Twitter, I have a reque

Sometimes I go for weeks, even months, without blogging. The reason is that I simply can’t think of anything funny to blog about.

Witness the news recently: another market downturn, leading to speculation that the recent run-up in stocks was simply a tease; the death of Ed McMahon, a Chicago police officer getting probation even after a YouTube video of him BEATING a helpless female bartender went viral; the political unrest in Iran, beamed around the world via the microblogging site Twitter.

Wait a minute! Did I just read that Twitter was being used to get information out of Iran?

That’s brilliant! It’s historical. And, if you’re a comedian, it’s also slightly amusing, particularly when there are some who feel the creators of Twitter deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for their application.

Obviously there is nothing humorous about election fraud, brutal government crackdowns and women such as Neda Soltan dying from gunshot wounds simply after having the courage to express their opinions.

Iranians living under the cloak of repression and dictatorship are finally taking a stand by using technology, in this case Twitter, to tell the world what is REALLY going on in their country. Problem is, Twitter limits their thoughts, expressions, beliefs, etc. to 140 characters or less.

Note: Prior to this paragraph, I had typed 1,162 characters. I could have shortened it to 969 if I had omitted spaces (which Twitter counts as characters) but that would be difficult to read. I’m sure Iranians are frustrated by the “one space equals one character” rule as well. Face it, tweeting “presidentahmandinejadgottwothousandvotestinmyvillageeventhoughonly27peoplelivehere” would be incredibly time consuming to decipher.

I guess limited free speech is better than no free speech at all. But when an application limits freedom of speech to 140 characters, is that really free speech?

I don’t want quick blasts of information coming from Iran; I want lengthy diatribes. When, as President Obama says, “the world is watching” the Iranian situation, I want details. I want essays from the Iranian people. I want blogs. I’ll take emails even if they contain the subject line “SPEAK SOFTLY BUT ALWAYS CARRY A BIG STICK!”

Twitter is being praised for rescheduling maintenance so Iranian people could continue tweeting. Bravo! Now how about temporarily lifting the 140 character rule as well?

I have already debated this with friends who feel Twitter is the greatest computer application since Tetris. They also feel 140 characters is more than enough to express whatever thoughts are rolling around in their minds.

I invite anybody with a similar friend to send that person an anonymous, incomplete message via Twitter. Here are a few messages that top out at exactly 140 characters. Feel free to copy and paste them into your next tweet.



Ewwwww gross. Found live rat in kitchen today. Chased him away but not sure if he's still in house. Whatever you do, don't open the main



Greetings from the lottery office! We have traced the winning ticket to you and it may be redeemed today only between nine and five at 12375



Hi! It's Meghan. I have a suite at the Ritz and a bottle of chardonnay chilling. PLEASE come visit me. Just knock three times on room #


May God bless the Iranian people. And may they continue to have the courage to state their beliefs, without counting letters.




About Greg Schwem


Greg Schwem is a nationally known corporate stand-up comedian and business speaker. Please visit his website by clicking here. Contact him via Twitter by clicking here

Adventures of an overseas traveler

Almost any parent will tell you that it is tough traveling on business. I say “almost” because I have met parents who, I am sure, count the days until they can get away from the little delinquents that they unfortunately spawned.

While I enjoy the travel that comes with my job, I prefer it in small time increments. Usually I am gone for slightly more than 24 hours, enough time to blow into a hotel that morning or the previous evening, perform stand-up comedy at some point, and then hop a plane back to Chicago.

So naturally I was hesitant when I was invited to join a Sarasota, Florida-based insurance company on a trip through Europe.

For eight days.

For the insurance folks, this was an incentive trip, the kind that is currently being slammed by watchdog groups and stockholders as excessive. However, this company (which shall remain nameless simply because I liked its employees) was privately owned, did not accept TARP bailout funds and therefore operated on a “we will do as we please and we will have fun doing it” principle.

They would be socializing, drinking and enjoying the fruits of their efforts. They would start in Amsterdam, end near Frankfurt and stop along the way in towns I’ve never heard of including Xanten, Cochem and Treer.

