sprawling dance floor some crazy techno cred. Good times don't come cheap, however--cover can run as high as 20 bucks. Fortunately for the male patrons, ladies seem to have a different interpretation of "no cover"--the skirts and shirts are barely there.

Readers' Pick

Babalu Club

2910 McKinney Ave.

214-953-0300

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.

A few assumptions to start: You're out of precious vacation days; you need a break; you enjoy a good midafternoon buzz; and your boss isn't already sitting at the bar. Good, then yelp in pain, announce an urgent need to visit the dentist and call it a day. Sevy's attracts brokers and bankers and fully gruntled postal workers and housewives--just about anyone. The dress code ranges from casual on up. The kitchen serves a special afternoon bar menu. Bartender James Pintello spins out stories as well as medicinal doses of alcohol (remember the toothache?). It's a bright, quiet and friendly space, with a clear view of the doorway, just in case the boss gets the same idea. Plenty of time to duck into a corner or dash out to the patio, jump the fence and make your escape. Oh, yeah--almost forgot the underground parking garage. Good thing if you wish to avoid detection.

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.