The claustrophobic thriller Panic Room, starring Jodie Foster and Jared Leto, stashed away $18.5 million to remain the top pick at the box office for the second consecutive weekend. The film has grossed a strong $58.8 million in a mere 10 days. Another Ashley Judd and Morgan Freeman legal drama, High Crimes, disputed its way to a $15 million settlement, while Tim Allen’s new comedy, Big Trouble, grossed a weak $3.7 million.

The clouds opened wide and beautiful sun rays fell upon Celine Dion’s New Day Has Come. The French-Canadian singer’s new disc sold 527,000 albums and returned her to the chart prominence she gained with the single My Heart Will Go On, which at one time seemed to be looped eternally on every radio station. Americans’ love of disposable music helped the compilations Now 9 and WWF: Forceable Entry take the next two spots, selling 463,000 and 146,00 copies respectively.

In music news, metal act Megadeth has broken up after almost twenty years due to a serious arm injury suffered by their frontman/guitarist Dave Mustaine. Hard rock fans can rejoice however, as the expanding Locobazooka tour featuring Sevendust, Fu Manchu, Filter and Gravity Kills will visit 16 scheduled cities this summer. Producer/rap mogul Dr. Dre has said that his new album Detox will probably drop next summer. He described it as a tightly- knit concept album that focuses on the life of a hit man. An alleged associate of Dr. Dre’s former boss, Suge Knight, was gunned down last Wednesday at a gas station in Compton, Calif. There are no reported suspects.

In television news, the struggling sports cable station CNN/Sports Illustrated will be no more as of May 15. Morning show anchor Bryant Gumbel will soon be leaving CBS’s The Early Show due to a contract dispute. MTV’s The Osbournes is more than just a cult hit, with its last episode pulling in a massive 7.1 million viewers, making it the network’s top show. Ozzy is using the boost of fame to enter the political arena. He has accepted an invitation to next month’s White House Correspondents Dinner and signed a PETA petition against the eating of cats and dogs (but not bats) in South Korea.

Late on a Monday night, I found myself playing the host’s role for a couple of my spring-breaking buddies. They wanted to drink. They wanted to dance. They wanted to party. But in Miami, on Monday? It wasn’t happening.

At 9 p.m. we packed into the navy blue Daewoo my friend Teddy had rented and set course due South to our best option: Key West.

“Just trust me on this one,” I told them, “We’ll be there by midnight, right when Key West gets going. It’ll be crazy.”

The waning weeks of March and beginning of April are a springbreaker’s paradise in Key West. I could already picture the bars on Duval Street-Key West’s famed bar-hopping hotspot once frequented by Ernest Hemingway-packed with college students from across the country.

“They call it the Duval Crawl,” I told my buddies, who seemed skeptical of my spontaneous plan, “I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like this.”

Part of their skepticism stemmed from our lack of proper lodging. OK, so we didn’t have a hotel room. The youth hostel, which provided beds for $22.50 a night for non-members, was also booked. My friends were banking on the usual spring-breaking Don Juan way of finding quick accommodations-meeting someone who had a place to stay.

We took A1A around the southern side of the island towards the south side of Duval Street. I was getting excited, but my friends were starting to get worried.

“Dude,” my other friend, Gilbert, said, “We’ve been on this island for 10 minutes and I still haven’t seen one person.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him, “wait till you see Duval Street.”

We approached the southernmost tip of Duval Street, which lies only a block away from the southernmost point in the contiguous United States. I suggested parking the car, but my friends still hadn’t seen any reason for even being in Key West.

We began our tour of Duval and suddenly, people were everywhere, stumbling out of every alleyway, sitting in doorways, crowding entrances to bars. As we passed Fleming Street, we began to see springbreakers walking from bar to bar with plastic cups and the bolder, or perhaps drunker, partiers carrying open bottles.

We began walking toward the bars. In Key West, they are very relaxed on the open container law. For the most part, they don’t enforce it. More or less, you would have to club someone over the head with your open container to get in trouble for it, so we began walking toward the bars with our previously-purchased beers.

