Give Me Time

Just typing to see what comes out.

I think I'm getting old.  I thought the All Star Game pre game was bloated and over produced.

I was annoyed my 15 year old wouldn't take her headphones off while we all went bowling.

I try to use "whom" correctly.

There was a time that I always felt younger than I was.  I'm blessed that I looked younger than I am.  I play the part, well sometimes I do.  People told me I looked younger.  I was flattered.  But now, not only do I feel old, but feel like I'm acting old.

People tell me I'm a good story teller.  And I guess I am.  I take a little pride in weaving a perfect length story with good timing.    I have a few still waiting to be related here.  But I'm not ready to be funny yet.  Too much on my mind.

Restarting this is harder than I thought.  Give me time.

Ok.  Here I go.

I have not written in this blog for literally years.  And when I looked it up and read some of my old posts it seems almost like another person wrote them, which in a way is true, I guess.

Well, I'm going to give it a try again.  Although all the readers I used to have have been discarded from my life.  Some bridges were burnt by them, some by me.

A lot has happened in my life since my last log in.  I've gotten married, moved, had children, switched jobs, been sick, been well, been happy, been sad.  Isn't that just called "living" though?

So when I logged in today I noticed I had an unpublished post in my drafts.  It's about going to a bar in Hyde Park in Cincinnati with a former co-worker who now lives in Arizona.  I don't even remember writing it honestly.

I changed the name of my blog to Thinking and Driving because that is where I do my best thinking and analyzing and contemplating.  I drive too much really.  But it's part of my life.  And here I will post some of those thoughts.  Some funny, some weird, and when I'm ready, some sad.

I know that no one is reading this, so I guess it doesn't really matter.  Well that gives me a little more freedom anyway.

I'm not sure if it will last, but I'm giving it a try.  Besides I have this kick ass Mac Book Air and I'm using it as a Reddit machine and thats just sad.

The Guinness Toast

We scored a killer parking spot pretty near the Century Theatre in Oakley, site of the "Guinness Toast." It only took about 10 minutes of driving in circles, but it meant that I could leave my jacket in the truck. I'm not a particular fan of Guinness, but we were meeting some cool people that my friend had met by being a member of the "Reds Rally Pack." Like me, they liked going to crowded places and pointing out the shortcomings of others, like I'm sure that other people do to me. It was with them when I noticed that Rich Apuzo's shorts were about the length of "Pistol Pete" Maravich's, and made a horrible sight when seated on a low couch at the Party in the Park.

I shuffled quickly past a WEBN van on the way in. I didn't know that they would be there, so I envisioned the populace sporting mullets and combs tucked into their back pockets awaiting me inside. I was part right, as the striped shirt brigade was also in full force. I also happened to be wearing a striped shirt that night, but deep down I knew that I wasn't one of them. (I have never date raped or tried to have sex with a friend's girlfriend. You know who you are.) "The Dude" was there, who looks like anything but a dude.

BLARING on the stage was a band called Tantric. I think they were playing "Cumbersome" by Seven Mary Three, or something. I kept yelling for them to play Whitesnake or Creed. I know they could hear me over the din, because Jesus Christ himself was playing the drums for them. Jesus had no need for a shirt that night.

I had a good time at the show although the scratch off ticket offered by the "Guinness Girl" informed me that I was in fact "NOT A WINNER." I begged to differ, but it was too loud to hear my protest. I had seen her the night before at the Shell Station buying cold medicine. I briefly considered mentioning it, but decided it would be written off as a pathetic line.

After the show I was waiting in the lobby when I noticed a moving commotion coming my way. It was the band. The cover band, coming my way with groupies and hangers-on in tow. Evidently, the VIP area was upstairs, and I was in the way. The lead singer had a smirk/scowl on his face. I'm sure he was irritated that he had to be so close to people like myself. Myself being someone wondering how a cover band gets groupies. Maybe they were big fans of the savior.

Overall, a good night. I didn't win the trip to Boston, which was fine, only assholes have lived or come from Boston. I bought an old man in a Harley shirt a beer. He asked why I would do such a thing, and I told him that any Harley guy that would brave that crowd, deserved a free beer.

