Hey, everyone! Apologies are on me!

Apologies are cheap. And thank goodness for that because, today, I’ve had to toss them around freely, like candy from a parade float. Seriously, I feel like I should hit the lecture tour, traveling from town to town with one of those hands-free microphones, telling idiots like myself how to give a good apology.

It all began at about 9:00 am. Madd Dogg had to give a “presentation” (of sorts) for work and, although this “presentation” was to take place in a public milieu, she had given me strict orders not to go watch her. Well, I went anyway. I thought that I could sneak in quietly and sit in the back, without her noticing. I was wrong.

When I entered, she had not yet begun her presentation, and she was sitting (literally) about 15 inches from the entrance. I almost stepped on her, for crying out loud. “You are a dead man,” she said as I walked past to take my seat. Immediately after her presentation, while we were walking away, she gave me several good punches on the arm. And later, back at the office, she accused me of abusing her trust, and she gave me the cold shoulder. She wouldn’t talk to me until I apologized, like, four times.

I had to apologize to Mumbles too, although only twice. Mumbles announced this morning that he had to go to “the God-damn dentist” (his words). During the ride home, he told us that he had a cavity. Rather than showing Mumbles my empathy skills, I sort of “rubbed it in” by questioning his oral hygiene. I sarcastically reminded him that he was in his 30’s (a little old for cavities), and I judgmentally asked him if he ever brushed his teeth. He refused to answer. Realizing the breadth of my rudeness, I backpedaled, asking him how many times per day he brushed his teeth. But the damage was already done. I had acted badly, and apologies were in order.

And now, finally, I am required to apologize to all of you SFZ readers. Yesterday, I posted a blog entry that was so random, disjointed, and generally dumb that you probably lost brain cells if you were unlucky enough to read it. I feel like the posting had potential. (I mean, really: Empty gas tanks? The similar plotlines in River Phoenix’s Running on Empty and Little Nikita? “Schoolhouse Rock”? That’s great stuff, man.) But at the end of the day, the posting proved to be too ambitious and it fell flat on its face. I have now deleted said blog posting, and I beg your forgiveness.

If, by some chance, you read the blog yesterday and thought it was brilliant, then I guess I have to apologize yet again for taking it away from you, and for effectively saying that you have bad taste in blogs.

[photo by squeakymarmot]

Fidget Vacation Journal: Eruption!

Occam's razor provides that, given two explanations for some phenomenon, the simpler of the two explanations is probably the correct one. Although knowing about Occam's razor may be helpful for a stint on Jeopardy, the rule has its limits. That is, it is helpful only if one can tell which of two explanations is the simpler one. Example:

We see fire and smoke rising from near the top of the 10,000-foot volcano, Mt. Haleakala. We immediately see two possible explanations: (1) a forest fire, or (2) a volcanic eruption. Well, there's not a whole lot of trees on Haleakala, a fact that tends to point to the second explanation. But Haleakala is supposed to be dormant, a fact that tends to point to the first explanation. Hmm.

In this case, it matters not which of the two explanations is correct. If it's a forest fire, we are likely safe; as I said, there are not many trees up there, and so a forest fire should quickly burn out. And if it's an eruption, we should also be safe; flowing lava tends to move at a snail's pace. And if some other, less simple explanation is to blame for the "disturbance" on Mt. Haleakala, I shant be around long to find out. That's right, readers, Fidget returns tomorrow.

[photo by fidget]

Fidget Vacation Journal: The Turtle

My understanding of Hawaiian locals is that they can be hostile to outsiders. Or if not hostile, at least standoffish and somewhat unhelpful. The lady in the snorkel shop told us, for example, that if we looked like we didn't know exactly where we were going when we made our way to the super-secret snorkeling hotspot, locas in the area would turn us away, telling us that it was closed. (Consequently, we haven't tried to find it yet.)

Last year, another person told us that, given the chance, the large sea turtles found in the area will bite your fingers off. "Yeah, the other day, this tourist was snorkeling -- just off this point here -- and he thought he'd reach out and touch a turtle," the local said. "Bit his finger clean off. You're not supposed to touch turtles, you know." I didn't know if that story was another example of a local's attempt to deter some out-of-towners from entering the water in search of turtles. But when we saw a turtle the other day, I wasn't about to take any chances. I kept my distance.

