Get Pot for Fish

"get
pot
for fish"

... is written in red letters across the back of my left hand. Fish is my friend, Justin, who is sojourning here in Anchorage, his exile from Denver...Complements of the Capuluts. Fish needs a pot. Down to his last $50, I took him to Carrs at 2 a.m. this morning and he got himself stocked up on dry pasta and velveta bricks. I need to bring him a pot today so he can heat, boil, and mix his meals. Paper towels nor plastic forks will assist the hungry in their water-boiling dreams of vanquished starvation. We have a plan for this pot delivery. If he is not home when I bring the pot (I will know if he is out if I yell "FISH!" from the dirty alley and he does not poke his head out of his 2nd story room) I will hide the pot under the blue tarp across the lot. The blue tarp is already covered in snow itself, so in order to maintain the illusion and masque the pot's disturbance, I will carefully replenish the snow blanket on the blue tarp when the pot is in place. If, however, Fish is at home when I deliver his pot (a gift allowed by Julie's good graces) I will stand in the alley, beside the reeking garbage--which now reeks little ever since most odor has been frozen in place by the on-set of the northern winter--amidst the blue tarps, snow, ice, gravel, and piles of wire and yell "FISH!" He will then tramp to the front door on the first floor, skirting past his 'hostel' neighbors inbetween, and allowing my entry by nonverbal invitation, open it. H-bach may be along and the plan for this afternoon is for the three of us to visit the USGS in town.

It's 1:21 p.m. I've just finished eating scrambled eggs and I'm nearly finished drinking my morning coffee. My Mourning Coffee. Work at the Sportsman's Warehouse is going very well. I wish the pay was 'am besser' but, alas, 'tis only a triffle. I will remit full payment to my arrears in time.

I'm writing a song about a man who has suddenly forgotten the last half of his life. He's 50 years old and the last thing he can suddenly remember is being 25 and married to a wife who was expecting a child to be born in July, 1979. So far, the only line I have actually written for the song is "Why does 1989 feel like the future?" But I think it's a good line.

Mike, I'm sorry to hear about your friend, Joe. I remember you telling us stories about him. That's about ALL I remember, but as I grow older and the people I have known over the years begin losing to the odds of the house more frequently, I can tell you that I understand what it's like to lose someone who was important to you. Most of us can.

I Trust I Can Rely On Your Vote,
Mungo