Searching for Zentra: Carpool Tales

How Lame Are We?

2007-03-15T18:55:00.000-07:00

Answer: Very, very lame. Severely lame, if you will. If anyone has noticed, it's been a long time since anyone (well, Fidget or I) have posted anything. And the last thing I posted was really not all that funny. The reason for our lack of posts could be the departure of Sparky and Mmmumbes, it could be our lack of creativity, or it could be that we're boring even ourselves with our juvenile antics.

In fact, the SFZ'ers have reached such a point of near complete ambivalence about this blog that we've discussed shutting it down.

No no, it's okay, don't cry. Please? I hate it when you cry. No, seriously, stop. Oh sheesh, now it's getting embarassing, you're crying so hard you're literally heaving, dear reader. Super, here come the crying jag hiccups...okay, fine, one last story about our dearly departed Mumbles. But I can't promise that we'll follow this story up with anything nearly as funny. Ever.

And I didn't make this up. I couldn't have made it up. It was such a perfect ending to Mumbles last day in carpool. Rider X and I were talking about whether Netflix's 2 at a time plan or the 3 at a time plan was the best. As an aside, Fidget and I are long time Netflix members. During the time that Mumbles was in the carpool, I'm certain that we talked about Netflix nearly every single day. Mumbles would occasionally talk about renting a movie, but mostly it appeared to us that he was a go to the movie theater kind of guy.

So, X and I are talking about Netflix, and Mumbles pipes up that he's a fan of the 3 at a time plan. I tell him to shut it, and he says, "No, seriously. I'm on the 3 at a time plan." I understood this to mean that he had recently joined Netflix, so I congratulated him for finally joining the 21st century.

I then begin to wonder why Mumbles looks so sheepish. Turns out that he's been a member of Netflix the entire year he's been in our carpool. In and of itself, that's unremarkable. Kinda weird he never said anything, but whatever. What is remarkable is that he's had the SAME THREE MOVIES FOR A YEAR AND A HALF!! Kid you not. Like I said, couldn't make this up if I tried. I nearly crash in the Terwilliger Curves I was laughing so hard. Fidget wasn't with us, but I called him right away and told him. It was just about as Mumbles-like as Mumbles gets.

Mumbles accused me of "making it sound worse than it is." As if that's possible. He explains that he joined to avoid late fees. While that may have been a good plan, it doesn't work so well when you don't return the movies you have and then have to rent from the video store. He explained that he just chalks the $18 a month up as "lost money." I, in turn, explained that he could put the movies in the mail (gasp!) and get new ones.

I haven't heard from Mumbles since.

A Morning Math Problem

2007-02-22T18:50:00.000-08:00

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??

2007-02-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-02-17T10:34:00.000-08:00

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. . .

2007-02-10T18:29:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-08T18:38:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-02-07T19:42:00.000-08:00

...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

Hey, everyone! Apologies are on me!

2007-01-31T21:44:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-01-26T10:18:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-23T17:46:00.002-08:00

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

2007-01-21T18:24:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-17T18:27:00.001-08:00

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.

2007-01-10T19:05:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-02T18:33:00.000-08:00

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

Things that make you go "hmm"

2006-12-30T15:01:00.000-08:00

While this "jinx" thing is still fresh in your mind, I've got a bone to pick with Madd Dogg about one of the rules of the Jinx. (See "You Owe Me a Coke, Motherf**ker")

Madd Dogg is correct that our carpool has a rule that a jinx can be based only on words, not sounds. That rule (like all of our rules) evolved after the issue actually arose in the carpool. As I recall it, Madd Dogg and I made the same sound at the same time -- I think the sound was "hmm." Anyway, I immediately called a "jinx," counted to ten, and informed Madd Dogg that she owed me a coke. She protested (which incidentally broke another rule: if someone jinxes you, you cannot talk, even if you suspect that the jinx is somehow defective). After a vote, the rest of the carpool took her side. Thus, a jinx could thereafter be based only on words.

I was, shall we say, dubious. The rule struck me as stupid and arbitrary. I mean, honestly: Why should words and sounds be treated differently so long as two people say or make them at the same time? (Answer: They shouldn't be. And if Madd Dogg had been the first to jinx someone based on a sound, she would have been the one arguing that they are fair game.)

Well, if you are like me, you are petty, and willing to hold a grudge until your dying day. Luckily, I didn't have to wait until that day. As Madd Dogg mentioned, she -- quote/unquote -- "jinxed" me a couple of weeks ago with the word "oh." Eager to smack her upside the head with her own dumb rule, I told her that "oh" wasn't a word. She pointed out that it was a word because it was in the dictionary. At which point, my grammar admittedly became impaired and I told her that "There's a lot of shit in the dictionary that aren't words."

And that's right; there are a lot of "words" in the dictionary that are not actually words. Take, for example, this one, which was the very basis for the "no sounds" rule in the first place:

H'm or hmm, which Webster's defines as an "interj." that is "used typically to express thoughtful absorption, hesitation, doubt, or perplexity."

The inconsistency of Madd Dogg's "dictionary" rule makes me want to express hesitation, doubt, and perplexity right now.

Hmm.

"You Owe Me a Coke, Motherf**ker"

2006-12-26T17:50:00.000-08:00

Ah yes. This could very well go down in Searching for Zentra history as one of the greatest lines, uttered by our fair Mumbles. First, we should all pause and recognize the fact that not only did Mumbles utter this line, but it was understood by all in carpool. Second, it is significant because it is the first time that Mumbles has ever jinxed anyone in the 'pool.

Jinx is an important concept in our 'pool. I, for one, had never heard of it, pre-meeting our dear Fidget (as an aside, it's hard to imagine a time in my life where I didn't know Fidget. Life was just not nearly as interesting as it is now...). One day, a few weeks after joining the 'pool, Fidget and I happened to say the exact same word at the exact time. Next thing I knew, Fidget was demonstrating that he knew how to count from 1 to 10, and then shrieked that I owed him a coke. Hence, my introduction to the Jinx. Should you and another say the same word or phrase at the same time, the first person to say, "Jinx, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, you owe me a coke" is the "winner." The loser is not permitted to speak, not even to protest the jinx (more on that later) until someone else utters said loser's name three times.

Dumb? Absolutely. Hours of entertainment? Of course. And it just so happens that, when you spend as much time as we do, trapped in a very small space, jinx happens a lot. Many battles have ensued, and a whole new set of rules have followed.

For instance, if something isn't a word, it can't be used towards a jinx. Recently, after losing a jinx and attempting to protest the result, Fidget pronounced that "Oh" isn't a word. After I pointed out, as winner of the jinx, that it is totally a word because it's in the dictionary, Fidget stated that "There's a lot of shit in the dictionary that aren't words." Huh? In his view, "Oh" is an exclamation, not a word. I know, sad isn't it? When he says things like that, we just look at one another knowingly, and gently pat his head.

Another rule is that you have to actually count each number...Sparky has a habit of just jumping in at whatever number his opponent is at, in an attempt to beat them. Can't do it...you have to start at 1, count each number through 10.

Anyway, Mumbles doesn't jinx. I suspect that's largely due to the fact that we can't understand what he says, therefore no jinx. But as we were driving home the other day, he and Fidget were talking about something that led to something else that led to a line being quoted from Beverly Hills Cop. He and Fidget uttered the line at the exact same time. Mumbles response?

Mumbles: Jinx, 4, 5, 6

Other Carpool members: Looking at each other in shocked silence, concerned Mumbles doesn't know how to count....

Mumbles: Jinx, 1, 2, 3, 4....

Other carpool members: Silently urging him past four, hoping he'll remember that 5-10 follow...

Mumbles: 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. You owe me a coke, motherfucker!!

Almost peed my pants I was laughing so hard. So hard to capture in a blog, but it was possibly the most brilliant line ever uttered in carpool.

So the jinx count is as follows:

Sparky owes Madd Dogg like 15 cokes, which he can work off by kicking her ass in tennis.
Fidget and Madd Dogg are most likely even.
Sparky owes Fidget a half rack.
Fidget owes Mumbles a coke, motherfucker.

Ground Control to Major Dogg

2006-12-20T20:28:00.000-08:00

Something that I have learned about Madd Dogg: When she gets angry at you, she will grab your wrist and try to bite your hand. She may even let out a bear-like growl at the same time.

Although I originally learned that lesson during the great gum incident of 2006, I had a refresher course today after Madd Dogg got sick and tired of me turning off her car stereo immediately after she turned it on. I did it, like, ten times. It's not that I don't like the Indigo Girls, with whom Madd Dogg was attempting to harmonize at the time. Rather, I did it in retaliation for the ear-splitting, blood-curdling scream that Madd Dogg issued -- for no identifiable reason -- just before we arrived at the carpool spot this evening.

Now, don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a good old-fashioned blood-curdling scream from time to time. But not immediately before (like tonight) I am going to a physical exam to have my friggin' blood pressure checked, in order to obtain life insurance so that, in the event of my untimely passing, my loved ones will be able to afford a really nice car.

In any event, Madd Dogg was decidedly unmoved by my reason for turning off her stereo. So unmoved was she that she bid me a special kind of luck during my exam: "I hope the nurse pokes you in your private parts," she said. Uncalled for.

But the ride home was not entirely comprised of equal parts piss and vinegar. For one thing, I downloaded my first musical "ring tone." So now, if you were to call my cell phone, I would hear David Bowie singing, "Ground control to Major Tom" again and again. And again. Apparently, that song is called "Space Oddity," a fact that we knew only after Madd Dogg called her better half and put in a request for some remote internet research. (What we should have asked her to research is the number of times a person can listen to Bowie repeating that line without wanting to take a dirt nap. I suspect that the number would be around 12, which is fast approaching for me. So please, don't call me on my cell phone unless you want me dead.)

In other news, Madd Dogg doesn't like "taco meat." And that's how she knows that the Taco Burger at Taco Time is "gross," even though she's never actually tried it. I beg to differ. I mean, really: Ground beef? Shredded lettuce? Shredded cheddar cheese? Chopped tomatoes? And Thousand Island dressing, all on a sesame seed bun? As Mumles would say, "Forgetaboutit."

[photo by sandra]

Sparky is so getting coal for Christmas

2006-12-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

Sigh. It truly pains me to write this blog entry (okay, not really...but I felt like I should say that). It's actually Sparky's behavior that pains me. Let me set the scene:

Thursday, 8:03 a.m.: Madd Dogg suffers a heinous work related blow. She cries.

8:10 a.m.: Madd Dogg is so done crying. Now she's just pissed. And she needs a stiff drink.

11:45 a.m.: Our office holiday party commences.

12:13 p.m.: The office holiday party gift exchange begins. In short, the rules provide that you open a gift but that others with a higher number may steal your gift.

12:19 p.m.: Madd Dogg steals a nerf gun and bottle of wine, announcing that she needs both after her work related blow. It was a loud annoncement, such that Sparky HAD to have heard it.

12:23 p.m.: Sparky flashes his number (higher than Madd Dogg's) at Madd Dogg, with glee and cruelty in his eyes. He makes it quite clear he's coming for MY nerf gun and MY bottle of wine. Did I mention that I made it quite clear I needed both?

12:29 p.m. Sparky's number is called and, sure enough, he makes his way towards Madd Dogg and STEALS her gun and bottle of wine. With a certain amount of satisfaction, I might add. Madd Dogg attempts to shoot him with her nerf gun but to no avail.

12:31 p.m.: Someone else steals the nerf gun and wine from Sparky. Once again, karma kicks Sparky squarely in the ass. Madd Dogg claps.

12:38 p.m.: The party ends, and Sparky has some hot chocolate assortment and Madd Dogg, thank god, ended up with another bottle of wine.

Since then: Madd Dogg and Sparky have not ridden in a car together. Madd Dogg's beef? I mean, sure, stealing is all part of the game. But I am equally as sure that Sparky breached some unnamed carpool ethic (with impunity, I might add) by stealing what Madd Dogg so clearly needed that day. And she has yet to forgive him. And she predicts that Santa will feel the same, and will deliver an appropriate amount of coal.

Now That's Just Unsafe

2006-12-06T18:34:00.000-08:00

Sparky and Fidget have had a long standing issue with Mumbles and I. To wit: Mumbles and I tend to take off our seat belts when we are approaching our destination rather than, as Fidget and Sparky would prefer, when we're actually at our destination. Fidget has attempted to explain why this bothers him so, something along the lines of how if we take off our seatbelts and we get into an accident, we become a missile or bullet or some kind of projectile that would then pose a danger to someone else in the car. I'm really not clear on how that works exactly, but that's what he says. As for why this bothers Sparky, I can only hazard a guess along the lines of how, technically, we are violating some law.

It is, indeed, a bad habit. My excuse is that I used to live with a cop, and that's what cops do...they take off their seatbelts as they are approaching a scene so that they can hop out of their car and violate some poor schmuck's civil rights more quickly than they could have if they took off their seatbelt after arriving at the scene. So I learned to take off my seatbelt before getting somewhere, just in case...I don't know why Mumbles does it, but he does it way earlier even than I do (if he puts on his seatbelt at all, which is a whole other posting).

Anyway, as I mentioned, every time that Mumbles or I prematurely unbelt, Sparky and Fidget freak out. It's really quite tiresome. Today, however, Sparky felt the need to make more of a point than he usually does. We were like inches from our drop off point and Mumbles and I unbelted. Sparky, in response, stomped on the breaks in an attempt to purposely propel our foreheads into the dash. I, of course, anticipated this assholic maneuver and caught myself with my arm (which fortunately didn't snap in two). How rude is that? Sparky was willing to go so far as to hurt two people to make a point, and that made me sad.

My sadness was short lived, however. Sparky and I live near each other, so I was following him on the drive home. Across the middle of the road strode a group of boys, looking like they were up to no good and most definitely not obeying any right of way laws. Sparky had to slow and, as I was behind him, I had to slow too. That pissed me off. Being Madd Dogg, I honked at them. Only they thought it was Sparky who had honked at them, and made all sorts of pissed off gestures at him instead of me. Ha! Feel that Sparky? That's instant karma kicking you in the ass.

V for Vacation

2006-11-30T04:53:00.000-08:00

From time to time, one of our carpool members decides to go on vacation. I always find that to be bittersweet. On one hand, it's nice to have a break from someone who may, oh I don't know, spit gum at you in a blatant show of disrespect. (See Madd Dogg v. Fidget.) But on the other hand, it's very difficult to leave someone who would spit gum at you in a blatant show of disrespect. It's complicated.

