They Are All Driving Me Crazy

“You, you're driving me crazy!
What did I do? What did I do?
My tears for you make everything hazy,
Clouding the skies of blue.”

--Frank Sinatra

Hey, do you have four hours to kill?

Who doesn’t, right?

Granted I was on Spring Break this week so my time was not pressing, but I wasted FOUR HOURS of my life at “Driving class” because I blew a stop sign on Casimer Pulaski Day on my way to pick up Jen for lunch.

I was moving down the road and slowed down, saw no one was near the intersection except for a white car that was parked two blocks away (uh…which happened to be a cop car not parked, but stalking good citizens); rolled through, chased for two blocks by “Officer Friendly;” and was cited for failure to stop at a stop sign.

Since I have not exhibited a stellar driving record, I opted for the class. One sacrifices four hours of a Saturday, pays extra fines to the state of Illinois, and suddenly, all is forgiven: the prostitutes.

Anyway, two years ago, I went to the class only to witness a cop cry when relating the death of a foster child he once cared for as a result of a drunk driver hitting her.

I understand the human element, but he could have told us everything for the class in 20 minutes; but they drag this thing out for four hours. I think part of the problem was they showed the Princess Diana cgi film where it is expressed that if only she had worn a seatbelt, she might have lived. Cruel as this sounds, at one point I had seen her flopping around in this car so much, I really began imitating it.

This time, we were indulged with the “audience participation” in which we share our thoughts with those at our table and fill out ridiculous questions. You know the type: what impairs vision, should you drive drunk, and who is really responsible for you being here today.

I would have loved to just be jerk and answer the questions with sarcasm. I did not because they have a clause that if you are disruptive, you need to repeat.

This instructor, however, was so condescending. He asked things like “How would you feel if you killed someone in a car?” or “Do you know it is illegal to be completely drunk and drive?’ or “What do you do if someone cuts you off?” I would feel awful if I killed someone—who wouldn’t? I know what is and is not legal as far as having a beer and driving. And if someone cuts me off, I ride right up to their ass, honk, flash brights, flip them off, and make myself a terror on the road (OK, I don’t, but don’t you really want to?).

We had one guy in the class who would not shut up, as he explained that he was an older cab driver. He kept explaining how young people drive too fast and too recklessly. Really, Gramps, then why are you here?

We had another dumb kid whining how seatbelt laws infringe on his rights and how the country is too liberal. I wanted to say “yeah and not carrying a concealed weapon infringes on my right to have fun by cutting your arm off.”

We had a woman in the class with her hair with one of those doily things in a bun wearing a jean skirt telling us all how alcohol is a tool of the Devil and ruins relationships, families and lives. I wanted to ask her to let her hair down and be herself and tell us what SHE thinks, not quotes from Ecclesiastics.

We had some cute little ISU spoiled brat, who reminded us that if she was in “the ‘burbs or the city” she never would have been given a ticket and these hicks downstate just want to ruin her record. She was at my table and told me that she did not think the cops were out at 3:00 AM. Yeah, drive around the “city” of Chicago at 3:00 AM and come back and tell us about it; oh yeah, you won’t come back, Ditz.

And once the foolish fodder is over, we have to sit there while the instructor asks us to relate something we learned in class. Seriously, I learned nothing, so I said something about how a car hydroplanes. It was complete crap, but it was better than “I learned I am never coming here again and some of you morons better get out of my way when I pull out of the lot because I am fully insured and have a bad attitude, especially for the right wing kid and the old cabbie.”

So lessons were learned. One, never ask stupid, rhetorical questions to my classes that sound condescending; two, remind people that it is better to shut up in a group setting and keep opinions to yourself—rather than exposing yourself as a nut-job; and three next time, learn to sleep with my eyes open.

Well, I Earned It

"Don't Stop Believing;

Hold On To That Feeling;

Streetlight people...ahhhaaaahaaaaaaaaaa"

--Steve Perry; Journey.

My mother was not too thrilled with me because I have taken a break from blogging.

Last week was parent night, the week before was a grade issue at work, and the week before that, Guinness the Maine Coon cat puked on the keyboard.

One new keyboard later and an ensuing trip to the computer fix-it-store for a reset keyboard in the laptop hopefully this week; and I am fine.

Last night Jen and I went to the Prairie Thunder Hockey game in Bloomington. As per usual, we lost. I think I have only seen them win two games out of six this season thus far.

Anyway, we arrived early and were talking when some gal who worked for the Thunder stopped by and asked if I would participate in “finish the song” which is a kind of karaoke thing to a popular song.

Me, sing with a mike and they show it on the big screen? Are you kidding me? Hell yeah, I will sing anything.

The girl said to me, “you can talk the words if you wish, but we really like it if you would sing.”

“No problem,” I said. “Just remember, you asked for it.”

The best part besides looking like a fool and playing to an audience, is if you finish the song, you win two pounds of chicken wings from a local haunt of good bar food called Schooners.

I even agreed before I knew what the song was. So I then asked what song. I mean, if one is going to make a fool of one’s self, one should be informed.

The song was “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. For the record, I freaking hate Journey.

So the game went on and I went to the restroom in the first intermission and awaited the second one. Must have been nerves.

The girl came by, they put me on the big screen, my name appeared with the Schoner’s logo, and I was pumped.

The time approached in the middle of the second intermission and I rose to sing. What I did not know is how long the intro was, so I started singing the lyrics on the screen, and then Steve Perry’s voice came on. Oh well, so I started singing with his voice—“Just a small town girl….blah blah blah…” Second verse, I jumped ahead again—you see, I really hate Journey and do not play them…so I retraced my way and started singing when the voice came on again. “A singer in a smoky room…blah blah blah.”

It was then that I figured out that without the words to “finish the song,” I would sing the chorus on my own with no big screen lyrics to help.

So I just started: “Don’t stop believing…hold on to that feeling” and then my mind went blank. I knew the lyrics sound like street lights beat right or some damn thing and so I belted that out and muffled it. And then I muttered the last three syllables ( I think I said “in the darkkkkkkk”) and I knew I had to end on a high note which I did. Talk about totally faking it.

So curious, I looked it up today on the net:
Don’t Stop Believing
Hold on to that feeling
Streetlight people”—and then Perry improvises by going ahhaaahaaaaaaa (high pitched).

Well anyway, everyone laughed; I hammed it up; Jen was crying because she laughed so hard (or was embarrassed—not really sure); everyone clapped; and the game went on.

And me, after the red face faded, I earned my two pounds of wings.