Her real name is Catherine Douglas, and she's a Florida-born actress and comedienne, making a living doing what she loves best. But when she slips on her corseted milkmaid dress, pushes her freckled cleavage up to her chin and puts on a choppy Scottish accent, this redheaded spitfire becomes Lucenden "Loosey" Crotch, Wench For Hire. Just what the hell is a "Wench For Hire"? Well, as Miss Douglas tells it, she is hired to perform her wenchlike duties at many functions, like beer taverns (The Ale House hires her whenever its birthday rolls around) or Renaissance festivals or comedy clubs, throughout the greater Houston area. An eight-year veteran at being a "lascivious lass," her job is to "come out and take care of people in an old British fashion." Some of those caring requirements include getting people to join in silly sing-alongs, regaling the crowd with randy jokes and challenging patrons to ribald parlor tricks, such as offering men to fish a small bell out of her bountiful bosom without using their hands. If you're ever organizing a party (even if you don't need someone to perform the duties of an 18th-century Scottish wench), having Loosey around wouldn't be a bad idea.

Full disclosure: We haven't exactly traipsed around town sampling the services of the city's presumably multitudinous banjo instructors (check the Yellow Pages -- that "multitudinous" bit was a joke), but we have shopped widely for one of the semi-archaic five-stringers to practice on. The level of music-store expertise on display was less than encouraging. We are, however, happy with the picker we found, and his instrumental pedigree is top-notch, so if you find yourself in such a niche market, hie thee to Mr. Anton Ullrich, Houston's self-advertised "Mr. Bluegrass." A Houston native and Kingston Trio-era convert to the instrument, Ullrich has been teaching bluegrass "banjer" since 1972 and has played with everyone from Mance Lipscombe to Merle Travis to Michael Martin Murphy. He spent years spinning a bluegrass show on KPFT, and has the reassuring habit of reminding students that hell, if banjo was so hard, he'd still be a banker. Oh, yeah, and he designed the limited-edition $7,000 "Texas" banjo marketed by the Deering Banjo Company's custom shop. Never mind that he long ago abandoned standard tablature for an idiosyncratic system that looks more like folk art than musical notation. The results so far have been promising. And at $29 for a weekly 45-minute lesson, including a monthly tape dub of bluegrass rarities from his vast collection of out-of-print vinyl, it's a bargain at twice the price.

Kenneth Lester Comedian Eddie Izzard once had this to say about a chiropractor: "They could have their fingers in your nostrils, one foot on the back of your underpants, and they're pushing your spine away with a broom." While you won't find any brooms at Lester's office, you will find a practitioner so hell-bent on health that he's been known to slash his office hours so he can train for triathlons. Lester's gung-ho when it comes to whole-body health, at-home exercise and muscle-bone relationships. His Kirby office teems with River Oaks wives, corporate bigwigs, models, athletes and everyday folk looking to get past a nagging injury, excel at yoga or even rehab from a stroke. If you're looking for something more than a glorious rubdown, Lester's got your back.

Tina Knowles Destiny's Child has an image and a style that's recognized worldwide. In her new book, Destiny's Style, Tina Knowles, the creator of the world-famous Destiny's Child look, shares her (and the group's) shopping, sewing and lifestyle secrets. Her designs have graced the covers of such magazines as In Style and Vogue, influenced the style of women across the globe and helped Destiny's Child land merchandising deals with AT&T, L'Oréal and Candies. Knowles grew up wearing clothes she and her mother made together, and she's taught her daughters -- Beyoncé and Solange -- the importance of creativity, individuality and independence. (She had them sewing at a young age so they could personalize their own clothing.) We can all breathe easy knowing Beyoncé has something to fall back on should she ever find herself out of work.

Remember when bars used to cater expansive free buffets to entice people to walk through the door? Remember how you used to go there, order a Coke and eat like a wild pig? This is the same philosophy, only with less guilt. While your parsimonious partying may have contributed to the closing of more than one kickerdome, you can relax in comfort in The Sharper Image's massage chair without the stress of wondering if you're leading someone to Chapter 11. And who needs all that extra stress? You're there, after all, to release it, not accumulate it. The leather chairs with those heavenly rollers tend to move around the store like lost children. But when you find them, make sure to stay planted long enough to run through the entire massage program. And don't worry about those SI clerks hovering like used-car salesmen. They never hassle you to leave; they understand that a well-adjusted back will make it easier for you to reach around for your wallet.