Anyway, I'm on vacation as we speak. The first day of a vacation is always somewhat of a "throwaway," and this one is no different. Here is a brief account of just the first leg of my trip to Washington D.C., via Chicago O'Hare Airport. (I will leave out the part where my flight was cancelled in D.C., prompting me to fly standby.)

5:20 am -- Alarm goes off, ten minutes earlier than on a regular work day. Feeling relaxed already.
6:15 am -- Leave for airport. My flight is scheduled for 7:55 am. But I like to be early, so shut it. (Remember folks, they don't give you extra credit for showing up at the last possible minute.)
7:25 am -- Boarding is set to begin. For some reason, we are not boarding. Hmm.
7:45 am -- Boarding begins. Airline personnel explain that the delay is due to [insert vague jumble of jargon that no one can hope to understand].
7:55 am -- Official departure time. We are not departing. Ho hum.
8:15 am -- Seated, strapped, and (still) waiting for departure. But wait! Is that the pilot on the intercom? So it is. He is explaining, in a manner that sounds like he is asking a girl out for the first time, that the airport in Chicago -- the entire fucking airport, mind you -- has closed due to crappy weather. Our flight will be delayed until the "top of the hour," when the Chicagoans will tell us if we can take off.
9:00 am -- Captain explains that the flight has been delayed until 9:35 am.
9:35 am -- Captain explains that the flight has been delayed until 11:00 am. But we can deplane if we want. I contemplate suicide.
9:45 am -- I have deplaned and I am hungry. But the choices near the gate are limited. I am now hunched over a bratwurst with sauerkraut from Good Dog/Bad Dog. It's dinnertime somewhere, isn't it?
10:40 am -- Re-boarding begins.
11:10 am -- The plane begins its bumpy roll backwards from the gate.
11:15 am -- We taxi.
11:20 am -- We taxi.
11:22 am -- I begin to get heartburn from the brat.
11:28 am -- Our plane takes off. Surprisingly, it stays aloft. We are, as they say in the industry, "wheels up."

Vegetarian Interrupted?

2006-11-28T17:11:00.000-08:00

Sure, I make a bet from time to time for something like a cup of coffee, but I am by no means a seasoned gambler. You could fill a book with the things that I don't know about gambling. (Like what in the hell is a "river card"?)

I am fairly confident about a few things, however. I'm reasonably confident, for example, that no "sure thing" exists in gambling. And I certainly know from watching Honeymoon in Vegas that you don't bet something that you are not willing to lose. I don't know if Mumbles has seen that movie but, before he makes any more bets, he should. Listen:

The other day in carpool, I made an unfortunate reference to David Puddy, the Seinfeld character, who responded to the question "Where do you want to eat?" by saying "It feels like an Arby's night." Mumbles picked up on the Arby's reference and suggested that I could go to Arby's and get the "five for $5.00," which is a deal that Arby's has offered from time to time -- five regular roast beef sandwiches for five dollars. I mentioned to Mumbles that I thought that Arby's most generous offer is currently five for $5.95. Mumbles flew into a near rage, emphatically suggesting that we bet on it.

I didn't want to bet Mumbles, mostly because I wasn't all that confident that I was right. But when Mumbles proposed the terms, I really didn't want to bet. The terms -- again, suggested by Mumbles -- was that the loser of the bet had to eat five roast beef sandwiches from Arby's. I should point out now that, for those of you who don't know, Mumbles is a vegetarian. He doesn't even eat cheese.

I tried to dissuade Mumbles from entering such a rich bet. "I'm not eating five sandwiches," I told him. "I just don't want all those calories." But at that point, I could barely hear myself talk. Sparky and Madd Dogg were in the back seat chanting (helpfully) "DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" They sounded like frat boys at a beer-bong contest. I am ashamed to say that I folded under their pressure and accepted Mumbles's bet on modified terms -- the loser would eat only one roast beef sandwich.

If you've taken any classes in contracts law, you will immediately wonder if the "contract" that Mumbles and I entered suffers from an enforceability problem. That is, I sort of like the Arby's roast beef sandwich. So I really didn't put anything at stake in the bet. Mumbles, on the other hand, put his vegetarian lifestyle at stake. And the guy used to work for PETA, for crying out loud. Is Mumbles an idiot for talking me into a bet in which he is the only one who stands to lose anything? Draw your own conclusions.

And at this point, it's unclear who will win or lose the bet. As you can see from the picture, Arby's does currently have a "5 for $5.95" offer. But the fine print on the window of the restaurant -- which I got out of my car to read -- says that the $5.95 deal applies to, among other things, sandwiches with roast beef and cheddar .

Does Arby's still offer the traditional "5 for $5.00"? For Mumbles's sake, let's hope so.

Madd Dogg: A True Zentra Patriot

2006-11-23T09:31:00.000-08:00

Usually, I hate Thanksgiving. Oh, sure, Thanksgiving means that I get a day off work and an unrestricted license to eat myself into a new pant size.

But Thanksgiving also means that I actually may have to give thanks for something. And that possibility leads to my fear that during the traditional Thanksgiving gathering -- trimmed with all of the stumbling conversations and awkward silences with people whom I have not seen since last Thanksgiving -- some yahoo will walk up and ask me what I'm thankful for.

This year, however, I'm not afraid. And it's all thanks to Madd Dogg.

This year, if some corny cornball has the gall to ask me what I'm thankful for, I don't have to give my usual answer ("Underarm deodorant"). Instead, I'm going to stand tall, look that schmuck straight in the eyes, put my right hand on my heart, and say:

By God, I'm thankful for Madd Dogg.

In recent days, Madd Dogg has been nothing less than a beacon of hope for this blog. In the face of my second bout of the flu last week (don't even get me started on that one), Madd Dogg grabbed the SFZ reins, held on tight, and fired off five -- five! -- blog entries in a row. Not only did she shatter the SFZ record for consecutive blog postings, she held this blog together when the only other poster (me) was out of commission.

So Madd Dogg, this year, I'm thankful for you.

Mumbles and Sparky, you can suck it. You didn't do shit. . .

On a lighter note, now it's time for . . . fun Thanksgiving facts! (Brought to you by www.wikipedia.org.)

Squanto, a Native American who hung out with the pilgrims, taught them how to catch eel. Which leads to a question: Why don't we eat more eel at Thanksgiving? No doubt because the stuffing lobby is way too powerful. . .
In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt declared that Thanksgiving would be the next-to-last Thursday of November rather than the last. And of course, because this is America, his decision was based on hopes that stores would sell more worthless crap before Christmas. What a patriot.
In Canada, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the second Monday in October. Which means that those wacky Canucks have a much longer shopping season.

[photo by thomas hawk]

What happens when you assume?

2006-11-20T19:06:00.000-08:00

Not so fast, smarty pants! I know that you all were thinking that, when one assumes, it makes an ass of "u" and "me." But we at Searching for Zentra take literalism to an extreme and somewhat painful degree. I thought that, before we all head off for turkey, a little family dysfunction, and football, I'd share a little vignette about what happens when you assume in our carpool (and I'll give you the very most abbreviated, least painful version that I can):

Sparky to Fidget (As he gets into the car, where Madd Dogg, Fidget, and Mumbles are waiting): Dude, I'm not talking to you.

Fidget: Why?

Sparky: Because you left the office without me!

Fidget: But dude! I assumed that you had already gone to the car without me. But I guess I know what happens when I assume, it makes an ass out of..

Sparky: You better not say that it makes an ass out of me, because I didn't do anything. I'm not the ass, you are.

Fidget: Yeah, that's true. But, as an aside, to make that saying more accurate, "assume" should be spelled "assyoume." Otherwise, it's just misleading, because "you" isn't spelled "u."

Mumbles: It's an imperfect saying, dudes, jsueosybjdlwsu3osl#@sdld.

My head hurts now. And the family dysfunction hasn't even begun yet. Happy Thanksgiving!

Madd Dogg vs. Fidget

2006-11-13T19:17:00.000-08:00

We, my dear readers, have stooped to a whole new low. Hard to imagine, isn't it? I suppose that I should clarify that by "we" I mean Fidget and Madd Dogg. Let me set the stage, in chronological order:

Madd Dogg had a shit pisser of a day at work. So, on the way to way to the car at the end of the day, Madd Dogg describes to Fidget various aspects of her day that have pissed her off. Fidget, having been well trained, says all the right things, like "wow, yeah, that sounds really frustrating" or "I'm sorry, that totally blows." However, Fidget promptly forgets what he's been taught as soon as we're in the car.

I can't even remember what he said, but rest assured people, it was totally rude. In fact, it was so rude that Fidget himself said, "yeah, that was rude, so punch me." He then proffers up his arm for me to punch. I say to myself, "Self, do you really want to hit him or would you rather spare him the pain of your iron fist and instead come up with another, alternate punishment?" I chose the latter road and this is really where things begin to deteriorate. Now, in case I wasn't clear above, I had had a really bad day and I was feeling extra cantankorous. I may have spit my bright green spearmint gum (see photo) at him. At his arm, mind you, which was amply covered by his waterproof coat. Fidget was, dare I say, stunned. So I did it again. So stunned was Fidget that he dared me. He told me that if I did it again, he'd put the gum in my hair.

Such a threat gave Madd Dogg but a second of pause, before the residual oppositional defiant disorder kicked in and she promptly spits her gum at his waterproof covered arm one more time. Fidget grabs the gum and heads for my head. We then engage in a wrestling match for the gum, which ends when I latch onto his hand with my teeth. All the while, our little Sparkles is squealing out oh so helpfully from the front seat that peanut butter will help me get the gum out of my hair. Anyway, I managed to wrestle the gum away from Fidget and threw it out of the car (thereby committing a crime in the process). Then, our little Sparkles shrieks out again that Fidget got beat by a girl, and Mumbles said something that sounded like "dude, you adljwu@@@%#djotpweit, dude." Fidget is really pissed, not because I spit gum at him but because he didn't manage to stick it in my hair.

Now, after this melee, I mention out loud that, had Fidget been successful, it would have been awfully hard to explain why I had gum in my hair when I get home. And, even though I arrive home gum free, as I'm trying to describe this event to my partner, she looks at me with a mix of pity and horror and disbelief and says, "Oh honey, things have really have deteriorated, haven't they?"

Um, well, yes dear, they totally have. I have no excuses for such deplorable behavior other than to say that I was forced to such extreme measures.

PS: Thanks to happy massager for modeling my gum.

Space Invaders of the Fidget Kind

2006-11-08T20:08:00.000-08:00

We have a serious problem in carpool. Seriously. Now, as a caveat, I will admit that, probably more than most people, I have what Fidget has so endearingly termed "space issues." That is, I don't like people in my personal space (is that so unreasonable? I think not). I hate those people who, when you're in line at Peets, get within like two inches of you and you can feel their breath on your neck. You inch forward, away from them, and damned if they don't move even closer to you. Makes me nuts.

So, in light of my oh so reasonable "space issues," it is well established in carpool that you don't invade my, or anybody else's, personal space. It's why we can never have five people in the car, because if you have to sit in the back, you'd literally have the third person touching you. Now granted, we violate this rule just about every day when we conduct an Operation Sparky Sandwich or Fidget is being a particular pain in my ass and I have to flick his ear to get him back in line. But, within those limited and well-defined exceptions, the rule is clear: stay outta my personal space and I'll stay outta yours.

Fidget, apparently, has not been paying attention. Because today, as I was merrily driving down I-5, I see the hand out of my peripheral vision, headed my way. I'm thinking Fidget is just gesturing as he's celebrating the recent Democratic victories, but I'll be goddamn if he doesn't reach across, INTO MY DRIVER'S SPACE, and TURN ON THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS. This, it now occurs to me, violates not one but TWO rules. First, the space rule. Second, it is most clearly within the province of the driver to determine when the windshield wipers should or should not be on. So I karate chop his hand, and away it slithers. But then, our little Sparky chirps up from the back seat that that was TWICE in the last week that Fidget has done that. Apparently, when it was just Fidget and Sparky in the car, with Sparky driving, Fidget reached across the demilitarized zone and into Sparky's space and HONKED HIS HORN. This from the very Fidget who won't honk his own horn and chastises me whenever I use mine to express my displeasure with another driver's lack of manners. Unbelievable. Of course, Fidget tries to twist and twirl his way out of this, but he's screwed. I had Sparky write him up a ticket, and he's on serious probation. Any further violations and he's relegated to the back seat for a month (and if you knew our seating patterns, that would really hurt him).

Query:

2006-11-07T18:36:00.000-08:00

Harking back to our "do baseball players wear cups" question (which was never resolved, by the way, so I never got my coffee from Fidget), I was forced to wonder today whether football players wear cups. Now, lest you think I have an obsession with men's crotches, I assure you, in the most emphatic way possible, that that is NOT the case. What made me wonder this was watching a replay of Tyler Brayton of the Oakland Raiders knee my boy Jerramy Stevens in the groin on Monday night football. Brayton got ejected, but watching it made me wonder whether it hurt Brayton or Stevens more. If Stevens was wearing a cup, I dare say that Brayton's knee probably hurts like hell today. If Stevens wasn't wearing a cup, then he probably bears more pain. But watching Stevens dance away after being kneed, rather than falling to his hands and knees and grabbing his family jewels, makes me think that he was wearing a cup. Wanna bet, Fidget?

Carpool vs. The Rain

2006-11-06T18:48:00.000-08:00

I'll be the first to admit that whenever somebody bitches about the rain, I tell them to shut it. I mean really, we are in Oregon. Don't like it? Then move. In fact, I'm such a fan of the rain that I frequently invoke the rain dance in an attempt to get it to rain more.

But seriously, I'm done with that now. I was officially done as of like 4:43, when Fidget and I were driving down I-5 North and Fidget let out a little girl scream when a car going southbound splashed a big ass splash all over his little Honda. That was nearly as scary as all the swerving we did as we hydroplaned on giant puddles on the freeway. One might think that, given how much it rains here, Oregonians would know how to drive. Not so. How about we all slow down to a safe 20 mile an hour school zone speed, because that'll like, totally help.

You know what might be the worst thing about it though? The rain is so damned loud that Mumbles is even more unintelligible than usual. Fidget and I were conferring and thinking that Mumbles has gotten worse, but really, I think the rain is to blame.

Hello, carpool calling

2006-11-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

I was home sick on Thursday.
I had the flu, which sucks for at least two notable reasons:

(1) Vomiting. (And I think you'll agree that vomiting while sober is a little too, um, sobering. I've found -- or at least I found during my college years -- that vomiting is best done when one's mental capacities are somewhat dulled.)

(2) Carpool withdrawals.

Although no one in the carpool could do anything to help me with my number (1) problem (nor would any of them probably want to know about it), the carpool members were thoughtful enough to help me with my carpool withdrawals.

