When we think newsstand, we conjure up the image of a dingy, cramped place where the closest thing to a scenic view is the girlie magazines stacked by the cash register. Not so the newspapers and periodicals sections at Borders. They're included in the big, bright Fort Lauderdale bookstore perched on the banks of the New River, with six sections devoted to every conceivable magazine and all the usual suspects in newspapers. When you're done with the local rags, grab a copy of the Denver Post, Corriere della Sera, the London Times, or Le Monde. Then thumb through several hundred periodicals you never knew existed. A section labeled "Culture & Society" features magazines ranging from The Advocate to MAD and provides an enlightening glimpse into how Borders defines American culture. When you've selected your reading material, claim a table in the adjacent café for a latte and croissant, or better yet, take it outside to one of the umbrella-topped tables on the shaded deck, where you can check out the yachting parade while cursing at the day's news.
Other people's misfortune is your felicity at National Pawn & Jewelry. And judging by the inventory at this vast warehouse of all things pawned, a lot of people are in need of quick cash around here. On a recent visit, this shop had everything from chop saws to scuba tanks, bicycles to go-karts, vacuum cleaners to fax machines. It had dozens of guitars, hundreds of cameras, scores of stereos, and a jewelry section bigger than most gem stores. We even found a couple thousand CDs from which to choose, priced at $5.95 each or $4.95 if you buy ten or more. (We can't imagine who was desperate enough to pawn his Kiss collection.) Last time we stopped in, we were impressed to see a vintage Harley-Davidson for sale. Perhaps the previous owner needed bail money. Who knows? Who cares? It's all here, the store guarantees what it sells, and the prices are pretty good.

Busy Sunrise Boulevard might seem an unlikely place to find Serenity, but that's part of the charm of this cozy day spa. Open in the evenings, the spa makes it easy to find time for a little peace. It even issues an order for bliss: "No cell phones," declares a sign at the door. The walls are the color of daffodils; the scent of Aveda oils wafts through the air. Sink into a comfy chair tucked into a cubby space while the affable, black-clad staff pampers your feet. Try not to think about your to-do list, because too soon your perfected feet will be back in action. This moment will be a memory. In fact maybe Serenity should put up another sign: "Relax. No Multitasking."
Ever wander into the pet aisle of your local grocer and want to eat the treats? Well, you might get the urge to do so at Bone Appétit, which smells like cookies rather than decomposing pig ears. Mouthwatering, home-baked goodies for dogs fill silver trays in a glass display case; kitty-cat treats boast real salmon and come in flavors such as seafood gumbo. You also might find yourself wanting to sleep atop the pet chaises, sofas, and daybeds for sale. Upholstered in your choice of various fine materials, they cost as much as $465. That's right -- more than what many of us pay for human furniture. And the Bark & Bath shampoos and conditioners are comparable to human salon products in content, not to mention price. More-practical owners can check out the cute neckerchiefs and eye-catching toys, as well as gifts that really are for people. Why should pets have all the fun?

