4 Hour Hard On

--Bon Scott or Brian Johnson?

--NO COMPARISON!

--Diamond David Lee or Sammy Hagar?

--WHO CARES?!?!

--Hey well, you know what else?

--Wha?

--Santana, man… He’s like, backing up everybody.

--Yeah. And it’s that same spine-tingling popcorn pentatonic blues riff he is so famous for. Impeccable, but a tad tiresome when you gotta hear it, like seventeen times in any given hour!

--NO SHIT!

--Ya know, pretty soon Santana is gonna be like, backing up everybody in their daily mundane lives and shit!

--HAHAHAHAHA!!

---Yeah. Like a multiplicity of virtuoso organ grinder macaques, wailing away on Statocasters the size of Popsicle sticks!

--Yeah like… You’ll be cursing out your damned laundry, or demanding a raise from Uptight Bossie. But relax, ‘cuz

--SANTANA’S GOT YOUR BACK!!!

--A pre-dawn pleading with Wifey for some long-overdue sex? WHAM! You’ll know you still got game, when Carlos starts in to playing that same old riff again!

--GOOD ONE!

Hey, weren’t we supposed to be talking about bass players?

Three words
For you: John… Paul... Jones

Word: Jaco… Pastorius

That’s 2. That’s 2 words.

Jaco. Just Jaco I meant. Just Jaco, taco-breath!!!

Okay then. So why don’t you slide another one of those delicious Rosa Rita Tacos right down here this a way? Ya know, this here critic could eat murder of raw crow! That’s right, fellers. There ya go. Aight?...

HELLS YAH!!!

Critiquo Primero swept a streaky pile of soggy autumn leaves from the Perpetually Filthy Foyer--as I worked the REDIAL mechanism on my land-line Cradle Phone from the Stone Age. Meanwhile, Dos Passive Critiquo sat hunched over a toaster oven, poking its crevices and moribund filaments with an ultra-thin salad tong. Primero, sweeping laconically, looked over at Dos, and scoffed at him.

“Ha!" he said. “That thing is toast, bro.”

"No," said Dos. "It is a Toast-Err, and I can make it better."


I kept getting a busy signal from the radio station.

“Goddamnit,” I said, “Know what I think? I think the lazy MF DJ has the phone off his hook!”

“Actually,” said Dos, “it's that Nickleback Ticket Giveaway, from like, twenty-five minutes ago. So many of these morons simply don’t realize a Winner got through--after exactly 11 point eight seconds had elapsed.”

I said:

“You mean people are still calling in, trying to win Nickleback tickets?”

Critiquo Primero leaned the battered broomstick against a hat rack in the corner.

“Yah,” he said, “’Fraid so, Amigo.”

“That is insane,” I said. "Absolutely insane!"

“So?”

“So the ubiquitous, formulaic band Nickleback completely fucking SUCKS, man!”

“Preachin’ to the choir, babe,” said Primero, buffing the chrome trim of my Kenmore microwave with an oily rag wrapped around his fat forefinger.

“Indubitably,” echoed Dos. “And doubly-dubious, to boot.”

“Man,” I said, “that lead singer’s voice sounds like an amped-up Bob Vila radial arm saw on This Old House!”

“That’s no shit, homey,” said Primero, “one of those high powered dangerous Craftsman models that only New England Norm knows how to handle.”

“Nam,” said Dos.

"Wha?" Primero said.

“It’s New England Nam, with his Radial Ahhm Sawyah.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s out of fucking control; somebody needs to put a stop to it.”

“Hey, why are you calling the radio station, anyway?” asked Primero.

“TO TELL THEM IF THEY DON’T STOP PLAYING NICKLEBACK SONGS, AND GIVING AWAY TICKETS, I’M GONNA ORGANIZE A BOYCOTT!”

Dos stopped prodding the toaster with his little silver prong, and gave out a giggle.

“Oh that’s pretty rich. Ha-ha hahaha!”

“Yeah,” said Primero, “listen hoss, people fucking dig Nickleback, man. Okay? They really, really dig em! You'd be seriously pissing up a rope--to issue a silly ultimatum such as that."

I shook my head, determined. I kept hitting the REDIAL—over and over.

Dos said:

"More people buy Nickleback albums than voted in the recent Mid Term Elections.”

Critiquo Primero issued a long low whistle, as he worked over the microwave chrome, blowing hot condensation all over the trim, so he could buff it to high gloss.

“Oh you know," he said, "that is so true. And scary… Very very, very scary.”

“I’ve got to get through,” I insisted, punching away savagely on the Stone Age phone buttons, "I've just got to!"

“It’s like the Bottom of the Ninth,” said Primero, “and you’re never gonna win.”

“Goddamnit, I will make my voice heard! I will turn the Tide!”

“You know, I really like that XM Satellite Radio,” offered Dos, “except for Howard Stern. Don’t care for that man, at all. Although they did play a Fugazi song on the station called ETHEL the other day.”

Primero nodded slowly, scrubbing his red goatee in appreciative reflection.