Note: The Microsoft spell check has apparently never heard of those towns either because all come with a squiggly red line underneath when typed into a Word document. The red line is Microsoft’s way of saying, “huh?”

I would perform stand-up comedy, assist with the company’s awards program (not an easy task aboard a moving ship, as I found out later) and, in general, keep these top salespeople and their spouses laughing and entertained for five days.

Tack on three days for travel and you’ve got eight days.

Alone.

On business.

I took an eight-day trip in 2004 sans kids. But my wife was with me and this trip was entirely pleasure. We left the kids with my in-laws, who possess the best baby-sitting item ever invented. Better than a nanny.
An in-ground pool.

Trust me, when your kids are small, they can spend an entire summer wearing two articles of clothing: diapers and bathing suits.

Now they are 12 and 7, with schedules that would astound some CEOs. They go to SCHOOL, then they have ACTIVITIES and then they have MORE ACTIVITIES. And don’t forget HOMEWORK!

I don’t care if your kids have the disposition of a Golden Retriever and your relatives the patience of Job, eight days of playing “who needs to be where and when” and “I need help with this math problem” can have lasting consequences. Wills are often revised around Day Six.

So, even though the insurance people graciously invited my wife, we decided I would go to Europe solo while she stayed home in her office, which is another way of saying, “the car.” It would be the longest I have ever been away from my family and, as I found out, a true test of communication skills.

We would correspond via overseas phone calls. A quick call to Sprint revealed that my ever-present Blackberry, which plays music, takes photos, surfs the Web and can connect to YouTube in an instant, would NOT work in Europe. The Sprint salesperson suggested I purchase a cheap international phone.

“Have you ever heard of a website called eBay?” he semi-whispered, as if eBay were a secretive, CIA interrogation camp.

Eventually I rented an international phone – over the phone - from a company called CellHire. Helpful salesperson Mike informed me that the phone would come with two SIM cards, one for the Netherlands and one for Germany. All I had to do was swap out the cards, depending on what country I was in, and I could easily dial home – for 80 cents a minute.

Note: I have no idea what a SIM card is and it always amuses me when technology salespeople assume you are versed in their jargon. Sometimes I feel like I am talking with Doc, the Christopher Lloyd character in “Back to the Future,” who was always ranting about the “1.21 jigowatts” needed to power the “flux capacitor.”

When I’m on the road, calls home can often last upwards of 30 minutes, by the time I have talked to all three family members. And that’s if everybody had a good day. Bad day calls can last twice as long. The current recession has forced the Schwems, like most families, to make sacrifices when possible. We eat out less, drive less, and now it appeared we would talk less. We agreed that I would call home every other day.

That would be four calls over eight days.

I suggest that nobody ever use this formula. Instead, call whenever the mood strikes, costs be damned. Cancel HBO, take a second job or refinance the house if you have to.

Family communication, as I found out, is not something that should be scheduled. Establishing a time table ensures the risk of calling on days when there is nothing to say and being out of touch on days when the sound of a family member’s voice could lift your spirits exponentially.

To demonstrate, I will divide an eight day business trip into days zero to eight, using the “every other day” calling pattern, and will try and explain what occurs on each day:

An overseas trip doesn’t begin on day one; it actually starts on day zero. This is your first phone call, known simply as the “I am here,” call. This is the briefest call, because you’re calling the family when it’s your morning and their night, or vice versa, and that’s totally weird to both parties at this point.
So the call last about three minutes: “I’m here, how are you, how are the kids, I miss you already.”

You don’t talk to the kids on this call unless they answer. You talk to your wife. Before hanging up, you remind her that you both agreed beforehand to skip Day One. This doesn’t seem like a good idea because it means you’re not going to give her your first impressions of the trip until Day Two. But you think, “we need to stick to the plan,” so you say, “I’m probably going to just take tomorrow and catch up, get on their time zone, you know?”

This doesn’t seem to satisfy your wife even though she tries hard not to let it show.

“Uh, okay. We’re pretty busy tomorrow anyway.”

You hang up exhausted from jet lag, yet content that your first phone call only cost about $4 US.

