Plate on the car, plate in an eatery far, far away

From plates on the car to perhaps plates at the restaurant at the end of the universe?

It’s the best link I can draw in today’s visits to two of my favorite places* I could go in Kingman.

*a short list in a small town

One is the DMV. Yes, you read right. The. Department. of. Motor. Vehicles. By popular accounts, a dreadful black hole of a place that sucks away your time, day and second-born, if your DMV’s in like Compton, CA, or Chicago.

Not so with the Kingman DMV, at least to my two occasions. First time for a driver’s license, I was in and out within 20 minutes, including wait time. Most arduous was reading the eye chart. It’s clear I need an update of prescription. However, surprisingly, I passed and departed as a driver no longer licensed by the state of Colorado but Arizona. Yippee yai yey!

Today’s visit was to title and register the car. Including wait time, I was in and out in maybe 15 minutes. Came prepared with every document they’d need — the beauty of preliminary website research — and walked out not only with title in hand (unusual, many states mail it) but plates.

Which I was relieved to discover at first sighting are super easy to remember! And no stranger gets that data without at least five dinners and seven bottles of good wine or beer (spread over time, preferably).

I immediately screwed on the plate in the parking lot. Because, yes, I carry a Swiss Army knife in both my car and backpack before rambloing off, officialized Arizona driver that I now am, to my next favorite destination: the library.

61 HoursWhere I turned in the Lee Child suspense crime novel “61 Hours” — my first Lee Child tome, featuring Jack Reacher, and favorite genre — for something completely different to my tastes: “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe” by Douglas Adams. (Author also of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” predecessor to “The Restaurant …”)

The benefit of a slim selection of TV channels at home is more reading. I’ve been inhaling books, studying different styles of authors in that favored suspense-crime genre and having a blast. No cosmic-events pun intended.

The occasional unpredictable consequences of reading pulse-raising novels, chilling scenes and menacing characters, and in the case of “61 Hours” a heightened, drawn-out suspense of a climactic guaranteed home invasion and murder, are disturbed sleep and nightmares. I actually awoke in the deep of the night anxious that some unwelcomed and uninvited male had entered the house.

He hadn’t. It was “only” Lee Child who’d entered my brain.

I’ll close with a moment from that entertaining sport called bibliomancy. Open a book to a random page and passage and read into it deeper unconscious meaning and message even though there may be none.

Here we go:

Pg. 82: A dull hoarse gurgling sound came from the floor. It was Zaphod Beeblebrox attempting to speak.

“I certainly didn’t survive,” he gurgled. “I was a total goner. Wham bang and that was it.”

“Yeah, thanks to you,” said Ford, “we didn’t stand a chance. We must have been blown to bits. Arms, legs everywhere.”

I’ll sleep soundly tonight. {cough, cough}

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