And That's Why It's Called Rocket Shoes

My best friend Kevin always likes to tell me that sometimes he feels like I just talk to hear myself talk. He also likes to say that it shocks him when I listen to him, because he usually feels like i'm just waiting for my turn to speak. I know, amazing friendship, right? (He's actually a great guy, he just takes his shirt off too much in inopportune moments...like on wedding dance floors). But I do owe him the name of this blog. And a dream car, because I crashed his back in college and promised I'd buy him a new one when I could afford it (which I can now...hey, young Drew...shhhhh...don't make promises that aren't financially fun). I grew up literally around the corner from Kevin. As in you could hop over my fence to get to his house. It was adorable. The movie Sandlot adorable. It was, and still is to this day, like a sitcom: we're like the odd couple. We couldn't be more different a lot of the time (for instance, he exercises and plays sports...what an IDIOT), but we've always gotten along. He is also my greatest critic, and probably the only person I tolerate it from for some odd reason (besides Anne Hathaway, who I have a make believe "we don't know each other" relationship with and am willing to totally listen to what she has to say whenever she's ready). So one day I go over to Kevin's to watch a basketball game. And guess what happened? The game started, and I just couldn't stop talking. About nothing.

As they are going through the lineups for both teams, I was presumably talking about how giraffes fight funny or how my pinky toe hurts when it's cold because I think I broke it once or how I think tapioca pudding is oddly disgusting or...point being, I was probably talking endlessly about nothing. As they introduced a player named Richard Jefferson, I was staring blankly at the screen and just started mumbling to myself.

Drew: "Man, you ever seen Richard Jefferson play? That guy can jump. Like, aggressively high. It's like he's flying or something. I wish I could jump like that. I mean, it's like he's got rocket shoes or something man..."

At this moment, Kevin finally looks over at me as I continue to mumble and says nothing until I finally shut up (which could have been fourteen minutes later, for all I know). He just sat there and stared, in awe, as I continued to not stop talking.

Kevin: "I mean, do you ever listen to yourself talk? You just said a guy had rocket shoes. What does that even mean? Seriously, take a timeout. From now on, I'm just going to say 'rocket shoes' when you are doing this. That means please stop talking."

From that day on, whenever I am blowing Kevin's mind with my inability to stop talking, he just cuts me off mid-sentence and says "rocket shoes". It works like a charm. It's even usually followed by a high five.

So about a year back, when I decided to be entirely self-serving and create a blog where I could put my thoughts down on internet paper...I tried to name the blog rocket shoes, and some asshole has been sitting on it and won't give it up. Don't worry, I didn't think to myself, "man, you know what's great for a blog name? drewhoolhorst.com!" As easy as my last name is, I'm pretty sure rocket shoes was the better option. But that's the idea: I never stop talking. Get it? That's why it's a hilarious name for a blog full of rants!

I'll end with this.

Every mother has a million adorable stories of what their children were like growing up. My mom's favorite goes like this.

When I was born, I had my eyes wide open and stared straight up at my mom when she got to first hold me. It's a great picture, to this day hangs on my mom's wall in the kitchen. Apparently, after this, not much happened for several years. I was just a big mute who didn't seem to do much besides, you know, what kids do: throw up/stare at things and then realize my head is really heavy and fall over/sleep.

Drew: "So when did I start talking?"

Mom: "Oh god, it took forever. You were two I think. We thought you were retarded for a while."

Drew: "That's funny."

Mom: "No, it's not: we actually thought you were retarded. But once you started talking, we couldn't shut you the hell up. So it turns out you just didn't have a lot to say."

So true, Mom. So true.

1836_40799043913_9744_n

Drew Hoolhorst

San Francisco, CA 94110, USA

I have a black belt in feelings.