On Day One you want to call but you can’t break the agreement that early, can you? No, that would be a sign of weakness. Sure, your wife and kids have your number so let them call if they must. Let them be the weak link. But of course they don’t because they are out to prove they’re as tough as you are. Therefore, there is zero communication on Day One and it kills everybody, although nobody will admit it.

The Day Two call is the best of all the calls. Everything is just as you hoped it would be. Your children, anticipating your call, eagerly wait by the phone and pick it up on the first ring.

“Hi Dad…we’re okay…I played softball and Amy played soccer…where are you?...what TIME is it there?...is it fun?... Okay Dad, we have to go. I’m going to a friend’s house and Amy has to practice piano. Want to talk to Mom?”

Now that’s a great call! Not only are your children coping with your absence, they‘re not really even sure you’re gone. Whatever were you worried about?

Your children are your most important concern on Day Two. You wife should be able to tough it out until Day Four. Sure, you talk with her but it’s small, pleasant talk: “How was your day?…anything interesting in the mail?… wish you were here.” It’s all very cordial.

Then you make one slight mistake.

You introduce cost into the communication process.

“Well, this call’s probably getting expensive so why don’t we call it a night, or in my case a next day,” you say.

You tried to broach this subject in a joking manner but it doesn’t work and the damage is done. Your wife says nothing but files it away about halfway back in her head where it’s easily accessible during a later conversation.

You hang up. In spite of the cost faux pas, you feel so good that you don’t even regret skipping Day Three. Ah, Day Three, the most stress free day on your trip. You know the wife and kids are fine because you talked to them yesterday. And you will talk to them tomorrow. On Day Three your phone stays holstered because you’ve vowed to make Day Three YOUR day. From the moment you get up, it’s all about YOU!

On Day Three, things just go your way. You always seem to have some unexpected free time. You pass a scenic European park while you’re wearing your jogging shoes. You weren’t planning to jog but you just can’t resist. So you begin a leisurely jog but stop mid-run because you happen upon a commercial shoot for a French perfume. And this commercial stars two equally hot French models.

You exit the park feeling healthy in every way. Even better, you didn’t get lost. You know exactly where you are and you continue on your journey armed with the French model story, one that you will be telling your neighbors for years.

You get lunch on the street and have the exact amount of foreign currency in your pocket to pay for it. At dinner you use your company credit card and order whatever looks good, since you aren’t paying for it. You eat at a bar and it just so happens that the guy next to you is foreign yet speaks excellent English so you have an animated two hours of conversation, discussing topics that you’d never talk about at home, like why every kid in the United States plays in four soccer leagues, six days a week yet we still, as a nation, kind of suck in soccer.

Actually, I think parents in the US want to have that conversation but they are afraid to because they are so busy plunking down thousands of dollars for their kids to play soccer.

So there you are, enjoying YOUR day, totally unaware that SOMETHING is happening at home on Day Three. That SOMETHING is never a good SOMETHING. It definitely involves at least two of these subjects:

1) Stitches
2) The transmission
3) A possible fracture
4) A totally unexplainable, out of the blue “F”
5) Your mother
6) The phrase, “I haven’t had time to even THINK about dinner

THAT’S what is going on in your house on Day Three.

Day Four…TIME TO CALL. Remember, you have no idea what went on at home during Day Three. No, you’re still feeling great from that massage you had on the same day. So you call. Your oldest answers the phone, the one who, for some reason, is suddenly ticked off at you.

“Hello?”
“Hi honey, it’s Dad.”
“Hi.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for school.”
“So you’re probably rushing.”
”Yeah.”
“You being nice to your sister?”
“Mmmm.” Then, “want to talk to Amy?”
“Uh sure. Have a great day at school.”
“Bye.”

You’ve had more meaningful conversations via Twitter.

Now your second child, the youngest, gets on the phone and instantly makes you want to hail a taxi bound for the airport.

