Category: This; And also that

It’s comforting to know we still have fire fighters amongst us — people dedicated to finding fires and then fighting them. Fire needs to be fought.
There are other primal forces that need to be fought, of course. I’d like to be a wind fighter. I’d go around putting out dangerous winds. Or perhaps a dirt fighter. Or I could combine both, and I’d fight hazardous dirt-wind constructs, like dust storms. But there doesn’t seem to be a market there. It’s hard to fight wind and dirt, sure. But also, maybe we just don’t fear wind or dirt as quite much as we fear fire. Certainly, we don’t fear them as much as we should.
We have disease fighters, and we call them doctors, nurses, researchers. We have crime fighters, and we call them police or detectives. Some people call them “bobbies.”
It’s different with fire. It’s a different kind of fear. Our fear of fire makes us smaller, crouching, even cold. We need to be reassured straight-shot with a steady gaze. A roundabout word won’t cut it. We need to be told yes, there are fires. There will always be fires. But have no fear.
There are fire fighters too.

you’ll ever get from your six-year-old
is the one that comes
after you’ve taken him and a friend of his trick or treating
two skipping ninjas out in the dark
going as long and as far as they want
extracting candy ninja-style from houses
you were sure weren’t open for trick or treat business.
Then later, back at the house, they eat a kit-kat or two
they play, they’re pooped, friend goes home.
House goes still. CD plays Tony Bennet
bouncing off the evening’s plates and glasses.
You sit down.
And you get
that hug.

I’m 39 and convinced that I’m middle aged.
Which is fine by me. In fact, I like it. It’s kind of like I’m floating around in the middle of a lake in an inflatable tube. There’s lots of water on all sides. My feet are trailing in the water while my head leans back onto the perfect cushion that is the side of my inflatable tube.
I’m not sure what the tube symbolizes. Possibly just that I really like floating around in inflatable tubes. I think the water may be time. And my feet are probably standing in for “actions considered but not taken.”
Anyways, however the imagery shakes out, it’s really not a bad place to be.
I’ve been asking my fellow 35-40+ year-old friends what they think the last few days — “Are we middle aged?” — and many of them seem pretty sure that we have a ways to go. “Didn’t you get the memo?” they ask. “40 is the new 30.”
But I don’t know. I’m not so sure the 30-year-olds are ready to sign off on that.

If I had a coffeehouse, this would be my motto:
“A frightened clientele is an obedient clientele.”
Or perhaps:
“A nervous clientele is a loyal clientele.”
I’d spray my customers with hormones as they
walked through the door.
To mark them.
I’d control the colors they wore.
I’d make the colors dance for me.
Dance pretty colors, dance!
The lemonade would always
be out of season.

Crickly crack.
Warm mice
pop spin slice.
Crickle.
Are
eating
my crickly.
Eating my
crickly
music.
music.
music.

My 6-year-old son’s having a playdate right now. There are clinking noises and murmurs coming through the open door to his room. And then I hear my son say this: “I’ll trade you a Jewish Bible.” A what?!
You heard right, he’s trying to trade his friend a Torah, that ancient fount of sacred wisdom. “What are you gonna trade for?” I call out, hoping it’s a Koran or The Book of Mormon or somesuch — something we can use. But no, it’s for Lego pieces.
And that’s what the world’s come to, my friends — 6-year-olds trying to trade their Torahs for Lego pieces.
This never would have happened when Bill Clinton was president.

Shampoo was nice enough to publish/post one of my poems this week in Issue 28 (under my so-called “real name”). It’s an excellent issue, including a poem by Rodney Koeneke, one of my favorite living Americans. If ya get a chance, checkitout.
This little wahoo got me to add a Published category over on the left side o’ the screen. Nine pieces in there now, so that leaves literally hundreds of pieces still available for purchase at reasonable prices….
-Cecil

Buying sushi tonight, the bill comes to $19.80, and the nice guy at the register laughs “1980! — that was a good year!”
“Yeah!” I sez. “Yeah.” And I hand him my credit card.
“You had hair down to your ass!” he says to me, “I bet.” And this gives me pause. Where exactly did that come from? Down to my ass?
“No, I had big puffy hair,” I correct him. “My hair doesn’t grow down, it grows sort of out and up. Like Art Garfunkel.” And I show him what I mean with my hands, using the universal gestures for “big” and “puffy.”
“Oh,” he says. I think he may be a little sad now, around the edges. But he picks himself back up pretty fast. “You wore high heel shoes!” he says.
And I say, “No, no I didn’t.
“We all did!” he says.
“No,” I say, a little more firmly. “I was 13. I had braces.” I don’t tell him this, because I don’t want to bum him out, but I’m pretty sure I was wearing wallabies back then, which are almost the exact opposite of high heels.
“Oh,” he says, and hands me my card back with a receipt to sign.
He’s tried so hard to turn me into some sort of heavy metal call girl, back in 1980. Like maybe one of the secondary prostitutes in Risky Business. But he’s failed. He can’t change the past.

to name me
that movie one better be wouldn’t
male lead
with neil patrick harris.
with neil patrick harris.
with patrick neil harris.

It was another busy day at Amalgamated Skills — “Where we bring you the skills that you use to do things better than you would do otherwise, if you didn’t have the skills that we bring you.” Rhett Kronkhead, the ever-flustered Production Manager, was in a blood purple rage.
“Confound it!” he hollered, shaking a phone bill in one purple fist and storming out of his office. “Would you look at these confounded phone calls? It’s ridiculous!”
“Simmer down Rhett,” said Vilma, A.S.’s ever-wry Art Director. “And pull up your pants.” Rhett had a lot of enthusiasm, some great acid-tinged stories from the sixties, and a good heart. But he had no ass.
“How can I simmer down?!” said Rhett. “Would you look at this bill?! Who is this clown?! He’s making 30 calls a day!!”
By this point, a small crowd had gathered around, murmuring like nervous spoonbills. “I’m going to make an example of this clown!!” Rhett stormed back into his office, flopped himself down behind the desk, and reached for the phone. “I’m gonna call him right now!!” he shouted.
“I’m calling!!”
There was a moment of silence and then — a ferocious slam, as the phone came crashing back down. “Busy!! Typicall!!” Rhett sputtered. “Who is this clown?!”
“Let me see that,” said Vilma, reaching over for the bill. She gave it a quick scan. “Rhett,” she said. “Rhett, this is your phone number.”
“My wha –?” said Rhett, his waking mind drifting off into a babbling dream space as he slipped down off the chair like a spilled Slurpie. “I don’t … I mean … my wha –?” he said again, his whole body now somehow sliding through a thin crack in the baseboard, deep down into the darkness below.
And only his pants remained.