Dehortatio

Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.

“If you don’t stop playing that damn guitar, I’m gong to hit you over the head with it.!” I knew my father wouldn’t follow through on his threat. I played an electric bass. A blow on my head would probably kill me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me my father had clobbered me with my bass. He had nearly killed me and had been in police custody for three days. I said, “That’s good. I hope he never gets out.” I was shocked by my voice. I had Elmer Fudd syndrome cupped with a vice an Elvis impersonator would die for. The doctor told me that my pronunciation was called rhotacism—a condition where you have trouble pronouncing “r”__ also called “Barbara Walters Syndrome.” The Elvis thing cannot be accounted for. But combined together rhotacism and Elvis Voice sound amazing. Imagine this in an Elvis voice:

“ Little wed cowvette,
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last

Little wed Cowvette
Baby, you much too fast
Yes, you awe
Little Wed Cowvette
You need to find a love that’s gonna last.”

Again, just imagine this sung in Elvis’ voice. I couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital to start a band. I got together with three guys I went to high school with. We had a band back then. We covered Bee Gees music. We weren’t too popular, but I had kept practicing and driving my father crazy. We reunited and named our new band Concussion after my recent head injury that had prompted my musical gifts.

Our first gig was coming up at “Blankety Blanks,” a club in Elizabeth, New Jersey right off the Rte. 1 Circle by the Goethals Bridge. We decided to do covers of Nirvana, The Police, and Jefferson Airplane. The crowd was wild, foot stomping for us to start. We led off with “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The crowd stood still, mouths open like they were hypnotized. When finished the first set, the crowd went wild, applauding and fist pumping for 20 minutes. Concussion was a raging success. Word spread. Gigs piled up. Money rolled in, along with a lucrative recording contract.

My brain damage had made me a star. We’re still flying high. To keep my gift, I discovered I had to be hit in the head with a brick once a month. It’s like my dad says, “It’s the price of success.” I forgave him and he’s part of the crew and does a good job smacking me on the head.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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