The person who likes to microwave
eggs
while wearing
Chinese panties
wears a frown
stepping into the cafe.
The Sweet Berries Cafe
greets their customers
with something unAmerican:
American products,
cast iron, stainless steel pots,
oven mitts,
and blueberry desserts
line the shelves.
Despite his love for the beep beep,
love of radiation death,
and a love for the feel
of slave labor undergarments,
he loves The Sweet Berries Cafe.
Occasionally, a delicious omelet
made with fresh ingredients
strikes his fancy,
like the time
he stopped watching
iPhone cinema
to visit a movie house.
In an odd world surrounded by freshness,
stainless steel, and cast iron
he comfortably sits.
Underneath the layers of
Carhartt and XtraTuffs
that is Alaskan fashion,
a little pair of Chinese panties
keeps him grounded.
Author’s note:
Special thanks to the friendly service at The Sweet Berries Cafe. When Kimmy, our server, found out we needed a ride back to Girdwood Alaska Backpackers Inn, she hooked us up with Lenny, owner of Kharacters Alaskan Bar. Coincidently, we had spent the previous evening at Kharacters listening to Yellow Cabin. The band with its distorted guitar, thumping stand up bass, melody driven keyboard, and the switching of vocals between the group made the music widely enjoyable. The female vocalist has a unique stylistic quality that separates the Siouxsie, Kazu Makino, Karen O, and Neko Case type vocalists from the ordinarily good. The band has a danceable beat that doesn’t wallow in the usual hippie type Alaskan crowd pleasing music that I’ve seen at every festival in Girdwood. The bar did not charge a cover. Instead, the drink price went up 50 cents when the band started. This way people who only want a beer or two and not sure if they will like the band are not turned away by an overly ambitious door cover.
The blueberries are looking delicious on the bike path to Alyeska Resort. The neighbor suggests I soak the blueberries in water to remove the worms. I have eaten a lot of blueberries raw and haven’t gotten any worms. Either I lucked out and don’t have a belly full of worms or the worms don’t like my latest diet of black beans and cheese. Do any of you have the blueberry worms?
Here is a poem I wrote about Jack, The Modern Latter Day Saint. He is not a blueberry worm but a tape worm. I hope you get hungry and feed your inner worm.
Jack the Tapeworm A Modern Latter Day Saint
Night-light turned on.
The overhead light turned off.
Veronica crawls in
between two sheets.
She dreams
Ronald McDonald squirts
ketchup and mustard
between her beefy buns.
Suddenly she’s awakened
by a Knock Knock.
Perched on her chest
a tiny worm.
A stern voice
accentuated by a stern look
speaks,
“Hello, I’m Jack the Tapeworm
a modern latter day saint.
Your fantasy for a man
dressed in a clown suit
and appetite for dead animals
has brought me here tonight.
These lustful desires
have cast a dark shadow
over your vegetarian upbringing.
Your diet
and subconscious
do not reflect
the two truths of herbivores:
do unto others as they would
do unto you
and
karma comes back around.
You have a choice
repent or face a life of damnation.
If you repent
you will meet a man who will
smother your sex with grapes, strawberries, and cherries.
If you choose a life of damnation
assume your physical fantasies
will only be found
in an internet chat room.
As far as the environment goes,
you’ll become a self imposed
obese statistic
who takes up precious space.”
Veronica starts to sob,
“Oh Jack! Oh Jack!
What must I do
to absolve my godless transgressions?”
The little tapeworm
in a now
pleasant voice replies,
“Swallow me whole
I’ll make your body miserable
feeding off your meat
like the cow made into a
sinfully slaughtered slab.”
And she swallows him whole.
When Veronica’s mind
has gone mad
in visions of love for body and life
Jack crawls out
of her frazzled body
from a stinky orifice.
He slowly makes his way
to her chest.
Knock Knock.
In that still pleasant but weaker voice
he speaks,
“I’m ready to die
you’ve seen the right light.
Remember if your man’s expression
is expressed in mayo and Heinz
these condiments will literally
smother your heart.
Remember a man’s dollar
never amounts to a mass produced life.
Slaughterhouses
only create a
compliment to strife.”
Jack the Tapeworm
a modern latter day saint
takes in one last gasp
of air
to finish his thought.
“Life is cyclical
please make me happy.
I want to be reborn
in newfound beauty.”
pedaling
the steep grade
of the curvy road
that trails off
into the horizon
has tired my legs
and mentally
worn me out
fatigue
pulls me
to the edge
of the shoulder
sleepiness
overtakes my body
I
crawl
into the grass
close my eyes
let nature reclaim
this pile of exhaustion
I stare into the sun
and murmur,
“little tick, little tick,
my blood is healthy
and thick
enjoy, enjoy
grow vigorous
and quick
“big deer,
don’t poke me
with your antlers
but gently lick
my armpits
they are mercury free
I want to be
your salty popsicle
“scary mountain lion,
I apologize
my body is lean
and somewhat trim
didn’t go to the McDonald’s
feed lot
or
graze in the grocery
snack and soda aisle
before setting out
on this trip”
A yellow flower catches my eye.
It has grown
through
the pavement,
dodging cars,
not being eaten
by critters.
A flower
as miraculous
as a man walking on water.
Miracle flowers and miracle men
have the same effect
on the observer.
