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.