Goods & Services

You've just dropped $25,000 on a new truck. The testosterone-fueling V8 engine and two-ton payload are all a man could ever want. But it's dreadfully boring on the outside. It looks like every other big truck out there. It doesn't express your -- shall we say? -- manly uniqueness. What's a Hemi-lovin' guy to do? Pay a visit to Ideal Automotive & Truck Accessories, a 64,000-square-foot warehouse and automobile accessories store in Pompano Beach. You can start with the inside of your ride, adding an AudioVox flip-down television and entertainment center (prices vary) and tinted windows ($100 or more depending on the vehicle). Then move to the outside. You'll want to strap on a leather LeBra for the front ($109), a Patriot bed liner ($169), and a hard-top tonneau cover ($995). In other words, if it's an aftermarket automotive accessory, Ideal Automotive will likely carry it. In a few short hours, you can have whatever you like installed and ready for the road.

As owner and landlord for the past 40 years of the Fort Lauderdale Swap Shop, the second-largest flea market in the country, Preston Henn knows a lot about sales pitches and asphalt-level marketing. Want to gather a crowd? Get the calliope rumbling and a barker pitching dreams and lurid promises. Henn long ago got the idea of drawing customers to his 80 acres of marketing chaos by givin' 'em a circus and amusement rides.

"We've got a free circus every day," says Henn, the old pitchman stepping up. "We've got a carnival with a Ferris wheel and bumpy rides. I liked the circus when I was a kid. I liked the rides, the scarier the better. What do I like about it now? It works." Best Liquor Store Liquor and Wine Merchant

In an item-by-item price comparison with six other liquor stores in the area on 1.75-liter bottles of Myers Rum, Jose Cuervo Tequila, and Absolut Vodka, Liquor and Wine Merchant tied for the second cheapest, with a combined total of $100.97 for the three. What makes the dollar stretch further in the fun-to-shop atmosphere is the advice proffered by the round-cheeked boys behind the counter, who really seem to know a bit about tippin' the ol' bottle. In keeping with their motto, "See the Round Boys for a Square Deal," the thick-shouldered young man behind the counter advised, "Try Svedka instead of Absolut. It's distilled five times instead of three." With a price tag of $19.99 instead of $30.99 for Absolut, that brings the total down to $89.97 for three hefty bottles of good party liquor. So when it's time to throw down with friends, the Round Boys are going to leave you enough dough for mixers.

If someone's too ugly, obnoxious, or just plain weird to sit in the audience at a taping of the Jerry Springer Show, where do they go? Apparently, to watch NWA (National Wrestling Alliance) matches, which take place at various locales around the state, often at the Bergeron Rodeo Grounds in Davie. The freakishness, thank goodness, isn't limited to the spectators. Inside the ring, you'll see a parade of waxed chests, tree-trunk thighs, and teeny man-bikinis. Current NWA superstars include "Black Nature Boy" Scoot Andrews. In this warped entertainment vortex, the crowd goes ape-shit for characters like Double Deuce, a tag team of two guys whose weenies are feebly noticeable through their clownish purple spandex. Their masculinity, however, is not to be doubted when they bust out their signature finishing move -- called "Balls on Your Chin." Such antics, of course, make for great family entertainment. Almost better than the wrestling in the ring is the sideshow -- when a bunch of 9-year-olds run up and tell the losing wrestlers that they're pussies; then the bikini-clad 35-year-olds growl and chase the kids around the arena. Each show gets you about three hours of delicious weirdness, for about 12 cheap bucks.

Wedged between a Vietnamese soup house and a tropical ice cream parlor, Rankin Records rounds out a truly multiculti strip mall (there's a store selling Middle Eastern goods around the corner) along busy Highway 441. Unlike usual reggae suspects you'll find at your suburban CD megastore, Rankin leaves the pricey Bob Marley box sets for Johnny-come-lately types and instead focuses its stock on the needs of discriminating West Indian expats. Put it this way -- you probably won't find the collected works of Ras Shiloh at your local Best Buy. Obscure offerings issued on tiny, mom-'n'-pop labels abound. Small and loud (like any good reggae shop should be), Rankin is the place to find local recording artists from Screwdriver to Tanto Irie on CD, cassette, and even 12-inch vinyl singles. A case full of DVD and videotapes is where you'll finally discover that live Yellowman show you've been looking for. As you'd expect, Rankin's interior is flush with new vinyl albums, including one whole wall devoted to soca compilations decorated with colorful and racy cover art (who knew they made bathing suits that small?) and a healthy selection of old-school soul and R&B discs for Gramps to pore over. Most impressive is the store's commitment to representing every segment of the West Indian musical universe, its bins packed with "calypsoca" collections galore. With seminal artists like Mighty Sparrow acknowledging the presence of the Trini Massive in South Florida, Rankin has the island vibe sewn up.

You probably haven't noticed Modern Music tucked back from this busy boulevard, where you risk life and limb by gawking. But this shop has garnered the attention of the music-minded because of its friendly staff and range of instruments. This isn't one of those cavernous chain music stores; you're always within conversation range of the people who have the answers -- and they're always ready to dicker on the prices. Inventory includes instruments, electronic equipment, music books, and accessories. Four long rows of electric and acoustic guitars dangle from above, including an eye-catching, butterscotch-blond Fender bass for $899, which is appealing enough to serve as a wall hanging. A Jay Turser acoustic guitar features the Statue of Liberty carved into the wood below the strings, a patriotic flourish selling for just under $400. For a more exotic sound, pick up a darbuka drum for only $54. The store doesn't cater just to five-piece rock bands either. Its rent-to-own plan for orchestral instruments begins as low as $16 a month for the basics -- flutes, trumpets, violins, and the like -- to $113 a month for high-end pieces, such as the baritone sax.