I find strength
to ask a passing
woman on a bicycle
for help.
I tell her I want to be strong
like the flower.
She happens to be a gardener.
Water with lemon
hits my lips
like stinging nettle tea
to a droopy plant.
A peanut butter jelly sandwich
gives me energy
like worm poop to a turnip.
My legs no longer feel wilted.
I get up off the ground.
She looks me up and down,
admiring her horticultural work.
She says,
“Your bright yellow vest
and white body remind me of a daisy.
From now on, your bicycling name
will be Daisy Spectacular.
I now
beseech you to
ride, ride,
grow towards the sun.”
Traveler Brandon Follett enjoys internet access by a cozy fireplace in the lobby of the Mendocino Hotel. The beauty of the lobby inspires him to check out room 2
Special thanks to Don Ritchey who is the founder of Four Guys in the Garage Productions. Follow the Don Ritchey link to find out more about his films and comedy.
With the outbreaks of salmonella and e-coli, some eaters are starting to question the quality of veggies and meat sold in restaurants.People are curious to know if the beef stuck between their teeth was fed too much corn and had to be dragged into the slaughterhouse by a chain wrapped around an ankle or did the cow finish its last meal of green grass, then skip with a smile to its death like in a Disney cartoon.
At Red Feather Lounge, the menu boasts fresh ingredients backed up by a list of farms at the bottom of the menu where the restaurant purchased the vegetables and eggs to make my delicious Huevos Rancheros. While digesting the Morning Owl Farm duck eggs, I start to ponder the question – which came first, the chicken or the cage?
Most birds that I have been introduced to have names like Chipper the parakeet, or Henrietta and Karl the lovebirds.These birds live in cages, and after the newness wears off, seem to annoy their owners who have to selflessly feed and clean their cages with only the thanks of a helpless little bird in a cage to gawk upon.
I don’t quite understand the fascination with the caged bird.I can understand the corporate farmers with their beakless small caged birds because money can make any crime bearable for the majority.As I consider the question of non-capitalist bird owners, my thoughts float away to the zoo.I envision a couple on a date:
A man looks at the zoo birds.“I wish I could have one of those bald eagles in a really small cage on my night stand, do you?”
The woman replies, “Yes.”
The man grabs her hand and says, “How do you feel about going back to my love nest?You can meet my lovebirds.I named them Joy and Happiness.Even though they are lovebirds, I keep Joy and Happiness in separate cages across the room because I like surround sound.For dinner I’ll prepare foie gras.We’ll stuff ourselves ‘til our stomachs become as bloated as a goose’s liver.Afterwards, I’ll put on my yellow Big Bird outfit.You can tie me up and ruffle my feathers.I want to be your lovebird.Chirp, CHIRP!!!”
The woman, “Okay.”
Not realizing his date likes to pretend she’s an insane cat named Sylvester who kills birds for pleasure, the next morning the man makes omelets more slowly than usual. He hobbles over to the refrigerator and takes out a white styrofoam container of eggs.With pride he opens up the container containing the aryan eggs.He looks at her with excited eyes, “I figured you would spend the night so I bought an 18 pack.”As he cracks the eggs, he recites his poem.
“Millions of hens raised for their eggs
spending their lives in battery cages
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
no blue ribbons for these laying hens
seven or eight birds to a cage
not enough room to turn or spread a wing
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins
no thoughts of blue ribbons for these laying hens
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins
tier upon tier in hu-u-ge warehouses
I love the machine that provides the means
to force chickens to produce cheap eggs
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
not enough room to turn or spread a wing”
The woman starts to purr and rub herself against the counter.The man stops singing.
She is now on all fours crawling toward him, meowing.He turns off the stove.
Flapping his arms like a chicken, he runs to the bedroom to put on his yellow Big Bird outfit, yelling, “CHIRP! CHIRP!!!”
Heading south from Boise to Kuna, I travel in constant traffic. From Kuna to Swan Falls, the road is straight with long rolling hills. The desert landscape of lava rock and sagebrush lends itself to clear views of the horizon, which makes sharing the road safe for both motorists and bicyclists.
The traffic becomes lighter, but the large SUVs are now pulling boats. Amy and I are the only ones traveling by bicycle, with panniers and a bicycle trailer loaded with camping equipment but no room for motorized contraptions or a cooler full of booze. From observing my fellow Swan Falls recreationalists, I become worried about boredom on this adventure.
Will a day at the Snake River without petrol or booze be like celebrating Jesus’s birthday without gifts, enjoying Thanksgiving without a television, or being charitable without going through an approved organization?
When I reach the rim of the canyon and look down onto Swan Falls, I feel like a vegetarian who has walked into a steak house to find a green local salad bar with a sesame grilled tofu vegetarian option.
Swan Falls offers a park with large trees giving shade – perfect for picnics, bird watching, reading, writing, fishing and playing cards. The bathroom provides flushing toilets, a water fountain, and plenty of counter space to wash dishes. Beyond the park, a person can follow the rocky road to set up a tent in between the sagebrush.
As the boat people are getting ready to turn the Snake River into a busy roadway, my favorite activity, after a four and a half hour bike ride, is strip to my cycling shorts and go for a swim.
Learn about Life at Girdwood Alaska Backpackers Inn
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