At about 5:05 pm, when the pool must have just been starting the long ride back to Portland, I received a call from Madd Dogg, pleading for help. As it happened, Sparky was being a [insert obscene word], and she wondered if I could make him stop.

"What is he doing?" I asked. I felt like the advice nurse that I had called only hours before, attempting to diagnose the problem from miles away.

"He's repeating everything I say in a high-pitched voice," she said woefully. And indeed, I could hear Sparky's mock whimperings of that very sentence in the background. "Will you make him stop? Mumbles just keeps saying that he doesn't want to get in the middle of it."

"Ok, put him on," I said.

Needless to say, Sparky had a somewhat different version of events. Although he admitted that he was imitating Madd Dogg (and how could he deny it), it was apparently her fault. "She's being extra-cantankerous today. She punched me and pulled on the back of my jacket, and she's just generally being a [insert obscene word]."

I quickly realized that I could never determine with any level of accuracy which of them truly was at fault. They both had memories like elephants; and given time, they would each remember some earlier reason why the other one started the fight. (That would go on, likely, until each of their births were to blame.) So I attempted to appeal to Sparky as the so-called "mature" one.

"Ok, well, could you just stop saying everything that she says?"

Not surprisingly, he turned on me: "Oh, you're not going to be that dog who just takes her side. Don't be that dog."

But I was going to be that dog. And that's ok because I knew that Madd Dogg and Sparky would continue to snipe at each other for a couple of minutes, but that they would soon stop. Mumbles would tell a story from the back seat, much of which would be inaudible. And I would go lie down, feeling nauseated, but glad to have been included in the carpool ride home.

When Good Pets Go Cold

2006-10-30T20:25:00.000-08:00

On the way home in carpool today (it was just Madd Dogg and Sparky), Sparky was telling me about his turtle wanting to snuggle. I know, a turtle who wants to snuggle? They're hard and cold and I guess I thought that Sparky was a little, well, projective when he said that his turtle wanted to snuggle. Anyway, he told me that yesterday his turtle was staring up from the floor, looking longingly at his dad, and indicating, apparently, that it wanted to snuggle because it's been so cold. Sparky, who was on the couch, under a blankie and with plenty of room to share, informed his turtle that that he wasn't "in the mood" to snuggle.

I thought this was most abominable behavior, so I got all superior on his ass. I explained that, as a pet owner, it's not about the person - it's about what the pet wants. If the pet wants to snuggle, hard and cold as it may be, the owner better damn well snuggle with it! By way of superior example, I told him that I was going home and, in the dark, sub zero weather, I was going to take my dog running because I had promised him that morning before I left for work that I would. So I get home, get out of my work clothes, bypass the flannel pjs, and get in my running clothes, hat, gloves, the whole works. I'm like 100 degrees before we even leave the house. But we're out and we're going, just like I had promised my dog.

The first two blocks go well. He's running like a mad dog (ha!). But then I feel a tug at the leash, and figure he's just stopped to pee where 10 other dogs have peed that day. Only then I look down and it turns out that he's just sitting there on the sidewalk looking at me. Granted, I look like a freak all bundled up (did I mention it was dark and freezing?) so I thought maybe he had one of those little kid walked up to the wrong parent in the grocery store moments. But when I tug at the leash, he doesn't budge. At all. I tug some more, and he just continues to stare at me like I've lost my mind. Remember, this run is for him, not me. I'm perfectly content to be at home at that moment with my pjs and a glass of Italian red wine. I tug some more, he doesn't budge, his collar comes off and he's running away. I use my most imposing voice, he comes back, the collar goes back on. I tug one last time and I'll be goddamn if he doesn't LAY DOWN in the MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. Flat out lays down like I killed him. I tug a little on the leash, and he just kind of gets dragged along on the road. Any longer and I'll be hooked up for animal cruelty. So I say, okay, let's go home, and damned if the little love of my life doesn't set a new record for how fast he ran those two blocks back home.

The moral of this overly involved, overly long story? Sparky, you had it right. I would've been better off getting off my high horse and agreeing that sometimes, it's just okay not to be in the mood to dote on your pet. Woulda saved me a cold ass "run" in the dark.

Sparky Sandwich

2006-10-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

As many of you brown-baggers know, the "sandwich" is named after the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu. That factoid is rather strange, and probably unfortunate, given the vast array of other notable things that the good Earl did. In addition to being dubiously dubbed the inventor of the sandwich (see below), he was a member of the House of Lords, a Commissioner of Admiralty, an army colonel, a Secretary of State, and the Postmaster General.

With all of those honors, you might wonder if Montagu would be more than a little disappointed to find out that, all of these years later, his name has become synonymous with a type of food that usually is considered to be sort of "ho-hum." Don't feel bad for him. As it turns out, the "sandwich" rightfully should be called the "hillel," after it's true inventor, Hillel the Elder. Hillel came up with the idea of putting food in between pieces of matzo way back in the first century B.C.E. Although really, what Hillel created would now more commonly be referred to as a "wrap."

At any rate, both Montagu and Hillel are now dead. Consequently, I highly doubt that either of them give a crap about who gets the credit for "inventing" something that really shouldn't have needed to be "invented" in the first place. I mean, come on, we're talking about two pieces of bread with some sort of filling. We're not talking rocket science.

And speaking of stuff that is not rocket science, I will now give you all SFZ's coveted recipe for a delicious Sparky Sandwich. The ingredients are easy to remember: Sparky, Madd Dogg, and Fidget. (Some people might wonder if Mumbles would be a substitute for either Madd Dogg or Fidget. I doubt it.)

After assembling the ingredients, start by placing Sparky on the sidewalk, where he will walk toward work. Then, gently place Madd Dogg and Fidget on either side of him, walking at the same pace. From there, the ingredients themselves will take over.

Much like yeast magically makes bread rise, Madd Dogg and Fidget will make very subtle eye contact. And then, at precisely the same moment, they will ram their shoulders into Sparky from either side. If the impact is forceful enough, it will cause coffee to spill out of Sparky's travel mug and splatter onto the front of his dress shirt. Sparky will pretend like he is angry (especially if he has a meeting that day), and he will show up in Fidget's office later to point to the stain accusingly. But because a Sparky Sandwich is best served with coffee, you'll just have to offer him "Spray-n-Wash" and hope for the best.

Warning: The recipe can go terribly wrong if the eye contact between Madd Dogg and Fidget is not subtle enough. Under those circumstances, Sparky may catch on to the fact that he is about to become the key ingredient in a sandwich, and he will stop walking at the right moment. If he does that, Madd Dogg and Fidget will ram their shoulders into each other, and the result is less appetizing.

[photo by paul goyette]

Superheroes? Not so much.

2006-10-21T20:02:00.000-07:00

Great things can happen when spiders bite. Remember what happened when a radioactive spider bit Peter Parker? That’s right, he developed super spider strength, the knack for climbing walls, and the ability to spin webs directly from his wrists. Although Parker’s super abilities were nothing more than a wicked web of inconsistencies (see Note, below), the spider bite nonetheless turned Parker into one of the greatest superheroes of our time.

Still, we at SFZ want nothing to do with super-heroics, at least not if spider bites are a necessary part of the equation. Want proof? Listen:

On Friday morning, all four of us were in carpool. I (Fidget) was in the driver’s seat; Mumbles was riding shotgun; Madd Dogg and Sparky were in the back. When we were somewhere near the Woodburn exit, Sparky squealed out loud (not unlike an eight-year-old schoolgirl). After Madd Dogg’s pleas for help joined Sparky’s frantic spasm-like yelps, we discovered that a spider had found its way into the car. It had climbed from the back window, and came to rest somewhere near the dome light – directly above Sparky’s head.

Pandemonium erupted. And the SFZ members quickly found themselves unwittingly thrust into a frantic crisis, not unlike the crisis that the Apollo 13 astronauts faced after Kevin Bacon stirred the oxygen tanks and caused the spacecraft to go "teats up" on the way to the moon. But whereas the astronauts had to find a way to fix a crippled lunar module with duct tape and tube socks, we had to find a way to get a spider out of a moving car with only our shoes and Dairy Queen napkins. The following is a partial transcript of our tribulation:

Sparky: Help! Help!
Madd Dogg: Ah! A spider!
Mumbles (Looking back): Remember, he’s as scared of you as you are of him. He’s just as scared as you are.
Madd Dogg: Here, I’ll squash him with my shoe.
Fidget: No! Don’t use your shoe! Put your shoe back on!
Sparky (To the spider, which had started descending by a thread towards Sparky’s face): Don’t jump! Don’t jump!
Fidget: No, no, don’t worry. Spiders don’t jump. (Yes, I know that’s complete horse shit.)
Mumbles: He’s just as scared as you are.
Fidget: Here, take these [Dairy Queen] napkins. Wrap him up in the napkins, and then just fliffer him out the window.
Madd Dogg: What does “fliffer” mean?
Fidget: You know, just (indicating with his hands) “fliffer” him.
Sparky: Ok, ok. I got him. (Sound of window opening). There, he’s out.
Madd Dogg, Sparky, Fidget, and Mumbles: Whew.

Note on the inconsistencies of Spider-Man’s abilities:
Ok, so in the movie version of Spider-Man, Spidey shoots web out of his wrists. But then he puts on a long-sleeve shirt that covers up his wrists. How does the web still come out? Similarly, the movie version explains that Spidey can climb walls because he has microscopic spider-like hairs, which come out of his fingers (and presumably, his toes). But then he puts on gloves and shoes. How in the frick do the little hairs touch the walls?
It just doesn’t make any sense.

[photo by freezelight]

Play Ball(s)!

2006-10-14T10:46:00.000-07:00

For as long as baseball has been an organized sport, one recurring debate has raged in the sporting world:

Is baseball is a boring sport?

On one side of the debate are the purists. Those are the people who know the difference between a curveball and a slider. They know what a double switch is. And they think that the people who decry baseball as "boring" are too simple-minded to form an educated opinion on the subject.

On the other side of the debate are the people who insist that sports have a certain amount of action. They like their sports to be, well, sporting. They don't respect any sport that would accept into its loving embrace someone as out-of-shape as John Kruk. And they don't like the fact that the strike zone is a transient, amorphous rectangle suspended in space, subject to the non-mathematic whims of fallible human eyes.

We at SFZ have never formally entered the debate. But a recent carpool conversation -- which led to a bet between Mumbles and me -- clearly shows which side we would take if pressed:

Madd Dogg: So I was watching the game last night. At first, I was wondering why all of the players scratch at their balls so much. And then I realized that it was because they are all wearing cups and they are constantly adjusting them.
Fidget: I don't think they all wear cups; I think only the catcher does.
Madd Dogg: Really?
Mumbles: No, dude, they all wear cups.
Fidget: I don't think so. Do you know how hard it would be to run with a cup?
Mumbles: Dude, I used to play lacrosse, and we all wore cups, and we ran around the whole time.
Sparky: I don't know, Mumbles. What about the outfielders?
Mumbles: Yeah, I don' t know if the outfielders wear cups. But the infield and the pitcher definitely do. Dude, do you know how bad it would hurt to get hit in the crotch with a baseball?

And so on . . .

So what does the above conversation say about the members of SFZ? Are we perverted? Do we have an obsession with genital protective gear? Do we have too much time on our hands?

All of those questions are, themselves, subject to debate. But I, for one, think that our conversation sends a pretty clear message about whether we think that baseball is boring. Let me put it this way -- after a hard-fought pitcher's duel in the NLCS, the most interesting thing that we could find to discuss was why the players scratch their nuts with such frightening frequency.

So if you ask us, "Do you think that baseball is a boring sport?", our answer will be a resounding "You bet your ass, we do. Except maybe during the playoffs."

[Photo by SquadLeader]

The Carpool Rules of Sleep

2006-10-13T19:22:00.000-07:00

In case you three faithful readers haven't been paying attention, we have a lot of rules in carpool. Lots and lots. It's hard to keep up, we know. So I thought I'd educate you on one of rules: the rule of sleep (and the difficulties I've been having with sleeping in the 'pool lately).

The Rules of Sleep

1. You can sleep in carpool anytime.
2. You can't use your carpool mates lap or shoulder as a pillow, lest you drool on them.
3. You can't pretend you're sleeping and then interject randomly into conversations. It's disconcerting.
4. You can't leap into the front seat at the beginning of carpool, only to fall asleep. It leaves the driver lonely.
5. Related to #4, the person in the front seat really should stay awake unless the two in the backseat have fallen asleep (I may have recently violated this rule, but I was so tired) .
6. You cannot drop things down a sleeping person's shirt, mess with their stuff, or otherwise disturb them while the person is sleeping. And yes, this rule is violated all the time.
7. You can't snore....oh wait. That brings me to the difficulties I've been having sleeping...

TWICE this week, I've been in a beautiful slumber, deep in R.E.M., when lo and behold, I hear a distant rumble. Is it an overhead low flying plane? Nope. Something wrong with the car? Not that either. So I drag my eyes open, pissed as hell, only to realize that it's another carpool mate slumbering and sawing logs. Now granted, we're in a confined space so it sounds louder than it probably really is, but it's loud enough to wake me up. And I'm a heavy sleeper. So each time this has happened, I promptly violate rule #6 in some manner. I guess in some respects, it's a little endearing that someone would feel so comfortable in the 'pool so as to fall asleep so deeply as to snore. But seriously, I need my beauty rest too. So my Doggs, I think a mass distribution of earplugs is in order.

Mumbles is back! Now I can talk about his nose hair...

2006-10-11T19:59:00.001-07:00

So Mumbles is finally back from his honeymoon in Hawaii. Welcome home, Mumbles, we missed you.

But, now that you're back, we can talk about your nose hair. Awhile back, I said that I was going to post about Mumbles' facial hair (and now the lack thereof) but then a much more interesting subject came up. In fact, it opened a door for me into the lives of men and their nose hair and it's completely fascinating. Who knew? Well, apparently all women who live with men.

Anyhoo, Mumbles was talking about his facial hair (of which there used to be a lot) and how he was going to cut it all (in preparation for the wedding). But then he said what he found much more fun was trimming his nose hairs. I inquired about this comment, and he said that he has a "thing" about trimming his nose hairs. Then he explained that it really hurts, but that "I just can't stop." Now, being a woman who has lived with another woman for the last decade, this was completely baffling to me. So I did some informal research and lo and behold, this is like, a big issue with men and the women who love them. A source who shall remain nameless said that she could "tell me some stories" about her ex-husband's nose hair issues, but she was going to spare me. I appreciate that. And, it turns out that there are all kinds of products (a whole aisle at Fred Meyers according to Mumbles) designed to help men eliminate and/or shorten their nose hairs. I mean, I knew that all people had nose hairs but I had no clue that they ever required trimming.