“Hi Daddy. You sound far away.”
“Well I am honey. Remember when we looked at the map and I showed you…”
“When are you coming home?”
You crank the volume on your rented phone but it’s no use. It’s not the connection; you realize your daughter is talking in a whisper, while trying to stifle sobs.
“Not for another four days princess. We talked about that too, remember? But Daddy’s already been gone four days. In four MORE days I’ll be home. That’s not that long, right?
“It seems like a long time.”
“I’ll be home before you know it. I miss your hugs and kisses. Can I talk to Mom?”
“Okay. I wish you didn’t have to go away. Ever. Ever ever again. I’ll get Mom.”

In the waiting silence that follows, you realize you are zero for two. One child hates you and one thinks you are orbiting the earth in the space shuttle. Then your wife picks up the phone. Her greeting is not warm and fuzzy but direct, as if your child had handed her the phone and said, “there’s a man on the phone who wants to speak to the lady of the house.”

HER: Hello?
YOU: Hi honey.
HER: (SLIGHT UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSE) What are you doing?
YOU: Uh, talking to you. What are you doing?
HER: A little of everything. Actually a lot of everything.
YOU: I missed talking to you yesterday. What did you do then? (Remember, this was Day 3. YOUR day)
HER: (LONG SIGH) Well Natalie had gymnastics but had to leave early. She said her foot is hurting. Her coach said something might be fractured (#3). We drove home. By the way, the car doesn’t sound good (#2). Then I looked at her homework. Do you know she got an F (#4) for not turning in an assignment?
Note: Day Four is the day your wife forgets you have been gone for four days and therefore would have no idea about the “F.”
“Anyway, we didn’t get home until 8. I was just trying to get the kids to bed when your mother called…” (#5)
Then, “What did you do yesterday?”
YOU: (THINKING QUICKLY, KNOWING YOU HAVE TO LIE) Nothing much. I’m still pretty tired from the flight.
“ HER: Well, at least you’re by yourself. I haven’t even thought about dinner tonight. (#6)
YOU: Yeah, um okay. So what happened with the missed assignment?
HER: It’s a long story. It would be too expensive to talk about now.

BOOM! The cost factor has leaped from the middle of her forehead, lasered directly through the phone line and lodged quite painfully in your ear. How could you have been so stupid?

But as you are mentally slapping your brain with your fist, she rescues you from having to continue the conversation.

HER: I’ll tell you about it when you’re home.
YOU: That’s only four days from now.
HER: Uh huh. Seems like it’s going fast, I guess. Do you think it’s going fast?
YOU: Yeah. I suppose.
HER: Okay, I’ve gotta run. When you will be around tomorrow? Can I call you?
YOU: You mean the next day? Tomorrow would be every day, not every other day.
HER: (LARGE, DRAWN OUT SIGH) Okay, whatever. Call me.
YOU: I’ll do that. Love you.
HER: I love you. Bye.

The “bye” is what you remember; not the “I love you.”

Day Five is the hardest day to stick to the “call every other day” calling plan. Day Four’s call went so horribly that you want another chance. You don’t call but you have a miserable day anyway because every sight, sound, and decision comes with guilty overtones. You don’t stroll the cobblestone streets in the evening, poking your head into assorted pubs and engaging in conversation. Those activities came and went in Day Three. Instead, you eat dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, without attempting conversation. Whatever you ordered tastes bad and the wait staff seems so indifferent to your mere presence that, if a flaky European croissant lodged in your throat, you would have to perform your own Heimlich maneuver.

Day Five is the first day you turn on European TV in your room (or in my case, my cruise “stateroom.”)

You discover quickly that it is the same as American TV in that it has happy looking (for Europe) news anchors, a home shopping network selling European crap, sports that you don’t care about and a few American movies (dubbed in whatever language they speak in this country) that you recognize but never bothered to watch at home.
It differs only in that at least one channel – and possibly more depending on the time of day and your location –is showing porn.

Free porn.

Free hardcore porn.

The channels come up randomly as you click the remote; there is no rhyme or reason why the couple having sex is sandwiched (for lack of a better phrase) between CNN and futbol highlights. Or why another couple, this time both female, occupy the channel right past the cooking show. You tell yourself you don’t feel like watching but you can’t stop. Two hours go by and you’re still awake.

