As promised, examples will start happening with these random explosions of ranting on my part about what is good, bad, ugly and maybe even nauseating in writing.
The car crammed in between driveways, sits a block short of where we will. Food drives almost all of the quests into new progressions of stranger and stranger places around Portland. Food is what brings us here.
When we hit Alberta, we're confronted with a multi-colored decommissioned school bus. Barney the Dinosaur purple, and quartz blue. It's full of tables now; the bench seats are gone. This is the bus to finding religion through your stomach. This is the bus to fat camp that plays a never-ending succession of Ozzy. This is the bus you get on to find Cheesus.
Honey bees frantic for their little piece of godliness, buzz around the trash cans, and the tables. The greasy nectar is a reverse trail of bees from the little window of a small pull behind camper. In the window, a man. He's got your ticket to full stomach Nirvana. Two tickets to paradise won't get you where he will.
He asks what my order is.
Cheesus, Dude. I can't help myself.
When the ticket salesman calls my name, when he calls for William he looks out and then decides he can bring it to me since no one's there. My lunch is a home fried hamburger patty. A big one. Servered with everything you'd cram on it at home. What makes this burger special is the bun. There is no bun. In the place where you would put one at home, are two grilled cheese sandwiches.
I have found Cheesus.
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