Friday, March 24, 2006

The Other Side Of Florida

I flew over from Tampa to Fort Lauderdale this morning via Favorite And Only Brother’s new employer. I commend this airline for sticking to their “board by zone” policy—for the first time ever, I saw a gate attendant bust someone for attempting to board before his zone was called (busted two consecutive people, in fact.) The bustees were shocked, and muttered angrily to themselves. This reminds me that last night SofE and I saw a woman storm, ranting, out of a Walgreens after the manager there refused to give her a refund for a stick of under-arm deodorant she wished to return, sans receipt. That’s just an aside.

Anyway, arriving at FLL, I saw a sign for
Hooters Air, which I incorrectly assumed to be a joke. I bet you didn’t know about Hooters Air either, did you? That’s what SorF is here for—keeping all you people up-to-date on the latest important advances in transportation, commerce, and soft porn.

I got a ride-share van to FAOB’s new home. We had to stop at a security gate, where a guard checked to make sure I was “on the list”. He gave the driver a card with various rules and regulations on it. We drove into what looks sort of like a residential Disney World. “Usually security prints out the directions to the subdivision for you, you know?”, said the driver. I didn’t know. After a mile or so we came to the turn-off indicated in my brother’s instructions. The driver hesitated. “Usually there’s a sign on the corner for the development, you know?” I didn’t know. He allowed that it might have blown down in the hurricane.

This is one of the most peculiar “neighborhoods” I’ve ever seen, and FAOB’s crib is so different from the TurboPalace that it’s hard to believe we’re the same species, let alone related by direct bloodline. I’ll have to tell you more about it tomorrow. Right now, it’s getting a little noisy. I came out to write in the small backyard, which is not much larger than the TurboPalace’s but considerably more lush. Then all of a sudden there was a terrific racket and a man came crashing in with a huge power lawn-mower, followed by another man with a fertilizer-dispenser, followed by another man with a weed-whacker. Back at the Palace, we have just one psychiatrist to perform all these roles.

1 Comments:

Anonymous SofE said...

Where can I find such a psychiatrist? Mine can hardly open a beer, and has shown no proclivity for doing any kind of lawn chores whatsoever around Headquarters.

3/24/06, 6:44 PM  

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