Moving Me

Over the last year, when I would explain to people that I was planning to move to Florida, the news would always be met with a viciously sour/puzzled reaction, as though I just proclaimed my love for “McMillan & Wife” reruns.

I’ve come to learn that people are greatly bothered by Florida.

Could it be the sweatbox climate? The perceived iffy I.Q. of the locals? The fact that the state makes America the only country with a penis?

It’s possible Florida enrages people for the above reasons, but I never shared the revulsion. Granted, I’ve never stepped outside of the Orlando area, but Florida was never a concept that brought on a reaction not unlike a fierce groin pull. Then again, I love theme parks, and Florida is the undisputed king of gaudy tourism.

I lived in Phoenix, Arizona for the past two years, and while it took more time than I anticipated to adjust, the “dry heat” state was filled with very specific charms. Where else could I eat at a Chinese/Mexican restaurant? Drive 50 miles from my apartment and still be considered in the “metro area?” And enjoy all the maddening car audio bass levels a young man could ever want. Seriously, there was much in AZ that I loved, but when it came to crunch time, I wasn’t enjoying the city as much I as wanted to, not to mention being dealt some professional aggravations than I could no longer endure.

It was time to blow.

It made sense to complete my unofficial triangulation of America by moving to Florida. I’ve visited so many times over the years, why not try the location on for size? The idea of living in Florida is easy. Getting there was the part that made me sit in a corner and cry. Like many, I hate to move. It’s bad enough to own a huge pile of worthless crap, it’s even worse to spend weeks sorting through it all and fitting the junk into boxes. There’s no greater test of patience. I would rather sit through the “Walk This Way” sequence in “Sex and the City” again than consider moving. If you’ve already caught the film, you know that’s quite a statement to make. 

There’s also the added bonus of physically moving these godless boxes across the country. For that you need help, money, and money. Thankfully, I had plenty of help.

I wish I could tick off story after story from the 2100-mile-long road trip, but it was mercifully uneventful. No accidents, no misdirection, and no major weather disruptions. I couldn’t ask for a safer journey.

Here’s what I learned while driving:

- Tucson, Arizona is like Phoenix’s art-school kid brother.

- The minute I crossed over the Texas border from New Mexico, I was immediately hit with a field of vision that was packed with BBQ restaurants and Christian centers. I’m not sure how to interpret this.

- Texas is a very long state.

- Texas is also home to some of the more elaborate freeway systems I’ve ever laid eyes upon. At times, it felt like I was driving through the “Jetsons.” Then I’d spot a 25-foot-tall pair of novelty cowboy boots and was quickly snapped back to reality.

- While catching something to eat in Ft. Stockton, TX, I witnessed a KFC run out of chicken while in the middle of a massive dinner rush. A KFC. Out of chicken. I sprinted outside to welcome the coming apocalypse personally.

If that doesn’t sound sufficiently disturbing, imagine being the ex-gangbanger behind the counter forced to explain to 20 mulleted Texans that they would have to order off the puny Taco Bell menu instead. Not a good night for this brow-pierced one. 

- Louisiana is an impossibly beautiful state, but the humidity was insane. The accent makes sense now. Words have trouble passing through the air, necessitating the need to speak slowly and ramble on about Hillary Clinton. 

- I also drove through some fogged up areas in Louisiana, and it was like being an extra on the set of “The Mist.” Very cool.

- I only spent a few hours rolling through Mississippi, so I didn’t witness any sibling sexual contact. Shucks.

- In the Florida “panhandle,” I found a polluted bathroom that rivaled the one on display in “Trainspotting.” Seriously, it was revolting. I actually improved the appearance of the toilet by urinating in it.

While bearing the brand name Chevron, this gas station was something out of Rob Zombie’s boundless imagination, where a flat-out health risk restroom could be attached to a station that sold fried chicken and other homemade foods. I’m fairly certain there was a 600-pound “mama” in the back of this place screaming for her afternoon beer, and the chicken was made of *Heston voice* peeeeeeoplllllllleeeee.

I’ve been in Florida for just about a week now, and it’s been a real treat. Only one storm has scared the bejesus out of me, my tiny gecko brothers greet me at the front door every morning, and, now that I’ve ditched apartment life, I rarely hear Limp Bizkit played at top volume at 3am anymore.

I’m finally home.

Comments

[I-40]

McMillan & Wife? You were barely alive. I reject your cultural reference.

[Will Goss]

Granted, I’ve never stepped outside of the Austin area, but I've seen that very same waffle-maker in Texas.

Maybe they're standard issue...

[Becky]

You improved the toilet by urinating on it?! I was laughing for five minutes about that one!

I think I know which rest area you are referring to. Having lived in Tallahassee for 2 years and frequented the I-10 panhandle stretch a few times, one of the rest areas was definitely to be avoided!

Hope you enjoy FL. Me personally? I was happy to get away from all the trees and see the sky again!

[Lady A]

No more Limp Bizkit!!! You're life is now complete.