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Two days later: it’s 10 a.m, which in New York time is 10 a.m. I’ve eaten myself sick on Waffle House. I have a Sun-Sentinel. In cities with two newspapers, i find it best to go with the more expensive one. In this case, that’s 35 cents. Plus, i bought it from one of those guys that hawk papers in the middle of busy intersections, walking up to your car window and all that. That’s service. You don’t see that in NYC, unless you’re talking about those bowtie-wearing Malcolm X characters selling the New Amsterdam Times on the Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Not that that’s ever happened to me, mind you ...
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Last night was the most fun night yet. Dave and i went down to Hollywood, one town south of here. Hollywood i guess has a reputation of being a beat town around these parts; a coupla nights ago, a waiter at a restaurant was aghast to learn that we were going down there to go drinkin’, suggesting instead we go to a local bar/club in Ft. L that ended up having “jello shots.” Thanks a lot, pal. Florida is for idiots. As for Hollywood, it is thusfar the only place i’ve seen in the state that has an actual record store. Two, actually, and between the two i went on a $30 binge resulting in, among others, a 5-record Smithsonian jazz set, and two (2) Blue Öyster Cult records. We also enjoyed the best red-sauce Italian food i’ve had outside NYC – spaghetti and meatballs and a carafe of the house red. Come to think of it, where the hell do i get spaghetti and meatballs in NYC? Suggestions? All this, a trip through a big circular park in the middle of town and a few games of pool at a well-maintained billiard hall. Just like old times. Afterward, we attempted to find a beachside bar Dave had been to on his previous stay before he moved here. It was about 10 pm and the beach, a bit reminiscent of Rockaway, was desolate, the boardwalk eerily low-lit, the wind was fierce and you could barely discern the horizon from the choppy water. Each bar had one person sitting in it, the few remaining storefronts were closed. It felt abandoned.
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Yesterday was spent with me goofin’ around the beach at Ft. Lauderdale. A word about the beaches here: the water is amazingly blue and quite warm, at least by NY standards. The beach itself, strangely, isn’t quite as nice as Long Beach or Rockaway – gravely, with lots of litter. Okay, it’s still much nicer than Coney. Seashells, palm trees, the occasional barnacle-covered coconut, the little baby clams that burrow into the sand when the waves recede, a notable absence of loud radios. Everyone down here looks the same. As for the women, the best looking ones seem to be the waitresses. Although that’s certainly not the case here at the ol’ Waffle House.
I also rented a coaster bike for a coupla hours yesterday, to tour the area. It’s funny how something like a new blue coaster bike with whitewall tires would be pretty kickass in NYC, but riding one in Florida just makes you feel like a gaywad. If only it had a bell. Nonetheless, i enjoyed cruising around the neighborhood, at one point being dared to drag race two jocks in a rental golf cart. They won, naturally, but i succeeded in feeling a whole lot less goofy from that point on.
Below: two brilliant stabs at me trying to take a picture of myself on that bitchin' coaster bike, using the 'timer' feature on my camera ...
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Ultimately, this isn’t much of a revelation, but Florida has great orange juice.
Jens hates small talk, Part I: i was having lunch on the deck of some Ft. Lauderdale restaurant/bar. My table overlooked the ocean. A waitress finishing her shift came over to fill condiments on my table, fill the ol’ napkin bucket, etc.
Her: “I’ll just be one minute”
Me: “Sure, ok ...”
Awkward silence as i stare out the deck.
Finally, me: “So, uh, how’s work?”
Her, chipper in that annoying, restaurant way: “Oh, it was great!” She may have even used the word ‘super.’
“Well, alright.”
Back to looking at the ocean. Awkward silence #2.
Her: “So ... are you here on vacation?”
Me: “You could tell?”
Her: modest laugh, then nothing.
Awkward silence #3.
Her: “So ... where are you from?”
Me, boastfully: “Brooklyn!”
Her: “Oh, i could never live there ... too cold.”
Me: “Yeah ...”
Awkward silence #4.
Waitress exits stage right.
The end.
Dave talking on the phone to Jeremie, our old high school pal who's flying in from Denver tonight: “Yeah, Jens is here. He got in last night ... Yeah, his feet still stink ...”
South Beach 6 pm: collecting seashells for Robin,
topless sunbathers, a Cuban sandwich and a mango shake for lunch.
A stiff breeze, soft sand in the water. Rough waves, a blue man-o-war, sand in my shoes.
Everyone gone for the day.
