Time for another chapter for my column: Gong Gong. I believe if I can keep this up for a number of years the little tidbits strung together will be pretty entertaining as a 10, 15 or even 60 minute read thru — perhaps perfect little ditties for your brief diversionary moments on the shitter.This little moment in time took place 26 or 27 years ago in San Francisco. I was visiting my mom who was at the time living with a Mormon family in Palo Alto. (I only stayed there once since I smashed a violin over the owners son’s head and punched and broke an antique desk that was apparently owned by the owner’s late wife.)At the time I was immersed in music and especially any music that had to do with the electric guitar. And my mom, always graciously pandering to things related to my ambitions to become the world’s next great guitar player, brought me to a Stevie Ray Vaughn concert. We had seats right by the side of the stage in front of the pit; awesome view.Man I was super enjoying the show, and to think a short time after that SRV would be killed in a helicopter crash. I was this skinny 110 pound kid with straight long hair.Life was good man. Stevie Ray. The blues. Wailing notes. Damn. Me sitting there with my mom who was just about 30 at the time.So we’re casually watching the show when this burly aged white guy comes ambling up to us as if he’s got a can of tuna clenched in between his ass cheeks and he leans over and says: “So you wanna dance?”I look over at my mom and then back at the slobbering white dude and I realize in horror that I did not need to defend my mother’s honor, this disgusting piece of semi-humanity was speaking to me!In shock. I didn’t say a word. I just slowly shook my head in disbelief.Smelly Joe walked away mumbling in jilted response: “Skwa” (an epithet for a female Native American Indian).Fuck you, Indiana.

I am writing this mini-blog to entertain you with true stories that can only resonate with the sonic sound: gong gong (you need to imagine the final syllable echoing into the vast distance of infinite space).Many years ago when I was a wayward teen living in Vancouver my buddy Chris, a native Canadian Indian (from I don’t know what tribe), and I decided to run away from the group home we were currently staying in. We weren’t abused or treated poorly, running away was just a past time – an automatic quick fix adventure button that was activated when one skips curfew. We had little money, but this time enough to jump on a bus for no where. On this particular bus ride we met this emaciated slimy looking Bohemian dude in a faux leather jacket with a hairdo that looked like an afro that had been attacked by a swamp beast. His eyes were slits and if he had eyeballs they were sunk deep into his skull. His voice was snake like and could be immediately cast as any slithering riffraff in the great swallowing ghettos of urbanity. I don’t remember his name.But when I showed him my toy knife – the one with the retractable blade – he immediately asked if he could hold on to it. Chris and I looked and each other and shrugged our shoulders. No worries.Slithery asked us if we had ever done an Eat-and-Run. Neither Chris and I had done this before, so we decided as a twisted triumvirate that we would give this a whirl. We jumped off the bus at a seemingly random spot and chose an Italian restaurant to launch our escapade. We ordered exponential amounts of pizza and pasta filling our bellies.Slithery then instructed it was time to make our way out back. Chris for some reason I can’t understand decided to stay behind; he just didn’t feel like running.So after taking a piss in the bathroom Slithery and I jet out the fire escape which led out to a back alley and out to the main street. There were three HUGE motherfuckers waiting for us – one was a giant looking Indian Chief. We peeled off with our lives in our throats and blasted across the main street with no thought for our lives – thankfully it was late and night and there was not much traffic (if at all, I can’t recall as I was expecting impending doom). After crossing the street we ran into an open field, whereupon Slithery gasped that he couldn’t continue anymore… he was certainly no physical specimen. I remember hearing him clearly say: “I can’t run anymore” and from the corner of my eye I saw him stop, turn and pull out the toy knife I gave him. “Come any closer you fuckers and I’ll cut you!” is what I heard.FUCK.That was all the impetus I needed to have a new surge of adrenalin kick in and as I saw the three presumably angry men triangulate Slithery I ran faster and crashed right thru a wall of thorn bushes and ran further until I saw a dumpster which I immediately jumped into without a thought for the stench and grimy contents that laid within.

I never saw Slithery again.I didn’t move for what could have been hours.Until I heard Chris’s voice: Vernon! Vernon!I poked my head out of the dumpster and there was Chris, clearly alone and walking the streets. I watched for a while to see if it was a trap, but no… it would seem that Slithery paid in kind for our meal.What can I say?GONG GONG.