Goods & Services

Aunt Matilda: Dear, tomorrow's my last day of vacation, and I still haven't gotten anything for the bridge club back home. They weren't much impressed by the beach pebbles I picked up for them last year. You: Pebbles, schmebbles. I'm taking you to Angie's Groves. They've got fresh fruit by the bag or basket, as well as preserves and candies made right here in South Florida. And the chocolate alligators are perfect for that cheating Miss Demeanor.

Tiki bartender: Another round of Nuclear Rum Zombies for you folks?

They did P. Diddy's Black & White Ball on New Year's Eve at the Shore Club in South Beach, brought Pat Benatar to New Orleans for Roche Pharmaceuticals, flew Hewlett-Packard Chairman and CEO Carly Fiorina into a corporate meeting on a giant spaceship, and staged a Hollywood gala complete with red carpet, limos, and six-foot-tall gold Oscar statuettes for a bar mitzvah titled "Seth's Premiere." Nothing is too off the wall or over the top. If you've got the bucks -- it costs $25,000 and up for a private bash like Seth's to as much as a million for a multiday corporate extravaganza -- they'll make it happen. M.E. Productions rakes in over $9 million a year orchestrating events. Packed inside its 35,000-square-foot warehouse facing I-95, cubicles and work stations seem carved in a conglomerate rock bed of props: a mermaid with golden hair falling past her butt, a faux verdigris Statue of Liberty, ferocious Tiki gods, the head of a huge snarling dragon, and a giant hamburger the size of a bean-bag chair. Of course, there are trends in this business like any other. Business theater director Deidre Underwood says she's thinking simple these days. Dot-coms pushed Underwood's world to extreme heights. Everybody's done the lighting-the-stage-on-fire thing, she says. She would rather see a single spotlight and a blazing speech. Staying ahead of the trends, this year she's talking speech coaches.

This place does not carry any ale from Antarctica. But if someone there brewed a batch, you can bet these are the shelves where it would be stocked. In fact, in this health-food store can be found several liquor stores' worth of beer to please every palate, including all the familiar names and an ever-changing lineup of obscurities. Salvator, Königs-Pilsener, and Franziskaner Hefe-Weissbier round out more commonplace German lagers. This is also the place to find those tasty Belgian frambozens and buckwheat lambics. Of course, English ales, porters, and stouts are well-represented, and the selection includes a slew of rarities. Widget cans include the now-ubiquitous Boddington's, Guinness, and Tetleys, as well as Wexfords Irish Cream Ale and Abbot Ale. California and East Coast microbreweries line the aisle, as well as a huge assortment of organic ales (like the new Samuel Smith's offering), nonalcoholic beers from here and abroad, sorrel and ginger shandies, tons of ciders, plus seasonal beers like Anchor Christmas Ale and Sam Adams Old Fezziwig (flavored with orange, ginger, and cinnamon). So burp already.

You want your hair styled, head down the street to Yellow Strawberry and pay, like, $97.95 or something. You want a freakin' haircut, you eat your country-fried steak at the Floridian, then you mosey a couple of doors west, plop yourself down in one of the three barber's chairs, and you kick it -- say it with us, now -- old school. How old? Well, the shop has been there since 1951, the stations are also from the '50s, and those cool-as-hell retro chairs are from the '60s. A man's haircut will run you $15, a woman's $20. For the guys, a full-on, hot-lather, straight-razor shave goes for $20. OK, so it's not "two bits," but it still qualifies, like the shop's motto says, as "barbering the way it used to be."

Cowboys dress kind of fussy for macho bucs. Those outfits jump out at ya' -- shiny belt buckles as big as post cards with whole ranch scenes engraved on the face, ten-gallon cowboy hats, and boots with fancy tooling snaking all over the leather. Melding into a crowd, unless it's a crowd of equally outlandishly clad cowboys, isn't the idea. No, it's important to be able to spot others of the clan when mixing it up with the uninitiates. Responding to questions with a soft "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir" isn't enough. Nor is walking bowlegged. Gear. That's what makes a cowboy a cowboy. And Grifs has the stuff -- fancy and plain -- from Wranglers and Stetsons to tight-fitting snap-front shirts, boots, buckles, saddles, and bull-riding ropes.

Sure, it's a bit ostentatious, but really, why buy clothes off the rack that are designed and created for any old schmuck? Call up Twickenham and they come to your home or office, take your measurements, and make clothes specifically suited to you. The cost is about twice as high as store-bought clothes, but rare is the man who can say his threads are one-of-a-kind.

To escape the mall rats sniffing around the Gap sales rack, visit either of these Fort Lauderdale boutiques. Whether you dig the fashions or not, at least the rags here are original. If there's any stretch of urban sprawl in the world outside of Las Vegas that requires a gal go shopping for some high-end slutwear, it's South Florida. And Jimmy takes care of that. How about his jeans titled "Frayed, Braided and Fucked" or the perennial beachfront shirts that go by names like "Purple Butterflies" or "Zebra Floral"? Fedoras are still the rage, honey, so snag that gold lamé for $80. Speaking of Puffy's ex, Jimmy offers clothes for even moderately voluptuous shorties; each outfit is original. Star sells limited and one-of-a-kind designs and specializes in custom design. Check out the Website to view ex-Exposé member and regular Jimmy Star customer Gioia Bruno mugging in a latex-and-pink-sequined getup that screams "Martha Quinn in drag."