Sloppy Joe’s was the first bar on our agenda. It is a wide-open bar with high ceilings and stage near the rear. We stopped in and Teddy ordered another beer, while Gilbert and I finished the ones we brought in with us. About 20 people were dancing on the dance floor, but the bar lacked the energy for which we were looking.

“Let’s find a better place,” I said. Teddy and Gilbert agreed, so we emptied back out onto Duval. Teddy was in need of some cigarettes, so we walked down the street and found a convenience store. Teddy asked the clerk for advice.

“Rick’s is going to be the best thing going tonight,” he told us. “It is Monday.”

Rick’s-it was right across the street. The place looks like on old saloon on the first floor with white painted shutters propped open. A staircase leads to an upper floor that has the look of an Old West brothel.

The line to get into the front door was huge, so we walked around the back entrance and stood in a smaller line. As we waited, a waitress approached us with a platter full of jell-o shots. I bought a round of the electric-blue gelatin bullets and she topped them off with whipped cream.

Finally, we paid the $5 cover fee and made our way into the courtyard behind Rick’s. There was a stage set up in the very back of the courtyard where an emcee stood with about seven girls in white T-shirts. We walked closer and found that they were hosting some sort of wet T-shirt contest.

“All right, this is pathetic,” Teddy said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Let’s go upstairs to the bar.”

We snaked our way through the mass of scantily clad bodies, up the stairs to a patio overlooking the dance floor. It was packed. Bleary-eyed, drunk springbreakers danced, while keeping one hand aloft and stationary as to not spill the precious contents of their plastic cups.

Gilbert and I hit the dance floor for a bit, but it was too crowded.

At times, when the bar got too crowded for my liking, I ventured downstairs to the smaller bar area, also a part of Rick’s. I took a breather and sang a song on the karaoke stage, You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling by the Righteous Brothers.

The bar eventually closed at 4 a.m. The remaining springbreakers poured back onto Duval. Those who had hotel rooms piled into cabs and sped away.

That’s when we met Scott. He was a spring breaker who had rented a house for the week. The house was equipped with a hot tub. Therefore, Scott went up to every remaining girl on Duval and said:

“Hey, let’s go party at my house. It’s got a hot tub.”

Needless to say, Scott was less than successful-and drunk out of his mind.

“Scotty,” Teddy said, “That’s not exactly a smoothest way to get a girl back to your place.”

Scott then pointed out our equal lack of success, and suggested that it might stem from the sunglasses, which Teddy was still wearing.

As we were having this conversation, a man wearing a Yankees cap walked up to us and started telling us about an after-hours club he knew of called Hula’s. The man in the New York Yankees cap had flagged down a cab soon after and asked us if we were coming.

“Sure, why not,” I answered, “We don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Teddy, Gilbert, our new friend Scott and myself piled into the cab with the New York Yankees guy and headed for Hula’s. The cab took us about six blocks. We paid the cabby and promptly ragged on “New York,” as we now called him, for being so lazy that he couldn’t walk six blocks.

Hula’s seemed like a very sketchy after-hours place from the outside. It looked like someone’s house only it had a hand-painted sign on the front. The people at the door asked for a $5 cover fee.

New York demanded they charge us the “local’s fee.”

They charged us $2 instead and as we walked inside, the people at the door stuffed about six condoms into my hand. I looked up and saw another hand-painted sign that read, “Clothing Optional.”

Couches filled the room and several sheer curtains hung blocking off small areas. Gilbert, Teddy, Scott and I all shot each other confused looks. We made a quick huddle.

“Whatever kind of place this is,” Scotty said, “and whatever goes on in here, we’ll be all right if we stick together.” We agreed and made our way upstairs.

A man and a woman, who were grinding each other against a wall, greeted us at the top of the stairs. Another man, wearing nothing but a thong, danced to the blaring music on a makeshift stage. A group of people crowded around a makeshift bar and ordered drinks.