Along with a thorough selection, visual impact is crucial at a record store. You want people to walk in and immediately wonder, preferably out loud, "Holy crap, where'd they find all this freakin' vinyl?!" If sheer overload is the name of the game, newcomer Super Soul Records gets the gold. Do the math: 500 milk crates, each holding about 100 records. That's about, what? Fifty thousand freakin' records, that's what. Storeowner King George Johnson has been a vinyl archaeologist in New York City for more than 20 years, unearthing rare soul, disco, funk, Latin, R&B, acid jazz, and techno records since the early '80s. He and his son Jamal packed up a U-Haul and shipped a portion of his collection to Fort Lauderdale to open Super Soul. "King Herc used to come by the house all the time," Jamal, who's the store manager, says of his heady Harlem upbringing. The 20-year-old Jamal has been immersed in his dad's collection since he can remember, and he often hits local hip-hop events, like Rock Bottom Hip-Hop at the Fort Lauderdale Saloon and Catalyst in Pembroke Pines, with crates in hand and records for sale, like Tupac's "Still I Rise" for only $20. That kind of service is nice, but to really get Super sold, get lost in the endless stacks at the store.

Though we can technically consider DJ World a "franchise," no other store in the Broward-Palm Beach area (Sam Ash included) can equal the stash or savvy of this one-stop DJ emporium. All the top turntable brands, from Stanton to Technics, are available, whether you're a bedroom novice searching for a $100 Gemini or a wannabe Oakenfold, for whom an $800 Numark Premium Direct Drive CD table might appease. But the decks are merely a fraction of DJ World's stock, which includes a host of related accessories like lighting rigs, monitors, headphones, mics, and even karaoke hardware. It's also a two-dimensional entity thanks to its online store, where you can of course order products as well as read product reviews, use search systems, and even order LPs through its web-exclusive Vinyl Nation shop. But the store's website really says it best: "The World's Largest DJ-Only Superstore." No argument here.

Unlike the mammoth commercial bookstores that have popped up all around South Florida, at Well Read New and Used Books in Fort Lauderdale, the smell of café latte doesn't overwhelm that distinct aroma of books. That's because this 3-year-old bookstore has stuck to the ages-old business plan: selling tomes. Tall shelves create a literature lover's labyrinth in this small slice of retail space near the popular causeway. Business is kept pleasant and uncomplicated -- no credit cards, please -- and trade-ins are welcome. The store prides itself on the large collection of Florida authors, and Sunshine State scribes regularly come to sign their latest offerings. What's more, in the age of skyrocketing rents that have put many used-book stores out of business, Well Read somehow finds a way to keep prices reasonable. Used paperbacks in mint condition average around $6. Hours are Monday through Saturday from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. and Sunday from noon to 7 p.m.

Crash! Pow! Zowee! It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's Tate's, the go-to shop for lovers of everything from the silver age of Marvel superheroes to the new wave of graphic novels and Japanese manga. Established in 1993 by Tate Ottati, this 4,000-square-foot store has come to dominate the field through its sheer, bulging inventory. There are, of course, the new comic books, which run from $2.25 to $2.99. Then there's the vintage comics, which start at $2 and can run as high as hundreds, even thousands of dollars for the real collectible stuff. For example, the store recently sold a less-than-mint-condition Amazing Spiderman No. 1 for $1,200. But there are also the accouterments of the comic world: posters, T-shirts, anime DVDs, and plush toys. And the most hallowed of all accessories: pocky snacks in a wide range of flavors. For adults -- kids, cover your eyes -- there's a back room with hentai books, or naughty anime. Tucked back in a strip mall, the shop is open Monday through Saturday from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. and Sunday from noon to 6 p.m.

Places abound in Broward and Palm Beach counties to get a rubdown in a frou-frou joint with scented air filled with whale noises and the trickling sounds of water on rocks. But if you want a basic massage done cheap and with extra care, the place to go is the American Institute of Massage Therapy, a school for massage therapists. The massage clinic offers therapists-in-training an opportunity to gain experience on real-world people. Student massage therapists offer Swedish relaxing massages under the unobtrusive guidance of licensed professionals and teachers. The clinic's décor is basic, but the facility is clean, professional, and relaxing. Because it's students performing the massages, the American Institute of Massage Therapy offers some of the best deals around: $35 for 55 minutes, $55 for 80 minutes. Tipping is not accepted for students. Hours are Monday to Thursday 9 a.m. to 10 p.m., Friday 9 a.m. to 8 p.m., Saturday 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., and Sunday 10:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.

If the complaint against CityPlace is that it's too Disneyfied, there's one way that this shopping mecca differs from the land of the mouse: free stuff. On weekend nights and some Sunday afternoons, CityPlace hosts free concerts in the main square. There's everything from R&B to jazz to salsa. CityPlace also hosts performances by school kids who sing near the escalators across from the fountain. And speaking of the fountain, there's a fountain show every hour set to music. Yeah, OK, that all does sound a bit like Disney, but how about the free parking (for the first hour)? Then, of course, there's the best thing that's free at CityPlace: the people-watching. What has become the downtown in downtown West Palm Beach attracts everyone from Loxahatchee cowboys to goth kids from suburbia. Take a spot along the balcony across from the tony second-floor restaurants (which are not free) and watch as the snowbirds mingle with the disgruntled locals in a free show that never gets old.

Sometimes you're in a hurry at the supermarket and don't have time to wheel around a shopping cart. So you pile everything inside one of those little green baskets. But before you even make it to the third aisle, the basket's ready to spill and your arms feel like they're going to fall off. Now, imagine if the basket were a full-scale shopping, dining, and entertainment district crammed into a space barely big enough to hold the buildings, let alone all the people. Welcome to CityPlace. Looking for a convenient parking spot? You'd better settle for what you can get the first time around; it takes less time to walk an extra block than to keep driving through the horrendous traffic. Of course, once you exit your car, the pedestrian traffic is just as bad, what with all the shoppers, diners, moviegoers, and loitering teenagers milling around. And after 30 minutes, all you can think of is how nice and peaceful Clematis Street seems by comparison. Isn't that what the trolley is for?