Tracy Writers know their mechanics. Driving around this city in search of hot stories puts a lot of strain on our old jalopies. And most of us certainly aren't getting rich, so we need a mechanic who's honest and affordable. According to statistics, there are only about ten such folks left in the world. And, luckily, one of them lives in Houston. His name is Tracy, and he owns Showcase Motors on Main, just north of downtown. Showcase not only fixes cars, it sells and rents them too -- which makes things extremely convenient. And his work is flawless. Tracy's been known to drop prices for struggling writers and starving artists and even gives occasional discounts on rental cars, too. At times, he's been known to even undersell customers, telling them they don't need all the things they requested. Now that's service.

To be the best, a music store has to carry a vast selection. For those whose tastes run all over the board, you can find everything from your favorite Jello Biafra or Henry Rollins spoken-word CD to Peter Allen's At His Best. You also will find everything in the middle -- jazz, hip-hop, industrial, rock, R&B, dance, rap, blues, imports, boxed sets and, of course, Elvis. Whoever orders the Latin music should get a raise; it's not limited to Ricky Martin and Jennifer Lopez. Soundwaves also boasts one of the largest, if not the largest, preowned CD selections in Houston, which you probably already know from the buxom yet "flat-busted" women from the television commercials. The store also has a peculiar section with skate and surf merchandise, but before heading over, you may want to surf to www.soundwaves.com and pick up the $1 off coupon.

"The world was silent except for the shrill cry of insects, which was part of the night, and the sound of wooden mortar and pestle as Nwayieke pounded her foo-foo," writes Chinua Achebe in his 1959 novel Things Fall Apart. He is describing a scene as basic to traditional Nigerian life as the beat of the udu drum -- the pounding of yams into the glutinous mass known as foo-foo or fufu. African Variety Food Store offers big beautiful yams for those with time and energy to pound. For others, this purveyor of West African goods sells a powdered form of yam (as well as cassava and plantain) that can be whipped up in minutes into a delicious mound of fufu for dipping in soups. The smell of dried fish pervades the establishment, which is tucked amid Chinese businesses in a sprawling strip mall. In addition to the desiccated cod, shrimp and bony bonga fish, one can find cans of palm oil, melon seeds, and a variety of herbs and vegetables that provide the city's thriving African population with tastes of home.

Got a pampered pooch with persistent problems? We heard about Pete Stewart's Good Manners Dog Obedience School through a friend who owns three huskies. Figuring someone with a pack of dogs oughta know, we checked it out for ourselves. Like most "parents," we were a little apprehensive about dropping our little one off for two weeks, but our fears were unwarranted. We watched as Pete, armed with a collar, leash and a handful of treats, took his 47 years of experience training dogs and matched it up against the powerful will of three-month-old Molly. She was sitting, staying, heeling and lying down with nothing more than the gentle command of Pete's voice in just about two shakes of a dog's tail.

Now that there are several stores catering to the large and growing Russophone community of Houston, it's possible to pick the best one. This little spot, located in an obscure strip center in southwest Houston, is a true general store in the American sense, selling foodstuffs, prepared to-go items, CDs, videotapes and even Russian-language editions of Playboy and Good Housekeeping. Those nostalgic for a taste of home cooking as it was prepared in Minsk, Pinsk or Minusinsk can acquire such hard-to-find items as unfiltered sunflower-seed oil, canned cod livers, Georgian sour plum sauce, salt-pickled mushrooms and jellied veal. Those non-Russophones who find themselves in need of a bit of shopping advice can turn to co-owner Aleksandr Kogan. He's a walking encyclopedia of a man who can discourse authoritatively on Russian and Soviet food, with forays into topics such as history, literature, electron microscopy and even the poisonous reptiles of Kyrgyzstan. For further research, one can browse a Russian-language lending library in a back room. An adjoining storefront houses a Russian folk-dance school, and the store sells tickets to Russian concerts, plays and even the odd Moscow cat circus when such undertakings find a Houston venue. And you thought synergy was an English word.