Pssst, hey, you. Yeah, you. Interested in clothes? No, no, not yer off-the-rack, strip mall stuff. I'm talkin' about -- c'mon, buddy, step a little closer -- old clothes. Ya know, vintage? Between you, me, and the Man upstairs: hats, shoes, dresses, stoles, suits -- from the 1800s to the 1970s. Seen Gosford Park? That '70s Show? You get the picture. Two words, pal: Platypus Clothing. Worlds collide there, my friend. Past melds with present. It's like walkin' into a Hollywood freakin' back lot. These ain't knockoffs. They're all original. Listen up: Tuesday through Saturday, 11 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., Sunday 1 to 4 p.m. Mondays? Fuhgeddaboudit.

Last summer, every pair of jeans was capri-length and had wide strips of colored fabric festooning the hem. They had a hippie-dippy, homemade feel, as though do-girls had raided their mothers' fabric bins in a mass convulsion of originality. This year, designers have taken the trend further into embellishment and the hippie past, with elaborate appliqués, sequins, pieced fabric insets, embroidery, studs, and all other manner of frou-frou. Instead of paying a quadzillion dollars for this fad, do it yourself. For 35 years, Ben Raymond has been carrying trimmings at his Hollywood store with the motto, "If we don't have it, you don't need it." While that might not be literally true, one step inside this shop might make you wonder. There are three rooms stacked to the ceiling with cards of trimmings, bin drawers stuffed with appliqués, and bolts of fancy laces. Among the selection: chains of large white daisies with black centers, strands of cord knotted with colored beads, giant sequined leaves, alligators, and a red sequined pump. The crotchety Raymond, who lords over the Hollywood store, is alone worth the visit, as he is often clad in strange and inspiring concoctions stitched from the store's fabrics and decorated with the trimmings.

Look for the big red sofa painted on the side of a building when traveling north on I-95. Notice the parking lot -- Mercedes, Porsche, Jaguar, Range Rover. The Design Center of the Americas is the largest interior-design center in the world -- three buildings, four stories, 775,000 square feet, and 150 showrooms of some very cool stuff. So much cool stuff that the DCOTA, as it is called, recommends the layperson doesn't try negotiating its labyrinthine interiors alone. For two hours, free of charge, the DCOTA will provide an interior designer to decode your interests -- floor lamps in a romantic yet modern style, Mediterranean orange-colored glass tiles, wallpaper etched with line drawings of tiny palm trees, or just a groovy bathtub -- and guide you to showrooms that feature such fare. Or you can bring your own designer. Once inside, the DCOTA is a visual orgy. J. Batchelor, Suite A-428, for example, features the stunning lamps of Israeli designer Ayala S. Serfaty's Aqua Creations. Morning Glory is a floor lamp that looks like an anemone fish. It is made from pleated silk on a frame -- in orange, yellow, cream, rust, and red -- bulbous at the bottom, nipped at the top, and ending with an open, ruff-like mouth that faces the ceiling. The Nikko hotel in San Francisco bought an illuminated line of them. If you decide to buy one yourself, the decorator price for a Morning Glory is $2,570. It's listed at $3,675 retail.

The cheese factor is high at this enormous shed in the barren blocks south of West Palm Beach International Airport, but come the weekend, it's lively as a Tegucigalpa marketplace... with a similar ethnic mix. The Central American immigrant families are in their finest, the men in Western gear, the women in brightly colored skirts and blouses, children in tow. They come for the trinkets, the kitchenware, the cut-rate clothing, the religious articles, and the company. Gringos head for the psychedelic shop, the magic store, and the anomalous traditional Italian deli, with a selection of wines, cheeses (including fresh mozzarella), meats, pastas, and other specialty imports to rival New York's Grand Street. For extra whimsy, drop $4 and take in a show at the Puppetry Arts Center of the Palm Beaches. Avoid the food stalls, where some items look as if they've been exhumed, then deep-fried.

Jorge Fallad and Tony Polo bought a bungalow on North Federal Highway several years ago, painted it Mediterranean blood orange, posted a wrought-iron mariachi band facing Federal Highway, and then filled the house chock-a-block with a dizzying array of objects. There is a trio of huge, brown, mahogany urns from Thailand ($190, $240, and $340). There are also bowls of fruit rendered in stone, ornate aluminum crosses, iron candelabras as tall as floor lamps ($129-$189), 24 styles of creamy yellow pottery, leather knapsacks ($140), and a wrought-iron lamp, the base of which looks like a tangle of mangrove roots ($129). The couple caters to the design trade, but the store has none of the sleek, overwrought feeling of some design meccas. Its atmosphere is friendly, homey, welcoming. Polo and Fallad import much of D'Barro's merchandise from Mexico, Spain, Colombia, Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil, and Thailand. And they also craft original works in wrought iron and aluminum -- everything from deck chairs to doors to wrought-iron gates and large figurines. Fallad does the metal work, and Polo specializes in faux finishes. Together, the couple designed the iron and leather dining chairs for and decorated Las Palmas, the new Mexican eatery on Ocean Drive in Hollywood Beach. The Federal Highway store functions as a showroom for the husband and wife, a place to inspire and to impress prospective customers. It's also a retail store for walk-in shoppers and a nice place to get lost in. D'Barro's is open 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Saturday.