Toss back a couple of drinks at Ugly Tuna or Martini Bar, hook your arm around your date's waist, and saunter north. Past the scooped-out palm stump where sparrows sip and bathe, across the train tracks, and beside the Old Fort Lauderdale Museum of History. The only thoroughfare here, in the heart of a car-mad sprawl, is the New River, nuzzling against its concrete banks where the yachts nod and the algae faints, recovers, and faints again beneath the surface. The sabal palm and acacia absorb noise and light. From a few blocks away comes the rasp of tires raking over the steel drawbridge on SW Fourth Avenue. A little farther on, near the Fort Lauderdale Museum of Discovery and Science, find the curious educational displays on the mechanics of human sight and the use of the astrolabe. Underfoot are the personalized bricks dedicated to loved ones both living and lost, with little notes ("Dearest Samuel, You intoxicate my soul! Love, Angela") that describe lives lived not in stone but in temporary flesh. To that end, the walk includes memorials to fallen police officers and a local Audie Murphy type named Sandy Nininger, whose heroics in the Pacific Theater made him (posthumously) the first Congressional Medal of Honor winner in World War II. So what if the $7.7 million Riverwalk project is mired in construction delays, contract disputes, political finger-pointing, and general Fort Lauderdale civic botchitude? You get ornithology, marine biology, botany, anatomy, astronomy, history -- all while you're just trying to walk off a $20 buzz in relative peace.

Wait a second. This looks familiar. Yes, it's on the water, and yes, the boats are cool -- but something's amiss. Do you see the kiosks selling $12 sunglasses, little panda figurines, and beaded bracelets and displaying the "We can write a name on any buckle" sign? Do you hear the sounds of a cover/garage band playing "Brown Eyed Girl" for the umpty-jillionth time? Have you tried the $3.99, you-get-what-you-pay-for lunch special at Max's Grille? Are you seriously telling me that you're buying "home décor" from a store that also sells T-shirts remarking "mr. winkie wants to buy you a drinkie"? Do you hear the visitor from the Midwest comment about the whole setting, "It just seethes with tacky energy"? You say this is prime downtown commercial real estate and a centerpiece for the whole county -- but this is common, this is fungible, this is derivative, this is a Hooters above a Johnny Rockets. This looks a lot like -- a damned mall. People come from all over the world to visit Fort Lauderdale. And when they leave, this is what they tell their friends about. Or not.

If you can do without a room -- which would set you back $285 to $3,650 a night -- the Breakers is actually a cheap thrill. You need not be a guest of the hotel to take advantage of a lot of its amenities. Bellmen crowd the lobby doors like penguins, while locals and tourists swarm in and out to get treatments at the spa, shop in the boutiques, or dine in one of the hotel's eight restaurants. Munch on the free peanuts and spring for a drink (the $7.50 Pinot Grigio is a better deal than the $9 bottle of Evian) at the Seafood Bar, where the countertop is actually an aquarium full of live fish and the windows look out on the Atlantic Ocean. No one will stop you from playing a game on the six-foot-high vertical chessboard in the Tapestry Bar or from walking through the hedge maze or from killing time in the video arcade. You can even skip the valet by parking for free just past the guard gate.

For $2 per minute, you could see a top-of-the-line sex therapist, hire Michelle Kwan's ice-skating coach, or get a private reading from psychic Zayna Ravenheart. For the same price, you can get a serious adrenaline high at Speed Indoor Racing, the high-speed go-kart track that opened last year. Racing costs $11 for a five-minute session, $19.95 for a ten-minute session, $28 for a 15-minute session. A clean headsock -- a ski mask-looking thing that you slip on under your helmet to protect you from other people's sweat and cooties -- will run you another $3. After the high school kids who run the place have schooled you on how to drive the low-riding karts and shown you how not to burn yourself on the motor while sliding in and out, slam the pedal on the right and go whipping around rubber corners at speeds of 45 mph -- seat-belt-free! After your short stint as a human centrifuge, you'll receive a stats page that gives you all your lap times. The track is open to anyone over 8 years old, 53 or more inches tall, and under 300 pounds. Here, grown men giggle like little boys, little boys drive like demons, and girls who discover that the karts vibrate while idling get their not-so-cheap thrills before even pressing the gas pedal.

Ron Dupont doesn't want to be known as the roach guy, but these days, he just can't help it. Dupont says his is the only pet store he knows of selling roaches -- live roaches -- something desperately needed for owners of most reptiles. And what's worse, Dupont's roaches are notoriously tasty. "We call them 'tropical cream-filled roaches' because they're so juicy," he says. Dupont sells thousands of the little buggers every week at 8 to 39 cents apiece, and soon, he fears, he'll likely be known for them. Really, he'd rather be known for his reptiles. Dupont's been in the reptile business since he started catching snakes at 15 years old in his back yard and selling them to pet stores. Now at 63, he imports reptiles from around the world at his shop, Wild Cargo Pets & Supplies. He sells about 2,700 lizards a year. Usually, boa constrictors start from $119 to $149, and monitor lizards can be found for at least $40. Dupont will also special-order, like yellow phase tree pythons that run about $700. Dupont also sells tarantulas ($20 to $150 for rare ones) and an odd assortment of reptile food, including bloodworms, mealworms, and crickets. But more than anything, Dupont can't keep the roaches in the store. "People will come back and say, 'Man those roaches are juicy.' They can't get enough of them."

A great vet becomes truly noteworthy after you've had a few bad ones. Arch Gordon's tableside manner is so effortlessly kind, benevolent, and caring, it's worth giving him his due. We know a certain cat terrified of thunderstorms, vacuum cleaners, doorbells, and even its own shadow that regularly melts into Gordon's capable hands during checkups, purring contentedly. Feline and canine office visits run around $40; rabies shots are $15 extra. He seems to have a way with dogs too -- from the little yappy lap dogs to the poodles-as-fashion-accessories and the pampered pooches belonging to the high-class ladies living near the beach. Be you one of the bejeweled set or just a normal sort with a normal pet, Gordon's comforting, compassionate aura of concern makes a visit to the vet as painless as possible.