My dad and I watched the turtle from above. He (or she . . . okay, it) was about four or five feet long and about three feet wide. It floated gracefully under us, slowly flapping its enormous "wings" like an undersea bird. Its shell was the color of algae, and the markings were hard to see. I took that to mean that it was really, really old -- perhaps 100 years or more. Its broad back feet, which were much smaller than its wings, came straight back from the rear of its shell.

I sensed that the turtle was watching us, worried about what we were up to. Is it ready to bite off fingers?, I thought. It didn't. Instead, it floated down to the rocky reef, and stayed still. We watched.

Sometime later, the turtle could hold out no longer. It tilted its head toward the surface and soared upward, about ten feet away from us. The turtle popped its head (bigger than my fist) above the surface four times, each time opening its mouth to take a breath. And then, it turned back toward the ocean floor, falling like a flat stone to the reef. We watched as it settled back amongst the rocks. It hid its head under some coral.

After a couple of seconds, the turtle's moldy colored shell blended in so completely with its surroundings that if you didn't know it was there, you would never even see it. True story.

Aloha, to the SFZ readers!

[photo by fidget's dad, taken on his dad's cell phone, which fidget taught his dad to use]

Honesty purports to pay off

As we were leaving the carpool spot today, I notice that Mumbles' gas light is on and mention this oh so gently, not yet sure if he knows how to work his new car. Note: if this is all sounding very familiar, it's because we just went through this, like two weeks ago.

Turns out that Mumbles had, in fact, noticed it and the way he said it made me ask when he noticed it. Well, he explained, he had to go to Eugene for work and he noticed it on the way back. Nothing further in the way of an explanation came, so I asked why he didn't stop when he noticed it (as opposed to when I was in the car and we would have to stop on our way out of town, thereby violating a cardinal carpool rule).

"Dude, the gas station was wicked crowded. It surely was."

So from this genius statement I extrapolate that our beloved Mumbles is willing to waste my time, as opposed to just his own time. I ponder this out loud, and suggest that it may have just been better for Mumbles to lie. To that he responds that the truth will set him free. He then suggests that the time that it will take for us to get gas will increase our quality time together, as if 2.5 hours in the car together every day isn't enough.

But wait! It gets better. I'm crabbing at him the whole way to the gas station, and in a lame attempt to get me to shut up, Mumbles offers me money. More specifically, he said that he would give me $1 for the two minutes it takes for us to get gas (yep, that 50 cents a minute). As if two minutes of my life can be bought for $1.

As we pull into the gas station (nearly getting crushed by an oncoming car in the process), Mumbles notes with relief that there is an open spot. We pull up, the gas dude takes our order, and Mumbles tells him that he felt like he was being waived into NASCAR's pit row.

Turns out that getting gas took us 3 minutes, which means that Mumbles owes me $1.50.

Short Timer's Syndrome

On Friday, both Fidget and Sparky were suffering from Short Timer's Syndrome, but for different reasons. Fidget, because he was Maui-bound. Sparky, because he's leaving us for other pastures. Here's what short timers' syndrome looked like:

We, Madd Dogg, Fidget, and Sparky, were on our way to lunch. Fidget and Madd Dogg were already in the elevator, and in comes Sparky like a freakin' pinball, wacking into Fidget. In response, Fidget grabs Sparky's merrily striped scarf and attempts to choke him. Madd Dogg points and laughs, and makes sure they both know that she is taking notes for the blog.

Does this deter them? Only for an hour and two, because Madd Dogg was sitting at her desk when in runs Sparky. He hides behind Madd Dogg's door and tells her to pretend like he's not there. Oh no, not Madd Dogg. Instead, she shouts to whomever he's hiding from that Sparky is hiding behind her door. Sparky explains that he's hiding because he licked his finger and smudged Fidget's glasses, because Fidget stiff armed him "for no reason."