So, thank you Mumbles, for providing me with this educational experience. I appreciate it.

Our Competitive Roots

2006-10-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

America is defined by its competitive nature. Oh, I know, our teachers told us that America began as a handful of colonists who got angry at paying taxes on tea (of all things) and decided to tell Mother England to "Go and get stuffed." But the real impetus behind America's Declaration of Independence was a bet that Thomas Jefferson had with some uppity Englishman. Their bet arose out of a conversation like this:

Lord Uppity: I say, Thomas, you could never spark a revolution and start a new country.
Jefferson: Do you wanna' f#cking bet?

And our country was born -- a country born, not of our love for "freedom" as our president would tell us, but because we are really, really competitive.

Mark Twain -- the quintessential American who, much like a contemporary gangster rapper, tossed out his given name in order to pick something that sounded cooler -- understood very well the competitive spirit of Americans. In his short story The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, Twain wrote of a man who would bet on anything. The moral of that story: Always give your frog syrup of ipecac before entering it into a jumping contest. Who knew?

All of the above is a roundabout way of saying that Madd Dogg and I have recently made yet another bet. And it might just be the stupidest bet that any two people have ever made:

Fidget: (Noting Madd Dogg's bag of Rold Gold pretzels) Hey, pretzels! And you got the same ones that I had the other day in the car.
Madd Dogg: Yes, except mine are the smaller, thicker ones. I like those better.
Fidget: No, they're the same thing.
Madd Dogg: No, they're different.
Fidget: Whatever.
Madd Dogg: Do you wanna' bet?

And so we did. The problem now is that I can't really remember what type of Rold Gold pretzels Madd Dogg had. I think that they were the "Tiny Twists" (one-pound bag) that you see above, but I can't remember for certain. That's ok, though. My crappy memory has turned into a truly revolutionary idea. For the first time ever, a bet will be settled on this blog in front of our entire readership! Madd Dogg, the SFZ readership awaits your response. . .

On a related note, the other day Sparky and I were talking about new-fangled sports. After briefly discussing the quickly growing "sport" of competitive eating (to be sickened, go to the International Federation of Competitive Eating), I was reminded of a sport that involved throwing a tennis-ball-sized metal ball down a winding road. After convincing myself that I must have come up with that bizzare idea in a dream, I did some reasearch: Irish Road Bowling.

WTF??

2006-10-04T19:51:00.001-07:00

We at SFZ don't have anything hugely exciting to report...just your run of the mill commuting back and forth, back and forth. Only the back and forth is being further complicated by not one, but two detours and frankly, it's starting to piss me off. We at SFZ are creatures of routine, perhaps more so than most. Sparky, in particular, doesn't like change. So, this morning, as I drove down towards our carpool meeting spot, I noticed giant DO NOT PARK HERE and ROAD CLOSED signs. What the bleeping bleep is that about? Do they not know that we PARK THERE EVERYDAY? Did they ask us before they closed it? Nooo....instead, we had to drive, like, miles away to park somewhere else, a location much more likely to lead to breakins and dogs pissing on our wheels. Grrr.

If that's not bad enough, there's the detour once we leave PDX and get to Solame. Oops, meant Salem. We take the same path to work every day. Did I mention that we're creatures of habit? Then, one recent day, we encounter a sign that says that our road will be closed for months. Do they not know that WE DRIVE THAT WAY EVERY DAY?? Did they ask us whether the bridge needed to be seismically upgraded? I think not...

What's my point, you ask? I don't have one, people. I'm just irritated that it's dark when I get up, it's dark when I get home, and I can't drive or park in my usual bleeping places.

Two Two

2006-10-02T19:50:00.001-07:00

They say that great things happen in twos.

Ok, maybe they don't say that. But if they did say that, it would really apply to us here at SFZ.

Listen:

In the last two days, we've had two big things happen to SFZ. First, Madd Dogg and her significant other (that is, the two of them) finished the Portland Marathon yesterday. And second, we at SFZ reached our 50th blog posting.

Eerie, huh? But the two coincidence doesn't stop there. Observe:

Two SFZ members were actually at the marathon yesterday: Madd Dogg (doing her marathon thing) and me (handing out Ultima replacement fluid).
Only two members of SFZ consistently take the time to post on this blog: Madd Dogg and me.
And the number of postings that Sparky has posted on the blog? That's right, two.
Number of weeks that Mumbles is going to be on his honeymoon: two.
Number of "m"s in the nickname "Mumbles": two.
Number of people who regularly read this blog: two.

Ok, this is all getting a little too creepy. Or just really, really dumb.

At any rate, congratulations to Madd Dogg and SFZ -- two great American institutions.

The parking jungle, and other news

2006-09-29T18:06:00.000-07:00

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

- Howard Beale, Network

Yeah, Howard, we hear you. We at SFZ are also mad as hell. And although we too announced that we weren't going to take it any more, alas, the crappy Parking Bureaucracy (PB) had other plans.

As you can see from the picture, a bush has forced its way into our dear slot #144. The bush makes it all but impossible for the passengers to gain ingress to, or egress from, our cars. And the bush's wispy tendrils are scratching the paint jobs to boot.

We at SFZ have reported this problem to the PB not once, not twice, but three times -- one time in a face-to-face tete-a-tete. But apparently, before a bush can be trimmed, some desk-jockey has to contact the owner of the adjacent building, who has to contact a gardener, who has to obtain a permit, that allows him to ask for his grandmother's permission to trim the bush. At some point in that confusing chain of command, someone dropped the proverbial ball. (Probably the grandmother.) And consequently, we're still mad as hell.

Other news and notes from this week:

Madd Dogg's new coping mechanism -- On Tuesday, Madd Dogg unveiled her new method of coping with my (Fidget's) psychobabble: Bloodcurdling Screams. Madd Dogg was singing a Beatles song (Michelle), even though she previously has made it clear that she does not like the Beatles. I suggested that maybe she actually likes the Beatles, but says that she doesn't because everyone else likes the Beatles, and she wants to be different. She screamed and the lesson was learned.
Guest Riders -- On Wednesday, Madd Dogg and I welcomed two co-workers to the carpool ride home. "Chapstick" -- so named because he thinks that it is "super solid" to slather on lip balm before a fierce game of pick-up hoops -- enjoys long walks on the beach, and his new dog Cady. "Cupcakes" -- who has a penchant for food of same name -- enjoys gambling, drinking, and fistfighting (not necessarily in that order).
Sparky goes retro, nacho-style -- As his carpool profile explained ["Carpool Profile: Sparky," July 2, 2006], Sparky is "made from reclaimed and recycled materials, without the use of pesticides." But as the profile also made clear, he is "also somewhat of a throwback." And he proved it Friday, by being the first carpool member to bring 7-11 nachos on the ride home. The nachos -- complete with pump-action "cheese" -- were, admittedly, quite delicious.
Mumbles still AWOL -- Mumbles's honeymoon prevented him from being in the carpool this week. The rest of us hope that he is having both a "sick" and a "chill" time.

WARNING: Sappy love fest to follow

2006-09-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

On the way home from Mumbles' wedding, my signficant other and I were talking about my carpool mates. It occurred to me, as it did to her, that I really do carpool with the nicest group of people ever, and that I am really lucky. As much as we bag on one another and make fun of all our little, well, ticks if you will, you're not going to meet a nicer group of people (myself excluded, of course. I mean, my name doesn't exactly imply "nice"). I love that Fidget always tells me if I have something stuck in between my front teeth right before I go to have a meeting with my boss and that he knows about things like the holy foreskin. I love that I can ask Sparky the stupidest of questions, and he'll never laugh or make fun of me (at least, not in front of my face). Mumbles, for the 33% of what he says that I can understand, is a neverending source of laughter and well, frankly, total chaos. I love it. In fact, I look forward to the trek to Salem and back, something that no one who hears about my commute understands. But, if they met the three that I carpool with, they'd totally get it.

Mumbles's Wedding -- Recap

2006-09-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

Do not adjust your monitor. I (Fidget) have altered this photograph -- which was taken at Mumbles's wedding -- to protect the identities of Sparky and Madd Dogg. They both have some misgivings about having their pictures on the internet.

I myself share those misgivings to some extent. But I decided to leave my face unobstructed to show support for Mumbles. After all, he is the only carpool member who, as yet, has allowed his picture to be posted on our blog. See "Carpool Profile: Mumbles," June 15, 2006.

At any rate, Mumbles's wedding was quite wonderful. The weather was a beautiful 74 degrees (or thereabouts) -- perfect for an outdoor wedding. Mumbles and his bride (who we shall refer to as "Other Madd Dogg," given that she shares the same first name as our own Madd Dogg) looked beautiful and happy.

The highlights:

1. Mumbles managed to enunciate when saying his vows. Bravo!

2. The best man -- who gave a very, um, thorough toast -- confirmed what we already knew: That Mumbles is somewhat of a scofflaw, whose history of ignoring parking tickets is nothing less than prolific.

3. Sparky, Madd Dogg, and Fidget can maintain periods of maturity for up to 10 minutes at a time.

4. The significant others of Sparky, Madd Dogg, and Fidget are very patient and understanding souls.

Anyway, the carpool hereby bids Mumbles and "Other Madd Dogg" a hearty congratulations! Enjoy your honeymoon in beautiful [location withheld]!

[Photo by the super-cool company photobooth]

Going to the chapel....

2006-09-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

Our little Mumbles is getting married!! Saturday night, time and location withheld to protect the innocent. Madd Dogg, Fidget, and Sparky will all be in attendance, and we'll be sure to be on our best behavior. A full report to follow, including whether Fidget follows through on his threat to dance...congratulations Mumbles!!

Taking Notes

2006-09-20T19:28:00.000-07:00

I've been taking fish oil two times a day, in hopes that my memory will improve. Still, when I sit down at my computer to tell you all about the things that happened in the carpool, I often draw a blank. Today, I thought I would try to remedy the problem by taking notes; here's what I got:

Driver: Madd Dogg

Rider(s): Just me (Fidget). Sparky and Mumbles drove separately.

Number of people at whom Madd Dogg honked her horn: Zero. (Surely, a personal best.)

Topics discussed:

1. The Holy Foreskin -- Ok, I'm totally not making this up. According to wikipedia, the holy foreskin is, well, Jesus's foreskin. Apparently, after Jesus was circumcised, someone kept the foreskin. Why, you may ask? Well, it could have been because the foreskin is said to possess miraculous powers. Many churches throughout history have claimed to possess Jesus's foreskin, and as recently as 1983, it was paraded through Calcutta. Then it was stolen. (Typical.) So great was the power of the "holy prepuce" that 17th Century theologian Leo Allatius believed that the foreskin "divinely ascended" to become the rings of Saturn. (To that, I say this: If any of my body parts are going to ascend into space and transform into a celestial being, I'd like it to be one of the body parts that my bathing suit does not cover. Like my toe.)

2. Van Halen -- I asked Madd Dogg if she ever liked the music group Van Halen. After a pregnant pause, she said simply, "Not so much." According to Madd Dogg, Eddie Van Halen (one of the band's two namesakes) was "just kind of fuzzy." Madd Dogg was equally unimpressed when I told her that Alex Van Halen (the drummer) was apparently able to simulate a motorcycle with his drum kit. ("Hmm," she said. "Fascinating.")

3. Ban on male gynecologists -- Madd Dogg's idea. I think it may have some merit too.

4. Sexual orientation of Andrew Ridgeley, former member of Wham! -- Although Madd Dogg and I know that George Michael is gay, we were wondering about Andrew -- the less popular member of the band. My research tells me that he likely is not gay. According to wikipedia, he currently lives with his "partner," Karen Woodward of the 80's group Bananarama.

[Photo by Elsie esq.]

Weenie Retort

2006-09-17T08:48:00.000-07:00

I am disappointed in Madd Dogg. You may have seen her blog entry for Friday, September 15 [“Weenies”], in which Ms. Dogg assailed the rest of her carpool by saying that we use our car horns in a “weenie-ly manner, which is to say that [we] don’t use them at all.”

I don’t want to speak for the rest of the carpool, but Ms. Dogg’s statement hath offended me, Fidget. For you, dear reader, to understand why that is so, a little background is necessary:

On Friday evening, Madd Dogg and I were the only ones in carpool. Madd Dogg was driving. Madd Dogg approached a four-way intersection with the green light, but she correctly waited to enter the intersection until the car in front of her could clear the crosswalk on the other side. At that time, some shit-head jackass in a red Volkswagen Beetle turned into her lane -- against a red light -- further clogging the crosswalk and impeding our travel.

Frustrating? Absolutely. But was the dipshit’s offense so great as to deserve not one, not two, but three honks issued from Madd Dogg’s horn? I wouldn’t think so.

But that’s not why I’m disappointed in Madd Dogg.

I’m disappointed because I greatly admired Madd Dogg’s unharnessed reaction to the other driver (even if I was a bit scared that he was going to get out of his car and beat us senseless), and I was going to tell you all about my admiration for her. Friday evening, I set to work on a blog posting that would sing of Madd Dogg’s heroic automotive acts. I saved a “draft” of the beginnings of my blog posting and went to dinner.

When I returned to complete the posting, I saw that Madd Dogg had posted “Weenies,” and my heart sank. Madd Dogg evidently went to the blog site to start a blog posting of her own, saw that I was going to enter a posting about her honking proclivity, and assumed that I was going to libel her in some way. Then, operating under a Bush-like “shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later” doctrine, Madd Dogg libeled the rest of the carpool – calling us “weenies.”

My options at this point are to “honk back,” in a manner of speaking, and publicly berate Madd Dogg for name-calling. Or I can be a “weenie,” so to speak, and tell Madd Dogg that I am proud of how she uses her car’s horn.

I guess I’ll be a weenie.

[Photo of Madd Dogg’s “horn-happy” hands, by Fidget]

Weenies

2006-09-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm describing my carpool mates use of their horns. They use them in a weenie-ly manner, which is to say that they don't use them at all. But, when Madd Dogg (that's me) uses her horn, you'd think that the freakin' Pope had just announced that he's pro-choice. Everyone gasps, grabs the nearest doorhandle, and then promptly begins debating whether I impermissibly used my horn or whether the person I honked out is gonna get out and kick our collective ass. Puh-leez. First, I can kick all sorts of ass, so they shouldn't be afraid. Second, why in the hell do we have horns if we aren't supposed to use them?? Someone cuts in front of me, I'm gonna let them know it pissed me off. Someone is about to, oh I don't know, drive into my lane because they are so busy playing tetherball with the glitterball hanging from the rearview mirror that they aren't paying attention to where they're driving, I should be able to honk at them! Whew. Just had to get that out of my system.

