King St. John's Jim

I’m safe again at my favorite haunt.  Friend, if you were here, we could share a bowl of the chickpea and ham soup.  It’s as fabulous as the rich foam on the espresso.  But I’m forgetting: The location of theJames John Cafeis a secret.

That’s why the ghost-busters were slow to arrive in St. John’s,  They got lost for a couple of days, I guess.  They got here just before their Tri-Met passes expired and they should make short work of the ectoplasm from theGreat Harvest Moon.  Especially the phantom art gallery a couple blocks away.  Everybody knows there is no art gallery in St. John’s.

One of my companions here in St. John’s is pretty unique, more balanced in the four Tarot suits than the everyday pentacle folk of St. John’s.  Enkidu is a lab quality glass-blower, and good enough at it to work pretty much when he needs it.  Wild in his attitudes.  Exotic in his attitudes is more like it:  He taught skydiving at a Health Spa in Tibet for years.  Lean like a giraffe.  Worlds of experience to share.  Buddha the Greek, you might say, or SteppenUberMensch.

I was waiting in front ofPlew’son Lombard to hear Johhny Love wail the version of Folsom Prison that he drags from theHieronymus Boschlandscape of his soul.  As I wait, Enkidu becomes transfixed by a bouncing giraffe inside Plew’s.  I go in and get my brew.  For some reason, I light my hair on fire, walk up to her with a note saying: "I can introduce you to the SteppenUberMensch."  I casually walk outside.

She instantly follows: I tell her that I’m the second craziest old-testament prophet on the streets of St. John’s, and if she wants to meet the real Buddha the Greek, she can talk to that guy over there: his name isEnkidu. They talk.  In the morning, a bamboo and willow grown together mark the spot.  The ghost-busters have already taken care of it.  

Johnny’s music grew my hair back before he finished his gig.

Friend, I swear that all the above is mostly true, and I still have the charred feather in my hat to prove it.  Blame it on the moon.  That’s what Southwick tells me.

The ectoplasmic clean-up is over and all the phantoms are gone.  All except that spectralNorth End Gallery.  I need to find out about that.  Hmmm.