Welcome to where the seeds of dreams are planted--where one can sip from the charmed chalice of life & meet interesting folk through (hopefully) intelligent conversation.

One never knows nor can expect who will sail into the fray--what we do know is that no soul here is perfect no matter how we try. So let us celebrate & raise our mugs to the idiosyncratic nature of life--to the Kramer's & Norm's of the world, the Roseanne's & Allan Poe's. Some old, some lost, some tortured, some blessed, all souls sharing a drink at the same time in the same place. The ensuing tales are authentic with names trending towards monikers. The flag waving on our doorstep means we're open, so come perk your curiosity in Le Harbor Bungalow Cafe.

Bonjour! Mesherfin! Hasta la vista! Your barista.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Fox & Bear

A bear stumbled to the city,
after hibernation.
A fox wandered from the alley,
caught his attention.

Far from the forest what are you doing here?
The fox was jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

They traveled & they sang,
The two became one.
But the fox moved so fast,
And the bear could not run.

Where are you going? I'm content right here.
The fox felt jilted & she needed some cheer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

The fox ran away,
It's all the bear's fault.
Can't find the words,
To unlock his heart.

Back to the mountains I don't like it here.
The fox was hot & she needed a beer.

And for the bear, the same was true.

And for the fox, the tears were true.

And for the bear, the same was true.

Monday, June 25, 2012

A Summer Day in March

Today I declare a turning point!  The city bugged the barista like a spoiled kid with clueless parents.  The mountains drew him as the moon pulls the tides.  Resistance was futile  The Dolphin was poised.  Dumb asses at work and at home brought the barista down.  If not for the cinnamon girl, I’d be gone by July.

Deano nearly turned on the conditioned air in the car as he drove the barista back to the Big Crabcake. 

“It nearly feels like June today,” the barista said to his pops. “But maybe we should save the Freon for summer.” 

Spring fever gripped the barista like a slugger grips his bat in the Grapefruit League.  He was returning from a weekend at the Old Creek Home to ring in Mart’s 33rd year on the planet.  While there, he patched the roof of his mini-recreation vehicle.  The Dolphin sat idle on Deano’s driveway for a year-and-a-half.  It had to move.

The barista armed his self with a silicon gun, climbed out the skylight and lathered all around the 27-year old roof.  He installed a new battery for the engine.  He propped up the ceiling above the overhead bed with a bamboo rod.  Beads of sweat dripped down his cheek, so he slugged a Lord Chesterfield Ale.  He wiped away the mouse turds bordering the sink.  He aired out the mattresses; then aired out his lungs.  He reminisced about the 5000-mile road trip he took in the Dolphin nearly three years prior.  I’m cycling back—back to the mountains.

But the soil under the barista’s feet proved fertile.  He did not know at the time, but he was about to be promoted at le café.  Responsibility knocked.  So he would stay.  He hired a new staff.  He embraced the position Shelly graciously offered him on Jennifer’s thoughtful recommendation.  But he planned an escape to the mountains—if only temporary.  Shasta was too far, but not Shenandoah.