OK, you've got Fido on that special vegan diet, and his mock turtleneck sweater is made of hemp. So what's next to make your dog a true reflection of your hippie roots? Holistic medicine, of course. It's sure to restore your mutt's inner peace -- which does not require a pooper scooper. At Friendship Animal Wellness Center, veterinarian Carol Falck will give your pet a holistic checkup for $125, followed by a recommendation for treatment from Chinese medicine to traditional veterinary care (which runs about $42 per visit). For some animals, the prescription is for acupuncture ($50 a visit), which can especially aid with arthritis. Follow it up with an aromatherapy bath with slippery elm and rose geranium. Top it off with a spritz of doggy cologne made from nutmeg and lime. The center also offers Reiki, an ancient form of medicine that, according to its website, involves moving energy, restoring your pet's "natural state of wholeness on all levels -- mental, physical, emotional and spiritual." That's right, spiritual. Don't you know what dog spelled backward is?

These things just don't look like they should fly. A powered parachute is no more than a shopping-cart-sized craft with a big fan on the back, attached to a parachute fluttering above. But somehow, it can glide along at 30 mph, 800 feet above the hard, unforgiving Earth. Larry Littlefield, a retired airline pilot and powered-parachute instructor, promises it's not as precarious as it looks. Littlefield gives lessons at the Lantana Airport and sells the powered-parachute crafts, which cost about $17,000 new and $13,000 used. Lessons cost about $100 an hour and require about 35 hours before students can go off on death-defying -- uh, we mean safe -- trips on their own. Littlefield says the trips are worth the constant questions about whether he's nuts. "Ever seen the movie E.T. ?" he asks. "Remember the kids gliding over the houses on bikes? That's what it's like." The slow, careful glide of the powered parachute allows its pilot and a single passenger to take everything in, he says. "You just watch the world drift by. Slow and low is where it's at." Hopefully, just not too slow or too low.

Eduardo, the short aerobics instructor who is trying to kill you, looks at you with zero sympathy as you lift the medicine ball above your chest, looking not unlike a dying cockroach. "Get stronger!" he says. And you do. Tough and unsmiling as Eduardo is, you still manage to feel very happy, very healthy, and very buff by the end of his Circuit Sculpt class, during which you'll race from station to station lifting weights, doing squats, and performing a sick amount of lunges. The other instructors -- like kickboxing coach/Japanese drummer Roy or cute little bendy thing Tara -- also make exercise a good time at the Zoo. It's not a big place, but what it lacks in space it makes up for in homey quirks. The bottom floor of this Fort Lauderdale beachside institution fits only the check-in desk and a smoothie bar. The second floor has just one aerobics room and a modest assortment of free weights, exercise bikes, and machines. But the roof is like a ghetto penthouse. Sure, the free weights are a little rusty from the weather, but here, you can join a cycling class, get a tan, watch kiteboarders, take in the sunset (or sunrise), and feel superior to all the fatsos down below. Membership (about $45 a month) includes a parking pass.

At first, Dewing's Fly & Gun Shop may look a bit out of place, sandwiched between a doggy bakery and an upscale seafood joint in downtown West Palm Beach. But a look at the 2,700 guns inside -- and their price tags -- reveals why Dewing's does so well. The guns, with inlays of ivory and gold and encrustments of rare jewels, can run as much as $1.5 million. That's a rare price; most cost several thousands of dollars for rifles that often took years to make. Dewing's is one of three gun shops in the country selling a large collection of high-end, handmade shotguns, owner Adam Trieschmann says. Palm Beachers looking to stock their hunting lodges out west or gazillionaires flying in on private jets to pick up rifles is common. "I can never have enough unique pieces," Trieschmann says. "I got a $50,000 rifle in yesterday, and it sold yesterday." Despite the high prices of some of the guns, the store is surprisingly approachable. The place has the feel of a hunting lodge with mounted animals, comfy leather couches, and wood paneling. Most of the guns can be picked up, although the more expensive ones are behind glass. And its neighbors appreciate the business; women hit the doggy bakery while men browse the rifles, and then together they hit Spoto's Oyster Bar next door for lunch.

You did her wrong. You were being a total guy when you said that, and you didn't realize it would offend her. She's upset. You need a second chance. You need a miracle. You need Walt Zelasko and his wonder workers at Poopie Doll Florist. For the past 20 years, Zelasko and his team of expert florists have been putting together bouquets and combinations of flowers, most from Colombia and Ecuador, in north Fort Lauderdale. Unlike at many florists, where price-gouging seems a lucrative side business, Poopie Doll keeps prices reasonable, from a dozen mini-carnations with a rainbow selection of colors for just $3.45 to a dozen daisies or carnations for $7.95 to a dozen deep-red roses with long, thorny stems sturdy as an elm for $39.95. What's more, every purchase is individually wrapped with care and professionalism. Heck, if it weren't for the flower power available at such places as Poopie Doll Florist, procreation would likely come to a startling halt.

There are a few essential traits for an outstanding gift store. First, its inventory must provide for occasions as diverse as weddings, birthdays, Valentine's Day, and hope-your-dog-gets-better. Second, there must be a wide price range -- after all, a bridal shower present for your uncle's sister-in-law doesn't demand the same wallet juice as does your nephew's bar mitzvah. So Abe's is your answer. This store has enough turnover of merchandise that there's something new to discover each time you visit. Cookware is plentiful, from a set of six glass tumblers for $6 to a set of six Victorinox steak knives for $30 or a fancy 22-piece tea and dessert set for $100. Plenty of wall decorations, in particular Florida-themed fish sculptures from $20 to $70. For the person who has everything, there's the kitschy: two-foot tall Laurel and Hardy figurines for $250 each.

After that failed attempt to manufacture wine in your bathtub, there's a way to escape the shame of defeat. Instead of bottling the rotgut you pressed with your feet, try bottling your own vino at Let's Make Wine in Delray Beach. This soon-to-be-national chain that started right here in South Florida lets customers mix their own wines to come up with unique blends, packaged with original labels. Owner Ann Rosenberg has plans to franchise her Delray Beach store across the country using the success pioneered by her late husband, Bill, founder of Dunkin' Donuts. Already, Rosenberg has opened a second store in Deerfield Beach and another in Colorado. The store allows customers to mix their own wine using pure juice or grape juice concentrate that's mixed with filtered water and bottled. The mix, which ranges from $160 to $319, makes about 25 bottles. Then the amateur winemakers create their own labels. Mostly, the idea has taken off as gifts for weddings and such, but Rosenberg says some customers just like having their own bottle of wine, without grapes between their toes.

