Indians took me hostage. They couldn't decide whether to skin me alive or drag me behind a horse or just plain use me for tomahawk practice. This was over near Black Creek, which was crawling that year with the seven-year locust. They finally decided to take me in. They gave me a new name, White Man Stumbles. I learned their savage ways, how to bring down a buffalo and all that crapola. In the meantime I taught them computer diagnostics, and how to use a spreadsheet, and where to go for the best gelato in town. And their music, you wouldn't believe all that tribal drum drum drum. It was like a Bow Wow Wow concert all the time. I turned them on to Grand Funk Railroad, got them into post-hardcore, warned them off of Huey Lewis and the News. Then trouble came. Gold was discovered in the nearby hills, and prospectors started encroaching on our land. There was violence, arrows and guns and all that foolishness. Gold hunters wound up looking like pincushions, people just like me only with no paint on their faces. I was torn. I was truly torn. I was in my buckskins, I was screaming like a crazy person, I was screaming like I did at the Genesis concert I saw back in 1979 or thereabouts. I can't remember if Phil Collins or Peter Gabriel was singing at that time. I had my bow and my arrow, and I was dangerous. I think it was Phil Collins, God forgive me.