The long drive eastbound
Yesterday we set out from Sarasota to West Palm Beach. We wanted to go during the afternoon, but as it would turn out, some redneck and/or 90-year-old grandma-I vote for the "and" option--caused a pile-up on I-75, thus causing a 10-mile backup before getting forced off the highway. And so we had to delay our trip for two hours whilst this was getting cleaned up.
Once we started back out around 5:30pm, we still hit the remnants of the I-75 mess--don't you just love when you hear an accident is "cleared" but really isn't? This would give us an extra 30 minutes to cool our heels and listen to what Sarasota tries to pass of as an alternative station; in other words exactly like the active rock stations in New Jersey minus Lynyrd Skynyrd. Eventually Jimmy gets annoyed enough to switch the station to smooth jazz.
We get off around exit 140 onto Route 80. "So when do we take the next interstate?" I asked.
"We don't," he said. "Just Route 80 straight thru to West Palm Beach."
"Is there anywhere to stop and pee and get something to eat?" I asked. "I'm kind of hungry."
"Three little towns, that's it."
We hit the first little town, Labelle, a little after 7pm. It's little more than a backwater, albeit their City Hall looks pretty cool. Other than that, little houses, a grocery store, a motel that looks tidy but has seen better days, and of course, the mandatory fast-food outlets. The alarm for my pea-sized bladder has gone off. We stop at the McDonald's, which unfortunately looks like the local hip-hop hangout judging by the five kids that came in right before us. I suppose that's what passes for nightlife in Labelle.
"I'm hungry; let's get something," I said.
So I order a filet-o-fish with small fries and a small diet coke, as I want minimal damage from my junk food craving. Taking my order is an adorable six-foot goth boi. He rings up my order, takes my money.
"Thank you," I smile.
"You're welcome," he says. I wonder at that moment if he's happy being in this backassed town, if he has any plans to leave, if he's content working in this McDonald's for now. Jimmy talks to another worker cleaning the area by the soda fountain, telling him she's grateful she's off at 10. We get back into our car and continue driving east.
"What's it like to be in a town like that?" I asked. "I mean, there's not even a mall." Granted, I'm always bitching that my town is too far from New York and Philadelphia, even Atlantic City, but there are places to go if I want to jump in my car and drive long enough. In Labelle, there's nothing. Nothing at all.
"I don't know," Jimmy says. The smooth jazz station is on again.
Town #2 is Clewiston. "Sounds like a redneck mecca," I say. As it turns out, I learn later that I'm right. Apparently Clewiston is supposedly the KKK capital of Florida. We don't know this as we stop at the Burger King for another pee stop, though.
"It's better to stop at fast food places," Jimmy says, "They usually have better standards and they're cleaner." The ladies' room at that Burger King, however, proves him wrong.
Clewiston appears to be a bit more civilised than Labelle; there are strip malls, more restaurants, more gas stations and fast food joints. We drive on, out of town, into the sugar cane fields. I wonder if there's a kid somewhere who wishes someone into sugar cane fields. The smooth jazz station starts to fade out. I press the scan button and play Radio Roulette, stopping on 103.1, the alternative station from West Palm Beach. This one plays mor of the same soundalike drek the Sarasota station played, but then the new Beck comes on, which makes up for everything else. Most of what Beck does is pretentious crap, but every so often he knocks one out of the park. This song was called "Think I'm In Love". I bop my head along as we drive into the final town.
Belle Glade is the biggest, and for a minute, looked to be the nicest; their hospital building was beautiful. But then we pass a cop car that had pulled over a motorist; said motorist is spread on the outside of the car.
"Oh yeah, this town sucks," said Jimmy. "It's full of people who want to tie one on after a day in the sugar cane fields." As if to prove his point, a second lights-blazing cop car is outside a house on the opposite side of the highway. Great. We don't stop in Belle Glade.
Coming up on the alternative station is the new song test, brought to you by the Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen's Club. I'm not sure I would want to work in a club that advertises heavily on an alternative station, but that's beside the point. The new song test is called "Dropping Trou". Submitted for our approval tonight is a Swiss band called The Teddybears featuring Iggy Pop, "Punk Rocker". Buzzworthy or not? the female DJ asks. Oh hell yeah; Iggy Pop is always Buzzworthy and the song totally kicks. If this isn't on my promos I'm buying it from I-Tunes when I get home, it's that good. Most of the callers to the station agree, as does the female DJ who waxes ecstatic about Iggy. Then she plays a Korn tune that's always been a guilty pleasure of mine. By this time we're speeding through what's called Royal Palm Beach, and close to home.
"I really like taking long drives with you," I said.
"I do too."
We make it to Jimmy's place around 9:45pm. A little over an hour more than he wanted to drive; big deal. We greet his brother-in-law and once settled, treat ourselves to post-drive Corona Lights. We're lucky with the tv selection tonight; the very last Seinfeld (which wasn't that funny--then again were any of the last two seasons' worth of episodes funny?) and the Tribbles episode of Star Trek which had most of the good lines excised.
