About Eight Isn’t Good Enough
- John Baumeister
- Feb 21
- 4 min read
Yesterday at breakfast with the Greenland Sharks, we somehow landed on a critical life question: how many episodes of Fawlty Towers were there? One guy confidently said, “About eight.” With excitement and without hesitation, I pulled out my phone to look it up. It feels like there are 30. There are only 12. I didn’t do it to question him. I did it because I wanted the real answer. The old-school encyclopedia certainty that now lives in our pocket.
Some people are perfectly fine with “about eight.” I respect that. But for me, twelve brings peace. Twelve closes the loop. Twelve means if I ever get called onto Jeopardy!—which I would absolutely lose—I will at least nail that category.
That moment made me think about the role of the shotgun rider back when we were young adults. Shotgun wasn’t passive. It was a job. You controlled the music, which meant digging through the cassette pile on the floor and choosing the exact right tape for the moment. You had to fast-forward with precision and flip sides at just the right time. You held the map, the kind that never folded back correctly, and you traced routes with your finger while pretending you knew exactly where you were going. You spotted strange buildings and glowing lights in the distance and said, “Turn around.” You suggested detours. You rolled the perfect joint for the lake. Timing mattered. The ride mattered.
I was usually in that role unless I was driving with my brother. We didn’t have our own cars like some of our friends did, so when we rode, we rode with purpose. I learned maps and I still love them. There is something grounding about knowing exactly where you are. That role felt important. You weren’t just along for the ride. You were contributing to it.
Now the shotgun job has changed. With a phone in hand, you can pass a fenced compound and ask what that company does. You can see massive lights glowing in the distance and instantly look up what is happening out there. You can deep dive for miles—founders, IPOs, bankruptcies, why a place is shuttered, who owns the land, how someone made their millions. We look up random towns, population counts, famous people born there, and why the water tower is shaped like a strawberry. The miles disappear. My guy friends love this game.
Mary and my daughters, however, are not into it. They say they get car sick, and that may very well be true. But I have noticed something else. They do not need the exact answer the way I do. They are comfortable with mystery and approximation. My son, on the other hand, is all in. He wants the context and the backstory. I do not think this is a sexist thing. I think it may be wiring. Some of us find comfort in certainty and finishing the thought. Others find comfort in presence and conversation.
Mary and I have found a new version of the shotgun ritual that actually works for both of us. We sit in the car and play our Daily Discovery playlists from Tidal. The algorithm thinks that on this Saturday morning I want obscure B-sides from 80s bands.
Sometimes it is terrible. Sometimes it feels like it has been listening to our conversations. Other times it introduces us to something completely new, like the Makgona Tsohle Band playing mbaqanga—township jive from 1964. Listen to “Kalamazoo” and suddenly Paul Simon’s Graceland feels less like genius and more like a doorway to the past.
Our new game is to take pictures of each other’s playlists and feed them into ChatGPT. (You may say what you like here.) We ask for a mashup and then ask what Mr. Geppetto would play next, knowing our likes and dislikes on a sunny drive through Wisconsin with snow on the ground. It becomes the third guy in the back seat suggesting the song that makes everyone say, “Oh hell yes.” It is surprisingly good. We can spend hours doing this, especially when we ask for the response in a Cockney dialect. Mary will even look up the bands and where they came from. That feels like progress in the information world.
When I pulled out my phone to confirm there were twelve episodes of Fawlty Towers, I was not trying to correct anyone. I was settling something inside myself. I like things squared away and known. Mary does not need that in the same way. She is content in the ride. I am scanning the horizon for data. Maybe shotgun was never really about the map or the radio. Maybe it was about engagement and paying attention. Technology did not kill the shotgun rider; it just gave him new tools. However, I still do not believe she will ever pass me a road soda.
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.
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