Coagulated shampoo, nail polish separated in the bottle, and food that's outlived its shelf life -- you won't find it here. The South Florida-based 99 Cents Stuff has four locations in Palm Beach County, two in Broward, and four in Miami-Dade. Each one is the size of a supermarket and carries name-brand items you see in other stores now, not ten years ago. From milk, frozen meals, and produce to housewares, the selection makes it difficult to keep impulse spending to a minimum -- especially when everything costs no more than 99 cents. These stores also accept most credit cards with a picture ID.

Here's your chance to experience Portuguese hospitality and learn all about the good life. Come meet Nelson S. Veiga, who moved from Anadia, Portugal, to South Florida with the mission of spreading his knowledge about wines and spirits. Sporting a friendly smile and a ton of patience, Veiga gladly takes you on a tour of his store and introduces you -- he always has a few sample bottles open at the tasting counter -- to his amazing selection, which features wines from as close as California and as far as Australia, from the familiar zinfandel to the obscure muscatel, and from the nicely affordable to the ridiculously expensive. When the Good Life hosts a wine- and cheese-tasting, gentlemen in suits and ladies in evening dresses pack the small store to sample Veiga's buffet. And as its name suggests, there's enough in this joint to please novices and connoisseurs alike. In addition to wine and liquor, the Good Life offers a variety of delicacies such as gourmet cheeses, spreads, and desserts. And please don't forget, even an innocent visit may call for a designated driver.

Where have all the coconut heads gone? If such questions keep you up at night, puzzling over the disappearance of the Florida tourist trinket -- roll over. Alex's Gift Shop in Dania Beach has enough coconut heads to crowd your next luau, as well as shell-encrusted jewelry boxes, figurines, and shell-lined mirrors, placemats featuring Fort Lauderdale scenes, plastic alligators, crabs, and sea turtles. They also sell some really large and spectacular shells capable of bringing littoral splendor to any living room. Some of these you'd never find on a Florida beach, and some have grown scarce, including giant clam, horse and queen conch, chambered Nautilus, and large chunks of coral. Prices range from one cent for an apple-blossom shell to as much as $2000 for a Giga clam.

OK, we don't know much about toys. Anymore. Once you get more modern than G.I. Joe and the video game Asteroids, we are usually lost. So we went to two matchless sources to find the best toy store out there: The New Yorker magazine and our six-year-old son. "I like the... Toys R Us a lot," wrote the New Yorker's Paul Goldberger. "It's exuberant, and doesn't try to be important." OK, Goldberger was writing specifically about the grand new toy store in Times Square (the likes of which you won't find in South Florida) as it compares with the work of Prada architect Rem Koolhaas. But still, it says something about the company. Not as much, however, as our six-year-old did: "It's the best." Good enough for us.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that during the sub-freezing stillness of Northern winters, palm trees rustle at the edge of every snowbound mind, that 9/11 and the recession have cast a pall over the land, and that tourism is suffering. South Floridians young and old, don't just wait for it to pass. You are duty-bound to offer our portion of the state as a paradisiacal antidote. Chief among the ways to achieve this is packaging, packaging, packaging. Fortunately, Lilly Pulitzer has blazed the trail. More than four decades ago, managing three children, catering to husband Peter Pulitzer (who later married the infamous Roxanne), and holding up her end of the Palm Beach party scene wasn't enough for the bohemian Palm Beach socialite. In 1960, Lilly opened an orange juice stand. To hide the juice stains, she had some shifts stitched up in bright patterns from dime-store fabrics. Customers dug them. She made more shifts. She went national with loud, geeky-yet-cheeky, custom-designed prints on polished cotton from Key West material. Thus, out of a pragmatic-yet-stylish aesthetic was born the über-signifier of the sun-kissed, carefree Florida-cum-Palm Beach lifestyle. This year, more than ever, we need Lilly. The Fort Lauderdale store has her whole line, including bedding, clothing, fabrics, and accessories. The Little Lilly, a child's cotton-lined shift with fabric bows and a novelty trim chain at the pockets ($60-64) done in fabrics like Myrtle (green sea turtles on a sea-blue background) or Sunrise (swirling suns on yellow) is as sweet as ice cream sherbet. Lilly has said her prints are "happy." Happy, right now, is what our visitors need. Dress the family in Lilly and get out there and frolic, damn it.

