MR. GONG 

The year is 1993 and I’m strolling down Abbot Kinney, Venice with my dog Sniffer. It’s not even a year since the riots and a rather cool January night. As I turn right on Palms Blvd I hear the subwoofer’s pounding beat of G-funk when a well polished black Coupe Deville ‘74 with chrome rims cruises by. Soft, fuzzy dice dangling in the mirror and a personalized license plate stating “LEGAL”. 

Before long I bump into my old acquaintance Jack. Oozing purple, he is riding his metallic green tricycle, fully equipped with the Cali bear flag, boom box, long rearview mirrors and a black horn. After some catching up, I learn that my friend has left his old trade and is now a serious green activist, hosting his own grow house on Electric Avenue. Started out with tomato plants and evolving into a first class weedologist under the guidance of notorious head shop owner Mr. Gong. 

“It’s all about perfecting the strain’s molecular composition, constantly pushing the art of sativa to a new level” he declares. With some luck a very potent hybrid will to be harvested within the next couple of days. However, with his new call comes the risk of being grassed on by competing operators and vicious neighbors. Jack points out “The boys in blue have been extremely attentive in the area since the lockdown of the Muscle Beach building between 18th and 19th. One thousand five hundred plants were confiscated and made the smell of bubblegum linger around the block for what seemed days.”  Meanwhile, look who’s here if not Venice’s Finest, Mr. Gong himself. 

“Hey man, how ya’ll doin’?” he wheezes carrying a wicker basket in one hand. The pager attached to his belt beeps, but he ignores it. “Thank God for my homies looking out for me this mornin’ giving me time to close down the action. I rushed out with the plants but left my own specialized fertilizer blend behind and you know, these lil’ babies need to eat.” Mr. Gong lifts up one of the scrawny clones planted in a red plastic cup from the basket and takes in the aroma. Then, generating a one-hitter from the breast-pocket of his garden vest, he lights up and exhales, creating a large cloud of smoke. “Precious Mother. This Chronic is just amazing man.”