Down the Pinehill back-step, it was a less than sturdy place, that crumbled underneath Hahn's feet, and thus his fall of grace. He might have been Godzilla, if he were more or less discrete. It was a 9 foot drop with 8 lives left and he landed on his feet. He didn't lose his cool, boys. He didn't break a sweat. He didn't drop his beer or cigarette.... We took a ride to the city, to the city stone-green. And dropped in the Showbox to soak up that scene. The star was dark that night beneath a crescent moon. We found our place in time and space while the orchestra tuned. They kicked off with Sugaree, and much to Hahn's delight, it was a Lisa Mackey night. Now he dreams of Darkstar Donna riding shotgun rodeo all the way to Mexico where the midnight rooster crows... This livin' aint easy but no one can tell. No dissin' Terry from the well. Ring the mission bell... Up the Cherry Hill backstep, a much sturdier place. The gathered sit around the fire pit and speak of Spanish pace. Hand on the bottle, feet off the floor. Panic from the living room and a cock above the door... Now he dreams of Darkstar Donna riding shotgun rodeo, all the way to Mexico where the midnight rooster crows.

j.mogi