4 Hour Hard On

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.”

You go,


Take us
to the Bridge, Joe!

Mister You
Tube certainly
make blogging

easy some time, yes he do ;)

ROCKY RACCOON
a shard by John Bennett
(c) 2007


Holy sweet Jesus, mother of God! Was Jesus a woman? Not God but the mother of God? It wouldn't be the first inaccuracy recorded in the annals of history. Someone, or something, has torn down the fences in my mind. Oh! Give me room, lots of room, under starry skies above!

Fences make good neighbors. A frosty reception when you cross the property line from one part of your mind into another, armed with a picnic basket full of grenades. Grandmother Wolf took a bum rap. Little Red Riding Hood was out to get her. Do you see what I mean?

It doesn't matter. Step aside or get trampled. No time to say hello, goodbye--hello? Goddamn sonofabitch, they hung up on me. If you think you're confused now, keep reading.

I'm the stenographer of instinct. A natural. Grade A, #1. An Asian bride to take home to your Presbyterian family. At first they won't like me, but once I do my table dance and slip into your father's lap, their feelings will get a little jumbled.

"She's not all that bad," dad will say.

"Hell, she can sleep in my room," says little brother.

"That woman cannot stay the night in my home!" says mom.

Sister Jane slips her a note that says meet me out back when the lights go out.

You check the byline of this story, and it's a man's name. So how can I be an Asian war bride decades after the war has moved to greener pastures?

Life is full of riddles and questions. Life is riddled with questions. Life is like a heart that keeps beating long after it's been sliced out of the body. I'm a mild-mannered reporter who every time he steps into a phone booth turns into Superman. It's not a matter of personality transferral. It's a severance, without pay or gratitude.

It's just a job. The voices say Asian war bride, and I jot it down. I like my job. Once I punch in, I'm as free as a bird. It's punching out that brings the roof down around my ears.

Rocky Raccoon punches out some invented foe of vast proportions halfway through round ten. He stands ring center, one gloved fist raised in triumph. The crowd goes wild, and inside Rocky's head a tornado of insufferable existence rips out fences. His father goes twirling by with an Asian girl in his lap, and Rocky's fist floats down into neutrality.

It feels like there should be more to this story, but there isn't.

I was once in a Portland rock band that played
a whole bunch of Rory Gallagher cover songs.

This friend of mine, Aaron McCune, an amazing guitar player
in his own right, had totally cut his teeth on Rory's music.

Aaron could play so many of these great songs, note for note,
and he sang just like Rory, too. To say that my friend Aaron
was a bit obsessed with Rory Gallagher would be a major freaking
understatement. He even named his first-born son after the man!

Bottom line: I needed to learn Rory's repertoire, too, if I wanted
to gig with Aaron McCune. So, that is how my lifelong love for Rory
Gallagher and his music began.


This song is called


A Million Miles Away



ps: Some great video, as well--
to go along with the music.


Enjoy. ;)


--DM