I have this problem. It’s unlike previous problems I’ve written about, but just-as if not more-so prevalent in my daily life. Just like my un-photographic memory, it has been with me my entire life. The only difference is…I’ve known about it the entire time. It wasn’t something I discovered on my own as I aged. The problem, of course, is a speech impediment. As a child, it was so bad it actually required speech therapy.

From the way my parents describe it, you would think I was retarded. Literally, I don’t think I could say half of the alphabet correctly. My first word, if you believe my parents, was “fire truck.” Of course, I couldn’t pronounce what in hindsight I refer to as the Wheel Of Fortune consonants: “R”, “S”, “T”, “L”, and “N”, so it sounded more like, “fi-yah fuck.” To make matters worse, I was a touch dyslexic, stuttered, also had a lisp. Things were hard for my retarded self. My older sister Elissa had to endure my calling her “Yitha”. I haven’t watched any of my childhood videos in quite some time, but they are truly a lesson in improper speech.

As I made my way through pre-school, I believe I got by purely because of my adorableness and my giant wang. There’s absolutely no reason I should have made any friends what with the way I butchered the English language. Still, I was always a popular kid with both the dudes and the chicks. This, in spite of my utter failure to speak like a normal human being.

As I entered kindergarten, a strange thing happened. It was a voice from above that yearned to see me grow up into a not-retard. Fate had conspired to change my future for the better. The voice was not that of some holy deity, but one of my neighbors. They were named Holly and Jill, and they were three years older than I. According to my mother, they use to torture me incessantly, but I did not recognize their cruelty and loved them for the attention they showed me. One day, either Holly or Jill approached my mother and told her that if I didn’t learn how to speak properly, I would be bullied upon reaching elementary school. They said it happened to someone in their class.

My neurotic mother instantly freaked out and decided that I was going to enter speech therapy. I don’t remember my instructor’s name, but she was a private tutor who worked out of her house. I still didn’t think there was anything wrong with me as a child, but I was scheduled several lessons per week. The only three memories I have of this stage of my life include the following: sitting in the bathtub with peanut butter on the roof of my mouth to practice saying the letter “L”, a hand-made board game shaped like an “S” that was supposed to teach me how not to lisp, and a small tin canister with a coin slot on top that I “won” at some point during my schooling. It was my first bank.

Eventually I learned how to conquer my slight stutter, the lisp, and the retarded pronunciation issues. All that remains of these horrible “dark ages” is my oral dyslexia. I’m constantly saying shit like “Zed Leppelin” or “voist magina”. One time I even called Rob Schneider “Rob Farkle” while in the middle of a dice game. If you spend enough time in my presence, you can pretty much count on hearing me mess up everything I try to say. What’s worse is, I get self conscious about it when someone calls me on it, and then the slight stutter and the mispronunciation issues return. I might never truly get over my speech issues. Maybe that’s why I write.

I must admit, I get a kick out of my inability to talk. I never know what I’m going to say next. Unlike my un-photographic memory, I think my vocal retardation is something I won’t mind enduring for the rest of my miserable, God-forsaken life.

***

The contest I began Friday has ended, so you can stop commenting or e-mailing me your list of the ten worst concerts you’ve ever seen. I was quite hesitant to start offering prizes for your contributions again, because the last time I tried it only four people entered the contest, and the only requirements were that you e-mail me your name and address. It was really, really close but Patrick from Chicago, who had the unfortunate luck of seeing Matchbox 20, Lilth Fair, Deep Blue Something (holy shit!) and Semisonic squeaked out a victory over Benjamin, whose bad-concert list included Loverboy, Three Doors Down and Smash Mouth. Jesus, you people have really seen some shitty bands. Congratulations Patrick, you’ve won a copy of the new Thalia Zadek CD, to-be-released tomorrow by Thrill Jockey. The album, by the way, sounds great.

Stay tuned for your next chance to win: On Friday the 25th there will be another contest, and this time the prize is a package deal: The brand-spankin’ new Clash DVD “Live Revolution Rock” and the band’s CD The Singles.

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