A Morning Math Problem

3,000,000 divided by 10,000. What does that equal? Depends on who you ask.

Fidget: 3,000. No, wait. 30,000.

Mumbles: 800. Which you get by dividing fucking (indiscernible) by (indiscernible).

Madd Dogg: I can't figure out how to work my cell phone calculator, and I can't do math without a calculator.

Rider X: 300.

300 is, of course, the right answer. But X only knew that because she figured out how to use her cell phone calculator.

Just to make sure that we're not the only math-challenged people, I asked a co-worker. Here was his answer:

3,000. No, 30,000. No no, it's 300,000.

His answers made me feel better somehow.

Is It Me??

Before I launch into this post, a bit of SFZ history is in order. I, Madd Dogg (see picture at left) joined the carpool a few years back. At that time, it was me, Sparky, Fidget and a fourth. Not too long after I joined the pool, the fourth left the carpool, ostensibly for greener, more prosperous, and no commute pastures. Our dear Mumbles then replaced that fourth.

Then Sparky decided to leave us, ostensibly to advance his career.

And today, it got worse. If I understood him correctly, Mumbles is leaving us too. Again for those greener, more prosperous, no commute pastures.

Yep, I know you're all thinking the same thing. Madd Dogg joins, and now we can't keep carpool members to save our sorry ass lives. I mean really, who leaves low paid, long commute jobs for something better paid and without the commute? Right, no one. So I think it's me. I can only hazard a guess as to what, precisely, it is about me that so offends but perhaps the picture says it all? Rider X has only been with us a few weeks, but I expect her resignation shortly.

And I know you're all thinking, "What about Fidget? He hasn't left." So true, so true. But that's because he and I made a pact that neither one of us can ever leave. We don't want to get paid more, we love the commute, and we feel oh so appreciated by the taxpayers.

Mumbles, I'm tired of saying goodbye to my carpoolers who, over the many, many hours we spend together, become dysfunctional family of sorts. But congrats on the new gig, and know that we'll miss you.

Driver's choice run amok!

In our carpool, the responsibility of driving carries with it a bundle of rights, collectively referred to as "driver's choice." The "driver's choice" doctrine provides, for example, that the driver on any given day has the right to decide the route that we take to and from work, the speed at which we drive, and (as is important here) what we listen to on the radio.

Usually, the driver exercises his/her rights of "driver's choice" with a certain amount of benevolence, taking into consideration the wants and needs of the other members of the carpool. And sometimes, the driver does not.

On Wednesday, Madd Dogg decided to exercise her rights under "driver's choice" to turn the radio on and treat Mumbles and me (Fidget) to a sampling of Keith Urban. For the sake of the people who don't know about Mr. Urban, don't be fooled -- there is absolutely nothing "urban" about his music. In fact, and somewhat ironically, his music is decidedly "rural." You see, when Keith Urban is not bouncing in and out of rehab, he is a maker of country music. And I hate country music.

Now, to be fair, I'm not sure if Madd Dogg knew my feelings about country music when she turned on the radio that morning. But my reaction should have given her a big, fat clue. I freaked out a little bit. And I'm afraid that I may have overreacted.

"No, no, no, no, no!" I frantically uttered. And when Madd Dogg failed to turn off the radio or change the channel fast enough, I took matters into my own hands, turning off the radio.

"Don't touch!" Madd Dogg scolded, and she turned it back on. Defiant. But as soon as her hand left the stereo, I turned it off again. "Stop!" she yelled, and she turned it back on. Then, when I went to turn it off again, she blocked me with her hand, taking her attention away from the road. That must have troubled Mumbles in the back seat, because he started describing some of the dangerous objects around us traveling at 70 miles per hour.

"Double dump truck, double dump truck," he said. "Double dump truck, double dump truck." (By the way, that phrase is very difficult to say. Go ahead, try it.)

But Madd Dogg and I were paying him no heed; our battle for control of the stereo continued. When Madd Dogg foiled my attempts to turn off the stereo with the knob on the left, I simply turned the knob on the right, which changed the channel to static. She responded by hitting one of the preset buttons, returning Mr. Urban to the airwaves. I turned the knob again. She screamed. She pushed the preset button. I attempted to turn it off again. She grabbed my pinkie and bent it backward. I yelped. She let go. I turned the stereo off. She screamed again. And so forth.

At the end of it all, I had won the battle. The song was over, and with my interference, I had been required to listen to only brief snippets of country music. (And Madd Dogg's blood-curdling screams had drowned out most of those, even.) But alas, I had lost the war. I sat nursing my hurt finger, embarrassed by my behavior, wondering what retaliation Madd Dogg would inflict.

My punishment was swift indeed. Madd Dogg shuffled through her available CDs, inserted one, and sat back with a smug smile. The Dixie Chicks. Oh, crap.

Sapped of my energy from the battle over Keith Urban, I forced myself to sit and try to ignore it. Madd Dogg tried to be positive. "Really, you'll like this one song."

"But I don't want to like it," I explained. After all, they are, like our president, from Texas.

