Carol has kindly pointed out in a PM that I got honourable mention on this thread. She didn't mention that she used me as one of the Ratatouille arses (mine's not the most attractive arse in the picture.)

To me, this thread seems to be full of misconceptions. First of all, I didn't write the original post. It may have been written less for parody than for balance. Our Guest poster wrote a rather mild piece and left a wee bit of room for Little Hawk's arse to fit in nicely.

Secondly, I have never seen Little Hawk in his swimming trunks, not even shorts. He probably wears those long stripped trunks that you'd expect Fatty Arbuckle to wear in old movies that goes down to his knees and up to his nipples.

I really don't know. I wasn't the person who was in Murray Clealand's hot tub with Little Hawk. Nor did I ever see him in a kilt. I have many strange memories of the hawk but I have no outstanding memories of his arse. For example, I remember waking up in the back seat of his car when he was driving home to Orillia. He was telling Carol about the time President Carter was thoroughly eaten by killer bunnies, about the CIA whacking bunnies out of the water with paddles, shooting at them with pistols and spraying the poor little bunnies with volleys tear gas, all in vain as more and more bunnies munched on the blandest of presidents without even ketchup. Earlier, the Hawker had been talking about spiritual things when I dozed off. Puts me to sleep. I don't know about you.

I will admit that I knew Murray many years before Little Hawk did. I knew Murray back when he lived on Mount Saint Louis Road and his son Toddy terrorized neighbors - neighbors like Frenchie, part of the family with the 99-year lease on the hamburger and chip stand across from Couchiching park. We used to play guitar and drums in Frenchie's garage with Jerry Brown and Murray but that's another story. Frenchie played the trumpet. Susie blew something too.

A final misconception, Amergin, may be that Little Hawk was accusing me of writing the Guest post. I'm not sure. He may be calling on me as an arse expert to immortalize his arse. He's probably already wrenched his back trying to see his spindly ass and write lyrics about it. The guy would never think of anything practical like using a mirror or asking Unis at Song Circle to describe it for him. Besides he know that I can write much better than him about these things. I could write alarming stories about his strange fingernails, his hats, his funny clothes, his harmonica purses, etc. Unfortunately, as I mentioned above, my Little Hawk arse memories are thin.

Last night, poet Mike Rowbottom mentioned to me in Newmarket that that he saw Unis and Larry and a bunch of other folks like Half-Dead-Ted on Thursday night at Don's Coffee House. Turns out, Don has a strawberry social 4 o'clock this afternoon at the Coffeehouse featuring Half-Dead-Ted, Jack and the other fellow. Mike plans to go.

Rowbottom has written great poems since I talked him into moving away from the whimsical towards his painful failures with women. He had been writing these light little poems about the sky and the moon and the ducks but, at the same time, he would keep me in Newmarket until 2 in the morning telling me great stories about his life and how women hurt him.

A couple of weeks ago Mike wrote 20 poems in the one week. That was the week after I pushed him to write about sex or lack of sex. He attributes the 20 poems to a woman who believes she had energy placing her hand on his chest and making him feel electrified. Yeah, electrified like Ted Bundy.

The friday after he wrote the 20 poems, the Corner Coffee House held their monthly Moving Finger Poetry Open Mike hosted by Doritta Kozak. (Marie Lynn Hammond has been out to the poetry readings since Doritta took over.) I was confused by the schedule and went on the wrong night. I normally avoid poetry nights. Well Mike gave the best reading that I ever hear him give. He had great poems and really connected with the audience. He singled me out by introducing first poem with, 'I wrote this poem for my friend Dave who told me that if I wrote like Leonard Cohen I might have a chance of getting even one woman.' But that ok. I can take it.