One of this chain's four Florida locations, this seven-month-old outpost beats out its competition by keeping things on a human scale while still offering a wide selection. Tucked into the corner of a strip mall rather than in an airplane-hangar-sized megawarehouse, the place is packed with tastefully arranged model rooms -- half the floor with crib-centered baby layouts, the other half with beds for older kids. Yet it doesn't feel cluttered. The walls are lined with shelves of toys, lamps, diaper bags, strollers, and such. There are familiar brand names ranging from mass marketers like Graco to boutique European manufacturers like Baby Bjorn. And there's unconventional stuff. A Potty Time Bear, which plays music and helps with toilet-training, goes for $19.99. Then there's the five-foot-long Tinkle-Crinkle, a worm-like toy that tinkles, crinkles, rattles, and squeaks, for $119.99. Although the array of products is impressive, it is the knowledgeable, attentive-yet-not-pushy presence of owner Sam Salkashawi and family that lends the place its welcoming, small-business feel -- as opposed to those other stores, where you can't ignore the fact that you've been sucked into the clutches of the dreaded Baby Industrial Complex (second in sinisterdom only to the Wedding Industrial Complex). The store is open most evenings. But hours change virtually every day. So call ahead.

Left alone for eight hours, most dogs look for something to chew. That is how hapless owners have lost furniture, shoes, and just about every other valuable possible to masticate. Central Bark is one of many businesses that has come to the rescue of the career-driven and guilt-ridden dog owner, although to get your canine enrolled feels like you're applying to an exclusive prep school. To gain admittance, owners must fill out a five-page application and bring said pooch in for a Saturday interview. Of course, the interviewers want to know whether the dog has had shots. But Central Bark also asks what commands your pooch knows, whether he or she pulls on the leash when walking, and if there are any particular breeds of dog or types of humans he or she doesn't like. Once accepted, friendly dogs are separated by size, age, and disposition, then let loose to play in a 5500-square-foot, air-conditioned indoor area or in a 1000-square-foot outside area, accompanied at all times by a "counselor" who encourages romping and squelches any developing turf wars over toys. Rates range from $18 to $22 per day, depending upon size. For the truly pampered canine, Central Bark also hosts birthday parties with cake, ice cream, and peanut-butter treats at $20 per dog.

What is more eternally chic than dogs as accessories? At this Hollywood puppy boutique, you can peruse the world's furriest miniatures. Created four years ago by a Dania Beach woman with 13 dogs and an angry condo association telling her to get rid of them or else, Tea Cups started out as a refuge for toy breeds with nowhere else to scurry. But business boomed, and now the shop sells Yorkies, Maltese, pugs, poodles, Chihuahuas, and any other breed weighing less than 20 pounds. The canines lounge in comfort on down beds, sipping their equivalent of Cristal. Part clothing store, Tea Cups also lets you play dress-up. Bones are so passé. Try a summer sweater, zip jacket, a demure hat, a crystal collar, or the popular pink- or gold-sequined bathing suit, which is priced at $29.99.

The room was ready when we arrived, with a blanket on the floor for Roscoe to lie on. One, then another of the several female doctors on staff came in to verify the cancer's relentless damage. They greeted the old guy warmly and treated him gingerly, as if he were their own dog, and offered us sympathy and assurances that we were doing the right thing at the right time. They left us alone with him a few final minutes and let us choose whether to remain with him. We stayed and held him. When the time arrived, they gave Roscoe a Milkbone as they swiftly but carefully administered the freedom-producing mixture. He drifted off into an eternal sleep as we all cried. They left us with him a few minutes more, then hugged us as we left. They would handle the cremation. Gentleness and compassion. That's what makes this animal hospital number one.

With one of the biggest book selections in Broward -- 170,000 volumes -- this massive retailer has no local equals. It's the largest, newest, and the only two-story location among the four B&N stores in the county. The place even boasts a system that allows you to listen to every CD they carry. But the reason to come here is the books. There's a large section that caters to the gay and lesbian community in nearby Wilton Manors, as well as substantial travel and children's areas. Until a big independent like Liberties Fine Books, Music and Café (which closed last year) returns, this is the place to get even the most obscure titles, friendliest service, and widest local-author selection. For a look at the latter, flip through former New Times writers' first books -- Ben Greenman's Superbad and Steve Almond's My Life in Heavy Metal. There are also the SoFla staples: Dave Barry, James Patterson, Carl Hiaasen. It's open 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. Monday through Saturday and 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. Sunday.

This is a bookstore torn from a book lover's imaginings and plopped down in the most unbookish of settings: amid a visual jumble of strip malls and shopping centers just south of the busy intersection of Oakland Park Boulevard and Federal Highway. The current vice president of the Florida Antiquarian Booksellers Association has plied his trade here since 1978 after growing out of a nearby store that he opened in 1974. It may not look like much from the outside, but open the door and it's a browser's treasure-trove -- more than 100,000 used and rare volumes are packed into a warren of narrow aisles and shelves that rise straight up to the second-story ceiling. Hittel brags he has books from 25 cents up to $14,500 (for a rare copy of Charles Dickens's serialized A Tale of Two Cities). On a recent Saturday, a financial planner stacked old books on the checkout counter, trying to get the right mix to give his office an intellectual veneer. He was puzzled by the rapt look of the other shoppers, lingering over Dog's Bark, a limpid collection of essays by Truman Capote ($20), or leafing through a wood-bound scrapbook of a family's 1941 Florida vacation ($75). For bookstore visitors, it's the outsides as well as the insides that confer the magic. And inside this place, it's easy to get lost. "I didn't know this was here," marveled a tall hipster with bobbed burgundy hair who had wandered into the store and then spent the better part of an hour hunched in the photography section.

