Driving down to the Seaworld, I stopped just south of the weird double-breasted San Onofre nuke plant to take in an ocean view. As I pulled into the rest area, I saw what looked like the Partridge Family’s multi-colored bus dominating the tiny beachside lot. Unlike the Partridge’s squeaky clean pattern, each of this bus’s colored squares contained a crazy religious messages:
WHO HAS NOT MOLESTED THEIR SELF PRIVATELY? DON’T LIE TOO.
RICH PEOPLE HIDE THEIR SINS JUST LIKE HOBOS
The prophet/ driver soon appeared at the driver’s side window, shirtless under his overalls and sporting a long, slightly stained white beard. He thrust a Ritz cracker box toward me.
“Donations fer picture-takin!”
I threw a dollar in. “Thanks P
recious!” he exclaimed, withdrawing into his mobile temple. I have to admit, it’s been a long time since anyone called me “precious” and perhaps the subsequent warmth I felt wasn’t simply the blinding California sun.
Shark Dreams 