More Definitions

2006-09-13T21:25:00.000-07:00

This is a meerkat. (The reason why meerkats are relevant to the carpool is not an interesting story. For those of you who really want to know, please see the asterisks below.)

According to wikipedia.org, a meerkat is "a small mammal and a member of the mongoose family." As you can see, meerkats are friggin' cute.

Some interesting things about meerkats (all from wikipedia):

1. According to popular African belief, the meerkat is known as the "sun angel," which protects villages from the "moon devil," (whatever the hell that is). Meerkats also protect villages from werewolves. Even though I'm not one for violence, I have to admit that I would love to see a meerkat and a werewolf go toe-to-toe.

2. A group of meerkats is called "mob" or a "gang." (Strangely, they don't have any known gang signs.)

3. The "alpha pair" meerkats (the leaders of a "mob" or "gang") often scent-mark (pee on) subordinates of the group to express their authority, and this is usually followed by the subordinates grooming the alphas and licking their faces. And that's just gross.

4. More than one field researcher has reported witnessing meerkats in some sort of singing ceremony that they compared with yodelling. Some believe that the meerkats' songs resemble what we would think of as "the blues." The lyrics usually translate roughly to, "Oh, Lord, why do the 'alpha pair' keep pissing on me?"

5. Because meerkats are social creatures that live in underground colonies, one meerkat usually stands guard outside, like a sentry, to warn other meerkats of trouble. If they fall asleep on the job, the alpha pair typically pee on them, which pretty much happens anyway.

* * * * *
Today, Mumbles and I were in the carpool when he said the word "meerkat." I don't know why he said it -- maybe I was starting to say a word starting with "M" and he was trying to predict what I was about to say -- but it prompted us to get the dictionary and see what a "meerkat" was.

Like I said, not interesting.

[photo by Neils Endres]

Best five dollars I've ever spent

2006-09-09T13:50:00.000-07:00

Before he was jumping on couches or knocking-up women who are young enough to be his daughter, Tom Cruise was changing the world in a little movie called Top Gun.

Under the masterful direction of Tony Scott, Cruise portrayed Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, a cocky, smart-assed Navy flyboy. Cruise's portrayal of Maverick -- which can be described as no less than heroic -- lent to the character the depth and complexity of modern man in a confusing, yet primitive, world.

Maverick was so many things: In addition to being a showboating "mig insulter," Maverick was a tortured boy dealing with the loss of an absent father. At the same time, he was Oedipus, courting a woman who resembled a scolding mother. And through it all, Maverick was a true patriot -- conquering the death of a friend to stand tall against the faceless, nameless enemies who threaten the Indian Ocean.

So what does this all have to do with the carpool? Well, as the seven people who follow this blog will doubtless remember, Sparky and I (Fidget) rarely go a day without quoting Top Gun. Madd Dogg hates that. I think that Mumbles is pretty neutral about the whole thing.

That's why (1) I'm pleased to report to Sparky, (2) I regret to inform Madd Dogg, and (3) I mention in passing to Mumbles that, while perusing the crap at one of my neighbor's garage sales today, I found a DVD copy of the greatest movie ever to hit the screens in 1986: Top Gun. At just five dollars, I would have been an idiot not to purchase it.

Let the quoting begin.

"Top Gun rules of engagement are written for your safety and for that of your team. They are not flexible, nor am I. Is that clear?"
-- Viper

[Photo by Fidget]

From Broken Headlights Springs Inspiration!

2006-09-07T21:06:00.000-07:00

Nothing draws you out of a carpool blogging malaise like a good old-fashioned car accident!

First of all, don't panic; Mumbles, Madd Dogg, and I (Fidget) suffered no injuries in today's accident. (I'm assuming that Sparky, who rode to work separately today, was also uninjured.)

Here's how it happened (times are estimates):

7:05 am -- Mumbles shows up at the carpool meeting place in a rented Dodge Caliber, like the one seen above, except silver-colored. (If any of you have seen -- or more importantly, ridden in -- Mumbles' own car, you know that the Caliber was cause for rejoicing.)

7:06 am -- Fidget gets in the front seat, Madd Dogg gets in the back; the carpool departs for work.

7:07 am -- We come to a stop behind an enormous semi truck. We wait for it to proceed through the stop sign.

7:07:15 am -- Instead of going forward, the semi begins backing up. Mumbles yells "HEY!" and honks the horn. The truck does not stop.

7:07:31 am -- The rear of the truck makes contact with the Dodge Caliber; crunching sound is heard. Mumbles continues to honk the horn and yell. Fidget yells too. He doesn't remember what.

7:07:37 am -- The Caliber is now moving backward, being pushed by the truck. Even though the horn is honking, the truck continues to push us back. Madd Dogg (helpfully) yells at no one in particular to "Make it stop!" Fidget unstraps his seatbelt, and contemplates leaping out of the vehicle.

7:07:48 am -- One of Portland's finest (strangely sitting in a nearby patrol car doing nothing) "lights it up" (whoop whoop), and drives rapidly over to the front of the truck.

7:07:49 am -- The trucker realizes that he is scaring the sh#t out of three people in a car that looks like a pig, and he applies the brakes.

7:07:55 am -- The officer inspects the car, lights a cigarette, and allows a motorcycle cop to come to the scene to do the paperwork. The motorcycle cop -- who loves to write tickets -- does just that. His handwriting is impecible. Meanwhile, the first officer -- while smoking -- looks closely at the side of the Caliber, and then taps it thoughtfully, as if it is made of a space-age material of which he is unfamiliar.

7:30 am -- The traffic cop finishes the paperwork. Both officers leave. Mumbles spends some quality time with the trucker.

7:31 am -- The carpool continues on to work in slightly damaged Dodge Caliber, the sadder but wiser carpool.

[Photo by jooost boers]

What the hell is going on???

2006-09-06T19:14:00.000-07:00

For our two or three devoted followers, you may have noticed a lull in carpool blog posts. At the risk of sounding completely lame, we've just been busy. And tired. Well, by "we" I mean Fidget and Madd Dogg, since Mumbles and Sparky are not, how do I say, active bloggers.

But I have thoughts of the blog, and ideas for posts, and I'm trying my hardest to remember them all. Here's a preview of things to come, sooner or later. Or maybe not....

1. Jinx.
2. Seating chart.
3. Gas prices.
4. Mumble's facial hair.

And last, but not least, an update on the Suri watch. As most of you know (and for those of you who don't, shame on you) Suri has made her debut. She is freakin' cute. Thank god she looks just like her mom....Mumbles, I'm still holding out hope that you'll make an even splashier debut when you feel the time has come. We'll wait.

The Archives of Misheard Lyrics

2006-08-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

The pool has long been sitting on a big old secret of mine. I appreciate that they have never shared my secret. Really, thanks guys. But I'm ready to come clean on my own, I'm ready to take the leap, so here goes.

There's something wrong with the way I hear music lyrics. More often that not, it seems that I've never heard music lyrics quite right. Often, I learn this the hard way, i.e. I'm in the midst of passionately singing a song and I open my eyes to find people looking at me and laughing, because I've sung the wrong words. Time and time again, people, it happens time and time again.

Today, I've found that I'm not alone. I'M NOT ALONE! There's an entire website called "The Archive of Misheard Lyrics" devoted to people just like me, those of us who "mishear" lyrics. Some of my top misheard lyrics can be found on this site:

Irene Cara's What a Feeling: the real lyrics are "take your passion, and make it happen" while I heard "take your pants down, and make it happen." Come on, that makes sense!

Commodores Brick House: the real lyrics are "She's a brick house. She's mighty mighty, just letting it all hang out," while I heard "I'm going to break, oooouuuutttt."

And the list goes on and on...so carpool, you don't have to protect me anymore. We can just let it all hang out.

Definitions

2006-08-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Of all the different types of debates that erupt in the carpool, the debates that are likely to be settled most efficiently and definitively are those that involve the meaning of a word.

Although many of our debates require later research on wikipedia, our "definitional" debates can be laid to rest in the car -- at least, Sparky's and mine -- because we carry pocket dictionaries for that very purpose. Given how common our word debates have become, my very own American Heritage pocket dictionary (pictured) has become somewhat well worn. (For those of you who know us -- which, I'm guessing, is everyone willing to read this damned blog -- we can debate about far pettier things that the meaning of a word. Don't make me prove that, by the way.)

Just last Friday, in fact, we used the AH dictionary to settle a word debate on the way home. I will refrain from saying what word we needed to look up, but it is a verb that can have two meanings: one (it's usual usage) that is very "men's locker room," and a second, whose proper usage probably fell out of favor in the early 1800's, when locker rooms were invented. The purpose of this blog entry, however, is not to point out which one of us was right and which one of us was wrong about the second usage of the word (although that would be a legitimate point to make as well). Instead, I wanted to discuss an issue that Mumbles raised after Friday's debate was settled: Who in the hell picks the photographs that illustrate dictionaries, and on what guidelines are those photographs based?

My AH dictionary, for example, has a photo to illustrate the definition of "swan dive." But why? I would think that the point of having a picture in a dictionary would be to make an obscure definition clearer with the help of an illustration. Was the written definition of "swan dive" so vague that it was deemed necessary by Dell Publishing to include a photo? ("A dive with the legs straight together, the back arched, and the arms stretched out from the sides" seems pretty frickin' clear to me.) Was the editor receiving bagloads of mail from dictionary readers everywhere, complaining that they wanted to go try a swan dive, but just couldn't figure it out from the definition? And who the hell looks up "swan dive" anyway? Was the professional diving lobby somehow involved?

The AH dictionary also has photos to illustrate "George Bush," both senior and junior. Once again, why? Do the photos really help to understand that they were the 41st and 43rd presidents of the United States, respectively?

And yet, while AH provides us pictures of the Bushes, Gerald Ford, and Jimmy Carter, the dictionary folks decided that we didn't need to see what "poison oak" looked like. Wouldn't that be more helpful? And if they are not out to be helpful -- and, instead, are seeking to be entertaining -- then I say go ahead and include a photo to illustrate "skinny dip" (yes, there actually is a definition for that).

Or what about "buttocks"? C'mon, that's entertaining. Instead, we get to see what Calvin Coolidge looked like. Whoop-dee-frickin'-doo.

Freud, Part Two

2006-08-15T18:44:00.000-07:00

Many of you may remember that, not too long ago, I went all "Freudian" on the members of the carpool (see Tell me about your coffee . . ., August 2, 2006). My thesis was that a careful observer (e.g., myself) could tell a whole lot about someone from what they put in (or didn't put in) their coffee. I think I was pretty much right-on with my analyses of Sparky, Mumbles, and myself.

But today, I learned that Madd Dogg's beverage psychoses need to be re-analyzed. Allow me to explain:

By the time Madd Dogg arrived at the carpool meeting place today (it was just her and I in the carpool), I noticed that she had already finished her tea. "Hmm," I thought. "Very interesting." You may recall that I earlier opined that Madd Dogg drinks tea because of her need to be different and -- although she will object -- fancy. Because it is decidedly un-fancy to slurp tea, I thought it strange that she already had consumed hers. Putting on my Freud specs, I sat back and waited.

After we arrived in the city where we work, something else strange happened. Madd Dogg swerved into the Dutch Bros. Coffee drive-thru and (gasp!) bought a cup of coffee (regular, black). Now as every true analyst must, I refrained from offering any judgments about this at the time. Instead, I watched her suck down that coffee and I waited. I didn't have to wait too terribly long.

Later in the morning, I went to Madd Dogg's office to see how she was doing. Well, let me just say, it was lucky that she wasn't down at the bus mall because I think she would have been arrested on suspicion of amphetamine use. Her eyes were zooming from place to place. Her speech was rapid. She was, in short, a woman on the edge.

By late afternoon, she was barely recognizable. She self-reported to me that while listening to a news story on the radio about a man named Harry Mitchell, she kept picturing his name as Hairy Mitchell. Although I was not there to see it, she apparently laughed herself silly. She later told me that she thought she suffered from Uncontrollable Laughter Disorder (or ULD).

Yes, Madd Dogg, in my opinion you do have ULD, associated with your consumption of coffee. The good news is that it your ULD is entirely manageable. Just stick to tea.

Pet Profile: Rudy

2006-08-11T19:20:00.000-07:00

You may recall that, last month, Madd Dogg treated us all to a profile of her dog, Houston.

"Hmm," I thought after reading it, "don't I have a dog lying around here somewhere? And if so, shouldn't I do a pet profile as well?" At that point, I got distracted by something shiny and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.

Well, today, while walking to the kitchen to look for some snacks, I tripped over something. Whatever it was, it was warm, fuzzy, and weighed about 65 pounds. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, grabbed a handful of tortilla chips, and then went back to see what I had tripped over.

You guessed it: It was a dog. A golden retriever, to be more specific. My golden retriever, Rudy.

Rudy's greatest "talent" is -- as you can see from the picture -- his appearance. He is incredibly handsome.

His second-greatest talent is his ability to hold things between his paws, like the Texas Toast that he is holding in the picture above.

From there, Rudy's talents become a little more obscure. Let me put it this way: if you would say that it takes talent to eat, sleep, and run away from me (sometimes, dangerously close to cars), then Rudy's talents are manifest. In fact, he is probably one of the five most talented dogs West of the Mississippi.

Whatever his talents, we (Erin and I) love that dog. And we don't need fancy reasons why. If pressed, I'll give you one reason that Erin finds particularly compelling: "The bottoms of his paws smell like Corn Puffs."

Well said, Erin. Well said.

Mmmm. . .humble pie

2006-08-09T22:39:00.000-07:00

"To eat humble pie, in common usage, is to apologize and face humiliation for a serious error."
--See Wikipedia

Professor Alan Brinkley, et al., in "American History: A Survey" (McGraw-Hill: 8th edition), sealed my fate (even before I saw Fidget's diary entry on the blog). Sure, Roanoke is off the coast of North Carolina, as I mentioned in the 'pool but that will be little consolation after losing this bet. Sorry, Mr. Roberts (my high school American History teacher), I didn't mean to let you down.

Fidget Strikes Back, Roanoake-style

2006-08-09T19:40:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from Fidget's diary, dated August 9, 2006:

Dear Diary,

Today was an amazing day. I actually won a bet!

Now, Diary, I know that you might be a little dubious right now. I mean, I never win bets, right? (I'm sure you remember the tears I cried over a recent bet involving Sylvester Stallone [See Blog Entry July 6, 2006].)

Well, today I won a bet! And it feels great!!!