You could chuck an anvil from one side of Kyoya to the other and a brick from its entrance to its end. In between, this wee shop stocks enough Asian culinary curios to require repeat trips. The front displays origami paper and a library of Japanese videos; the middle holds tea sets, bags of wasabi mix, canned Thai bamboo, ready-to-eat dried squid, frozen edamame, and pickled ginger; the rear features perhaps the smallest sushi bar in South Florida. No frills means cheap prices and generous portions that belie the store's small size. The $17 sushi combo for two includes ten pieces of sushi, two ample rolls, and a choice of salad, soup, or drink. The $8.50 volcano roll itself is enough for two people. Eat fast; the restaurant seats but six.

South Florida can be a brutal place. Con men flock here like gulls on a bread crumb, and the smell of criminality is never far away. Desire for the Big American Dream -- not the one featuring a chicken in every pot but the one with two Mercedeses and a Porsche in every three-car garage -- drums the decency out of people here at a dizzying pace. So if this place is more dishonest than, say, Boise, what must the mechanics be like? Well, surprisingly, they aren't any worse than anywhere else, for the most part. Probably more likely to get ripped off in a place like, say, Beaufort, South Carolina, to pick an Old South town at random. And some South Florida garages, like Wales, are absolute gems. The garage has a motto: "For People Who Plan to Keep Their Cars." You gotta like that. Might as well say, "For Working Joes." Or "For People with Enough Sense Not to Throw Their Money Away on a Lease." The service at Wales is topnotch, and the turnover is quick. These people receive broken cars, fix them, and get them out the door in record time. And it's got longevity on its side. The garage was started by George Wales four decades ago. He sold the place in the early 1970s and went on to became better-known for his nearby restaurant, the beloved Café de Geneve, which closed in 2001. Today, the garage is owned by Stewart Levy, who has managed to preserve Wales' standard of excellence. It's a beautiful thing -- if you plan to keep your car.

Pull up under the carport of Flamingo Joe's Auto Spa and you won't find a list of prices anywhere. No billboard advertising the cost of a detail or a simple wash. Instead, you get the employees. "For you?" they'll ask, as if surveying how much they like you. Overheard prices quoted to customers went from $15 for a blond hottie who owned a convertible to $30 for an SUV driven by a suit-wearing yuppie. Then there are the stories of Mob connections. During a recent visit, an employee laughed off such rumors. Then he pointed out the baseball bat behind the counter. "We do loan money," he said in a New York accent. "The baseball bat is for when you don't pay. You get cracked." Minutes later, a guy in a Jaguar pulled up under the carport and asked how much for a detailing. "For you? $75." Not a bad price. Guess the guy had an honest face.

Don't let the high ceilings and exposed ductwork of Adult Video Outlet's 24-hour location (5249 Powerline Rd. in Fort Lauderdale) fool you. It might look like a warehouse, but Adult Video Outlet is about as classy a place as you'll find to buy your copy of the much-ballyhooed 1 Night in China, featuring two beefed-up former stars from World Wrestling Entertainment really wrestling -- you know, the way the Good Lord intended. Cordoned off into aptly named sections -- such as "Up and Cummers," "40+," and the catch-all "Alternative" -- most of the DVDs at Adult Video Outlet cost $29.95, with some available for $12.95 and others buy-one-get-one-free. This store has something for everyone, whether you're a frustrated single or a bored and horny couple. A few rows from the latest offering in the ouch!-that-must-be-painful, anal-obsessed Max Hardcore series, porno aficionados will find the gay hit Bat Dude and Throbin and, for those lusting after whips and stiletto heels, Severe Punishment, the movie tailor-made for all those naughty boys. Adult Video Outlet's two other locations (1030 W. Sunrise Blvd. in Fort Lauderdale and 3803 W. Commercial Blvd. in Tamarac) are open until 2 a.m. every night.

Every man wants her. She's a busty blond. She doesn't talk. She doesn't complain. She doesn't make you buy her dinner. And, best yet, she never has a headache when you're ready to get it on. Meet, dear gentlemen, the Inflatable Wife. She can be all yours for the rock-bottom price of $18.95 at Something Sexy for Him & Her, an airy, upbeat sex shop on Federal Highway. Carrying clothing, videos, and -- ahem -- accessories, Something Sexy has everything you'll need when the lights go out. Or, for that matter, when you're parked in a dark space at some seedy bar. For the ladies, you can start with Spicy leather-studded sandals with stiletto heel ($49.95), then move on to the Passion Flower Mini Clit Climaxer ($49.95), featuring a multispeed motor for that perfect vibration. For the guys, take a look at the wall of cockrings ($10 to $25) or get your, er, hands around one of those masturbation kits ($34.95), including everything you'll need for those relaxing autoerotic afternoons. Whatever your pleasure -- or pain -- Something Sexy will likely cater to it.

Fifteen years ago, skateboarders around these parts didn't have much they could call their own. If you wanted to go to a decent park, the nearest place was Orlando ("C'mon, Mom -- please!?"). And when it came time to buy a new board, your only choice was to snoop around town for a surf shop that bothered to sell more than three decks and one set of wheels. By the time Joe Varricchio opened the Shred Shed in 1999, both the supply and demand for skate gear were higher than a Reese Forbes ollie. The store has everything a young shredder needs, from roughly 300 skate decks ($32.95 to $54.95, with free grip tape), accessories (wheels, $25 to $39.80), shoes ($49.95 to $89.95), T-shirts ($18.95), and DVDs (Blind's What If, $24.95). And speaking of DVDs, the Shred Shed has its first team video available for ten bucks (The Friggin' Shred Shed Video) as well as a second one in the works. The team kids are damned good too, never failing to rack up points at local contests. Hmm... maybe it's where they do their shopping.

