You Heard Me!

Not too long ago, I talked about how I don't believe in swear words. In there, or at least it should have been in there, was a tacit acknowledgment that I'm well aware that my feelings on this are very much in the minority. I try to temper my language accordingly.

But of course, there was always the etiquette/protocol/what-have-you about what one could say in front of your parents.

I remember saying "cock-knocker" at a New Years Eve party when I was about 11 or so. I didn't even know what I was saying. I was parroting a movie (Stand By Me). I got it good for that one. I probably got it worse for yelling "CHILD ABUSE!" when my father started giving me a butt smacking, but cut the kid me some slack...I had no clue what I said was "wrong" at the time. Both cock-knocker and yelling abuse.

My father was the more lenient of the two parental units, by far. My mother wouldn't tolerate the use of "sucks," in the context of something being bad, or unfavorable. She was always a bit old-fashioned, though. A few months before she died, we were at a family gathering. She made some remark that was startlingly quaint, and I asked her if she was actually able to hear us all the way back there in the '50s.

Once, while driving her back from somewhere or another, as we were close to home (I know exactly where for my readers who are geographically inclined to know: the stop light off the Rt 10 S Furnace Branch Road exit ramp), I dropped a fuck in to a sentence. I immediately got the earful. Unfortunately for her, she summed it up with "what if I were to just say it, huh? Fuck! What do you think of that?" Ruined her poor argument, as I retorted, "I think it's pretty funny, and kinda cool." Ah, Mom. The woman who told me only weeks before she died that she didn't think I'd like a guy like George Carlin because he was so "blue." As in his language, not his mental state of mind.

Now, Dad...well, he could curse with the best of them. Kind of like the father from "A Christmas Story." Except he was pretty careful not to drop the f-bomb around me. But hells, damns, sonuvabitches...dropped like crazy. But I remember distinctly when I learned how lenient he would be with me. I was probably right over the age of 18. I think had I been under 17 he'd been more strict, out of the notion that 18 magically makes you an adult. But we were in our backyard, and moving these cinder blocks. I dropped one on my foot. My reaction was as natural to me as scratching an itch, or blinking. "OW FUCK!" sums it right up.

Pause. Dad looks at me. Sizes me up. "What did you just say?"

No hesitation, I look at him and say "You heard me! I said fuck, I just dropped a cinder block on my foot!"

He gives me a another sizing up, followed up with a patented father stare/appraisal that I think is imprinted in the Raeke DNA, then when I don't back down, says, "That's what I thought you said. Just don't say that in front of your mother."

Fuckin' duh, Dad.

Shakabuku

Debi: You know what you need?
Marty: What?
Debi: Shakabuku.
Marty: You wanna tell me what that means?
Debi: It's a swift, spiritual kick to the head that alters your reality forever.
Marty: Oh, that'd be good. I think.

Now, watch this short clip. I'll wait. Or as I see all over the web, we'll continue after the jump.

(I apologize for the clips dialogue not being in English, but the dialogue really has nothing to do with it)

It's what I needed. And I got it. I can't thank the people that helped enough, including my wonderful wife who put up with a whole lot of my bullshit as I not only suffered, but suffered in silence (and sometimes not so silently) and projected it all over everyone around me. And I should thank all those people that tried to get through to me. And apologize to them, as well, not for not hearing you, but not wanting to hear you.

And in a funny way, I should thank the folks who dropped a boatload of negative vibes in my lap recently. Your actions allowed the cup to spilleth over, as it were, and you set in motion the events that lead me to sit here, and for the first time in years, truly feel like myself again. Or at least, that my true self is emerging from a slumber, stretching arms and yawning, gaining bearing.

For close to 10 years I've had a myriad of reasons to shelter myself. Fear based reasons. Fear of being hurt emotionally by anybody. Fear of security (life security, that is). Fear of non-acceptance. The list goes on. And these fears made me want to shove myself in to this very small box of how I thought people wanted me to be. Except I forgot one person's opinion about who I should be: me.

My work life grew more structured, I grew more frustrated, I squeezed more in to the box, I got in to more trouble, I tried squeezing more in to the box, I grew even more frustrated. And all the while, the more worse it grew, the more I was bringing this home. Home, the one place I actually felt happy. Except I had changed my standards of happy. The emotional state I would have called happy years ago was much higher than the happy I accepted for myself now. In truth, comparably, I was miserable. I had committed one of the worst acts a person can do as they traverse the rocky road of life: I brought my work home with me. And even worse, since I had lowered my own standards, not only didn't I realize I was doing this, I had no clue how it was affecting everything around me.

Owa Ta Nas Iam. Say it, you'll get it.

I have no idea what the future holds, and that's the point. For the first time in a long time, I don't care. Because I have a beautiful wife who has more patience than humanly possible for being able to weather my years long stormy weather. I have an incredible daughter, who with every passing day grows more and more amazing, and whose laughter I could listen to forever. I own my own home, and while it's not the Taj Majal, it's my mine, and my families. It's more than shelter, more than concrete foundations and wood, it has metaphysical meaning as well. It's a tangible crucible of love, friendship, and many more.

