|the scenic view of Fillmore, California|
Today I had the unfortunate experiemce of traveling to the booming metropolis of Fillmore, California. I won't go into my reason for needing to travel there, as it is so convoluted that I can barely conceptualize it, much less put it into written words. Fillmore is located on Highway 126. Its total reason for existence as far as I can tell, is to function as one of two major speed traps along 126, which connects I-5 with US-101.
Fillmore is roughly midway between the two major expressways, slightly closer to the 101. Its sole saving grace is that it is only about twenty miles or so from the Pacific Ocean. Something like 14, 000 people supposedly live there. in the entire ninety minute i was there, i only counted sixt people. I'm not sure where the other 13, 940 were hiding.
My initial thought was why anyone would name their city after our nation's least memorable president ever. (Seriously, a study was done in which both college students and random adults were asked to list on paper every president of the U.S. The president who appeared on the fewest lists was none other than Millard Fillmore.) As it turns out, the place was actually named after another Fillmore -- some guy affiliated with the railroad back in the day.
Wikipedia has entries on most cities, Fillmore included. I looked it up. Wikipedia usually lists the mean household income or some similar statistic. It did no such thing in its Fillmore entry. it's that bad. nevertheless, there must be someone who pulls in a decent salary, as a relatively new housing subdivision, advertising itself as "The Bridge," boasts on a large sign that its houses start at $400,000. To get into the subdivision, one must drive across a bridge. Under the bridge is absolutely nothing. There's an empty cement pit. Perhaps when the drought ends, the developer plans to fill it with water, which will soon go stagnant, and breed mosquitoes.
The exterior of the houses in which the Paxton family lived is on Sandy Lane in Fillmore. I did manage to convince my traveling companion to make a slight detour off the 126 to see the houses. that, and a Monkees CD that my traveling companion happened to have in his car for some reason unbeknownst to him, salvaged the day for me. Out of respect for the people who inhabit the homes, I didn't snap a picture.
Davy Jones lives on forever.