also written under the name of "Race Track Hack"

HIGH NOON AGAIN

It seemed like everyone in town was there to see me off. "Here's to Hack", said Fat Phil, raising his glass for a toast. "A man who has single handedly run roughshod over every song writing, guitar playing, bourbon swilling lunatic that ever passed through this town! If Hack hadn't been up all night keepin' all those crazies busy, there's no telling what they mighta ended up doing!"

"That's right," chimed in Rodney L.T. Coombs. "Hack made the streets of this town safe for women and children to walk down in the daytime. That's 'cause all them rounders, hustlers and ne'er-do-wells who'd been partying all nights with Hack, were home sleepin' it off!".

"Here, here!" chimed in a sea of voices, including Mr. and Mrs. Irish Irving, Tall Tom, Breaker Bob, two big guys named Ed and Ms. Melody Mistletoe, among others

"I'm deeply touched," I replied. "Thank you one and all." "It's a dirty job, but someone had to do it," smiled my classy friend Boston Babe, as she slid her arm into mine. "But now, Mr. Hacking is going on vacation, where his late nights will consist of scrabble games and listening to the crickets chirping outside the cottage." Truth was, I was being kidnapped. And, I didn't feel like putting up a struggle. "I feel kinda bad about leaving you all - who's gonna be party marshall while I'm gone?"

Just then, the Professor barged in the front door, looking wide-eyed and sweaty. He was out of breath, as he handed me an e-mail print-out from the Yukon.

 "It's terrible, just terrible!" muttered the Professor, as I read the e-mail message in silence.

"Its from Whitehorse - Mikel Miller's gotten antsy, and he's hitting the road again. His projected time of arrival is noon today!" I said.

There was a gasp throughout the room.

"Miller's comin' in for noon - that doesn't leave us much time...."whispered Tall Tom.

"You and Boston Babe better hurry and get a cab to Union Station for the noon train to Muskoka!"

"I can't go and leave you here like this," I said.

"What's this all about?" asked Boston Babe. "You can't stay!"

"Mikel Miller," said Fat Phil,"is a crazed prehistoric Yukon buffalo of a man. Every now and then he heads to Toronto and the only man who can ride over him is Hack."

"It's terrible," chimed in Ms. Melody Mistletoe. "They stay up for nights on end, drink all the bourbon, write rude songs and generally terrorize the planet."

"C'mon, we'll get a cab and be at the train station in 10 minutes," pleaded Boston Babe. "Chances are, if you're not here, there won't be any trouble!"

"I can't go Boston. But my friends are all here. Maybe if we all stick together, drinkin' tea and listening to Mantovani records, Miller'll get bored and go away. Maybe there won't even be any trouble," I offered hopefully.

"I can't take the chance, Hack," piped up Irish Irving. "I've got a wife and kids to think about."

"Me neither," said Fat Phil, shaking his head sadly. "Have you forgotten what kind of man Miller is? Have you forgotten how he sat in that chair, watching the sun come up, after 10 straight days of whiskey, guitars and no sleep? Have you forgotten how he said, "I'll come back, and we'll do it all again Norm Hacking, I swear, I'll come back!'?"

And so,..... I was alone.

I'd just finished writing my last will and testament, when I heard the roar of a 30 year-old Chevy engine in the driveway, just as the clock on the wall struck high noon

I opened the door and there stood Miller, guitar in one hand, espresso machine in the other, with a bottle of George Dickel bourbon tucked under each arm.

"Let's get at 'er," he growled.

A month later, after Miller'd left, a dozen of my friends arrived at my door. I stepped outside, rather than invite them in.

"You look bad - it musta been rough," said Tall Tom sheepishly. "Did you manage to co-write any songs while Miller was here?"

"As a matter of fact, we did," I said, taking a sheet of paper from my pocket, glancing briefly at the lyrics and then crumpling it into a ball and dropping it at my feet. Then, I brushed past them and hailed a cab to the train station, for a much needed vacation - a little sadder, a little wiser, and as hung over as the city of Dublin on the 18th of March!

(editor's note: Race Track Hack has been known to spin the odd tall tale. This isn't one of them. For the brave and curious, Miller and Hacking appear in concert Oct. 17th at Toronto's Tranzac Club, 292 Brunswick Avenue at 8 pm.)