Meet Mr. September 1999, "Simmer On"

Picture this: The North Woods are sweltering in the grip of an intense heat wave that took everybody by surprise. Folks don't need a Boogie as an excuse to shed their clothes for a quick skinny dip, though some say the water temperature varies wildly from tepid to scalding -- it all depends on where he has been.

Oh, yeah. This we gotta check out.

We're traveling this month to Effie for one of the most unusual research excursions we've been on yet in pursuit of Real Men. We've got notebooks full of input on Mr. September, a.k.a. Cimarron. Much of it has been volunteered by women who tell us they're in town to answer an ad he allegedly placed in a local paper: "SWM seeks slender, smart woman with good sense of humor for lifetime of dancin' and romancin'. Knowledge of rodeo and local politics a plus." Every last one of the women makes sure we know SWM stands for Simmering Wild Man -- and they're his perfect dancing partner.

We should guess this'll be a very different sort of profile when we're directed to "one of the Mayor's favorite spots" in Effie, where a press conference is scheduled for noon. Press conference? Mayor? Whatever we're in for, it doesn't look like we're going to make it on time. The heat has slowed everything down. And the crowd of women lining our route adds to the surrealism of the scene.

"Simmer on, Cimarron!" they're yelling. Some are waving posters of a sexy man wearing little more than a cowboy hat, a bandanna, and the most come-hither--right now, dammit! scowl we've ever seen. Others display portraits of the same man with a smile guaranteed to keep the fudge topping hot on your sundae. "Simmer on, Cimarron!"

What gives? we ask the special escort we'd been assigned.

"The Mayor must have gone by on his way to conducting some business," she explained. "The crowd doesn't miss a chance to bring something microwaveable. Popcorn's a favorite."

Whoa! Are you telling us Mr. September is the Mayor of Effie? And that he's hot enough to pop corn?

"One thing you'd better know up front about Cim," she replies, "is that he's very assertive about anything he wants to explore." She licks her lips and emphasizes, "Anything. He wanted political information he could only have access to by running for mayor. So, being the sharp, savvy fellow he is, he did it and won. He was a man with a mission, which for him -- and us, we discovered -- translated into passion you could feel in the air. You can imagine the effect this has had on the female imagination around here. Every woman wants to prove how high she can make Cimarron's temperature rise."

Hmm . . . Sounds hazardous to the rest of the community, we comment.

She shoots us a sideways glance. "We're studying several of Cim's brothers closely for precisely that reason."

Then . . . this mysterious phenomenon runs in his family? And has far-reaching consequences?

"I'm at liberty to offer only two words on that subject," she informs us. "Global warming."

We try to digest this, but all we can focus on is the sultry air around us. To our amazement we note actual waves of heat shimmering above specific clusters of women in the crowd. What they seem to have in common is they're all waving signs that read: "I'M A BACHELORETTE TOO!!"

"That refers to a charity event the mayor attended," our escort remarks in a tone intended to set the record straight. "The tabloids blew it all out of proportion with those screaming headlines I'm sure you saw -- 'CITY OFFICIAL MOONLIGHTS AS MALE STRIPPER' and 'MAYOR BARES ASSETS AT BACHELORETTE PARTY,' etc., etc. The truth is, he raised $65 dollars from the 7 women present at that party. And gave it all to Julie, the bachelorette guest of honor."

If only more politicians were that WYSIWYG, we comment.

Far more than that are assembled right now.

The press conference is a laid-back affair resembling a town hall meeting. The air conditioning here, like everywhere else, doesn't seem to be working. A number of excited women are fanning themselves and shouting questions at a guy in worn jeans and a T-shirt with the word "BULLPUCKEY" in a red slashed circle. He is, we learn, the closest thing to a press secretary Mayor Cimarron will abide.

"Ladies," he's saying, "I'll answer the shoulder question. Yes, the Mayor has had surgery and is recovering nicely."

"He isn't going to try rodeoing again and risk reinjuring it, is he?" one woman asks.

"What's the scoop on that ad?" another demands. "Is he or is he not actively looking for a wife?"

This sends up a din of vehement opinions on the subject.

"I'll read a statement." Mr. No Bullpuckey quiets them down. "'If life is like a Boogie, a man can only dance so long with a stuffed mannequin.'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" a young woman in a cowboy hat asks. "Is he going to Hollywood to star opposite one of those phony cowgirls? Are they gonna try to buy out his spirit?"

"No, ma'am, I don't think there's any danger of -- "

"I mean, he's got this whole Zen thing happening," she insists. "He's, like, the essence of cowboyness -- there isn't a bull alive he can't stare down. And yet he's got this enormous -- and I do mean huge -- he's got the biggest one of any guy I've ever met -- heart. The movies spend millions trying to cook up epic adventures of dangerous heroes no woman can resist, wild guys with quick laughs and a touch of craziness that's really crazy like a fox. And all they'd have to do is come here and feel the heat when Cim walks by!"

The place goes up for grabs. We slip out with our escort, who assures us Cim won't be wooed away from the North Woods to Hollywood. "He's not just a hunk, he's an environmentally responsible person," she explains.

Wow. We hadn't thought about what effect he might have on the El Nino/La Nina weather wonder. But we understand now how the sauna after the Rodeo in Deer Lake that Cim brings his rodeo crew to every year gets steamier while he's around.

We're beginning to feel the temperature rise again right now. Simmer on, Cimarron!