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.

Friday, May 17, 2013

S.O.S.—“I’ve Been Kidnapped”

The computer keyboard lie soaked on the barista’s desk. Scales lined the keys. The key of C scaled through the 1970's, wood-grained, stereo speakers—Cole’s piano. Startled by the scene having just keyed into his apartment, the barista dropped his gig bag, plopped onto his new desk chair, rubbed his eyes and read the open letter on the computer screen:

I’ve been kidnapped! Again! Save me! Get me a bigger tank! And more food while you's at it! And not that “optimal growth formula” bottom feed! I am not a science experiment!

I’ve lost all track of time. Somehow I ended up in the barista’s apartment—but I much preferred Leon’s basement. Of course le Harbor Bungalow Café—after Leon found that heavenly lake-of-a-tank, was the salt of the water—But now that tank lays unused in this sucker’s kitchen! Then he either wrapped this smaller tank with Christmas lights or dropped acid in my water; I haven’t quite got it figured. Either way, hearing him croon about warm beer and cold women, and stinky ‘ho, is downright abrasive. But Philip Cole? Now that cat can play!

Serenity!—Wisp me away to shining seas of tilapia schools! Anywhere but here! I’ll do anything! Even…even…Wean me on harbor water! I should be wondering when the next tide is coming ashore, not wondering why the barista needs to dry his hair so many times a day.


Mister Fishy

—and that’s another thing. This whole dyslexia-as-clever whaleshit has got to end. Pey-pey named me and if the barista thinks I’d be insulted because I share the name with a human-run company that hunts and sells my cousins for dinner, he’s wrong!