“What kind of place is this?” I asked Teddy.

He pondered the question for a moment, taking in the scene and noticing all the couches and curtained off areas.

“It’s a Swingers’ club!” Teddy said after a moment.

And it was a swingers club populated predominantly by men. In fact, there were only five women present in the club. Upon closer inspection, three of the five women were, in fact, men.

“Where’s Scotty?” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We couldn’t find Scott. He had vanished somewhere into the club. The man wearing the thong on the makeshift stage was getting dangerously close to becoming the naked man on the makeshift stage.

“Let’s bail,” Gilbert said, “Scotty’s on his own.”

We agreed and flooded out of the house. We felt bad for having left Scott, especially since we were thinking about crashing at his house, but the important thing was that the three of us hadn’t been separated.

We headed to the southernmost point in the contiguous United States-there’s a marker there saying so-and sat there for a while, pondering whether there could possibly be a similar group of guys at the northernmost point in the United States going through the same thing.

“Probably not,” Teddy said. “It would be so cold up there.”

After a little more pondering and sobering up, we made our way back to the car and drove out to the beach on A1A. We pulled out a few blankets and headed onto the beach.

A sign read: “No Camping.” We convinced ourselves that the excuse of “stargazing” would suffice, and by 5:30 a.m. we had found a spot in the sand, under a palm tree, to catch a couple hours of sleep.

Before long, the sun would be up again, and we would be on our way home.

University hip-hop fans were treated to a weekend of emcee battles, disc jockey competitions, and a session of insider advice at “Elements Spring Breakdown” last Friday and Saturday. The cultural event, the first hosted by University of Miami’s Hip-Hop Club, celebrated the roots of the music genre with a list of guests that included Eminem’s former manager, local and national disc jockeys and break dancers.

The free, two-day event was held at the UNIVERSITY CENTER and was open to the public.

Lenny Kagan, a rapper who co-founded the Hip-Hop Club and is a UM alumnus, oversaw the event, which started at 6:30 p.m. with an open floor for break dancing in the breezeway of the University Center.

An open mike for freestyle poetry and spoken word was also part of the music fest.

Later on, a panel of guest speakers, including Mark Kemp, Eminem’s former manager, gathered at the Storm Surge Caf

White jurors say he did it. The long-time schoolteacher is not so sure. The prison warden -who arrived at the scene shortly after the murder- believes the boy is innocent. His godmother doesn’t seem to care either way-as long as her boy dies like a man rather than a hog.

Rural, bigotry-plagued 1948 Louisiana slipped into the homey GablesStage theater Saturday night for a five-week run of A Lesson Before Dying, the story of Jefferson, a young African American wrongly convicted for a murder he did not commit.

The play is based on Ernest Gaines’ Pulitzer-nominated novel by the same name.

Resignation-the story’s most fascinating and disturbing element-seems to be at the heart of all characters. They all know the boy is clean, but they would be foolish to expect the system to bend over for an insuperable scapegoat: the dirt-poor, inarticulate black boy.

Sheaun McKinney, currently a theater major at Miami-Dade College, delivers an impeccable performance playing Jefferson in his first professional production.

Speechless during much of his first scene, a handcuffed and shackled McKinney shuns words of wisdom offered by his former schoolteacher, Grant Wiggins, played by John Archie, a Carbonell nominee, and the play’s second commendable performance.

When his defense attorney sees his client is doomed and calls him a hog, as a last minute resort to spare his client of the electric chair, Jefferson begins grunting and acting like a hog, often blurting piercing lines to the effect of, “That’s what they said I am, that’s what I’ll be.”

Wiggins, disgruntled by his hometown and the disheartening prospects of his career, is reluctant to spend time with his former student, who now embodies many of his own phantoms.

Emma Glen, Jefferson’s godmother, played by overly dramatic Dorothy J. Morrison, compels Wiggins to visit her godson for supervised visits at the court house jail for man-to-man conversations that ought to prepare Jefferson to “die with dignity-like a man.”