Looking at this place, located in an innocuous strip mall on the beach side of the 17th Street Causeway, you wouldn't even know its name. But you'd definitely know its wares. Large, brightly lit signs proclaim LIQUOR and PUB LOUNGE in red letters. Inside, you'll find a good selection of high-end liquors. A bottle of Cragganmore Scotch Whisky, some of the finest money can buy, runs $40. And what's that sound coming from the back door? Why, it's a little bar attached to the rear of the store, for those impulse buyers who need their alcohol this very minute. Don't be afraid, now. Sure, this place is about as local a bar as you'll find, but the locals are friendly. From the bartenders -- one a surly man with a buzz cut and another a Johnny Cash look-alike -- to the regulars, most of whom live on boats or in houses with docks, everyone's affable once you get to know them.

Centrally located on what may be the most civilized street in the county -- the elegant, tree-lined heart of Palm Beach's north end -- this newsstand offers a selection that mirrors the elite resort island's population of international transients. The collection of dailies and newsmagazines is heavily Eurocentric, with British, German, and Italian publications more in evidence than those of U.S. origin. With magazine racks as fashion-oriented as the clientele, this is a great place to catch the glamorous in repose, faux-aristos parking their poodles at the curb while they pick up a pack of cigs and the news from back home. Join them as they read at an outdoor table at swanky Chuck & Harold's up the block. Or save a few bucks, taking in your Corriere della Sera with an ice cream cone from Sprinkles next door.

The customer-service desk at this place -- even though it's part of a giant chain -- is virtually always available to answer anything. New Times requested a book about ambient music, tapes on learning German, and Britney Spears' latest CD. The attendant returned with all three items in under a minute and, as a bonus, even mocked the Spears purchase. Clearly informed and appropriately sarcastic, the employee was also able to give on-the-spot definitions of cryptozoology and ribald. Of course, it's not part of their job to know such things, but that's just the kind of intellects you'll find here. They also know how to take a phone call and answer your question rather than make you wait. And most will follow you to a particular area in the store if you appear even slightly confused by their instructions.

Guy walks into a comic-book store with a pile of comics in his arms. It's junk, mostly, and he knows it: Late '80s and early '90s Classic X-men (reissues, not the original Byrne/Claremont ishes that are actual classics), that whole cheesy Death of Superman series, and a few of the lesser graphic novels. And this isn't just any comic-book store but the joint that has been the strip-mall-based center of Broward's comic-book, collectibles, and role-playing-game universe for more than a decade. But the guy's thinking maybe, just maybe, this heap of non-cardboard-backed, non-plastic-bagged dreck will pass muster with the übergeeks at the gate. Not bloody likely. First off, there's two of them: one big and doughy, one small and wiry, both clad in faded T-shirts referencing manga so obscure that our hero -- who grew up on Star Blazers and Battle of the Planets and discovered marijuana just in time for Akira, Vampire Hunter D, and Tank Police -- feels like a lame-ass, Dragonball-Z-come-lately fanboy. Still, he gamely proffers his unwanted comics to these paragons of anticool behind the cash register. The big one stands mute, allowing his companion the perverse pleasure of dropping the hammer. The small one shakes his head, his face a mask of contempt. "They're not taking anything after 1970," he announces. "Your best bet is probably eBay." Where all of the other lame-os peddle their weak-ass shit, he doesn't say but likely thinks. The guy slinks away, crap comics under his arm and tail between his legs, wondering when exactly it was that he became not quite a big enough loser to be welcome in this particular treehouse.

Offbeat may not be the cheapest record store to come down the 'pike. Nor is it the largest. But if you ever happen to be looking for a strange, little-known album that went out of print a decade ago, this should be the first spot you hit. The store's music collection includes not only CDs and cassettes but also LPs, 45s, eight-tracks, and even reels. Yes, reels. Remember those? If anyone still happens to own a reel-to-reel player, which looks suspiciously like a small version of an early computer, this should be the only record store for you. And if you still have an eight-track player, well, there's just not much we can do for you. When you decide to join the 21st Century, there's good news: Offbeat buys old collections. The store hours are a bit skimpy (Wednesday through Saturday, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.; Sunday, noon to 4 p.m.; closed Monday and Tuesday), but isn't a midday trip worth it for choice vinyl?

Though they're located in strip malls, thrift-store funkiness lends All Books and Records much in the way of old-school authenticity. AB&R takes the prize for one reason: volume. These stores pack a massive, unwieldy (but surprisingly well-organized) collection, including everything a disc hunter could dream of. There's an outrageous assortment of soundtracks, reggae, Latin, hip-hop, hair metal, death metal, various obscurities, and scads of old vinyl of value for true memorabilia-ists. Prices start at $2.95 and are generally half the list price. Both stores are open from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday through Saturday and noon to 7 p.m. on Sunday. Best of all, there's even that slightly musty smell only old wooden crates can emit.