You've heard of getting fitted for a suit, a dress, or even a pair of loafers, but at Bike America, they fit you for a bike. They take measurements of your torso, arm length, and inseam to figure out what size bike fits best. Even before this five-store South Florida chain opened its new location in Plantation earlier this year, it claimed to be the state's largest bike dealer and one of the top 100 dealers in the country. And the new store is the best yet, a stylish shop with poured concrete floors, exposed rafters, and sharp lighting. The Plantation store is also unique in that it sells only Trek and its subsidiary brands, like Gary Fisher. The store specializes in the mountain bikes and road bikes that won the Tour de France, which can cost up to $10,000, but the place also sells cheaper touring and kids bikes. For street riding, go for the Trek Madone 5.2 ($3,189), a copy of the bikes that won the Tour. For cruising, try the cushy seat and wide handle bars of the Women's Calypso ($309.99), a clunky-looking bike that's lighter than its appearance, thanks to an aluminum frame. Just remember to suck that gut in during the measurement.

At this vast repository for used household items of every stripe, donations are always welcome. When old knees give out, the old bikes come in -- hundreds of 'em, fit for man, woman, and child. If you aren't in the mood to spend a small fortune on a new bike with fancy front suspension and an ergonomically correct seat -- after all, you just want something to tool around town on -- go used. Faith Farm, which takes up about two city blocks, boasts the biggest pre-owned assortment of ten-speeds, mountain bikes, fat-tire beach cruisers, Italian road bikes, and more. The pickin's are anything but slim, Jim, and you'll rarely (if ever) have to spend more than $80 or $90 to set yourself up. Just leave those black stretchy Lycra butt-pants at home. You look stupid in 'em.

When Eddie Trotta was at home recovering from cancer in 1991, he used his free time to build himself a motorcycle. The thing turned out so well, he decided to start building them for others, and before he knew it, Trotta became one of the country's premier bike builders. Since those humble beginnings, Trotta is now in his fourth location, a 30,000-square-foot shop that includes a bike-building area the size of an airplane hangar. Trotta and his team have also appeared twice now on Discovery Channel's Biker Build Off, a show that required them to crank out a chopper in just ten days. Typically, it takes six months or more to produce custom bikes, which can cost in the six figures. The company makes about ten to 15 of them a year, but Trotta has plans to significantly increase that number. Just recently, Thunder bought two new fabricating machines -- at $100,000 each -- which stamp out the uniquely shaped metal needed for custom bikes. Thunder also recently started selling Big Dog bikes that go for about $30,000 each, much less than the custom ones built by Thunder. The bike that helped Trotta win the first Biker Build Off, a silver chopper with purple and blue flames, costs a cool $85,000. It comes with a six-speed tranny, diamond-cut cylinders, a 131-cubic-inch engine that puts out 140 horses, and a double-shot of testosterone. It's not a bad way to beat cancer, or whatever's ailing you.

Cleaning out the closet can be a surprisingly emotional experience. Worse yet is figuring out what to do with all the sartorial memories, since every outdated suit and Technicolor tie is sewn up with nostalgia you can't ignore. The best solution: Donate your goods to a place you have a connection with. When the grandfather of a friend of ours passed away last year, the family decided the best thing to do would be to give his clothes -- a closet full of salmon-colored sports coats, wing-collared dress shirts, and silky cashmere sweaters (some pretty nice stuff, in the right guy's wardrobe) -- back to the community he wore them in. The JCC Thrift Store accepts donations on site, during business hours, which are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday and 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Make sure you ask for a receipt when you make your donation; the dollar value can be deducted from your income taxes.

You've not had a true subtropical experience until you've straddled the nine-horsepower Derbi GP1 scooter while zooming down A1A. You can feel the humid air shimmering past your skin and see the bugs splattering on the little windshield. You can stop on a dime and park just about anywhere you like. In fact, you can rule the road knowing that you're riding one of the most energy-efficient vehicles on asphalt. But where do you find such an experience? Start at this scooter emporium, just south of I-595 in Davie. You can put down several grand on a speed-demon Derbi, or you can go with the more conservative Qingqi QM50QT-6. Best yet, at Scooters Mania, you can give the two-wheeled life a test run. Scooter rentals are $75 to $95 from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. or $105 to $125 for 24 hours. All rentals include helmets.

Funny thing about tattoos is that times and trends tend to change. The tribals, Chinese letters, and that delightful little butterfly right below the waistline may all be cute and trendy right now, but imagine what it's going to be like in 50 years, when today's young adults become tomorrow's senior citizens. Everyone's grandfather is going to be sporting sweet tribal armbands while the butterfly that Grandma thought was a bitchin' idea back in spring break '99 is going to resemble a pterodactyl. Lower-back tattoos will become as common among the elderly as the name Gertrude is today. Picking a tattoo isn't like picking a career or a spouse -- it's a lifelong commitment. So where to have the work done is just as important as what you're getting. There are literally hundreds of places to get ink down here, but with competitively priced tattoos starting at $50, an ultraclean studio open seven days a week, and, most important, two very good artists with nearly 20 years' experience between them, Electrik Krayon is the perfect place to get that ultra-original, barbed-wire tattoo you'll be showing the grandkids... poseur.

Do you want to eat, or do you want to get your hair done? Either way, you're in the right place. The Elite Group will hook you up with wine, soda, coffee, bagels, and -- oh yeah! -- a haircut! Or color! Or highlights! Or makeup from its cosmetic line. Both the stylists and clients range from chi-chi Las Olas grand dames to punk-chic, high-fashion, alternative mamas. A cut for chicks is $50, and one for guys is $30. Oh you want your hair dry? Another 30 beans, please. Tell 'em we sent you, and make sure to get one of those orgasmic head massages from Krystal.