Cast members speak extremely slowly, making dialogue stagnant at times.

Scene-to-scene transitions are clean and smooth, aided by changing lights and old time blues that don’t allow the audience to forget the story’s time and place.

Set designer Lyle Baskin outdid himself with the courtroom jail meeting room, fixed on center stage throughout the entire show, and the narrow bar and unkempt schoolhouse staged on lower platforms to the right and left.

Director Joseph Adler, no rookie on South Floridian stages, is in his fourth season as artistic director of GablesStage, which will soon have a new larger home in an undetermined Coral Gables location.

Playwright Romulus Linney got rave reviews during the show’s New York run for his theatrical snappy adaptation of Gaines’ novel.

Lack of action is the play’s biggest flaw, given that the ending isn’t mind-blowing, and the plot holds few surprises.

By far, the richest moment is the final scene, achieved by Jefferson’s poignant last words, and a startling mix of lights.

A Lesson Before Dying delves into the death row controversy by exploring the loneliness and stigma suffered by convict, and the unanswered haunting questions his loved ones must juggle after the job has been done.

Crashing Tide. Sounds ominous, no? A New Drowning Method. Sounds like a morbid way to have fun.

Maybe not. Crashing Tide is an alternative/punk/rock band, formed by teenagers, twin brothers Chris and Alex Rousseau, neighbor Eric Valdes and friend Tony Castro. Like the famous bands that they admire, such as Tool, Incubus, and StainD, their music is gritty and complex. With front man Tony’s strong vocals and the solid instrumentation created by Eric, Alex and Chris, this band is definitely playing for keeps. The musicians, who have been together for about three years, take risks with their music and, interestingly enough, they get away with it.

Tool is allowed to do weird things like have a song that is not only over eight minutes long, but the intro itself is two minutes and eight seconds long (Eulogy, in case you were lost). Now, you don’t do that unless you’re firmly established and respected in the music world. But the four young men that make up Crashing Tide throw this convention, and others, out the window. The first song on the compact disc, Court Jester (over seven minutes long), has an intro of one minute and 58 seconds. Now, maybe I’m biased, but that did it for me. I like them.

Tony’s voice is a mixture of Maynard and Aaron Lewis. A tough tenor (as far as alternative goes), Tony has just the right mix of angst and melody to be a rock singer. Grinding out phrases like You and I will never be the same / Fortune has brought us that way / It’s time for you…

The timbre of his voice is reminiscent of all those top alternative stars: Just flawed enough to sound incredible singing songs like the band’s Guilt and Pure. Tony also writes the lyrics – which would maybe explain why he sounds so brilliantly inspired singing them. Either way, he is a strong, confident and talented lead singer.

The other members of Crashing Tide are as follows: Chris (drums), Alex (bass) and Eric (lead guitar and backup vocals).

Alex’s bass is first rate: clear yet muffled (as all good bass should be) and interesting. It forms a sound base for the music to be built onto. He is also great at intros, perhaps one of the most important parts of the song (it is, after all, the intro that catches your attention), as is the intro to Black and White.

Valdes’ guitar is creative, as displayed, again in the intro for Court Jester, or the thick strumming and funky riffs in Ugly. Chris’s drums sound like a lot of cymbals and brushes and bass drums, and when he throws in a couple bangs on the snare, even if you have no clue what that is, you notice it. As all good drummers should, he keeps good time and rounds out the music, giving it a full, complete sound.

If you’re a fan of StainD, Tool, Finger Eleven, Stabbing Westward or Linkin Park, you will love Crashing Tide. In them you can hear the influences of those bands that you love, but they also have a little extra something that will make you sit up and pay attention.

These guys are young and have a lot of time and room to grow, improve and learn from their mistakes. Let’s just hope that they keep it up and that they continue to have fun doing what they’re doing. If you want an in depth (and hilarious) look at the band, you can visit their website at http://crashingtide.cjb.net, where you can also order their compact disc.

