Little Hawk has shown his true colors, and they are food-coloring and cheap vinyl to the core. This is the latest in his mismatched ventures into shallow self-glorification, egoistical flag-waving and spurious triviality as a life-long commitment. He brings a sense of disgust and a shadow of insulted didain to the sacred halls of MOAB and has revealed himself as a communist spy and six kinds of turncoat, a cheap fly-by-night whose keyboard will lie down for anyone's shekel, if only they will applaud afterwards. I say fie, fie.

A