“Encouraging,” he whispered. “Highly, highly encouraging.”

“I think the fucking phone is definitely off the hook,” I muttered, “Dipthong Dee-Jay is all kicked back, sucking a tab of X, while he watches the pretty green and purple lights going off all over his switchboard!”

“The Joke’s on you,” said Dos, “the Joke’s always gonna be on you.”

Across the street, some asinine tree trimmer cranked up his chainsaw.

Reaching into my chamois shirt pocket for the Vicodin I’d sworn to save until suppertime, I plucked out the lint-covered horse pill, dry-swallowing it with a jaw-jittering shudder.

Then I hunched over the bland, ancient phone, settling in for a long afternoon.

Critiquo Primero raised his pale face up to the glorious mid-May sun, soaking up as many rays as he could. Then, a powerful pollen sneeze broke the bliss of the moment, and he realized in that instant how very hot and sticky he was, with the buzzing of bees and flies and such, ever at his elbow, frightening him a little.

He ducked back inside Quenapril's ultra-cool sub basement, where his pals were shooting some serious Bumper Pool.

As Primero approached the table, Quenapril looked up, pointing his cue stick like a Star Wars scepter.

“You got some nostril snot hangin’ there, bro,” Q said.

Dos Passive Critiquo chuckled. “Yeah, quite a bit of it. Like Autumn raindrops on a gnarly old broad leaf!”

This cracked Q up; he and Dos had a good long belly laugh, at Primero’s expense.

“Yuk it up, fuckers. This here’s broke-heart snot. It’s a perpetual flow, on account of anymore the World terrifies me so. Unlike y’all, who are so dense you could never appreciate the gravity.”

“Sorry, Broke Heart Bro,” Dos and Q offered, in nasal unison, like Yellow Brick Road commiseration munchkins. Then they started laughing again.

“Hey, that reminds me,” said Critiquo Primero, “weren't we gonna talk about All Time Sappiest Songs of Unrequited Love. Like, where the singer has gotten his heart totally ripped out, and he watches it writhing on the pink bathroom tiles, like a post T-storm earthworm on the steam-slathered driveway.”

“Well then,” said Quenapril, “howz about “Operator”, by Slim Jim Croce. A true Piss and Moan Masterpiece.”

“Ooooooh,” said Dos. “His ‘Best Old X Friend, RAY! A guy she said she knew… and sometimes HATED!”

“She sometimes hated him,” said Q, “but she’s sure enough fucking him now.”

“Poor Jimbo,” said Primero, “whenever I hear that song I find myself wishing he could somehow hook up with the Operator.”

Quenapril hit a viciously-calculated pool shot, using eight caroms that sank two cherry red balls in opposite corners. “Yeah,” he said. “What if the Operator is a guy. Ever think of that, bright boy?”

“Guy, Girl, Bi, Gay, Trans-Gen. It don’t matter. Solace is solace, my friend.”

“Okay," offered Dos, "what about Sylvia’s Mother?”

“What about her?”

Quenapril sighed.

“Another abysmal phone call. It’s always about the Phone Calls. These sorry losers think they’re gonna make it all better, by reaching out to touch someone.”

“Reach out and touch... Like a red-hot stove top burner. Chillens never learn.”

“Yeah guys," said Primero, "but check it out: Sylvia’s Mother is so COLD!”

“Indeed," added Dos. "Sylvia’s catching the 9 o’ Clock Train with her new lover, just so she can get the fuck away from Moms.”

“Hahahahahaha!”

“Fucking good one.”

Q massaged his cue stick, lining up the shot that would sink all Dos’s hopes.

“But check it out,” he said. “I give you the Best of the Bunch: “Sail On” by Lionel 'Train' Ritchie.”

“Oooooooh, the buttery tones!”

Critiquo Primero nodded.

“Nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“Small town boy like me,” squeaked Dos, trying to rattle Q in the act of scoping the critical pool shot, “... Just wasn’t your Cup of Tea!”

At that instant, Quenapril rammed the winner home, the last ball diving into its appointed pocket with a sound like the report of a pellet gun.

“Wishful Thankin'.”

Critiquo Primero cleared his throat diplomatically. He knew the mercurial Dos to be a sore loser, who was like to go off.

“Ummmm... I really love “Sail On” and I'll tell you why: Because the Commodore is not pissing and sniveling, but rather, He's 'thrown away da blues/ tired of being used'... Looking, indeed, for a GOOOOOOD TIME.”

“What about Freebird?” snapped Dos, smarting from his loss. “Freebird, yeh yeh yeh yeh yeh.”

“That’s different, Dos. Totally different, than what we were talking about. I’m afraid the consensus is definitely going to be “Sail On.”

“I concur,” said Quenapril. “Now, why don’t you Sail On down to the Costco, pick up a case of Red Bull. And some Butt Wipe…. Oh, and some coffee filters, also. OR-- maybe some of those really expensive French coffee filters, that can double as Butt Wipe.”

“You are one Sick Puppy, Q.”

“Why thank you, Monsieur Primo. Thank you.”