I realize I’m a trifle odd about a few things, so just take me at my word when I tell you that I get a kick out of driving in Miami. It’s intense, entertaining, and challenging. Sure it can be infuriating, too. So can golf and fishing, and look at all the otherwise sane people who throw barrels of money away to participate.
Thursday was one of those days when I had no choice but to play fetch — drive down to the airport cargo area, then to customs, then back to cargo. Shoot on over to Biscayne Blvd ‘way downtown for materials to inventory and deliver, then up to North Miami to drop off a fat envelope. Finally, up to downtown Ft. Lauderdale to deliver a check.
I’d never been to the cargo area so I called to find out what I needed to claim a package, and to get directions. The agent, sporting a thick Caribbean accent, told me take 36th Street to 67th Avenue, go left to 22nd Street, and when I make a left look for “a semen tower.”
Right. A gigantic semen tower? I wouldn’t miss this for John Wadd’s photo album. But it all became pretty damn mundane when I figured out that “semen” was “cement.”
Never been to Customs, either. I get directions that don’t mention that you can’t park there; you have to park on the roof of the building across the street. The entrance ramp is poorly marked — I flew right by it and had to double back — but apparently some people manage to commit to it accidentally and require rescue: see sign.
What a hoot.
I covered 122 miles, listening to Jim Rome then Procol Harum (when I wasn’t on the phone). Not a bad day, despite the mileage. Very few asshole encounters, too. That makes a big difference. Remember that when you’re driving. Which reminds me of a joke:
Guy calls the wife on the way home from the office. “Oh be careful on the highway, dear!” cries the wife. “The radio reports there’s some maniac driving north on the southbound lanes tying up everything!” “One maniac, hell,” thunders the guy. “There’s hundreds of ’em!”