I'm sure that you are wondering what the bet was about. Well, here it is:

I was in the back seat talking to Mumbles (who is total dreamboat, by the way). He and I were talking about Jamestown, which was one of first colonies. I mentioned to Mumbles that I had read about some other colony, whose people, like, totally disappeared without a trace. Mumbles said that he thought it was Roanoake. That sounded right to me, so I said, "yeah, that sounds right to me."

Sparky, who was driving, disagreed. He said that it was Jamestown. He offered to bet me over it. I was pretty nervous, but I knew deep in my heart that the lost colony wasn't Jamestown. So I did bet him (a cup of coffee).

Well, I checked Wikipedia when I got home, and the "Lost Colony" was Roanoake!!!! I'm, like, totally stoked!

Anyway, Diary, if you are interested in the very intriguing story of the "Lost Colony" of Roanoake, check this out.

That's all for now, Diary.

Fidget

[Photo by Schnittke]

Road Gods

2006-08-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

Look, we don't want to force any sort of "religious" beliefs on anyone. We're against that. So please, dear reader, understand that what follows is a matter of utmost carpool importance -- an issue of the highest order in our carpool.

Mumbles: You will honor, respect, and otherwise conform your carpool behavior to the dictates of the Road Gods. You will.

You must understand by now, Mumbles, that (as Sparky, Madd Dogg, and I have explained to you countless times) the Road Gods get to decide whether we get home at 6:15pm or 10:15pm. You don't get to decide; other drivers don't get to decide; the Road Gods do. Now you may not like the fact that the Road Gods have so much power over us, but they do. Consider the evidence, which is unrefuted:

Whenever anyone in the carpool says something like, "Gee, traffic isn't too bad today," within the next 10 to 15 seconds, traffic comes to a crashing halt. Every time.

The puzzling thing, Mumbles, is that you keep testing that precept. You insist on making comments when traffic is good. And every freaking time, we end up looking at the ass-end of someone else's car. For the love of all things holy, you must stop talking about traffic.

The answer is simple, Mumbles. Respect the Road Gods. When traffic is good, don't talk about it. Don't even think about it. And if you do, just apologize to the Road Gods. It only takes a second. And yet, it could save us hours.

Beta rays, Suri sighting, and 43 days and counting...

2006-08-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

Beta rays. What a beta ray, you ask, and why are we blogging about them? Because, my friends, said word has blissfully replaced (for the most part) Mumble's use of the abhorrent terms "chicks" and "honeys." A beta ray is a stream of beta particles, especially of electrons. It's a noun. And how did our dear Mumbles decide to use that? I suggested he pick a word, really any word, from the dictionary. We're all encouraged to keep those in our carpool cars, because so often our disputes (read: our bets) center around the meaning of particular words. So Mumbles opened up Fidget's dictionary and voila, the beta ray was born. I tried to find a picture of a beta ray, but was only able to find Beta Ray Bill, action figure and hero. See picture...

In breaking news, Penelope Cruz, Tom Cruise's ex partner, reports that she has seen Suri. She is perhaps the first celebrity non-Scientologist to see her (mad props to one of our sources who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent for passing this tidbit along ). So, perhaps we've gone about this whole thing the wrong way. Instead of asking Mumbles to offer a proof of life, perhaps we need to appeal to Mumbles' ex-partners....

And for those of you who care (yes, I know that's not you, "just passing through"), we're at 43 days and counting....

Haulin' Oats

2006-08-04T18:05:00.000-07:00

Today, I had the distinct honor of being the only friggin' person in the carpool. With Madd Dogg taking the day off, and with Sparky and Mumbles teleworking, I had plenty of leg-room in the old Civic.

Unfortunately, I didn't need leg-room; I needed company. Instead, I had the radio.

Well, let me tell you, the radio bites. I spent the entire drive (today, 1:15 minutes) hitting the "scan" button, trying in vain to hear a song -- any song -- that didn't suck ass. At the end of it all (when I wanted to end it all), I had heard only two:

First, I heard I Can't Go For That (No Can Do), by the unstoppable duo Hall and Oates. Man, those guys kicked ass. After turning the volume up to a level at which even a teenager would say, "ok, that's a little much," I remembered hearing that Hall and Oates had met at the highly acclaimed Juilliard School of Music. But having just checked Wikipedia, I can tell you that it is not true. (They really met at Temple University, in an elevator.) My favorite all-time Hall and Oates song: A tie between Say it isn't So and Kiss on My List

Then, I heard All This Time, by Sting. Well, what can you say about a song with lyrics as wonderful as the following:

Teachers told us
The Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple on the edge of the Empire garrison town
They lived and they died
They prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled
Till all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found

Simply beautiful. Makes me think of jolly old England (see photo).

[Lyrics by Sting]

The Name Game

2006-08-03T19:59:00.000-07:00

When I get home, my partner often asks me what we talked about in carpool. Just as often, as soon as I start describing the most recent (and ridiculous) conversation we've had, she kind of drifts off into another room (understandably)...

Sometimes, though, I come home and tell her that we played the name game. What's the name game, you ask? It's a game that is perfectly suited to pass the time in carpool, and a game we usually start when we're about to rip each other's faces off because the traffic is so bad. As an aside, we've tried playing the alphabet game, but Fidget got really mad because I was winning, so we don't play that anymore. Anyway, back to the name game. It goes like this:

1. I pick a famous person's name. They can be dead or alive, famous in entertainment, politics, sports, whatever. It has to be a person though, it can't be an animal or a character. So, for instance, I pick Michelle Rodriquez.

2. It's the next person's turn to pick a famous person's name that starts with R, the first letter in Michelle's last name. So, for instance, that person picks Rachel Hunter.

3. The next person picks a famous person that starts with H, like Halle Berry. (Yes, I tend towards the entertainment folks, although I also am a big NFL fan, so I use lots of quarterback names and Seattle Seahawk players).

4. And it goes on and on and on until a person can't think of a famous person's name. It used to not take very long, but we've gotten really good and we can go for miles and miles and miles...

5. There's a twist. If someone picks a famous person's name that has the same letters for both first and last name, that reverses the order of the game. For instance, I chose James Spader. Next if Fidget, who picks Steven Speilberg. Double "s". It goes back to me, and I have to pick another famous person. Now, I used the double "s" example because there are loads of famous folk with double s names, to wit: Sally Struthers, Susan Saradon, and...oh hell, I forget. But there are a bunch. So what happens is a back and forth between two people for like, well, hours.

6. Fun, huh? As I said, I tend towards the entertainment and Seahawk famous. Fidget is the most diverse, covering entertainment, sports, and politics. Sparky tends towards obscure authors, which often prompts me to call bullshit on his names (as in, he just made that up). But then he can name some book that person allegedly wrote, and since I don't read much outside of my job, who am I to argue?? As for Mumbles, well, who the hell understands what he's saying??

Tell me about your coffee. . .

2006-08-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

First of all, we apologize that we haven't blogged lately. We've been busy (or maybe just lazy). Plus, in light of the fact that the jury is still out on whether Mumbles actually exists, we're operating with only three active bloggers. (And let's be clear, Sparky still has posted only once. Although, to be fair, it was quite entertaining.)

Anyway, we're back.

Today's carpool topic: Freud.

As we all know, Freud spent an unhealthy amount of time and energy researching the following topics: (a) sex with one's mother, (b) sex with one's father, (c) pooping, and (d) putting stuff in one's mouth. And although all of that stuff is pretty great, I can't help but think that he should have been researching the issue that came up in carpool today: What does a person's taste in coffee say about them? Now, I'm no "Freud," and neither is Sparky (whew!), but here are our interpretations of what the carpool members' choice in coffee says about them:

Mumbles
What he drinks: Drip coffee, in really large cups, with sugar.
What it means: Mumbles has a Peter Pan complex; he doesn't want to grow up. He uses sugar because he is essentially a "boy" with a sweet-tooth. He subconsciously knows that drinking coffee is an "adult" thing to do, but he has to do it on his terms, and that means sugar. The really large cups also show his youthfulness; he is hovering at the stage where he is convinced that bigger is better.

Sparky
What he drinks: Drip coffee, black in the morning, but with cream in the evening.
What it means: Sparky drinks his coffee black during the day because black coffee is bold and assertive -- the way that he wants to be during the day. He doesn't like complications at work, he likes things straightforward and up front. (As Mumbles said about people who like black coffee, "They think they've got it all figured out.") At night, Sparky adds a little cream to his coffee in an effort to "let his hair down."

Fidget (me)
What he drinks: Drip coffee, black.
What it means: Fidget is, as the rest of the carpool knows, forgetful. His choice of coffee means one of three things. First, it could mean that he has forgotten to buy cream and sugar. Second, it could mean that he has cream and sugar, but he has forgotten to add them to the coffee. Or third, and perhaps most troubling, it could mean that he has forgotten whether or not he likes cream and sugar.

Madd Dogg
What she drinks: Tea; sometimes, a chai latte.
What it means: Madd Dogg likes nothing more than being her own person. Most people drink coffee. So she drinks tea. If she sees someone with tea, she'll order a chai latte. If chai becomes more commonplace, who knows what she will drink?

Shoulder to Shoulder No More!

2006-07-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

Warning: If you are not interested in urinals, and how they are being used to humiliate men, stop reading now.

For those of you who have seen Pretty in Pink, you will doubtless remember a scene where the lovestruck Ducky Dale is thrown into the women's restroom by some tough-looking high schoolers. After the initial shock wears off, Ducky looks around and sees a "candy machine" and -- more importantly -- doors on the stalls. Ducky immediately becomes irate: "You got doors on the stalls? We ain't got none of this stuff in the boys' room!"

Although I shared Ducky's angst as a youngster, that issue has largely resolved itself; thankfully, most "grown up" men's rooms today do have doors on the stalls. (And as for the candy machines, big deal. I so rarely want candy when I'm in the bathroom.) But one wrong remains unremedied: urinals in close proximity to one another. That topic -- one that is unfortunately close to my heart -- came up today in carpool when Madd Dogg asked about it.

It was then, as I was telling Madd Dogg about my discomfort with being required to stand unreasonably close to another person while peeing, that I realized that we should not stand for it any longer. Do we not deserve the dignity of, oh I don't know, not having to rub shoulders with another person while engaging in one of life's top five most private things? Shouldn't we demand privacy barricades that actually provide privacy? (Hint to the manufacturers: If you can see over the barricade, chances are others can see over it too.) Or better yet, shouldn't we each get our own stall?

We must take action. We must stand shoulder to shoulder -- this time, outside the restroom -- and demand restroom dignity. Don't we owe it to the men who peed before us? Don't we owe it to good ol' Ducky Dale, who refused to leave the women's restroom and demanded to talk to the high school principal about the inequities of men's bathrooms? Vive la revolution!

[Photo by yewenyi]

Pet Profile: Houston

2006-07-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

Each of us has a pet. Some of us have more than one. I think that I have the most, at four. Mumbles has the least, at like 1/2. More about that later....

This week's pet profile is on my dog, Houston. He is, of course, the most perfect dog in the world. We adopted him about two months ago from the Humane Society. He's a chocolate lab/Chesapeake Bay retriever mutt mix. As you can see from his pictures, he's dashing. Initially, he treated the car like the plague, but once it became associated with Burgerville (more on that below) and the dog park, all was well. I'm the softie/pushover mom, and his other mom attempts to be the hardass. And yet, when I went away for a night, I learned that he got to sleep on the bed. And tonight, when I left the room after being admonished for feeding him off my plate, I come back into the room to find mom #2 letting him lick the plate. Honestly. It's those eyes. We're helpless to defend against them...

More on Houston:

Favorite Toy: His hedgehog ("Hedgie"). See picture. He takes it everywhere with him.

Favorite sleeping spot: The bed. Of course.

Favorite food: Whatever his moms are eating.

Favorite activity: Chuck-It at the dog park. Or in the house. He doesn't care....

Favorite person: His grandma Joanie. She takes him through the Burgerville drive-thru for a plain burger.

What he's doing right now: Chewing on a cardboard box that has all my work in it. Cute!!

Who he voted for in the last election: Clinton. Hillary, that is. Our boy is so ahead of his time.

Three things he would take to a desert island: Matches. His hedgehog. And he's reserving the right to his third item until he gets to the island and sees what he needs. Or possibly the Bible (he thinks that's what he's supposed to say to get into Doggie Heaven).

Bunnies

2006-07-25T20:04:00.000-07:00

I promise you all, this is the last I will speak on this subject.

Today, while three of the four members of the pool were on a lunch outing, the subject of "chicks" came up again. Chicks as in women... Fidget, god bless him, doesn't understand why referring to women as chicks is offensive to me, and thinks I'm being too hard on our dear Mumbles. His theory is that there has to be an underlying reason - whether it be sociological, historical, or whatever - that something is offensive. Merely asserting that the word is offensive is insufficient. So I inquired whether he knew, for instance, why those of us who are not complete bigots would all agree that calling a lesbian "word-that-rhymes-with-bike" is offensive? In other words, where does that word come from, how did it become to be associated with people like me, and how did it come to have such a derogatry meaning? Fidget didn't know, but agreed that that word is nevertheless offensive. So crumbles his theory...

Our conversation ended shortly after it began, thank god, but not before Fidget suggested another word to which we could refer to women. See photo at right.

Chicks

2006-07-22T16:54:00.000-07:00

Poor Mumbles. He's probably sporting a small bruise on his arm, where I hit him the other day. But before you get the impression that I engage in random acts of violence, you should know the whole story. I hate, hate, hate it when people refer to women as chicks. Now granted, chicks - like these ones on the right- are really really cute. But seriously, come on. Women in no way resemble these things. In essence, to call a woman a chick is to equate us to what typically are young, undeveloped barnyard animals.

I've tried to explain this to Mumbles. Then, the other day, perhaps in an attempt to avoid my iron fist, he stopped short of calling a woman a chick. But, instead, he called a woman a "honey." Now, why referring to women as a product of a bee is better than referring to women a barnyard animal is beyond me. I banned him from calling women that too. But apparently I've been less than clear in my distaste for those terms, because yesterday he resorted back to "chick," resulting in the bruise on his arm. Sorry 'bout that, Mumbles.

Is it so hard just to use the phrase "women"?? I suggested that, if he must, he could come up with a whole new term to refer to us. I recommended Joans of Arc. I'll keep you posted on what he manages to come up with....or how many more bruises he insists on collecting.

NEWS FLASH. . . . . .

2006-07-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

. . .this just in from the SfZ:CT newswire. . .

"Madd Dogg quotes. . .yes. . .Madd Dogg quotes Top Gun." Let's go to the coorespondence in the field to learn more about this breaking story.