A few minutes later, Madd Dogg actually needs Sparky for a valid reason, and goes into his office. His chair is empty, but she notices that it's spinning around and around. She inquires of his office mate if he's seen Sparky, and his office mate can't look Madd Dogg in the eye and he looks like he's swallowed a small rodent. Madd Dogg tells him that it's an emergency (it wasn't, but she was trying to smoke Sparky out), and next thing she knows Sparky has popped up from underneath his desk. He explains that he's hiding from Fidget because he's afraid of retaliation for the eyeglass smudge.

She lures Sparky out of his office and as the two walk into another office, Madd Dogg spies Fidget sneaking up behind Sparky. "Whack" is the next thing she hears, and Sparky hunched over is the next thing she sees. Fidget has snapped a rubber band at Sparky, and beaned him right in the back. Sweet.

So on the way home, we discuss the sequence of events that day. They wanted to make sure that Madd Dogg, as official reporter, got the order right: Sparky pinballing into Fidget, Fidget choking Sparky, Fidget stiff arming Sparky, Sparky eyeglass smudging Fidget, and Fidget rubber banding Sparky. It's amazing anyone made it through the day without serious injuries.

Fidget, enjoy Maui. Sparky, enjoy your new job but come back soon.

photo by DonnaGrayson

Mother Nature: 2 points Carpool: 0 points

Sparky, before you even start, I know that, technically, this is not a blog posting about carpool but rather the lack thereof. To that I say, bite me, I've been stuck inside my g-d house for two days and I have to do something. I've already sorted the pen drawer, and I have nothing left to do.

DAY 1:
Monday night, our intrepid meteorologists are predicting some kind of "storm activity." Given how wrong they were last week, I just sorta ignored them.

Tuesday, 5 am: I arise, peek outside a window and sees nothing but cold dark. So I merrily proceed to take my shower, get dressed, and walk the dog. I think to myself as we're walking along that it's really f-ing cold and there's this weird white stuff blowing around. But again, I just sorta ignore it.

6:15 am: I leave for Peets to get my tea, and by now, I can't ignore that it's really starting to snow. But I think to myself, snow schmow, we can make it to Salem no problem.

6:30 am: After stopping at Peets and driving to the carpool spot, Fidget calls. Um, dude, I'm kind of slipping around out here, he says. Um, dude, then hang up the phone and drive, I say. We'll convene at carpool spot but let's not be like the other morons who are out driving in the snow and talking on their cell phones at the same time.

6:40 am: Fidget and I meet at the carpool meeting spot in the pouring snow. We call Sparky, and together agree we should probably not join the masses who think they can drive in the snow and ice, and just go home.

Well, super. Now I'm home, with no work to do because the meteorologists weren't so kind as to do their jobs and predict this storm. So I'm forced to watch Team Coverage on Channel 8. For hours. I saw the same clip of a car playing pinball with other cars like no less than 2 dozen times, no joke. Then I watch The View for the first time. Holy crap, that is a really, really bad show. Dr. Phil wasn't really much of an improvement. And Oprah was preempted by more Team Coverage (including the car pinball clip, a handful more times).

I have to say that staying home on snow days isn't what it was like in school. With real jobs come real responsibilities, people, and as I sat on my duff at home, all I did was worry about the work piling piling piling up. That feeling went away after the first bottle of wine, but still. Sheesh.

Day 2:
I'm bound and determined to get to work today, but noooooo, we've got icy roads, freezing fog, and my partner, who threatened to plant herself in front of my car if I tried to go anywhere. I called Sparky and Fidget, and again, SFZ is marooned in Portland. So I got to watch that car pinball clip at least a dozen more times, and learned what to do if you were one of those people who abandoned their cars on the freeway. And now we're out of wine, and I'm just cranky.

Day 3:
In my desperate search for any indication I can leave my home tomorrow, I turn to every news and radio station. Here's what I learned:

We could get snow.
We could get freezing rain.
We could get freezing fog.
We could get rain.
We could get nothing.
The roads could be icy.
The roads could be fine.

Well, super.

Fidget, meet Ralph. Meet him at McDonald's.

When you carpool to work, the carpool's schedule is necessarily your schedule. We at SFZ have a rule: We do not deviate from the carpool schedule (leave Portland at 6:50 am, leave Salem no later than 5:00 pm) unless each and every one of us agrees to deviate from it.