Ever walk into a pet peddler, wander into the back room, and feel you've entered the cantina scene from the original Star Wars movie? That's what you'll get at this joint -- enough bizarre fauna to transform a Kitty Litter run into a scintillating journey. Take the red tegu, a two-foot-long rusty-red lizardish creature; its limbs are in constant swimming motion (alas, he's kept in sand), and his whipping tongue is as busy as a politico's jaw on the campaign trail. At nearly $300 you'd have to be a tegu fanatic to take him home, but he's an alluring inmate to visit. Not far from Mr. Tegu is an albino Pac-Man, a froggish soul best compared to a raw omelet with eyes. The Chinese water dragons are fluorescent green and proudly show off their footlong tails. More conventional animal companions -- kitties, puppies, and cockatiels -- are situated near the store's entrance and, craftily, in the front picture window. Owners Robert and Patricia Kesselman keep enough pet food, cages, aquariums, and supplies on hand for whatever, or whomever, you adopt.
Before the good lord calls you home, make sure you go see Ricky Williams at Community Monument & Casket Company. Williams can save you some big bucks from his small store. Not that you'll care, you'll be dead. But think about your loved ones. With the money they don't spend on your casket -- Williams can lay you out in a 20-gauge steel number for $550 compared to $2000 or more from a funeral home -- the family can throw a really nice party. You know, get the top-shelf liquor instead of the cheap stuff, hire a band, do it up right. If none of the ten or so boxes on display appeals to you, Williams can special-order one that will arrive in 24 hours. He's been selling containers for your earthly remains since 1989, so you can rest assured he knows the business.
Proprietor Rich Sandler closed his used-book warehouse in Miami-Dade last year and moved north to a tiny building in Davie, bringing with him an idea the time for which is long overdue: reading material sold by the pound. There's precious little method to his madness. He divides titles only into fiction and nonfiction. Beyond that you simply wander around, find something that interests you, and toss it on a scale. Sandler charges $1 per pound for everything, two-pound minimum. We picked up the Encyclopedia of World Travel volumes one and two and a copy of Chapman's Piloting, Seamanship & Small Boat Handling, all for $7. Such a big, heavy deal.
Nobody really wants to buy pool supplies. It's one of those things you have to do, like mowing the lawn or having your wisdom teeth pulled. So when you find a pool store that will do all that fancy-pants chemical analysis and sell you only what you need, you go back. That's why we like Pools 'N More. It's not the biggest joint; in fact it looks like a two-car garage. But it has all the basics. You won't find eight types of floating chairs or six varieties of volleyball nets, but you will locate all the chemicals, pump parts, and filter hardware you need. And the salespeople don't snow their customers, even dumb ones like us. We came in about six months ago knowing zilch about pools and left with some good advice and a gallon of chlorine. Not a huge sale. They certainly could have convinced us we needed a lot more. But we've been back many times.

The rich are not like you and me. They have better junk. And the Church Mouse makes this difference extremely clear. Don't be put off by the silver-haired matrons. These ladies know good stuff at great prices when they see it. The Church Mouse is a "resale shop, dear, not consignment" owned by the Episcopal Church of Bethesda-by-the-Sea. Designer clothes for adults and children, shoes, linens, crystal, glassware, jewelry, kitchenware, furniture, draperies, antiques, and art are just some of the things available at this tidy, airy shop two blocks north of Worth Avenue. A three-piece Giorgio Armani suit might be had for $115, a fine men's jacket for $50, or a designer love seat for $250. On a really good day, an entire room might be for sale -- tables, love seat, couch, lamps, art, and curtains -- all custom designed and virtually new. Don't ask why the Palm Beach socialite donated it, just buy it. You'll be doing a good deed: The proceeds from the shop, about $300,000 annually, are plowed back into the community through grants to nonprofit agencies, as they have been for 30 years. Still, the best thing about shopping here is strutting down Worth Avenue afterward and knowing how much you've saved.
Like their signature blimps, the prices at tire megastores can be inflated. So roll those baldies (carefully!) over South Florida's gauntlet of road debris, past a row of dodgy-looking used-tire shops along Sunrise Boulevard, to Tire Hut. The name evokes a primitive, thatched-roof building with a rubber tree out back, but don't be misled. Trucks from local exotic car dealers line up in Tire Hut's front lot because owner Jerry Rosenthal stocks Uniroyal, Michelin, and B.F. Goodrich, all at discount prices. Locally owned and operated, Tire Hut is not a chain but does offer chain-store features, such as free rotation every 5000 miles (provided you save your receipt) and optional road-hazard protection plans. The waiting room is small and the gumballs taste a little stale, but that's not the point. It's Tire Hut, remember? In just minutes you'll hit the streets again on fresh rubber bought at a fair price, thankful that in Florida there's at least one thing it's legal to burn.

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