You've got a problem: You've been hired to talk some sense into John Q. Juror but you've forgotten the details. Was the trial going to be held in the civil courthouse, the municipal courts building or the Eagleton federal courthouse? Never fear, beefy friend -- finding your sap is going to be a snap. The three venues are all within a couple of blocks of one another. Better still, no matter where your target began his day, odds are that he's going to spend the midsection of it dining at the Subway at 1010 Market Street. Why? There's not much else around unless you count the St. Louis Steakhouse on Eleventh Street -- and let's face it, no one on a juror's salary can afford the St. Louis Steakhouse. Most any weekday you can duck your head in and find the place crawling with jurors, easily recognizable by their yellow badges that say: Juror. Now where'd you put that lead pipe?

Carping about the "bitter" St. Louis winter is the city's second-favorite weather-related pastime (right after bitching about the brutal St. Louis summer). But you know what? Winter in St. Louis is beautiful, and January is the best time of year to be here. The air is cold enough that you can see your breath, which is usually sufficient to keep the crybabies indoors. Add a little snow, which is not uncommon in January, and the streets become emptier still. With the promise of another year stretching out before you and the joy of another Christmas still warm in your soul, the trees bent slightly under their snowy burden and the crisp air filling your lungs, St. Louis in January is a city of hope. A brisk walk through this St. Louis revitalizes your spirit and nourishes your basic human kindness. Even the prospect of another summer in St. Louis doesn't seem so bad when you're enveloped in January's tender embrace.

You know Sarah Clarke as Nina Myers on 24, and you were devastated when she was killed off in the third season. But you may not know the rest of this 33-year-old Ladue native's résumé, which includes a supporting role in last year's sleeper thirteen and a Screen Actors Guild Emerging Actor Award at last year's St. Louis International Film Festival. But the best is yet to come, as she stars in the recently filmed indie powerhouse Happy Endings as -- get this -- Laura Dern's girlfriend. Though she now lives in California with her husband, veteran actor and ex-24er Xander Berkeley, and pals around with Alexandra Kerry, Clarke hasn't forgotten the Lou. Besides her appearance at SLIFF, she had a role in local filmmaker Amy K. Barrett's The Third Date last year and has promised that another collaboration between the two is on the horizon.

St. Louis Blues center Mike Danton's fall has all the elements of a Southern -- make that Midwestern -- gothic drama: A devoted volleyball-playing fan/lover, rumors of drug addiction, celebrity, shady hit men and a murderous plot bred of the rising star's intense homoerotic relationship to his controlling agent. Hell, even Danton's childhood -- marked, to hear him tell it, by a paucity of toilet paper -- was positively Faulknerian. So is it any wonder our local enfant terrible's been the subject of countless prime-time psycho-biographies? Sure, Los Angeles may have O.J. and Vail has Kobe. But we will always have Danton.

If belaying, shirtless hunks isn't your idea of a good time, by all means stay away from Upper Limits climbing gym downtown. "It's a great place to meet people," a helpful staffer tells us. "We have a lot of people who start dating because they met there." Men are said to be more common on the scene than women, and the average climber is in his early 30s. "Climbing is just by nature an activity you do with someone else, because you need someone to manage the ropes," the staffer imparts. Worst-case scenario for women: You meet buff men but they're all taken, or gay. No problem -- you'll just have to take the long view. Boy Scout troops make regular pilgrimages to Upper Limits as well, says our staffer buddy.

Sorry, fella, but you gotta go where the odds are with you. You're unlikely to luck out at a bar, where drunk dudes outnumber sober ladies by about twelve to one, and where even the best pick-up line is so obviously a cry for help. Plus, what does a respectable woman want with a drunk? She's looking for a man with strength, balance, focus and a handlebar mustache, who understands the power of breathing, the power of, ahem, the body/mind convergence. A yoga studio, where women outnumber men by twelve to one, is the perfect atmosphere for a casual smile and simple conversation. At big classes, as many as 30 people cram into a room, get all strong and sweat, and commence to pose. We've been in classes that size and been the only man. After class, the eye contact and soft smiles have poured forth like gentle rain, and the level of mellowness is such that a sincere, sleaze-free compliment -- "nice headstand!" -- is greeted with openness rather than wariness. Of course, you have to work. You're not gonna be able to waltz in once, leer all session and then get some action. There's nothing sadder than a fat-ass yoga creep. The goal is internal balance, not external lovin'. But if you're sincere in the practice, you may have the ladies lining up to do headstands for you.