And that rule works great. Unless you are like me and get the friggin' stomach flu on Monday afternoon. (Oh, by the way, for those of you who are counting, I've now had some sort of stomach virus three times this winter. See Patriot.) Because I was not about to ask the other three carpool members if they could cut their day short and leave at 12:30 pm so that I could vomit in the comfort of my own home, I looked for alternative means of transportation. What I found was the Emergency Carpool Ride Home, which I had signed up for the last time I was sick.

Well, as it turns out, the Emergency Carpool Ride Home is a taxi. A very expensive taxi. A taxi that smells a bit like stale cigarette smoke, but nonetheless is as beautiful as a shiny Rolls Royce because it is going to take me home where my bed is located.

"I'm Bill," said the taxi driver as I got in the car. "You got the stomach flu?"
"Afraid so," I said.
"Well, something's been wrong with the overdrive today," he said. "So we won't be able to go more than 60 miles per hour on the freeway, but don't worry, we'll get you there."

Yeah, I know what you're thinking: Broken overdrive? Sixty miles per hour? There's not a goddamned thing wrong with the so-called "overdrive," is there, Bill? You are just going to milk a 50-mile taxi ride for as long as you possibly can.

I thought the same thing. But I was too fatigued to care. Plus, I was focusing all of my energy on not throwing up on the floor of the taxi. (I mean, I still had to ride the rest of the way home in this thing, right?) So I accepted this "overdrive" thing as more evidence that, if there is a God, I have pissed him off somehow. And as we got on the freeway, I tried to sleep.

But sleep wouldn't come. Instead, more nausea did. I had planned for this, however. Back at work, I had packed some plastic garbage bags just in case. But in my haste, I had packed clear garbage bags. Clear. This just won't do, I thought. I'll be damned if I'm going to ralph in this baggie and then have to look at it the rest of the way home, like a friggin' goldfish from the pet store. By then we were in the right lane, behind someone's grandma, driving something like 58 miles per hour.

"Can you take the next exit?" I asked Bill. "I think I'm going to throw up."

Bill's shoulders tightened. He sat up straight. I heard a thud (his foot slamming the pedal to the floor) and an immense "vroooom" (the engine racing). The inertia pushed my body backward. Bill changed lanes. He passed grandma, and he kept going. Faster, faster, faster. Now we're in the left lane. We're passing more cars. I can just see the digital speedometer over Bill's right arm; it reads "65 mph"

"Hold on," Bill said as we veered off the freeway like a rocket-ship. He scanned the horizon for potential toilets. He lifted his index finger from the white knuckle on the steering wheel and pointed: "I'll take you to the Chevron station," he said. But I suggested McDonald's so that I wouldn't have to get a key. He nodded quickly. "Yeah, yeah. They do make you get a key at the gas station, don't they."

Moments later, I was in the McDonald's restroom. The details are unimportant. But what is important is that, when I came back out, Bill was still waiting for me in the taxi. I was a little surprised that he hadn't just abandoned me, as I would have been tempted to do. But as I got back in the car, I noticed that the meter was running. Of course.

Anyway, my stomach felt considerably better. And as we got back on the freeway, Bill pointed out that my urgent need to vomit had yet another silver lining: "The overdrive actually worked," he said. "That's the strangest thing. It hasn't worked all day."

[photo by mikebaird]

A 5:04 p.m. Phone Call

5:04 Wednesday evening: Madd Dogg, having worked at home, is at home. All other members of the carpool are, in fact, in the carpool headed towards Portland. Madd Dogg's cell rings.

Fidget: Madd Dogg, make Sparky stop.

Madd Dogg: Make him stop what?

Fidget: He won't answer my question, and he won't tell me why he won't answer my question.

Mumbles (in the background): Bladleoucljhfs 94875 aljsacoiuvalkawer.

Madd Dogg, oh oh oh so patiently: Let me talk to Sparky.

Sparky: What up?

Madd Dogg: Stand firm, don't answer the question and don't answer why you won't answer the question.

Sparky: Okay. Handing you back to Fidget.

Fidget: Madd Dogg, you didn't even try.