"Yes, despite all her eye-rolling and groaning anytime someone in the 'pool merely mentioned Top Gun, let alone quoted a line or two, we at Searching for Zentra: Carpool Tales (SfZ: CT) newswire have learned that Madd Dogg quoted Top Gun without the normal implict disapproval normally associated with the movie."

"SfZ:CT newswire has obtained the incriminating e-mail chain, which has Madd Dogg telling Mumbles quote: 'we'd be your wingman anyway (Top Gun speak for hell if I know what).' We are also told that both Fidget and Sparky were copied on the e-mail."

"We thought about contacting Jim Cash and Jack Epps Jr., the writers of Top Gun, for comment on this wild phenomneon, but figured they were too busy colloborating on the script for the much anticipated sequel. Suffice it to say that the rest of 'pool was very surprised as demonstrated by the following exchange that was caught on tape:

Madd Dogg: Good morning, gentlemen, the temperature is 110 degrees.

Mumbles: Holy sh#*t, it's Madd Dogg!

Sparky: Madd Dogg's up here, great. . . oh sh#*t. . .

Fidget: Great, she's probably saying, "Holy sh#*t, it's Fidget, Sparky, and
Mumbles."

Sparky: Yeah, I'm sure she's saying that.

photo from wikipedia

Here's your carrot...

2006-07-21T20:55:00.000-07:00

In a comment to one of my Suri watch postings, "just passing by" suggested that I should use "less stick, more carrot" to entice Mumbles and Sparky to post on the site. That, of course, assumes that they exist. But just in case, Mumbles, Sparky, if you're out there, here's your locally grown, organic carrot. (I tried to put the picture in the post, but blogspot isn't letting me do it).

But I've started to think, Mumbles and Sparky don't strike me as big "carrot" people. In fact, I know for a fact that Sparky would be much more enticed by this. And Mumbles? Well, I think he would be 2% more likely to post by this. We'll find out! 27 days and counting...

And what kind of name is "Lita" anyway?

2006-07-19T05:58:00.000-07:00

We rarely listen to the radio in the carpool. But yesterday, Madd Dogg and I (the only poolies in the carpool that day) ran out of things to talk about near the end of the ride, so Madd Dogg turned the radio on. After frantically pushing her "preset" buttons in the manner of a shorthand court reporter, she finally settled on 107.5. That station's choice of songs for that particular moment -- Lita Ford's Kiss Me Deadly.

I remember that song from the 80's, but I had never before really listened (really listened) to the lyrics. The introductory lyric is, I'm embarrassed to repeat, the following:

I went to a party last Saturday night,
I didn't get laid, I got in a fight, uh huh . . .
it ain't no big thing.

O-kaaay. So, Lita, we've got some questions. First of all, what kind of party was this that you attended? Was it a get-laid-or-fight party? Couldn't you be content with just showing up at the party, drinking a beer or two, and having a piece of the Subway party sandwich like the rest of us? Was a promise of sex and fighting on the invitation? Or did you just decide going in that, "I will either have sex at this party, or by God, I will fight"? Also, did you get into this fight because you didn't get laid, or was the fight completely unrelated?

And what about this fight? Who won? Do you have any cuts or bruises as a result? Your nonchalant line "it ain't no big thing" makes it look like you fight all the time. Is that true? And why is it not a big thing? Are you saying that fighting is no big deal? Or are you saying that, given the choice of getting laid or fighting, you could pretty much take either?

Lita, your song is troubling -- both because it leaves so many questions unanswered, and because it was popular enough to be a hit that, some 20 years later, is still on the radio. Maybe the vague nature of your song is what has given it the staying power that it so richly enjoys.

[Photo by Kevin Trotman]

Vote Early, Vote Often

2006-07-17T21:17:00.001-07:00

The Sparky and Mumbles "Suri Watch" is at 23 days. And still nary a post from either of those poolies. I don't think that Madd Dogg or I have wanted to admit it, but it is quite possible that those guys simply don't exist. Maybe we have multiple personalities, like Sally Field in Sybil or John Cusack in Identity.

Help us out. Are we unstable?

21 DAYS AND COUNTING....

2006-07-15T19:45:00.000-07:00

Yep, we're at three full weeks now. It's entirely possible that Fidget and I played a game of tennis all by ourselves. We'd never know, since Mumbles and Sparky have yet to make an official appearance here. Tom Cruise's kids (the ones with Nicole Kidman) weren't photographed until they were 1 and 3, respectively. We may very well be faced with similar odds here.

And, hot off the presses, assuming without deciding that Sparky exists outside of the imaginations of Fidget and I, he may have said that he is the type of person that, when faced with an ongoing countdown of how long it takes him to post something, he's likely to wait just that much longer. If only to piss me off.

Results (and Awards) Show!

2006-07-15T16:00:00.000-07:00

I have in my hand the results of the 2006 Carpool Tennis Smackdown Challenge (CTSC) (see Post "Smackdown," July 10, 2006). But unlike Ryan Seacrest -- who undoubtedly would go to commercial break, like, 12 times before finally revealing the winner with a confusing double negative -- I’m just going to come right out with it:

The winners of the 2006 CTSC were Sparky and me (Fidget). But the match was, by no means, a lopsided affair. In fact, the teams were pretty well matched. The final score: 6-4 in the first set, 7-5 in the second).

Because I was voted the carpool member most likely to post the results -- and let’s face it, you all knew it wasn’t going to be Sparky or Mumbles (see Post “19 Days and Counting,” July 13, 2006) -- I took it upon myself to designate some awards:

Most Consistent Player: Madd Dogg. She managed to hit more first serves in than anyone else on the court. And she double faulted only after she made a point of saying that she had not yet double faulted. (Isn’t that always the way it goes?)

Best Actor: Mumbles, in the role of Wimp Writhing in Pain on the Court. One of Fidget’s only decent volleys was directed at Mumbles's feet. After the ball hit him in the ankle, he dropped his racquet, fell to ground with a dramatic flourish, and grabbed his ankle in "pain." He would do well in World Cup Soccer.

Best Motivator: Sparky. With encouraging, yet vague, statements like “High percentage, high percentage,” he is the clear winner of this award. But if that weren’t enough, his patronizing quip to Mumbles -- “What, is your wuss gland flaring up?” -- would definitely seal the deal.

Best Oreo Bringer: This one goes to me. I brought a package of Double Stuff Oreos. We learned that the ordinarily waxy filling tastes really good after the package has been sitting in the sun for awhile. Mmmm.

Most Anti-Climactic Moment: During one hard-fought rally, Sparky sent the ball high in the air, but not deep enough. Mumbles, his eyes as big as saucers, stepped up to bash the ball into Fidget’s forehead. Instead, his leg cramped and he fell down. The ball bounced harmlessly into the net.

22 hours and 10 minutes

2006-07-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

Well, Madd Dogg's vow of cussing silence has been effectively taken out back and put out of its misery. Although she was not in the carpool today, I received a call from her at 4:12pm; she was in her car on her cell phone. The conversation was as follows:

Fidget: Hello?
Madd Dogg: F*ck! F*ck!
Fidget: What happened?
Madd Dogg: I just called a fire truck a "bitch ass"!

Are we glad that Madd Dogg is back to her old surly self?

Sh*t yes.

--------------------------
ADDENDUM: Pursuant to Madd Dogg's comment (July 15, 2006), I must correct one misstatement. She did not call a fire truck a "bitch ass"; rather, she directed that pejorative at a city bus. My mistake.
--Fidget

19 days and counting...

2006-07-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else been following the Suri watch? For those of you less versed in pop culture than I, Suri is Tom Cruise's and Kate Holmes' new baby. She almost 3 months old, but people are mystified because no one has actually seen her in public. Some speculate it's simply the couple adhereing to the ways of Scientology, I think it's more just two people wanting, and deserving, some privacy for their child. So, due to the lack of a public coming out for little Suri, some trashy news source started counting how many days it has been since Suri's birth. Presumably, the countdown will stop once she's finally seen in public...

We here in the carpool have our own Suri. Two of them, actually. Anybody who reads this blog on a regular basis may note that Fidget and I are the only two who have ever posted anything. Sure, someone named "Sparky" has commented to one of our posts a time or two, but has never created a post himself. And Mumbles. Who's Mumbles?? He has yet to appear on the website at all, except in Fidget's posts. Perhaps some of you probably think that Fidget and I are actually only a two person carpool, but that we have made up alternate egos to keep ourselves busy during long commutes. Entirely possible, but until Sparky and Mumbles come out and make an appearance, you'll never know. So herein begins the counting of days until they post...19 days and counting... (the 19 days is arbitrary, but I can't remember when we actually started the blog. about 19 days ago).

Madd Dogg Attempts to Shed "Firecracker" Image

2006-07-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

I don't care what Tipper Gore says. Cuss words are ok with me. And they used to be ok with Madd Dogg. But today, Madd Dogg learned that her foul language had, in part, contributed to her image as a "firecracker" in the mind of at least one person whom she had never met.

Madd Dogg wasn't angry when she learned about her image. But she did seem genuinely surprised that someone would think of her as a firecracker. And Madd Dogg's surprise was, in turn, genuinely surprising to the rest of the carpool (and probably anyone who knows her).

At any rate, Madd Dogg decided that, by golly, she was going to stop swearing as of 6:02pm today. And her definition of swearing is truly ambitious. In addition to all of the ordinary cuss words -- e.g., those pertaining to genitalia, poop, pee, and female dogs -- she also vowed not to say several words that parents now let their four-year-olds say -- e.g., damn, Hell, Jesus Christ, and God.

Now if you know Madd Dogg, you immediately understand that this just cannot work. (I mean, really, can a fish live without water?) But, hey, who are we to get in the way of self-improvement? And more importantly, won't it be fun to watch Madd Dogg cringe and try to keep mum when George Bush comes on the radio?

I give her until 8:08 am tomorrow. . .

[Photo by happy via]

Vocabulary

2006-07-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

You may recall that, in yesterday's post, I unilaterally dubbed Madd Dogg "the acerbic" -- at least for purposes of the upcoming Smackdown Tennis Tournament. As it turns out, Madd Dogg is not such a big fan of being called "the acerbic." Oh, let me be clear: She doesn't object because of a belief that she is not acerbic; she just doesn't know what the word "acerbic" means.

In subsequent questioning about why Madd Dogg didn't just get a dictionary and look the word up, Madd Dogg was acting very sour toward me. She was suddenly harsh. One might even have described her temper as severe. Oh, I don't know. Maybe she's not acerbic after all.

In related news, Madd Dogg jabbed me in the back of the neck with Mumbles's emergency divining rod (in case he ever gets stuck in the desert). Because Madd Dogg was in the back seat at the time, I had to reach back to defend myself. Well, big friggin' surprise, the divining rod broke. Mumbles said that I was 51% to blame, and that Madd Dogg was only 49% to blame. Sparky (my tennis buddy) leapt to my defense, but to no avail. (No sweat, Sparky. We'll just have to take it out on them at Saturday's Smackdown.)

At any rate, Madd Dogg did not know what a divining rod was either. Sheesh. Well, Madd Dogg, here you go: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Divining_rod.

(DISCLAIMER: Madd Dogg is, in truth, a smart cookie. It must simply be dumb luck that, in the span of one day, we came across the only two words/phrases that she doesn't know).

[Photo by raemin]

Smackdown

2006-07-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

I think it's fair to say that we in the carpool talk a fair amount of smack. Usually, the smack-talk revolves around the intellectual, or at least, the non-athletic. It's not that we wouldn't enjoy ripping on each others' athletic prowess, it's just that we don't have a sufficient basis for doing so. We don't often get the chance to see other carpool members in any sort of physical activity that doesn't include sitting, steering, and occasionally using a turn signal.

Well that's all about to change. Because on the way home today the carpool decided, by unanimous vote, that on Saturday morning we are going to drop our car keys, pick up our rackets, and "get our tennis on." Ladies and gentlemen, the carpool gives you (pregnant pause):

The 2006 Carpool Tennis Smackdown Challenge

That's right, we in the carpool are actually choosing to see each other outside of the usual 7-to-6:30 grind -- and on a Saturday, for crying out loud. As of now, the 2006 CTSC will feature Mumbles "the poser" and Madd Dogg "the acerbic" matched in a battle of wills against Sparky "the sarcastic" and Fidget "the angry." Please stay tuned for results. We shall see who steals defeat from the hands of certain victory!

[Photo by fotogiraffee]

Carpool Haircare Products

2006-07-08T14:37:00.000-07:00

Summer traffic is back. With a vengence. Which means that we have even more time in the carpool to talk about inane subjects. Like haircare products. For the record, Mumbles uses a pomade that, when exposed to temperatues over 90 degrees, liquifies. Fidget admitted to using a wax, but then expressed concern that it made his hair too stiff. He had both Madd Dogg and Mumbles verify it wasn't so. Although Sparky was noticibly absent in carpool yesterday, we're pretty sure that he uses a gel of some sort, perhaps something like this. For her part, Madd Dogg uses a defining cream by Modern Organic Products. Fascinating, huh?

Sparky and Mumbles Earn Bragging Rights, Coffee

2006-07-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Don't ask me how we got on the topic, but yesterday's carpool ride carried with it a rousing discussion about the "master thespian," Sylvester Stallone. And here is how a seemingly innocuous topic like Sylvester Stallone ends up making Sparky and Mumbles one coffee richer, and Fidget (me) two coffees poorer (and a jackass to boot):

(1) Fidget mentions a "tid bit" that he once learned about Stallone, specifically, that Stallone wrote, directed, and starred in the movie Rocky.
(2) Sparky and Mumbles say that Fidget is full of crap; although they agree that Stallone starred in the movie, they challenge the notion that he wrote and directed it.
(3) Indignant, Fidget challenges both of them to a bet (one coffee each).
(4) Sparky accuses Fidget's "ego of writing checks that [his] body can't cash."
(5) Fidget debates whether that quote from Top Gun is even correct as a practical matter. (I mean, really, does a person's "body" ever cash a proverbial check that his or her "ego" has written? Or does someone else, like a payee or a bank, cash the check? Hmm.)
(6) Sparky and Mumbles accept Fidget's bet. (It is an "all or nothing bet" -- Fidget loses if he is wrong about any of the three allegations.)
(7) Fidget gets home, checks www.imdb.com, and . . .
(8). . . Fidget learns that, alas, although Stallone indeed wrote and starred in Rocky, he did not direct it. That honor went to John Avildsen. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0075148/).
(9) Feeling like a jackass, Fidget says, "Crap."
(10) Fidget remembers why he should be barred from betting. But he is happy that Madd Dogg was not in the carpool, lest he owe three coffees.