Whether it's the basics you need or to cut corners on household expenses, Just 99 carries an impressive supply of groceries, cleaning products, knickknacks, and useful life accessories all for the slightest expenditure of the green. Taking the kids to the beach? This store has plastic shovels, goggles and snorkels, and paddle games to make the day. The grocery aisles offer juice, canned goods, and an array of spices, all for the most attainable level of greenbacks. In addition, it's a good place to save on those little extras that you need around the house, like night-lights, bungee cords, fabric softener, hangers, and picture frames. Sometimes you just don't need to spend more. There's even one 99-cent investment that will help pass on the penny-pinching ethic to the next generation: big plastic piggy banks that end up paying for themselves.

In 1994, Carl "Marty" Gouveia suffered the loss of three fingers on his dominant right hand to a car accident. How did he channel his frustration? By swinging a chain saw around. A 1985 graduate of the Fort Lauderdale Institute of Art and a third-generation sign-painting artist, "Mad Marty" shifted his focus. Sure, he kept on painting billboards, motorcycles, and surfboards, but he discovered a knack for sculpting tiki-style totem poles. Carved out of palm wood and sealed for protection against the elements, the tikis come in three-foot to six-foot sizes. Eyes? Choose "squint" or "alien" style. Teeth? Choose "fang" or "square." As Marty is fond of saying, "Art is not a thing. It is a way... I hope you enjoy, and God bless."

This place is so big that it should have its own mayor (think about it, Sheriff Ken). The place has a 90,000-square-foot showroom on two levels. It also has a huge, 540,000-square-foot warehouse that serves as a distribution center for the other 16 stores in this local chain, all of them between Homestead and West Palm Beach. And yes, located on the edge of the Everglades right off the Sawgrass Expressway, it's a monument to out-of-control sprawl. But damn, man, there are deals to be made. Getting to them, however, can be a bit daunting without the help of, say, a tall, well-manicured, and quite gorgeous saleswoman. But she passed us at the door in favor of a more monied-looking fellow in a suit, so we were left alone to sort out the place on our own. First, we followed our noses, which led us to the free fresh-baked cookies and coffee. Nice. Then we found our way to the back, where thousands of pieces of furniture sat in a warehouse waiting to be plucked up by a smart buyer. People, it's called "Clearance," and at City Furniture, there's 20,000 square feet of bargains. If you can stand a flaw or two, you can get a hellacious deal. Ten-foot long, four-seat, Natuzzi leather couch with a built-in ottoman on one end: $750. A nice wooden TV stand: $250. Delivery charge: $55. Classing up the family room and freeing up some couch space for the kids: priceless.

What makes a pawn shop the best pawn shop? Its proximity to you when you need cash, quick. And that means that Ready Cash I's location -- smack in the middle of downtown Hollywood, where money seems to evaporate from your wallet -- is ideal. Between wining and dining your date at Mama Mia's Italian Grille and stumbling your way to Club M, you can unload one of your gold chains or turn in your moped at Ready Cash to pay for the evening's adventures. The place even buys broken jewelry! Buyers in need of a $100 surfboard, a selection of Snap-On tools, or $8 VHS tapes could comparison-shop at the owners' two other pawn shops on Hollywood Boulevard -- but they're way the hell down the street.

You find yourself picking dimes off the ground, borrowing DVDs from the library because of your Blockbuster late fees, and ruing the waste of the last few drops of gasoline dripping from the nozzle. You are, face facts, a schlub. But, good Lord willing, one day -- one day -- you will join the pampered upper-crusties who can projectile-vomit cash for Italian leather love seats and goatskin tables and Myanmar walnut hardwood floors. You will have a 12-nozzle programmable shower in your guesthouse bedroom. You will spend $1,300 on a rocking chair without even furrowing your Botoxed brow. Your living space will look like the inside of the Design Center of the Americas, that gleaming, hotel-sized snob hive between Boomers! and Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport along I-95. It's a world-class collection of 150 studios and 775,000 square feet of answers to the question: What the hell is inside all those South Florida mansions and yachts? Oriental rugs that cost as much as a new hatchback, it turns out.

Hair is no trivial thing in South Florida. Keeping it trimmed, hedged, plucked, or sculpted is an ongoing battle for the better-body set. Front and center in the hirsute battlefield are those pesky eyebrows, some of which Mother Nature has chosen to fashion after the full-bodied caterpillar. While many choose to keep the brow shapely by waxing, there's a much better, older method of hair removal called threading, practiced by Kitu, the owner of Mona's Fashions. It takes only a couple of minutes. Kitu wraps two threads around her fingers and thumbs, then whisks them smartly around the eyebrow, plucking the hairs between the strands. The method has long been preferred by Indians and Middle Easterners, who also use it for removing other facial hair. Kitu argues that waxing eyebrows causes wrinkles and saggy eyelids because of all the tugging -- a claim you can take or leave. What's not debatable, however, is that there's not a cheaper, less painful way of clearing the eye brush than a $10 threading by Kitu.

Ahh, that awkward age: too young to be an antique, too old for the shelves of Target or Kmart. But for lovers of the late vintage years -- roughly beginning in the 1950s and running somewhere to the early 1970s -- this is the primo epoch for furniture, appliances, clothes, and knickknacks. If you number among its aficionados, check out the plentiful but by no means cheap items at Recollections. During a recent visit, a ten-inch Philco solid-state TV, complete with '60s plastic knobs and molding, could be had for $50. Then there's the cream-colored, toaster-sized Telefunken radio for $150. For $65, round out your media set with one of those 45 rpm portable record players that were popular about the time the Beatles first toured America. For the more domestic-minded, how about a '50s-style pink bathroom sink for $125? And you wouldn't want to take a cruise through the post-JFK years without something in the ubiquitous color of the 1960s: turquoise. In this case, a hand-held Sunbeam mixmaster for $55.

Happy hour at Cathode Ray, you say? Costs money. Two-for-one drinks at Shizen after midnight? Costs money. Egg breakfast at the Floridian? Costs money. What does not cost any money along the choicest stretch of restaurants, shops, and galleries in Broward County, dear reader? The stack of old ice cream buckets in the back of the chocolate boudoir that is Kilwin's. Past the $4 chocolate-covered Twinkies, the $7 pouches of chocolate-covered espresso beans, the $8-a-pound gummi bears, the no-really $23-a-pound chocolate-covered orange slices... there. Stacked dozens high. "Free Buckets. Great for Storage!" Spent tubs of Rum Raisin and Butter Pecan. Eff-Are-Ee-Ee Free. Oh, and: lids. Contain yourself, bargain-hunter.