Most people go to their neighborhood drugstore to get their 'scrips filled or to pick up a bottle of 'Tussin for that nasty cough. But folks who are more attuned to the spirit world go to botanicas for healing. Situated in a strip mall in southwest Fort Lauderdale, Botanica 7 Rayos offers a wide array of prayer candles, herbs, beads, statues, and some of the best Bembe music this side of the Nile. The place gets it's name from the seven deities of Santería. A "spiritual consultation" will run you $31, and -- though no catalog exists just yet -- product orders can be placed via the shop's Website. Even if you're curiously browsing, the helpful staff will answer any questions -- just be sure to tip Elegguá on the way out.

One of the more dreadful things in life is not having a baby when you're having a baby. Push after excruciating push, howls of pain, and the beautiful new little being simply won't budge. The lazy, jaded doctor utters one horrid letter: C. As in C-section. Surgery, possible complications, extreme discomfort, two or three extra days in the hospital. Nobody wants it, and you pray that something will help the baby come along. If you're lucky, someone like Audeanne Donaldson will be at your side. Sure, she's a smart and pretty nurse with 12 years' experience bringing new people into the world, but she's also as strong and determined as anybody you'll meet. She doesn't like the knife, so she uses wonderful tricks to bring forth the baby. One of her favorites is putting the husband to work. Donaldson grabs a sheet, ties a knot at the mother's end, and hands the other to the husband. Then she says, "Now I want to see a good tug of war." As the parents-to-be tug, the baby's head peeks out. Between contractions, the husband gets the feeling back in his hands. Then they pull a little harder, and the head peeks out a bit more. And pretty soon, the doctor comes in and says to the mother, "My God, I think you're going to make it." Donaldson smiles a knowing smile. And when the baby's born, the nurse shows off another skill: guessing the baby's weight. She usually hits it dead-on. Thanks, Audeanne.

South Florida has long been known as the capital of plastic surgery, but last year, the title took an ugly turn when a Broward woman seeking silicone injections died after she was injected with a fatal mixture of chemicals. The death called attention to a ring of illegal underground "at-home enhancement" scams. Call it the Valley of the Dolls or Tupperware parties of the new century: a 29-year-old transsexual named Viva admitted injecting a woman whom authorities found with 36 puncture wounds oozing industrial-grade silicone. Let that be a warning. See only people with that all-important American Medical Association seal of approval. We recommend the Aesthetics Institute, which offers a wide range of nipping and tucking -- everything from lipo to forehead lifts. Led by Dr. Paul Wigoda, the clinic thoroughly interviews patients to determine if they're mentally and physically ready to undergo surgery. And Wigoda is certified by the American Board of Plastic Surgery. Check out his credentials at www.drwigoda.com

Company's coming, and you simply must have some authentic South Florida culinary weirdness. Bedessee's well-stocked, cramped, and claustrophobic aisles have plenty of what you're hankering for. Bedessee is a strange, schizophrenic marketplace, because half the store's goods (and customer base) is Jamaican, and half hales from the Indian subcontinent. Thus, shoppers can feel like globetrotting travelers, sampling wares from far and near. There's cricket gear; sugar-cane stalks taller than a toddler; Solo soda from Trinidad; cases of Jamaican Ting; tins of Madras curry powder; Kingston newspapers; tamarind candy; pure coconut oil; tubs of ghee, plantain, cassava, and yam flour; Nigerian palm juice; cock-flavored soup; odd varieties of root vegetables (like eddeo from Brazil and yampi from Jamaica); and strange fruit like Costa Rican cho-cho. Plus, you've got your pork ear, snout, or a whole burnt goat's head. And there's a notary public here too. Bedessee's one-stop shopping is an experience like no other.

The trend these days in health-food stores is big. They look like supermarkets and have prices to match. And health is relative: Some of the chains sell more meat than a butcher shop. It may be free range, but it'll clog your arteries just as quick as the stationary type. Nutrition Depot isn't completely animal-free and the place isn't nearly as big as Whole Foods, but it has prices that won't make tofu stir-fry cost more than prime rib. And the aisles and freezer cases are filled with whole grains and soy products. You'll find traditional health-food-store favorites like wheat-free sprouted bread, soy cheese, and brown rice. The most amusing thing about the place is the soy milk next to the organic half-and-half. The best thing is the chocolate Tofutti Cuties. Hey, imitation ice cream bars are sold at supermarkets and other health-food stores, but Nutrition Depot is one of the few places in town to stock them in chocolate. The Pompano store has the biggest food selection; the other four stores, which are scattered from Boca to Plantation, have less food and a lot of vitamins and fitness supplements.

