Conversation Piece, 1988
Q: What the hell are you doing?
A: I am in Guns n’ effin Roses. Do you even know that band? Do you even know what good music sounds like? No you don’t because you are an out-of-touch computer programmer. You have not noticed the six strands of floss taped to this tennis racket which make power chords under my fingers. You missed the bus man. Roy Orbison is freaking blind or something. You are so lost man; you have no idea about the skull I drew on myself with a sharpie marker; you and your dull days at the office and visiting grandma; you and your talks about ‘responsibility’ and ‘work’. I’m sick of pulling out weeds in the backyard every weekend and watering the roses. There’s this thing called ‘hard rock’ which does not go well with Saturday afternoons at Home Depot browsing for bags of pot soil. Do you even know what a riff is? Let me tell you: a riff is something that makes the girls go wild. I’m currently churning out a thick heavy riff on this couch so please move away as I jump onto the cracked coffee table. Okay, you can take money out of my allowance to fix that leg. Later man, I’m going upstairs to practice my moves, since it’s getting a little stale with you here and that nasal spray of yours. Breathe, Dad!
Q: Hey, what’s the answer to question six?
A: n = 0, like the number of times I’ve kissed a girl. One of these days n is gonna = 1. Okay, I’m obviously just saying this in my mind and staring at you with a dumb look on my face. Hey, let’s get out of here. I’ll steal my dad’s Honda and we can drive to Mexico and get loco with the locals. Get insane in the membrane. Okay, I can’t drive. How about you let me buy you an ice cream cone and we can hang out at the swing set? I got my Slash moves down flat. Still need to buy a wig though…
Q: Take out the trash now.
A: Ma, please. First of all, that’s not a question, but more like a demand, and I don’t feel comfortable with that. I know we get along and everything watching Oprah, but I’m 13 years old now. I’m a teen, Ma, not your Walgreens buddy anymore. Looks like you’ll be shopping for flashlights and water filters yourself. Sorry, GNR’s got a gig tonight and I still need to practice. Michelle—the one whose name I painted on my stapler with your nail-polish—might be there! The one we saw with her friends at the movie theatres that time when I forced you and Dad to take me home that instant. What was that movie we were going to see anyways? Michelle sits in front of me in my Algebra class. I help her with her homework. Her almond eyes uncurl my cashew if you know what I mean. Forget it, you don’t understand. You don’t know about a man’s needs. Thanks for making jello by the way. It rocked. Okay, I’ll take out the trash, just after I whip out this guitar solo. Move back.
Q: Do you know where you are?
A: I’m in the jungle man, and I’m gonna die! Axl, my brother! I understand it, man. This world’s a pretty messed up place, I’ll tell you. Hey, I got my bandana on too. I’m in the jungle, man. My parents got me working around the clock doing dishes and even pulling out weeds on the weekends. My dad even made me trim the entire lawn with a pair of shears. No worries, bro. It’s the jungle, man. You said that right! I am indeed in the jungle of teen life. It’s all good, Mr. Rose, I just put on my headphones and crank up the volume to your kick ass tunes. And when the neighbors ask my parents if I have a mental disability or some neurodegenerative disease, I just tell them to look away. Look away! Your old eyes cannot handle what hard rock looks like on stage. You can’t deal with these riffs and the chicks. Here comes the drum solo. Kick it!
Jimmy Chen's humor pieces have appeared in Feathertale, Johnny America, Yankee Pot Roast, McSweeney's, and the Big Jewel. He writes as Marilyn Manson for Newsgroper.