Down at the coffee shop they have a poetry reading on Sunday afternoons so sometimes I'll forsake the charms of Cassia -- and listen a little poetry. I got there a little early and sat up in the front area. There weren't many poets because of the rain. Poet Jack and his boyfriend were setting up the mic and waiting for whomsoever might be late. A couple came in for the coffee - never saw them before. I don't think they were regulars. Short shorn and slut, I'll call them, but they were a pretty ordinary couple. They sat at the table right behind Poet Jack's boyfriend. Beings it was before the election it figures that Poet Jack would read a political poem ... it was a love poem, I know because he used the F-word several times. One of the philistine patrons sitting out of the way was offended ... probably because she was so fat and ugly that the F-word made her feel bad. Short Shorn and Slut were talking quietly ... but it was right in Poet Jack's Boyfriend's ear, so no matter how low it was - it'd still been too loud for him. Poet Jack's Boyfriend turns and asks them to move. Now any guy with a touch of class would have apologized and taken his cappacino, and conversation to an out-of-the-way table, and been thankful for the privacy. I guess Short Shorn didn't have that much class because, he decided to impress Slut by saying "No way ... public place ... got as much right ... let them move" etc. Well Poet Jack seeing the argument stopped reading the poem, quite rightly, when you consider that his boyfriend and Short Shorn were arguing so loudly no one could here his F-worded poem anyway. Philistine threw her opinion in saying that the she thought the poetry was so bad she'd rather hear the argument. Now, I was in Klamath Falls when the cops were called because the rednecks were beating up too many Mexicans in the Star & Garter's parking lot. I had a guy toss a beer can at me at the old Pan American club in Coos Bay. I've seen the ancient art of Kendo applied with pool cues in the Rogue Regal Room in Gold Beach. Even saw a fight in East L.A. where a guy was left bleeding in the gutter for trying to close a window on the bus. I know that if you sit quiet (and your not Mexican) you likely won't get hurt. It was touch and go in the coffee shop though. Poet Jack surrendered control of the situation when he stopped reading the poetry. Short Shorn was trying to impress Slut, and Poet Jack's Boyfriend was trying to enforce informal rules. Philistine was just trying to cause trouble. Poet Jack after losing the floor to the quibbles, did a sensible thing ... he went to get Manager. Manager was gone though ... the place was being run by Pinky Spiked Hair Punk Piercey, an 18 year old who was until recently had been the head dishwasher. No Balls Pinky would'nt politely ask the couple to move (and offer them a free hot chocolate for their trouble) like any competent host would've done. Pinky's logic was that it's a coffee shop and people talk in coffee shops so the poets can just lump it. After rendering his silly decision Pinky went back and hid behind the expresso machine. Poet Jack's Boyfriend finally lost his temper and took a swing at Short Shorn. It was a artless roundhouse, landed just above the ear ... and it probably hurt the hand more than the head it hit. Short Shorn was dazed, but didn't go down. Slut reached in her purse and pulled out her pair of designer nunchuks (this is southern California, all young women carry nunchuks) she shook them free and was swinging them over her head to build the momentum. It looked bad for Poet Jack's boyfriend. But a coffee mug, one of the heavy ceramic ones, sailed across the room and slammed Slut square in the back. Of course it was thrown by Philistine, and she'd meant to hit Poet Jack. I was trying to figure if the rear door was the safest exit, when Poet Jack managed to grab one of the flails, with a quick hard pull and jab he could've smashed Slut's face into his fist. About a pistol shot later (Pinky's replacement at the dishwashing machine?) the the police arrived. Okay, so the last paragraph is fantasy. No one got hit, no nunchuks, no thrown coffee mugs. Pistol shots and police(?) chalk it up to artistic liscence. Sorry, just thought the story needed a little excitement. Poet Jack and us literary types went to the back of the shop, sipped herbal teas and decided to tell the Owner/Manager when he got back. Short Shorn and Slut left about twenty minutes later. Philistine Patron was never seen again, so there really is a positive to all this. Still, next week I think I'll be a little more careful about deserting Cassia and maybe leave early - these southern California poetry readings can get too damned dangerous!