[Photo by surplusparts]

Carpool Profile: Sparky

2006-07-02T13:13:00.000-07:00

Sparky is 100% organic. He's made from reclaimed and recycled materials, without the use of pesticides. He operates entirely on renewable resources. He is energy efficient.

Although all of those characteristics sound pretty new fangled, don't be fooled. Sparky is also somewhat of a throwback. He's into lunch-counters and handkerchiefs. And he longs for the days of yore, when people could work out their differences with a good old-fashioned fistfight in the back alley, and then share a soda.

Nowadays, Sparky settles for verbal sparring. A true "contrarian," Sparky can argue any side of an issue, even one that you know (or at least strongly suspect) he disagrees with. Example: We once spent an entire carpool ride (about an hour) arguing about firearms -- me saying that they should be banned, and him saying that they were a necessary part of ordered liberty. It is Sparky's tendency toward such disputes -- especially with Madd Dogg -- that earns him the oft-repeated label of "jackass."

Sparky's most immutable trait, however, is his love of the underdog. In the carpool, Sparky is the great equalizer. If a carpool argument has tilted too heavily in one direction, Sparky will wake from his snoring slumber in the back seat and, without opening his eyes, defend the defeated. It's truly maddening if you were the one winning the argument; but if you were on the losing end, Sparky's rescuing feels damn good.

For all of Sparky's jackassed contrarianism, he is indisputably the guy who would stand by your side and help you face an oncoming horde of thugs. As the thugs approached, Sparky would roll up his sleeves and tell you, "Don't sweat it; we can take 'em." And the thing is, you'd believe him.

A Glimpse

2006-06-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

The carpool members were tired. They were cranky. They had been walking through the bush for what seemed like weeks. With each breath, with each step of their search, their collective hopes diminished.

And then, they heard the noise. It was off to the right somewhere. Although it was, in truth, very faint, it crashed like thunder in their expectant ears. Each carpool member stopped, transfixed. Their eyes attempted to pierce the dusky underbrush. Their hearts pounded. And then they caught a brief, fleeting glimpse . . .

Later on, they would realize that their precious glimpse was merely a fraction of what they had come to see. But sitting around the fire in silence, they all felt refreshed. Renewed. They would continue the search.

No Joy?

2006-06-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

First, a clarification: Top Gun is not -- repeat not -- my favorite movie. And I'm pretty sure it's not Sparky's favorite movie either. But for whatever reason, Sparky and I just can't stop talking about it.

But don't worry; if there is any danger in talking about Top Gun too much, Sparky and I were only hurting ourselves today. (Madd Dogg, who strongly discourages us from talking about Top Gun, is still on vacation; Mumbles was absent on his approved "telework" day; and Wheezy got a ride home with someone else.)

Today's Top Gun discussion raised two important questions: (1) What is a "hard deck," and (2) what does it mean to call "no joy?" (For those who haven't seen the movie, or who haven't seen it enough times to memorize it, those phrases are used during and after a mock dogfight between Maverick and Jester. During the dogfight, Maverick flies below the so-called "hard deck" to shoot down Jester. Afterward, Viper reprimands Maverick for going below the hard deck because Jester had called "no joy.")

Today, Sparky explained his theories about what both terms mean. He thinks that the "hard deck" is an artificial altitude below which the Top Gun pilots are not supposed to fly for safety reasons. He believes that "no joy" is something that a pilot announces if he or she can no longer see another aircraft.

Well, according to the good people at "The Tailhook Association," who have a somewhat official-looking website (www.tailhook.org), Sparky is absolutely right! The Tailhook Association tells us that a "hard deck" is, as Sparky guessed, "An established minimum altitude for training engagements." They also note that "no joy" means "Failure to make visual sighting."

Way to go, Sparky. I'll be your "wingman" anytime.

This and That -- A Week in Review

2006-06-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

Well, a lot of stuff happened this week, and there was a lot of activity on the blog. We had carpool challenges, absences, and visits from old friends. Here's a brief recap of the week in review.

Things we watched:

We watched Madd Dogg saunter out of our day-in/day-out carpool existence to go on vacation. Although she really, really deserved this vacation, the 'pool misses her. I mean, if the carpool were a hand, she would be the middle finger. Who can live without a middle finger?
We watched yet-to-be-nicknamed carpool rider wheeze from allergies. (Uh, did I just inadvertently give her a nickname? "Wheezy," anyone? I can already hear the theme song to The Jeffersons, which was probably written by Alan Thicke. Must check that later.)
We also watched the triumphant return of Schmitty (see various comments). Schmitty was a founding member of our carpool, but she has since taken a job close to home. (Although we claim to be happy for her, deep down, we are insanely jealous.)

Things we learned:

Mumbles is a flake. He had 72 hours (that's, like, three days!!) to sign up on the blog and post something. He did not do so. And although Sparky often pontificates about the glories of pure democratic societies, I think Mumbles really epitomizes the reason why modern democratic societies (and blogs) don't work well: Apathy.
According to www.imdb.com, Matthew Modine was originally selected to play the part of Pete "Maverick" Mitchell in Top Gun, but he turned it down. It's lucky that Madd Dogg was absent for this discussion -- she hates when we talk about Top Gun, which sucks because there are so many great lines. Like this one: "We went this way, he went that way. I said to Hollywood, 'Where'd he go,' and Hollywood said 'Where'd whooooo go?'" Classic.
Alan Thicke did not write the theme song to The Jeffersons. That distinct honor went to Ja'net DuBois and Oren Waters. See http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=2978. Alan Thicke was a prolific TV theme writer, however. If you don't believe me, check out http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005484/#composer.

Things we want to forget:

Traffic is back. And with a vengeance. In my five-plus years of carpooling, I've resigned myself to the immutable truth that traffic can happen without cause. But I've also noticed that traffic is always bad when the weather is either woefully crappy, or unbelievably gorgeous. Mumbles came up with a somewhat more Biblical theory on the cause of traffic. According to him, traffic is caused by "fornicators."
Gas prices have finally leveled off -- at fricking $2.95 a gallon! (And we were promised flying cars by 2001.)

Things to look out for:

The carpool may soon become the Ultimate Arbiter of Baby Names! Stay tuned. . .

WTF, Mumbles??

2006-06-23T15:22:00.000-07:00

Here I am, blissfully lounging in the sun on vacation. However, lurking in the back of my mind was an unanswered question, to wit: did Mumbles rise to the occasion and meet Fidget's (i.e. the Dictator) challenge? So I figured out how to use wi-fi (no small feat, people) and checked out the blog. Lo and behold, no Mumbles post. I felt so unbelievably sad. I shed a tear. Named the tear Lola. And now I'm going back to my vacation. But my heart is heavy, and I may very well never be the same.

News and Notes

2006-06-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

Madd Dogg Goes on Vacation; Un-Nicknamed Person to Fill In

Madd Dogg shocked the carpool yesterday when she began her long-anticipated vacation. She will be out of the carpool for about two weeks. Although the full impact of her absence won't be known for days, it already has caused at least two identifiable issues: (1) carpool cussing has dipped to dangerous lows, and (2) Sparky has shown an overt disrespect for previously enforced carpool schedules (Madd Dogg was the enforcer).

But there is some good news: (No, we didn't save a bunch of money on our car insurance by switching to Geico). Madd Dogg's absence has left room for a fifth -- you heard me, fifth -- carpool rider. Early reports indicate that this yet-to-be-named 'poolie is an origami artist (see photograph) who has allergies.

Mumbles' Inability to Enunciate (Almost) Causes Hostile Carpool Environment

The carpool learned today that, if you mumble, the phrase "my unitard" can sound a lot like "my unit's hard." Enough said.

And speaking of Mumbles: Will he make it?! Will he pass the carpool "administrator" test?! Only one day to find out. . .

I'm as democratic as the next guy, you flake.

2006-06-19T21:13:00.000-07:00

Like most arguments in the carpool, today's argument started over something trivial: This blog.

The dispute: When was Mumbles going to finally pony-up and show even the slightest bit of interest in the blog?

Mumbles maintained that he was not going to do anything about the blog -- not even take 4 seconds to visit the website -- until he received full "administrator" status. My contention was that he should have to pass some sort of test to show that he is trustworthy and responsible before he is given full authority over this blog. He accused me of using the blog to run some sort of dictatorship. I accused him of being a flake, who still can't figure out how to change his friggin' voicemail at work.

Well that started it. Like most arguments in the carpool, voices were raised, alliances were formed, voices were raised again, and then alliances shifted. At the final count, the vote was 3 to 1. That is, three members of the carpool voted that I was an undemocratic "Fidget-mouth" (can you believe it?). And one person voted that I was not.

I sat in the driver's seat trying to figure out how it all went so wrong. (Of course, now, with the benefit of hindsight, it has become clear: Sparky will come to the defense of just about any fool, so long as the fool is pitiful; trust me, Mumbles is. And Madd Dogg was probably still pissed at me because I repeatedly walked in front of her on the way to the car this afternoon, making her slow down and change course. She hates that.)

At any rate, it was decided by a vote of 3 to 1 that Mumbles would be given the following test:

At about 9:30 pm tonight, I sent Mumbles an invitation to become a formal member of this blog. (No, Mumbles, you can't actually become an "administrator" until you first sign up. But if you complete this test, I will then dutifully change your status to "administrator.")
From 8:00 am tomorrow, when Mumbles will first be able to check his email, he will have 72 hours (until 8:00 am Friday morning) to become computer literate and post an entry on this blog.
If he does so, he will have proven his trustworthiness, he will have earned the eminent title of "administrator," and I will eat humble pie -- a dish that I have learned, through vast experience, is best served cold.

So the carpool has thrown the gauntlet down. Will Mumbles answer?

Carpool Profile: Mumbles

2006-06-15T19:09:00.000-07:00

So, this is Mumbles, our newest member of the carpool. Mumbles -- who is of average height, by the way -- got his nickname because, quite often, his speech is indecipherable. Mumbles is also the youngest member of the 'pool, which means that, when we can understand him, we learn the jargon of today's youth.

A couple of Mumbles' favorite phrases:

"What is up?" -- This phrase is used instead of the usual, more colloquial "What's up?" or "Wuz Up?"
"Man, that's sick." -- This, I think, means that something is really good.
"Rock" or "Rocking" -- A word used to mean "wear" or "wearing." E.g., "So, back in high school, I used to rock [read: wear] the hat."

Mumbles is also a friend to animals and plants alike. He knows how to send a crab to a peaceful dreamland by rubbing its belly. (Adorable, huh?) And he thinks that scotchbroom gets a bad rap. He's quite opinionated about this, actually. Rather than thinking of scotchbroom as a destructive invasive species, he thinks of it as "just doing it's thing."

Mumbles, you keep doing your thing.

Unskinny Bop??

2006-06-13T20:37:00.000-07:00

Madd Dogg thought she'd give you all a taste of what it would be like to be a bug on the window of our carpool. Here's just a glimpse of the topics we covered today:

What exactly was Poison referring to when they sang "Unskinny Bop?" Now we know, since Fidget and I bet on it and I looked it up when I got home. Common decency prevents me from disclosing what exactly they meant (but just enter the question in Google, 'cause we're not the first ones to wonder this), but suffice it to say that Fidget was wrong and Madd Dogg was right. Score for Madd Dogg. Again. Stay tuned, and you learn that Fidget likes to bet (which is not to say that he has a problem...).

And speaking of Fidget bets, we covered whether men naturally have some estrogen. This stemmed from discussion of the Luna bar, which someone apparently thought contained estrogen (they're marketed to women)....Fidget wasn't willing to bet on this one, but he thinks he's got a 25% chance that he's right that men have no estrogen (unless they eat a Luna bar apparently).

We also had some lovely sing-a-longs, to wit: a Cars song, followed by some Foreigner song, with Madd Dogg and Fidget as lead singers, and Mumbles singing a lovely back up. Beautiful stuff. And what of Sparky, you ask? Well, he was, as he so often does, pretending to sleep....

We also had a brief theatrical rendition, with Sparky, Mumbles, and Fidget all taking various parts in the Three Amigos....

Good stuff, huh??

The History of the Carpool -- An Introduction

2006-06-10T14:37:00.000-07:00

Since the dawn of time, humans have had to work. Prehistoric humans worked pretty much within walking distance of their caves. They stayed close to home, partly because after a long day of hunting and gathering, they wanted to rush back to their caves and decorate the walls. But the sedentary nature of the prehistoric working person also had to do with a lack of feasible transportation. Then came Henry Ford.

Ford invented the car (or at least a way to make more of them). People loved it. And this new mode of transportation spawned an enthusiasm that people had not experienced since the advent of the sharp stick. Soon, people were doing everything in their cars: listening to music, having sex, watching DVDs. People were so captivated by the car, that the auto makers invented traffic, just so people could spend more time in their cars.

When traffic on small streets became boring, the automakers -- working in concert with the oil refineries -- knocked down trees and paved over rivers so that they could have big streets. But these big streets -- "highways," they came to be called -- didn't become immediately popular. The automakers tried everything to prompt people to use them: a glove compartment that was refridgerated, cupholders that would accommodate a 44-ounce soda, neon lights that could be mounted under the car. Nothing worked.

Then one day, a young auto executive named Leo Carpoolian decided that he would quit working for the auto company and take a job at a recycling center about ten miles away. His boss thought his idea to be hilarious. "How would you possibly get there?", Carpoolian's boss asked when he gave his two-week notice. "What, are you going to drive there and back every day?"

Carpoolian stopped in his tracks. His boss dropped his highball glass. They both peed in their pants. They were both so excited because they knew, by golly, that they had just stumbled onto something that would change the world. Commuting.

Commuting was the answer to the auto makers' and oil refineries' prayers. What else could prompt thousands, perhaps millions, of people to fill up those highways with brand-spanking-new, oil-burning chariots?

Well, the rest, as they say, is history. The automakers began bankrolling all of their friends to open up factories and wholesale superstores all over the country. Carpoolian's boss retired early and became a politician. The oil refineries invented the SUV.

And what happened to Carpoolian? Well, needless to say, he didn't quit his job. But he did ask to be transferred to the research-and-development department. While there, he spent months trying to find a way to encourage people to drive to work together. In addition to making the commute more enjoyable, he figured it would save commuters from rising fuel costs. When the auto makers caught wind of what Carpoolian was doing, and they realized that it would cut down drastically on the number of cars on the road at any given time, they canned him like tuna. But not before he invented the Carpool.

Our Carpool:

Madd Dogg
Sparky
Mumbles
Fidget

Do Sparky and Mumbles Exist?
	Yes, they are just flaky as hell.
	No, you guys are seriously losing it.
	Hmm. I don't really give a crap.

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