The Gulf Stream rushes across South Florida like a river beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. It acts as nature's very own pressure cleaner, pushing away the dirt and debris from the reefs and wildlife in the waters off Broward and Palm Beach counties. That makes South Florida, despite its overdevelopment, one of the world's most fabulous dive spots. Divers from all over travel here to see the life-cradling coral reefs that rest just below the water's surface. You can see it all for yourself with the help of the folks at Lauderdale Diver. This spacious dive shop, only minutes from Fort Lauderdale Beach, offers everything a beginning or experienced diver could need -- from bathing suits and Freestyle underwater watches to Aqua Lung regulators and Body Glove wet suits. What's more, Lauderdale Diver's PADI certification courses cater to the needs of busy Floridians. In addition to a traditional two-week diving certification class ($275), Lauderdale Diver offers a flexible nights-and-weekends class ($325) and a name-any-time-you-want private class ($395). Ask for Judith or Shelly, who can tell you about the magnificent underwater world you've been missing.

If Matisse, Lichtenstein, Monet, Stuart Davis, and any other artist you can think of who liked to recklessly splash color around decided to make women's shoes instead of painting canvases, their work would end up at Ermare. You've got your goldfish pumps, your garter snake open-toed slippers, your shin-high Wonder Woman boots, and a pair of shoes so thick with silk flowers that, as one browser put it, "You'll have bumblebees chasing you." You've got your rainbows, your pastels, your Crayola brights. You've got Jimmy Choos, Gianmarco Lorenzis, Ombelines, Sergio Rossis, and, yes, even some brands that you and I might have heard of before, like Yves Saint Laurent and Giorgio Armani. The shoes don't come cheap; the least expensive ones we saw in the Galleria store went for about $100, and those were on sale. But you don't need money. Just wander through, like you're looking at pictures at an exhibition.

All right, here's how to get to the apartment. Real easy. Drive down I-95 until you get to exit 29, which is Sunrise Boulevard. OK. Now, head east. You'll pass... well, a bunch of stuff. What kind of stuff? Shops, mostly. Fast-food joints. Check-cashing places. Gas stations. No landmarks? Not yet. Keep going, past the car dealerships, past the laundromat. Try not to hit the kids who ride their bikes across the middle of the street. After about two miles, you'll see a huge vertical sign that says "Hustler." It's all red letters with pink-and-purple neon trim. Just opened last year. You absolutely cannot miss it. Take a right at the sign, go two blocks, the apartment is right there. Hustler store. Got it. Sounds easy enough. It is. It's also a decent place to get XXX videos, funny lingerie, blow-up sex dolls, cockrings ($10 each average), and dildos ($20 each average), and once in a while you'll even catch a glimpse of Hustler's frog-faced mogul Larry Flynt crouched behind the counter. What does that have to do with anything? Nothing. But the words cockrings and dildos are funny. Go ahead, say 'em. No. C'mon. Diiiildohhhhs. You know, Mom's in the car with me. Never mind.

Cigars are more than a tobacco product. They're a lifestyle and a fashion statement. Cigar Outlet, a spacious, one-stop shop for anything and everything related to rolled tobacco leaves, knows that well. For eight years, this little cigar store on Commercial Boulevard has been selling everything from top-of-the-line stogies and $1 cigars to humidors and attire. A shopping excursion here can quickly transport you to another place and state of mind. Grab an Arturo Fuente and a fancy butane lighter, then shop the clothes rack for a crisp guayabera. Once you're home in your backyard, the guayabera buttoned up and the stogie burning red, you'll swear that you're relaxing on the beach in Havana. Heck, you might even swear the I-95 traffic noise sounds like the gentle, rolling waves of the Caribbean.

Containing less than half the starched-shirt stuffiness of its Las Olas counterpart, Macabi in Plantation is also one of only two bars in the entire suburb. Concealed in an out-of-the-way corner of the vacancy-prone Fountains Mall, Macabi can't afford to traffic in such snootiness. Friendly faces behind the bar are legitimately glad to see you; the folks enjoying stogies around the rail are more likely to wear baseball caps turned backward and sneakers than Brooks Brothers and penny loafers. TVs will be tuned to sports, not the stock exchange. (If you want to check how your mutual fund's doing, use the room's wireless Internet connection.) The Wall of Cigars, though, hits the high notes more often than not, as does the drink selection. A seriously substantial array of (but of course) single malts makes up a strong backbone, but Macabi is one of only a few places in the area to serve German beer (Spaten) on tap. If you really want to be pampered, go for a bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet ($115), or if you're strolling in after dinner, uncork a Porto Barros 40 ($38 a glass). Yeah, you'll look like a snob... and that's not easy to do in Plantation.

On vacation in New York City's East Village, a local record geek wastes no time finding a music store, hoping to spend the last of his travel money on records he assumes can't be found in South Florida. After perusing the store's decent-but-not-great assortment of old power-pop records, he selects a small handful and heads to the counter, hoping the owner will cut him a deal. But the owner is a haughty prick, and the geek leaves the store too irate to spend even 50 cents on a Clash button. Back home in Broward County, the geek happens by the CD Collector of Pompano and finds exactly the same records he almost bought in NYC (the A's, the Quick, the Motors, Mink DeVille). And they're loads cheaper too, averaging from about $4 to no more than ten bucks. For the few albums the geek isn't sure about, owner Ritchie Siegrist lets him have a trial spin. Of course, by then the geek has been bitten by the must-have bug, eagerly prepared to splurge on anything in the store, be it an Iron Maiden DVD ($19.95), a Misfits T-shirt ($15), or any of the bundles of new and used CDs (rock, hip-hop, country, jazz, etc.). But that's OK, because Siegrist cuts his new customer a deal, leaving him a little money left over and ensuring that he'll return for more come next week's paycheck.