And my family doesn't end there. I have a mother in law who loves me, perhaps even if I were her biological son. I have a father-in-law who appears to be pulling his life back together as well, albeit from a different direction. I have aunts and uncles who are nothing but loving and supporting. I have cousins who have always kept me grounded and humbled. I have half-brothers, while distanced, who would probably be there if I absolutely needed them. I even have great pets.

Basically, I have a great family. An awesome one. I had great parents, who unfortunately are no longer with us, but they're sure to be proud of me, and even prouder that after being knocked down, I'm getting back up, dusting off, and standing tall and defiant.

I am not defined by what I do. I am defined by who I am, by my relationships with those close to me. I am no longer afraid of what people who truly don't matter in the long run think of me. I'm not really afraid of what the people close to me think of me, either, but for them, at least I do care what they think of me, and caring doesn't equal fear.

I am me. And I'm going to be the best damn me there's ever been. Let the chips fall where they may. Hopefully, they fall in the right spots. But no matter what, forward ho, friends. Forward ho.

Now, Why Did I Do That?

Have you ever done something in the past that you vividly remember doing...

...but you can't for the life of you remember why? Or at least the pertinent details.

Kind of a weird phenomenon, but it happens to me entirely too often. For instance:

Around 99-00, my band was playing a show at a club in Baltimore. During the show, and I mean during the show, we were on stage playing, I threw a full cup of water on to the lead singer/guitarist. Not as a joke. I was pissed off. One step from actually walking off the stage pissed off.

But I can NOT remember why I was so angry. Only one aspect do I remember: that he had said something about me in to the open microphone. I've talked to the bandmembers in the recent past about it, as well as friends who would have been at the show. All that I've pieced together is that we had apparently been bickering about something but it hadn't been "broadcast" as it were. But I must have said something right before he stepped to the microphone that got to him, and bam, he's bad mouthing me to the entire crowd. Seconds later, he got a bachelor's shower. Not long after, we're downstairs at this club where the bands hung out before or after sets arguing, with the bassist and drummer between us. That picture there is taken in that very room, in fact.

Man, I wish I could remember those details. And a thousand other details. Not sure I ever will, though.

Swears

I won't lie to you.

I don't believe in swear/curse words. In this manner (amongst others) I'm a (George) Carlinite. Words are words. We, as human beings, give them their meanings, both denotation and connotation. This is why we have so many different languages, and even more dialects within those languages. Our brains have associated sounds with meanings.

And somewhere along the line, someone or a group of someones said "don't say those words. Those are bad words." I thought words could never hurt me? I mean, that's what we were always taught to say/think as kids, right? Stick and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me. So how can there possibly be a bad word?

There can't. It's an antiquated bunch of crap. Excuse me, shit. There's nothing wrong with the word shit. People only think there is because they've been conditioned to feel so. Look at how other words have gotten desensitized over the years. Mark my words, many more will follow, because words are only words. We are the ones who give them meaning. Without us declaring them good or bad, they are merely a grouping of sounds. Phonemes arranged in a manner in which our brain interprets as communication.

Here's another thing: you know how sometimes using such words is considered "vulgar"? You know the dichotomy of that word? You should check it out. I'll give you the condensed version: Vulgar meant peasant or commoner. After the Norman Invasion when Norman French were the nobility in England, French was the language of nobility. To be vulgar was to speak English. Like a commoner. You can see how it evolved in to speaking swear words in this day and age, but remember why exactly it was thought of as bad: a way to separate the upper crust from the lower.

I don't believe in swear words. I believe in words. Words can never hurt me. Only if I let them. I refuse to let words hurt me. I command the word, the word does not command me. Don't let it command you, either.

Tales From The Past: Bananas, Bananas, Those Freakin' Bananas.

As anyone who knew me from 1996-2004 can personally attest, if there was one thing I detested beyond anything else was bananas. Not the taste, nor the fruit itself, really. But the fact that I was the banana fetcher.

See, my mother had muscle cramping. Her doctor said it was from low potassium, and said the easiest way to remedy that would be to eat more bananas. So, no matter where I would be, and it would always seem to be the most annoying or inopportune moment (like 11pm at night), I'd get a page (yes, in the days of pagers) or a cell call from my mother telling me to pick her up some bananas.

Oh, how many times did I rail against the yellow, slightly curved, loved by primates fruit. Those damn bananas, man. You know how they say you spend X amount of time in your life sleeping, in line, etc? I think I spent 10% of my life fetching freakin' bananas. That and milk, but we've all had to make late milk runs. You know how much of a dumbass you look like at a grocery store at 11:30 at night with a bunch of bananas...and only a bunch of bananas?

My mom's been gone for over a year now. But I still get a chill down my spine when I see a banana, smell a banana, someone talks about a banana.

I still eat 'em though. I'm a monkey at heart, after all.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy. Stay Gold.

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost