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.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Killing Your Audience

The holiday spirit infected the Point Called Fell’s like rabid ratcoon. Le café was no exception. Gingerbread chai’s aside, the barista hauled in a 7-foot, snow-sprayed fake pine, Shelly strung up the cellar dwelling multi-colored Christmas lights and about 30 patrons carried a holiday dish to the café bar to hoot it up over some freshly shucked oysters and booze.

“Hey, how’ve you been? Where’ve you been?” Frank was so excited after the barista walked in the shop, he just missed spilling his glass of red wine on his finely pressed slacks. Instead a puddle collected on the floor before his table.

“Wow, and I thought I was early,” said the barista.

“So what’s with you? It’s been weeks,” Andrea inquires as the barista handed Shelly a jug of eggnog and potato chips.

“So much, where to start? Well, the book I’ve been editing for my friend is now released.”

‘The musician—about forming a band?”

“Yes—exactly. Killing Your Audience…and Why They Deserve It. Are you on Kindle?”


“It’s available for download this week. Check it out.”

“Let’s try out these oysters,” the barista made his way towards the back of the room.

“Be careful of them raw shuckers,” Curmudgeon Jim advised. “I have more than one friend who got hepatitis C from them.”

“That’s why you’re supposed to shoot them with vodka,” explained Jawbone holding out a bottle.

“So who is this fellow that wrote the book,” Curmudgeon asked.

“A guitarist I played music with in San Diego. We had a nice run in a band called Riot House.”

“Look here guys!” Picture Jim snapped a photo.

“He volunteers at a high school music program. Couldn’t find a book to guide his students, so he decided to write it.”

“Guide them how?”

“It brings the young, aspiring musician out of his bedroom, through his garage and into the clubs—practically step-by-step. Will’s more a storyteller than a writer—and his stories are priceless, candid.”

Slurrrrrrrrp!!! “Mmmm…tasty oyster,” exclaimed the barista. “Get me some eggnog, I don’t want to catch anything.”

“Save some room for my chicken-fried steak,” said Jawbone.

“I can’t get too filled up, man. I’ve got to perform in about an hour.”

“What? Where?”

“Baltimore Songwriter’s Christmas party. The encore performance of the new eggnog song!"

“Well since you’ll be here tonight, come by Leadbelly’s Christmas night. Odds are I can talk Curt into letting me play it then. This baby’s goin’ straight to the top!”

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