My 2 year old has perfected the art of putting a kids movie into the DVD player and leaving the room. The FBI warnings bore her so she gets disinterested and leaves. The remote is placed in a distant location usually on the other side of the room by her before she leaves, of course. She has also been born with a special "sixth sense". This sense is the uncanny ability to detect when her kids movie has been turned off or ejected from several rooms away from the television. Once the movie has been turned of of, this sense kicks in and compells her to return to the room to complain. Although she has the special gene for "DVD detection" she has evidently also received the gene that causes one to randomly pee on the bathroom floor without notifying her father. This is quickly relayed to the father by his sense of touch when he walks into the bathroom in his socks.

See the Wicked Miss Copeland post below?

A reporter from the Tampa Tribune offered to pay me if he could publish it in his paper.  Here's his email:

I'd like to use this post in The Tampa Tribune with a story that runs next week on school lunch boxes. I'd like to offer you $50 for it.

Can you please e-mail me at jhouck@tampatrib.com or call me at (813) 259-XXXX?

Jeff XXXXX
The Tampa Tribune
200 S. Parker St.
Tampa, FL, 33606

Never did see a penny of that money. 

I was going to start to call myself a coffee drinker, but remembered that my grandpa has drank black coffee for 60 years and I've had 3 caramel lattes.

Wicked Miss Copeland

The other day over chili spaghetti Hannah told me how much she liked her principal, but that she wasn't working now because she "went to the doctor, or something." The gym teacher had assumed her role. It caught me off guard that someone in school would actually like the principal. My principals were soul crushing trolls that wanted little to do with the students, unless they saw an opportunity for their humiliation.

My highschool and junior high principal (the same guy) was an aging lush, who spent the first half of the day in his office, and the second in a pub called Wolpert's. His greatest contribution to my education was banning shorts in school because they could be too distracting. Forget about the 100 degree weather distracting anyone. (Thanks Mr, Florio.) My elementary school principal was a wicked woman, who no doubt was the inspiration for several Disney movie villians. Her name was Miss Copeland, and I'll never forget my one encounter with her.

I was in the 4th grade eating lunch with my friends in the cafeteria. All was well until I offered to trade my Zagnut candy car for a fruit roll up. Fruit roll ups were still pretty new, and I had been unsuccessful in convincing my mom to buy them for me. I saw I golden opportunity to trade a whole candy bar for one little tiny fruit roll up. It was, and still is, my belief that trading your lunch is part of growing up in America. Well, the freedom hating Miss Copeland saw things quite differently.

She had been stalking me from behind. I didn't see her when I made my offer, but she made her presence known immediately. She began yelling at me, and shaking my arm grasping the Zagnut. She informed me that my mother had packed that item for me and me alone, and it was meant for only me to eat, and not to be foolishly bartered to another child. She dressed me down for about 3 minutes, then ordered me to remain standing while finishing my lunch at the table sobbing in front of my now stunned friends. Lunchtime seemed to last hours that day.

Now, I can understand the total humiliation of a nine year old for the crime of trading a wholesome sandwich for some junky M&M's, but candy for candy? My teacher came over to ask why I was so upset, but alas, I was inconsolible. I'm sure now that Miss Copeland doesn't remember our encounter, (hell, maybe she's dead) but it sure did leave an impression upon me. I really did believe that principals hated children for years. I guess that those who cannot do, teach, and those who cannot teach, become principals (or counselors).

If All The Hippies, Cut Off All Their Hair...

Found this kick ass blanket at the mall the other day. The indian guy running the place even gave me $5 off for no reason. I would have bought it any way, but of well. Whenever I think of Jimi, I recall the night me and Scott were cruisin' home in the Fairlane, and we kept saying, "No one in the entire world but us are cruising in a baby blue, 1961 Ford Fairlane 2 door post, jamming to Jimi fucking Hendrix right now," as If 6 were 9 blared in our ears.

Passwords, A Matter of Life... and Death

"Under NO circumstances use another's signon unless it is life and death, and then make sure you are backed by someone more in charge than you are." -I & T Guy in my condescending reprimand email.
(I'll try and keep that in mind when I really am in a life and death sitch.)