Lately, the group has been working on gigs and building their fan base. It won third place at University of Miami’s Battle of the Bands, and recently played at The Alley.

Crocodiles have a clean record.

Alligators would too, had it not been for a minor incident a few years back when one nibbled a swimming lad who got too close, prompting the child’s mom to come to the rescue.

Sharks have been known to gnaw at fishermen’s hands sporadically, but never, to date, savored tourist flesh.

Much to many visitors’ surprise, however, wildlife outbursts of rage are exceptional at Everglades National Park.

“Many people are quite disappointed to find the animals don’t behave like they do on the Discovery Channel,” said Brian Ettling, a 33-year-old boat captain who’s been based in the Flamingo Bay area of the park for more than nine years.

His explanation: the American crocodile is a sweetheart compared to their Nile cousins.

For starters, the animals aren’t anatomically fit to live an active predator’s lifestyle. In fact, most eat only once a week, soaking in most of their energy from the sun.

“People who come here from big cities don’t know what to make from large animals,” noted Ettling. Many, he said, leave disappointed at the lack of action from the animals, while others get a bit too trusting.

Asked to name the highlight of his trip to the Everglades, John Dewilde, from Alexandria, Va. said, “It’s hard to beat the crocodiles. One of them we saw looked like he was waiting for some dinner. He had his jaws up on a branch.”

But that didn’t frighten him too much.

“From what they say, you really have to go up and annoy them,” Dewilde said. “They aren’t like the ones from Australia.”

The fact that they’re sitting still doesn’t mean they won’t react if they feel threatened, warned Ettling, who recalled a group of spring breakers who recently jumped in the water and splashed around carelessly until park rangers pulled them out.

Swimming in the Everglades is sternly discouraged by the park’s staff, as is flipping over in a canoe or kayak. Even quick Eskimo rolls get scant regard.

Feeding the animals is another offense some visitors commit meaning no harm. Whether it’s the alligators, the Eastern Diamond Rattlesnake or the Red Shrouded Eagle, “it creates aggressive, dependent animals,” explained Ettling, who clarified he understands tourists mean no harm when they pop out a bag of chips attempting to get friendly with the creatures.

“For gulls, getting food out of the blue is the equivalent of you and me winning the lottery tomorrow,” explained the captain, marking how difficult it is to explain to newcomers what a devastating impact hand-feeding the animals can have on their habitat.

“Basically, it becomes welfare for animals,” stressed Ettling, explaining that a sudden influx of food can have a devastating effect on the population of any given species.

However, there are more important lessons to be learned from the Everglades., according to Robert Parentli, 36, also a boat captain.

Many people, he said, arrive to the Everglades expecting the whole brochure scene of rich wildlife and speeding airboats to play out at theme-park speed.

“That’s when I tell them that coming to the Everglades is like visiting a friend at the hospital,” Parentil said. “That is, a friend who is in terrible shape.”

That metaphor gets most guests to lend an ear.

He explains to them that 100 years ago, the Everglades would have looked more like the pristine and savage image people today mistakenly expect. Indeed, according to historians’ accounts and scientific estimates, wildlife populations have eroded hastily during the past few decades, while urban areas continue to sprawl a few miles north, soaking up water and spilling pollution into the park.

“That’s the most empowering part of our job,” Ettling said. “It’s not like we turn every visitor into an Everglades crusader, but people go home thinking a bit differently.”

The changes in mindset range from taking better care of their backyards, looking closely at office-seekers’ environmental records before voting and purchasing brands that are less detrimental to Mother Nature.

The Everglades’ best kept secret, according to Ettling, is the park’s gradual but powerful magnetism.

“When I came here nine years ago, I hated it,” he confessed, saying he complained about the heat, mosquitoes and the swamp’s flatness.

“With time, however, you learn that no matter how long you’ve been here, you never cross the same stream twice.”