You wake up groggy on Day Six and decide you are ready to go home. Unfortunately, you have two days left and it’s brutal. Everything you see reminds you of home. The 1000-year-old castle perched high on the bluff looks inviting but not as homey as your back patio. You’re drinking heavy German beer from a massive stein but it’s not Bud Light (and never will be if you’re German). You miss your family, the life you know and the comforts that go with it. You can’t wait to make that phone call just so you can hear those chipper, sweet-sounding voices (from Day Two) that have crept into your head and refuse to leave.

Day Six is the day your long awaited call home kicks to voicemail.

“Hi, we can’t make it to the phone now. Leave your name and number and we’ll call you back.”

“Hi, it’s Dad. Was hoping to catch you guys. You have my number so call me when you get a chance. I miss you.”

You hang up, convinced your loving family has decided you are taking up permanent residence in Europe and have thus, moved on. The only thing comforting about this is realizing that, if you ever get a terminal disease, at least you know your family can exist without you.

Between tears, you will say, “It’s gonna be okay. Daddy will be in heaven. He won’t be with you but that’s not so bad, is it? Remember when Daddy went to Europe?”

Eventually your rented phone rings but you’re the only one that seems to have time to talk. Your family has scheduled the phone call right between assorted practices, car pools and dinner on the run because, well, that’s the only time they were all actually home together.

Like Day Four, the conversation is short. But at least there is a hint of anticipation in everyone’s tone. Your oldest no longer seems to despise you and your youngest is less pouty but still pouty enough that you buy both kids another present each to stick in your carry-on luggage.

Whatever crisis occurred on Day Three seems a thing of the past. Your wife never brings it up during the Day Six conversation. She tells you about plans she’s made for the next few days, plans that sweetly include the phrase, “if you’re not too tired.” Even though you are coming home in two days, the Day Six call is lengthy. You forget that you are spending 80 cents a minute. It doesn’t bother you in the least that your youngest “put the phone down” to find Mom and you were on hold for at least five minutes.

Note: I’ve always wondered why our house seems to quadruple in size when I am away. Our house is two stories and 4,000 square feet but I feel there must be secret passages, tunnels and hidden rooms that I don’t know about because, when I ask one of our kids if they can “get Mom,” they do just that and then I am waiting for an eternity before Mom is actually found. In the meantime, I’m treated to muffled sounds of, “mom….mom…MOOOOOOOMMMMMM…” over the phone.

Day Seven is the day you break the rule.

You weren’t planning to but it couldn’t hurt, right? You’ve already packed, taking extra care with the gifts you purchased abroad. You head out for one final European meal and you see something along the way that makes you reach for the phone. This time, your wife answers.

“Hey!”
(SURPRISED) “Hey! I didn’t expect to hear from you. This is the off day, right?”
“I know but I was walking down a street and saw this little café and thought about how nice it would be to sit there and sip wine with you. Next time, you’re coming with me.”
“That sounds so nice. I’d LOVE to be there now.”
“No more eight day trips. I PROMISE.”
”It wasn’t so bad. And besides, it’s part of your job honey.”

Again, your spouse says just the right thing at just the right time. How sweet. Not only are you forgiven for anything that may have occurred while you were gone, (not that you could control anything that did in fact occur at home while you were 5,000 miles away) but if another eight-day business trip should ever arise, you might be going again. Call the masseuse!

You keep talking. You don’t care what the call is costing or that you will be home in 24 hours and could easily have this conversation face to face. For free. Tomorrow, when you open the door to your house, you want to make sure that EVERYTHING is totally cool and that you are up to speed on the events in everyone’s lives. Trust me, even if your last business trip was a nine-month tour of duty in Iraq, it’s still awkward, when your spouse says, “are you planning to come to school next Friday?” to respond, “what’s next Friday?”

So you talk. More than 45 minutes goes by and you are still talking. Remember, this was the day you weren’t supposed to call but who cares? The Day Seven call is horrifically expensive; you didn’t stick to the plan and, when you hang up, you feel like someone who returned to a bad habit one second after Lent ended.