And tonight, I'm having that martini I deserve.
Once we started back out around 5:30pm, we still hit the remnants of the I-75 mess--don't you just love when you hear an accident is "cleared" but really isn't? This would give us an extra 30 minutes to cool our heels and listen to what Sarasota tries to pass of as an alternative station; in other words exactly like the active rock stations in New Jersey minus Lynyrd Skynyrd. Eventually Jimmy gets annoyed enough to switch the station to smooth jazz.
We get off around exit 140 onto Route 80. "So when do we take the next interstate?" I asked.
"We don't," he said. "Just Route 80 straight thru to West Palm Beach."
"Is there anywhere to stop and pee and get something to eat?" I asked. "I'm kind of hungry."
"Three little towns, that's it."
We hit the first little town, Labelle, a little after 7pm. It's little more than a backwater, albeit their City Hall looks pretty cool. Other than that, little houses, a grocery store, a motel that looks tidy but has seen better days, and of course, the mandatory fast-food outlets. The alarm for my pea-sized bladder has gone off. We stop at the McDonald's, which unfortunately looks like the local hip-hop hangout judging by the five kids that came in right before us. I suppose that's what passes for nightlife in Labelle.
"I'm hungry; let's get something," I said.
So I order a filet-o-fish with small fries and a small diet coke, as I want minimal damage from my junk food craving. Taking my order is an adorable six-foot goth boi. He rings up my order, takes my money.
"Thank you," I smile.
"You're welcome," he says. I wonder at that moment if he's happy being in this backassed town, if he has any plans to leave, if he's content working in this McDonald's for now. Jimmy talks to another worker cleaning the area by the soda fountain, telling him she's grateful she's off at 10. We get back into our car and continue driving east.
"What's it like to be in a town like that?" I asked. "I mean, there's not even a mall." Granted, I'm always bitching that my town is too far from New York and Philadelphia, even Atlantic City, but there are places to go if I want to jump in my car and drive long enough. In Labelle, there's nothing. Nothing at all.
"I don't know," Jimmy says. The smooth jazz station is on again.
Town #2 is Clewiston. "Sounds like a redneck mecca," I say. As it turns out, I learn later that I'm right. Apparently Clewiston is supposedly the KKK capital of Florida. We don't know this as we stop at the Burger King for another pee stop, though.
"It's better to stop at fast food places," Jimmy says, "They usually have better standards and they're cleaner." The ladies' room at that Burger King, however, proves him wrong.
Clewiston appears to be a bit more civilised than Labelle; there are strip malls, more restaurants, more gas stations and fast food joints. We drive on, out of town, into the sugar cane fields. I wonder if there's a kid somewhere who wishes someone into sugar cane fields. The smooth jazz station starts to fade out. I press the scan button and play Radio Roulette, stopping on 103.1, the alternative station from West Palm Beach. This one plays mor of the same soundalike drek the Sarasota station played, but then the new Beck comes on, which makes up for everything else. Most of what Beck does is pretentious crap, but every so often he knocks one out of the park. This song was called "Think I'm In Love". I bop my head along as we drive into the final town.
Belle Glade is the biggest, and for a minute, looked to be the nicest; their hospital building was beautiful. But then we pass a cop car that had pulled over a motorist; said motorist is spread on the outside of the car.
"Oh yeah, this town sucks," said Jimmy. "It's full of people who want to tie one on after a day in the sugar cane fields." As if to prove his point, a second lights-blazing cop car is outside a house on the opposite side of the highway. Great. We don't stop in Belle Glade.
Coming up on the alternative station is the new song test, brought to you by the Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen's Club. I'm not sure I would want to work in a club that advertises heavily on an alternative station, but that's beside the point. The new song test is called "Dropping Trou". Submitted for our approval tonight is a Swiss band called The Teddybears featuring Iggy Pop, "Punk Rocker". Buzzworthy or not? the female DJ asks. Oh hell yeah; Iggy Pop is always Buzzworthy and the song totally kicks. If this isn't on my promos I'm buying it from I-Tunes when I get home, it's that good. Most of the callers to the station agree, as does the female DJ who waxes ecstatic about Iggy. Then she plays a Korn tune that's always been a guilty pleasure of mine. By this time we're speeding through what's called Royal Palm Beach, and close to home.
"I really like taking long drives with you," I said.
"I do too."
We make it to Jimmy's place around 9:45pm. A little over an hour more than he wanted to drive; big deal. We greet his brother-in-law and once settled, treat ourselves to post-drive Corona Lights. We're lucky with the tv selection tonight; the very last Seinfeld (which wasn't that funny--then again were any of the last two seasons' worth of episodes funny?) and the Tribbles episode of Star Trek which had most of the good lines excised.
And tonight, I'm having that martini I deserve.