I remember everything. I was barely 17, and I once
owned an american guitar. I don't remember if it was
a Telecaster or a Stratocaster, but I do remember
that it had a heart of chrome, and the voice of a
horny angel. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster
or a Stratocaster, but I do remember that it wasn't
at all easy. It required the perfect combination of
the right power chords, and the precise angle from
which to strike. The guitar bled for about a week
afterwards. The blood of the guitar was smooth, dark,
and rich like wild berries. The blood of the guitar
was Chuck Berry red. The guitar bled for about a week
afterwards, but it rung out beautifully, and I was
able to play notes that I had never even heard
before. So, I took my guitar, and I smashed it
against a wall. I smashed it against the floor. I
smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader.
I smashed it against the hood of a car. I smashed it
against a 1981 Harley-Davidson. The Harley howled in
pain, the guitar howled in heat, and I ran up the
stairs to my parents bedroom. Mommy and daddy were
sleeping in the moonlight. Slowly I opened the door,
creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of
their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head,
and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing
down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up
screaming STOP! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do
you think you're doing!? That's no way to treat an
expensive musical instrument. And I said, GODDAMNIT
daddy! You know I love you, but you've got a hell of
alot to learn about ROCK & ROLL!!!
