little boxes... smell like fried chicken

This place is located just around the corner from my house, meaning that any time I go outside there's a faint odor of fried chicken permeating the air. I have yet to actually eat at Maryland Fried Chicken, although I have eaten at KFC twice since my move to Orlando - which is about two times more than in the past several years combined. I'm wondering if there's a connection? I mean, I was just out walking Mochi around the neighborhood and thinking about how good some fried chicken would be right about now - and I know it's all Maryland's fault. 
The houses and townhouses in my neighborhood were all built in the 1980s. If they'd been built twenty years later they undoubtedly would be more McMansion in style; as it is they're all more reasonable in stature (if not in price, depending on when each was most recently purchased). Still, every time I take Mochi for a walk, I get Malvina Reynolds singing Little Boxes stuck in my head:

Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky tacky...
and they all look just the same.
Although as my house in GA looks just like *its* neighbors (the 1920s version of ticky tacky housing), I suppose it's silly that my GA neighborhood doesn't inspire the song to pop into my head, and yet this one does.
On a rather different note, I drove over to Tampa a week ago today to visit my father and to eat some delicious slow-smoked ribs. In keeping with my plan of taking the back roads as often as possible, I took the back roads there and the interstate back. Unfortunately, the first leg of the trip (State Road 50, aka Colonial for the Orlando folks) is essentially nothing but strip mall from here to Groveland - which unfortunately is a straight shot of 40 boring miles in stop-and-go Orlando area traffic. There was only one thing I saw during that stretch, about 25 minutes west of my home: a kickass sign from a closed down Pontiac dealership. I drove over there this afternoon to snap some shots:

At some point I'd like to take a slow drive from Groveland to Tampa, stopping to photograph all the interesting things along the way. Unfortunately, one can really only drive from my house to Groveland by going forty some miles through the strip mall hell of West Colonial. Sigh.