But you take solace in the fact that the Day Seven call will be the last you make with your rented, international, 80 cents a minute, needs to be mailed back IMMEDIATELY or God only know what you will be charged, phone. Your next call occurs on Day Eight. You make it in your country, with your phone and it doesn’t matter who picks up the other end when you dial. It’s the shortest call you’ve made in over a week.

It starts with two words.

“Daddy’s home.”

Twitter me this coach

Last month I joined Twitter for one simple reason: I needed the material.

Like any decent stand-up comedian, I’m always on the lookout for the latest trend, fad or cultural phenomenon so I can make fun of it. So often, that phenomenon seems to be technology. Audiences are deserting comedy clubs in droves so they can stay home on Saturday nights and update their Facebook pages. If they do venture out, might as well make them laugh about Facebook, right?

When I signed up for Twitter, the application that allows you to communicate with friends in 140-character messages that can be read on cell phones while the cell phone owner should be doing more important things – like driving, I saw no use for it. Whom would I tweet? Who would want to “follow” me and hang on my every tweet? If I tweeted “just went through the carwash,” would somebody tweet back, “how does the car look now? Did they miss a spot? TELL ME MORE!”

Moments after establishing my account, I stared at the Twitter homepage. There was an empty box staring at me; a box anxiously awaiting my first Tweet.

I hovered over the keyboard and wrote, after much thought, “just signed up for Twitter.”

That ought to draw some interest in Twitterland.

Alas, after two hours, I had received exactly zero emails from Twitter requesting my approval for anyone to follow me. Feeling a little like the kid picked last on the basketball team, I instant messaged a friend via Facebook. Yes, I was perusing Facebook at the same time I was signing up for Twitter. And yes, it was Saturday night.

“Are you on Twitter?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don’t get it” came the reply from Janis, a Canadian business acquaintance.

“Can you follow me?” I begged. It was like a girl asking a boy to take her to prom.

“Sure,” she replied. “I want to see how this thing works.”

“I’ll do the same,” I said, meaning I would follow her. Might as well make somebody else happy.

Moments later, my inbox exploded: “Janis has requested to follow you on Twitter.”

I eagerly accepted and composed my second tweet, this one a direct message to Janis: “Thanks for following me.”

For a week, that was all the tweeting I did. I signed up to follow a few people and media outlets including the Chicago Tribune and CNN Breaking News. Apparently I signed up for Twitter during the slowest news week of the century for I received exactly one BREAKING NEWS tweet and it concerned a country I had never heard of. More breaking news occurred in the Chicago area, if one considers a Cubs victory breaking news.

Then again, if the Cubs continue their sordid play, a victory may very well fall into that category.

I was ready to give up Twitter because it was depressing me. Not depressing in the sense that I had no followers save Janis; not depressing because I was getting tweets like “man kills family in suburban Chicago home,” but depressing because I had tweeted nothing. Could my life really be so boring that it wasn’t even worth 140 characters? I’ve seen Britney Spears interviewed several times and she strikes me as somewhat boring. Yet she has about two jillion Twitter followers.

Then, while reading USA Today one morning, I happened on an article in the sports section – an article that focused on the use of Twitter by college and professional coaches.

It seems that coaches are tweeting fans with practice updates, tweeting boosters on blue chip signings and tweeting recruits and begging them to attend their respective institutions.

Okay, that last one is probably illegal but I seriously doubt the NCAA has gotten around to creating a “Twitter violation” position.

Now here was something I could tweet about for I am also a coach. Granted I don’t coach a professional or Division One college team but I’m a coach nonetheless. For the past month I have presided over the Wildcats, a dozen of the cutest six and seven year old girls in my town’s Little League “Kittens” division. Our first game was rapidly approaching. Could I handle managerial duties while tweeting at the same time? More importantly could I capture the thrills and excitement of a league whose teams include the “Falcons,” the “Bobcats” and the “Golden Bears?”

I will let you, the reader of this blog, decide from these tweets:

1 p.m. Overcast and 75. The Wildcats are ready to play softball. The snack has arrived.

1:01 p.m. Amy just announced that she doesn’t want to play catcher

1:03 p.m. The Wildcats take the field. I have put the “no cartwheel” rule into effect

1:04 p.m. First question for Manager Schwem: “Where is right field?”

