This morning, I chugged home from leaving Emma at Pre-School with the old Clash song "Straight to Hell" staccotto-rattling though my head insistently though my head. I needed that song more than I needed breakfast. When I got home, I headed straight for the stereo, couldn't get it on fast enough. When the music finally started. I filled up the whole living room, dancing all by myself.
Playing loud, rough music is one thing I do alone. I don't have to share it. It means the house is empty.
Maybe I'm chickening-out, but I'm not ready to do a walk-through of "Combat Rock" with a nine-year-old boy; even Liam. Ameuroasian war-babies, knowing your three rights, the subjects bring on the anger and meant-to-shock language. I think that he should understand these songs, but at the end of a school-day, I doubt I can work up the engery to play them.
The Pougues also swear when they are mad, or happy, or sad, or just plan stupid-drunk. They are emotional, they get sloppy, but they really are so sweet. You'd need to keep an eye in the Pougues when you took them anywhere. Telling my son that they swear for effect is easy, it's the feeling they want to give, it's the way some people talk, but I don't want to hear him talking that way.
A boy in Liam's class has the foulest mouth in the history of the 3rd grade. The other boys keep a tally of how many times he says "The F. Word" in a single day. He swears at the other kids, he swears at his teacher, he just swears. The other boys are not impressed; they laugh it it.
I really resent this child's bad habit. Jamie, my mother-in-law, and I don't swear in front of the children. When Liam was two years old, I dropped a frying-pan on my foot. "Oh fuck!," it made such natural sense. The words were ready to leap out of my mouth, but they hit the back of my gritted teeth, and I didn't say anything. If I don't swear in front of my children, why should this little twerp? The boy's mother is the image of polite and upright, I wonder if anyone has mentioned it to her.
My son hear senseless swearing every day, and I wonder when he's old enough to hear great, important music. Maybe I should be greatful; I can keep it to myself
In the dance of destruction, creators ceased to create and began to destroy.
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