Not only can you pick up bikes by every manufacturer from Schwinn to Diamond Back to GT to Redline and a dozen more at this superstore; you can also get just about every kind of bicycle, from BMX to 24-speed mountain bike. Prices start at $109 for a 12-inch girls bike and go as high as $3600 for a Klein Quantum Pro, a road model with handmade frame and full Dura-ace components. Aside from all the two-wheeled suckers, there are trikes, skateboards, Rollerblades, exercise machines, and more, making Big Wheel Cycles a one-stop shop for just about every man-powered vehicle and piece of exercise equipment in existence. And for those of us too lazy to use our own muscles to move from place to place, the store also carries Go-Peds and hybrids. If you want to move faster than a walk but don't want all the expense and trouble of a car, this is your place. The store is open 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. weekdays and 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturdays. It's closed Sunday.

For the snowbirds fleeing New York or Montreal, South Florida's sand, palms, and thongs are a different world. But if that's not enough for them, Leaping Minds offers the opportunity to step off the sunny streets and onto a different planet. It's spiced with 75 kinds of incense; soothing New Age music floats above mounds of crystals and far-out knickknacks. A selection of religious statuary from Hindu, Buddhist, and Taoist traditions looks out on a spacious store arranged in accordance with feng shui principles, from the varicolored walls to the central fountain. Owner Greg Macneir, formerly a personal trainer, started the shop two years ago intending to be as ecumenical as possible. "We carry everything from angels to Zen," Macneir says as his friendly sheepdog, Sheba, mingles with regular customers, some of whom browse the 2000-title book selection that ranges from astrology to George Bernard Shaw's Vegetarian Cookbook. Nor are books and baubles the only draw. A Zen fountain with chimes goes for $115, and incense sells for 13 cents a stick. A gent named Reverend Bill offers "intuitive" (psychic) readings. And healing sessions are conducted by a man Macneir touts as a genuine Peruvian shaman. The shop's most recent addition, classes in four styles of yoga, have attracted more than 1000 sign-ups since February. Hours are 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Saturday. Of course, this is a New Age store, so you never really know.

Vehicles are like human beings. Some live a long life, married to two, three different owners. As the years pass, the fuel and exhaust systems tend to constipate, endurance diminishes, and the sheet metal buckles and sags. Other cars and trucks, however, pass on well before their time from rollovers, broadsides, and other highway mayhem. Old or young, they all end up in salvage yards. The elderly are crushed. From the young, though, come a harvest of parts: alternators, carburetors, radiators, air conditioners. From its 800 dead vehicles, Millions of Parts will pull what you need, or, if you want to trade your sweat for cash, unbolt it yourself for an even lower price. For example, strip an alternator off a '95 Whatever and pay only $20; take the radiator, $40. Open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. on weekdays and 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. on Saturday.

Purely and simply, Rothe's takes the fear out of getting your car fixed. Two financial concerns loom every time the old Olds craps out: How much will the repair itself actually cost, and how much in addition to that will you get ripped off? With Rothe's, the latter is of zero concern, because Rothe's is one of those Mayberry, RFD kinda places that puts the lie to honest mechanic being an oxymoron. Sure, the tab for the repair itself is unavoidable, but here, it's always reasonable. Most important, with Rothe's, you won't also get bamboozled into replacing your shocks and your belts and that other thingamajig. When you take your rattletrap in thinking you need new brakes for 200 bucks, how many other places will tell you that you just needed an adjustment for 20 bucks? Rothe's will. When's the last time you've been pleasantly surprised by a car repair bill? With Rothe's, it can happen. No fear, indeed.

No sports nut is as gadget-happy as an angler. At Outdoor World, there are thousands of rods, tens of thousands of reels, hundreds of thousands of sinkers, millions of bobbers, and zillions of jigs. Lures? They number in the gazillions. But forget the mind-boggling numbers. Since the Missouri-based Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World set up shop in Dania Beach, South Florida anglers have been able to find innumerable gadgets under one 160,000-square-foot roof. This store, just off I-95 at Griffin Road, is no ordinary bait-and-tackle shop. This is quite simply an angler's ultimate -- sorry about this -- wet dream. If you buy more than will comfortably fit in your tackle box, don't worry. Just purchase a boat and trailer and drive your haul out of the parking lot. But there is one drawback. Between the giant aquarium, the stuff, the regularly held workshops, the stuff, the casting clinics, and, oh yeah, all that stuff, some anglers find no need ever to go out on the water again. When they talk about the big one that got away, they're discussing the killer rod-and-reel combo on the clearance rack that someone else snagged before they could even get their feet, well, wet.

Get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Get fired, divorced, or just step in something smelly? Head over to AA Lock and Gun and take out your aggressions by paying $75 annual membership to rent a Ruger (after taking a safety course), entering the indoor range, and knocking off a few rounds. Where else can you do all that? AA Lock and Gun is an institution, arming South Florida since 1963. The appraiser and gunsmith have about 80 years of experience between them. The shop carries Browning, Ruger, Colt, Remington, Smith and Wesson... basically, any maker you might want. And any ammunition as well, from .22 to the massive .454 Casull, which makes Dirty Harry's .44 magnum bullets look like pop-gun fare. The place is open from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday and 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday. Whatever the problem, you'll feel better after you've put some big holes in that human-shaped paper target. Just leave it at that.

