So a couple years ago I'm at a John Everson book signing for his horror novel Covenant. It's October in Indianapolis at the Borders smack in the pucker of Circle City. Everson and I had copy-edited lots of books for Necro. We talk. And then Shoopman says, "Tommy Chong's in the fucking store!" After he gets his fix, I start stalkin' the guy myself.
First, I go to the magazines 'cause—I shit you not—Tommy and Cheech are on the cover of High Times that month; it's their "Together Again" cover. I grab a pristine copy from the middle of the stack and then wait a helluva distance away as Tommy talks on his phone. When he claps it shut, I approach with reverence as if I'm meetin' the Dalai Lama, and I say, "Mr. Chong? Would you sign this?"
Has his own Sharpie. Accommodates me no problem, a pro—very mellow dude. He signs his headband to Jeff, see?
Then with both palms open, I carry it to the cash register and micro-manage the shit outta the poor cashier's every move, explaining the mag's importance. If it had been a bar instead of Borders, I'd've tipped him for all the shit I put him through. Monk Funk at it again...
So was it a coincidence that I met Chong? I think not. Fate, man. Badass rebel motherfuckers attract one another. That's how we roll. Law of attraction—but I wouldn't go so far as to sit in a group sweat lodge. Have you smelled people on the bus? Peace out. I think Dave's at the door.
(Scribble a whisper)
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