Madd Dogg: You gotta use the reverse psychology on him. Sparky loves to be obstinate and obstreperous, and he loves it even more when it drives you crazy. Act like you don't care, and he'll start vomiting answers left and right.

Fidget: But I want to know the answer now.

Madd Dogg: Repeats what she just said, like three more times.

Fidget, deep sigh of disappointment: Fine. See you tomorrow.

No one ever called me back. I'll bet five Arby's roast beef sandwiches - whether they cost $5 or $5.95 - that Fidget couldn't implement any reverse psychology and that things got even worse after the phone call. Next time, I'll put on my super Madd Dogg cape, fly to the car, and jump up and down on Sparky 'til he answers the damn question. Save myself some precious cell phone minutes.

Mumbles Got a Fast Car

Ah, it's good to be back from the holidays. I'm one of those total dorks who really craves the structure of my job. Absent work, I'd weigh like 300 pounds because I'd just sit on the couch, eat bon bons, and watch football and movies.

But, while we were on holiday, a very exciting carpool event transpired: Mumbles bought a new car. A fast one at that, as the speedometer tops out at 160 miles an hour (for comparison purposes, I'm pretty sure that mine tops out at like 80? 90?). It's real pretty too, and comfortable. And, extra bonus, it's got air conditioning so that, when it's 100 degrees outside, we don't have to see one another shed our clothes.

But along with new cars, as our fair readers can imagine, comes a host of problems. Like how to open the trunk when it's below zero and the carpool mates are standing outside waiting waiting waiting for it to open. And things like the gas light. Now, in my vast car experience, a gas light typically means you need gas. I happened to notice the gas light was on when we were leaving Salem today and mentioned it ever so gently to our dear Mumbles. He was startled, hadn't noticed it, but predicted we could make it to Portland. In his defense, it's generally frowned upon to stop for gas with a car full of riders anxious to get home and watch Entertainment Tonight. If we have to stop, the rule is that you have to provide snacks to make up for the aforementioned inconvenience.

On this day, however, Fidget decided to whip out the car's manual and see if it would tell us how far we'd get once the light came on, hoping that, in fact, we could make it to Portland without stopping. The manual was silent on this particular subject. So Mumbles decides he'll stop for $5 worth of gas. On the way to the petrol station, Fidget decides Mumbles has his brights on. He doesn't. Fidget offers to look it up in the manual (again, so helpful with that manual!). Mumbles asks Fidget to give him the book, Fidget insists he can look it up himself, and Mumbles clarifies that he's not asking for the goddamn book to look something up but rather to take it away from Fidget. Good call. Next thing we'd know, Fidget would be reciting the 100,000 mile check up requirements....

We get to the gas station, and Mumbles pulls in and asks for $20 worth of gas (explaining that he only had a $20, so he couldn't get $5 worth of gas...apparently, this isn't the kind of gas station that, oh I don't know, carries change). He remembers, after a gentle reminder and per the jillion signs posted at the station, to turn off the engine, but then announces that once it hits $19.95, he'll start it again so the attendant knows we're in a hurry. Once we're done, Mumbles decides that we only "lost two minutes on that transaction." No snacks, though...

Then, as we're leaving the station, Sparky, like a very old man, asks about whether the car comes with built in lumbar supports. Now me, I ask about how CD's you can fit in the CD player or whether it came with a built in DVD player but noooo, Sparky wants to know about lumbar supports. And, in fact, the driver's seat comes with one built in, but none of the other seats do. Fidget flicked Sparky shit about his lumbar support inquiry, claiming that lumbar supports are "so 10 minutes ago." Next thing I know they're both licking their forefingers and thrusting them towards one another. Apparently, and somehow I've missed this, they lick their fingers and then try to smudge the other's glasses. So immature (and yes, this coming from the very person who spit her gum at Fidget).

Like I said, it's so good to be back. Really, the holidays just get in the way of carpool fun. And, because Fidget will never forgive me if I don't mention it, he and I caught Sparky in a fat Sparky sandwich on the way to the car. It was awesome - we weren't even rusty after a 10 day sandwich hiatus. Figdet actually hurt his shoulder he rammed Sparky so hard. It was beautiful. Happy New Year!!

photo by hendrickfan2007's