If flintlocks pull your trigger, hustle on down to Mark 1st Antiques on the corner of Dania Beach Boulevard and Federal Highway. In the modest, mural-splashed, one-story building anchoring the south end of the antique district, owner Mark Furst (get it?) presides over cases and racks packed with obsolete military technology, from World War II helmets to samurai armor. Amid the standard antique-shop clutter of silver plate, china, and jewelry stand displays of daggers and pistols. Exotically twisted swords and elaborate old rifles hang on the walls. But Furst doesn't carry homicidal hardware made after 1898, only the classic stuff. Half a century ago, Furst, who then lived in Chicago, bought an 1810 Russian pistol in Germany for $10 and discovered he could sell it back home for $50. In 1980, he moved his business to Dania, where -- assumedly -- he's been profiting ever since.

This place is the Starship Enterprise of storage, sans photon torpedoes. No chance of doors slamming on your ass here, friends. Motion detectors swoosh portals open at your arm-filled approach. Same deal with the lights; you're never hunting for a switch, because they pop on automatically. Air conditioning keeps sweat to a minimum, as do the plentiful carts and dollies for pushing your cargo around. Sorry, no Ten Forward bar. A 5-by-10-foot air-conditioned room, about right for a one-bedroom apartment, costs $103 a month. Hours are 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. Monday through Friday; 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Saturday; and 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. Sunday.

The wall of dildos and vibrators is mind-boggling. Hmm, boggles more than the mind, we guess. This adult playland offers a variety of ways to spice up your sex life. The X-Factor is a large space that sells reasonably priced, run-of-the-mill nonoxyl-9 lubricants like Astroglide and a few harnesses with all the basic straps for couple-fixin'. Knowing that safe sex is the best sex, the owners also provide a load of options in the latex department, including reality condoms, which are worn by ladies. But c'mon, aren't women always having to take care of everything when it comes to freaking? That's why you should pick up a blindfold for under $10 or a nice pair of $20 wristcuffs for your gal. And don't forget to snag some pamphlets about how to clean and care for your new toys on your way out.

The Swiss-chalet architecture of this place puts one's mind at ease. You could almost expect to walk into the store for a cup of hot chocolate and a bit of friendly banter with some girl named Heidi. If the girl in question were naked except for a pair of six-inch high heels and the chocolate in question were being poured over her body, you'd actually be close. Megaplexxx is looking forward to a bright future as a smuthouse. It has titles in all the important porn subcategories and even sub-subcategories. "Teens," for instance, is not a category in and of itself anymore. You have to know whether you want teen cheerleaders, teen schoolgirls, naughty teens, nice teens, 30-year-old women pretending to be teens, and so on. Whatever you come up with, Megaplexxx probably has it. Even Swiss teens involved in a chocophiliac love scene... well, maybe.

This place has it all, from A to Z. Or in this case, from Arturo Fuente to Zino. As long as you have something more than lint in your pockets, you should be able to pick up one of the cheaper cigarillos, which usually cost around 60 cents. But why do that to yourself? A good cigar will run you around $5, $10 if you really want to splurge. Of course, if you're the type to hemorrhage money whenever possible, prices go as high as $29.50 for a Davidoff Aniversario No. 1, which comes in its own tube. Once you've gotten a few cigars and developed a serious habit -- or addiction, as the case may be -- you'll want to purchase a humidor. Bennington sells them real cheap, $100 for a large one, which holds 150 to 200 cigars, or $65 for a small one, which accommodates up to 50 stogies. In all, the place boasts smokes from more than 80 manufacturers; each company has its own varieties, so you need never run out of new and exciting ways to do yourself respiratory damage.

For everyone who is shaving years off his life while satisfying that oral fixation, this place is a utopia among bars. It's very smoker-friendly, having only recently reduced the smoking section to a long row of comfortable booths against one side of the restaurant and bar; the government made them do it. As for the machine in the back of the room, two things separate it from the mundane cigarette-vending gizmo. First, a pack of darts costs $4. And, while that's a bit more expensive than typical convenience-store prices, it beats the pants off most other machines, where prices are usually in the $4.50 to $5 range. When you also include the fact that this machine dishes out hard packs instead of soft ones, it must be the best in town. Why pay $4 for a pack of smokes that's just going to be crushed in your pocket because of that darned soft pack? As long as there are cigarette machines, which may not be long, given the way the antismoking wind is blowing, Maguire's is the best local bet.

Broward County is home to plenty of shops selling marijuana pipes, but many of them also stock so many inconsequential knick-knacks, trinkets, and doo-dads that it's hard to get a gander at what you walked in there for. You can find your Nag Champa incense at any brightly lighted, family-friendly head shop, but for the best selection of those beauteous color-changing glass pipes (and waterpipes -- don't you dare call 'em bongs), explore the slightly sinister vibe at Cloudy Daze. Something tells us this is the place to come when your terrazzo floor and your hand-blown bubbler meet under tragically unfortunate circumstances. Rather than fill its square footage with Grateful Dead Hacky Sacks, sex-toy novelties, or crystal unicorns, Cloudy Daze has exactly what you want: Lots and lots of pipes with which to smoke dope. Is that so wrong?