I went out to eat by myself last night. After work I came home and got a shower. I needed one. Craving Chicken Lo Mien, I drove up to Mai Lee to find it closed so drove up to Olive Blvd. intending to wander into some place new, which I did. The strip mall Chinese food of Olivette has no resemblance to any food served in China ever, not bad though. My fortune cookie read something like “there is no solution in ignorance” which hands down beats the weekend’s fortune of “you will have a happy and healthy old age.”

If we want to slide last night’s blog reference to Eden in here, we can see these two fortunes as falling from the two trees of the garden, knowledge and life, interesting. Well the Mormons claim that the Garden of Eden was in Missouri near the southern boarder. They also claim that the gates of hell are in Ohio – so good luck with that Dan and Yumi. A sane bunch, the Mormons are: fried chicken and family trees. They own KFC, Pepsi, Taco Bell, Ancestry.com, and Clear Channel radio to name just a few Mormon companies. Mary has taken to calling Rod, “the Mormon Patriarch.” This makes sense, as Rod is a direct descendant of Joseph Smith. Will wonders never cease?

Working backward through the weekend, it ended with a beautiful drive down highway 61 from Palmyra, which we got to from 6, which we started on after having hangover food at China Palace. I worked at China Palace for several years. Odd to color in the old lines. How old was I then? Early twenties I imagine. Still living on Normal Street, 95-97. I started at Days Inn in 97 right before August undergrad graduation, when I was dating Angela #1. She has a Ph.D. in biochemistry. Spends her days in small dark rooms firing lasers at “samples.” Or at least she did when last I knew her.

At the restaurant last night I was the only customer and I did not want the buffet. They had a large fish tank full of giant Plecos and Convict Cichlids, so I knew I was at the right place. There were also these huge silver fish who had been turned into fishy quads by the nipping of the Cichlids, huge finless silver disks swimming in circles through spinal motion alone. I reread my journaling for the weekend. It ends with the bus, which I worked on before lunch at China Palace.

In answer to Jen’s question, the bus runs. It was only a quart low on oil, which really surprised me. Transmission and radiator fluids were fine. The bus is a 1967 Chev, but the engine and rebuilt transmission are from a 1980 Cadilac – that’s right a 500 cubic inch eight cylander nickel plated ass hauling engine high, high off the ground, that a few months in a farmers field is not going to seriously fuck with. It is, however, anchored by a flat front right tire. It needs a new shoe. The one on there is beyond repair. So… brought the battery back with me to do a sustained charge, will need to get liquid wrench for the lightly rusted lug nuts, an appropriately sized wrench, figure out how to jack up a multi ton vehicle resting at a downward slope in a farmer’s field, run that rim into town for some new rubber and a balance, no problem.

You already know I’m not sane, why should any of this surprise you?

When we got to T.J.’s party on Friday I was talking with Royce. “You still have the bus? That things is like an albatross around your neck.” The next morning I was journaling while the coffee perked and thinking about that comment. I wrote in my journal, “On the Road to Mellville.” And I chuckled.

A friend of ours recently self published a novel. Another friend critiqued it saying, “He makes the worst writer’s mistake. He repeatedly shows you something and then he explains it, telling you what you’re supposed to see. Rather than letting his metaphors and language work, he pisses authorial intention all over the reader.”

You’re on your own kids. I haven’t the foggiest clue what any of this might mean. It’s the crazy wisdom school and we know where all the bodies are buried: they are buried and not buried everywhere, ashen in every breath, vitality shaking hands with the aftermath.