[photo by scottfeldstein]

Searching for SFZ. . .

It was a sad, sad week. My first week fly'in solo instead of being wrapped in the cozy confines of SFZ. As some of our more regular readers know (yes, all three of you), I had to extricate myself from SFZ because I switched jobs and couldn't be tied to a strict 'pool-friendly schedule. Plus, instead of trying to dodge rubberbands from Fidget or stacking random items on Fidget's or Madd Dogg's desk, I needed access to set of wheels during the day. And so, this was my first week alone each day on the commute.

And by the looks of it, I've missed out on the longest note competition and some other fun stuff. (For the record, I totally could have taken Mumbles's feeble 50+ seconds.) I never really ran with a crew before and so I'll miss SFZ dearly. I knew they had my back even if it meant I had to endure getting stink-eye from Madd Dogg or being served a Sparky sandwich.

Drive well my friends. I can't wait to read the stories captured here. And, I'm always free to mediate any disputes via phone.

Peace out!

Celebrities Don't Die Everyday

Or so according to Fidget. This comment was made in the context of talking about the untimely death of Anna Nicole Smith. For however strange or drugged she may have been, the fact remains that she was only 39 and had had a rough year. Very sad.

In discussing how sad it was, Fidget was trying to explain that it's even more sad because celebrities don't die everyday. Maybe if they did, he thought, it wouldn't be so shocking when they did die.

Whatever the merits of that line of thinking (or lack thereof), it provided no justification for what happened next. Apparently, Fidget decided that since celebrities didn't die everyday, maybe we should die today. I can't remember if we've talked about the mini mirrorball that hangs from Mumbles' rear view mirror or not. It hangs on a long string and Fidget and Mumbles like to play tetherball with it. While we're driving. On the freeway at 75 miles an hour. On one occasion, it caused us to veer into the other lane and almost hit another car. So I put a slap down on the tetherball playing.

Of course, being Fidget, he tries to find a zillion ways around the rule. Like he can hit the ball in Mumbles direction, as long as Mumbles doesn't try to hit it back. As if thrusting a flying object in the driver's face is an improvement of some sort.

Today, Fidget and Mumbles thought I was asleep. I was in fact tilted back with my eyes closed. Only then I heard Fidget's raincoat moving back and forth, and concluded that he had checked to see if I was asleep. Then I hear him whispering to Mumbles and I just sense somehow that what's coming next is some form of tetherball.

Sure enough, about a mile later after Mumbles has moved to the middle lane away from other cars, Fidget launches the ball towards Mumbles. Mumbles then jerks forward and tries to hit it with his head.

Then I bust them. And I got a glimpse of what Mumbles must have looked like when he got in trouble as a kid. He promptly blamed it on Fidget but then explained that he had executed the maneuver safely by moving into the middle lane first. For his part, Fidget clarified that they weren't playing the prohibited tetherball; instead, they were just trying to see if Mumbles could head the ball. Again, as if that's an improvement.

Fortunately, we didn't die, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Next ride in that car, I'm bringing my scissors and cutting that thing down, for the safety of the others on I-5.

I know you're all dying to know...

...who at Searching for Zentra can hold their breath the longest. Or who can hold a note the longest. Lucky for you, both those pressing issues were decided today.

It started, as most things at SFZ do, with something absurd that digressed into something more absurd. All of a sudden, we decide that we should see who can hold their breath the longest. Seriously, people, this is what happens when three people are trapped in a car together at ungodly hours of the morning. Madd Dogg, as driver, did not participate in such unsafe frivolity. But she watched as Mumbles went first, with Fidget timing him. Mumbles took a very zen-like approach, tilting back and closing his eyes. He made it for, like, a really long time. Then it was Fidget's turn. He didn't, uh, do so well.

So they switched to see who could hold a note the longest. The note didn't have to be pretty, just looonnnggg. Again, Mumbles takes the zen approach and purports to make it 57 seconds. Only, like his mumbling, you couldn't hear him hold the note. It sounded like silence coming from the backseat. He insisted that he was in fact holding the note, but explained that his intonation just blended with the road noise.

Next up is Fidget. He decides that it will help if he starts his notes with the words "Medical Detectives." Yeah, I have no idea what that is or where it came from. But he did it, and he, well, he kinda sucked. He only made it a mere 40 some odd seconds.

Fidget decided he was "off his game." So he declared a rematch on the way home. Again, Mumbles held a note for 56 seconds, and then pontificated on his "consistency." Fidget skipped the Medical Detectives, and just went for a solid note. He only made it 30 some odd seconds. He explained that, half way thru the note, it occurred to him how absurd the whole thing was. As if that was news to him?" What in the hell do we do at SFZ that isn't absurd?? Mumbles decided that it was all the running that Fidget does that hurt his ability to hold a note. Seems to me that would work the other way, but what in the hell do I know.

Bottom line? It was a clean sweep, with Mumbles winning both categories. Next up: a cage match between Mumbles and Fidget. My money is on Mumbles.

photo by mikael cosmo