1:09 p.m. 1-0 Wildcats. The girls said we just scored a “point.”

1:15 p.m. 3-2 Wildcats. Grace says she is “freezing.” The temp has dropped to 72

1:34 p.m. 6-4 Wildcats after 3. Our 3rd baseman just stepped on 3rd for a force. One problem...nobody was on base

1:36 p.m. First potty break of the game

1:42 p.m. Elizabeth tagged a runner! The correct runner!

1:43 p.m. There’s a big hole in center and there will be until Ali returns from the bathroom

2:14 p.m. Coaches just realized the catcher is crying. Tough to see when she is wearing a mask

2:25 p.m. 6-5 Wildcats heading to the last inning. The girls are eyeing the snacks

2:28 p.m. The girls are getting good at staring at the ball while it rolls past them

2:29 p.m. Falcons on first and second with one out. GULP!

2:30 p.m. Grace just caught a popup, stepped on second sned tagged a runner. Thats four outs, correct?

2:34 p.m. Game over. We win. Juice box tastes good

2:36 p.m. The Wildcats are 1-0. One victory and zero icepacks or injuries that drew blood. So far, a good season

2:37 p.m Almost forgot. Final score: 6 points to 5


Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and owner of Comedy With a Byte, Inc. He can be reached via Twitter at @gschwem View his corporate demo by clicking here. His YouTube playlist may be accessed by clicking here

Take the swine flu quiz!

We were having a family dinner last night, something we always try to do before I fly off on a business trip. After explaining to the kids that Dad would be flying to Tucson, Arizona, my wife changed the tone of the conversation with one simple question:

“Will you be wearing a mask?”

Nothing like a swine flu pandemic to make dinner seem less appetizing. By sheer coincidence, we were eating pork chops.

In just a matter of days, swine flu has replaced Britain’s Got Talent singer Susan Boyle as the world’s number one topic of conversation. CNN’s Anderson Cooper “tweets” about the subject so often that I have stopped “following” him on Twitter. Seriously, I don’t know how Cooper finds time to host a nightly news show, provide minute by minute updates of swine flu victims and still maintain that perfectly off-white head of hair. Sooner or later something has to give.

Thanks to Cooper, I’m aware that the disease is in Mexico City. Wait, now it’s in Europe. Hold on, it just flew across the ocean to New Zealand. Now it’s in New York City. It was photographed partying with Kim Kardashian at a swank Miami Beach hotspot. TMZ.com has EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS.

In spite of the virus’ viral spread, I told my wife that no, I did not have a surgical mask and was not planning to wear one on my three hour flight to Arizona.

Call me an eternal optimist but I just don’t believe I’m going to catch a disease, no matter how many people have it. I’m just the opposite of people who are afraid to come in contact with other members of the human race. We watch Deal or No Deal enough to know that host Howie Mandel is a notorious germaphobe and will only “fist bump” contestants who appear onstage with him. After watching this show, I think Mandel is afraid of catching a chronic case of stupidity from contestants who refuse to go quietly with half a million dollars and instead scream, “NO DEAL.” The show always ends the same way: the lucky player opts to open one more case and leaves the stage with enough money for bus fare.

After stand-up comedy performances, I shake dozens- sometimes hundreds – of hands. Sure I wash my hands afterward but I don’t drown them in anti-bacterial liquid. I don’t eye the pretzel dish at the bar with a look of unbridled horror. Sometimes I will actually eat the pretzels, even though the dish is half full, meaning other hands have been there prior to mine.

I’ve consumed yogurt past its expiration date, sat on toilet seats without paper covers and allowed dogs to lick my face. I’ve drank from public fountains, walked barefoot in locker rooms and shared a bottle of Gatorade with my kids.

I’ve eaten food after dropping it on the floor, used gym equipment without wiping it down and typed on computer keyboards at public libraries.

I’m still here and, as far as I can tell, I’m perfectly healthy.

Okay, I did catch a doozy case of the flu about a year ago. Knocked me on my butt for two days. Ironically, I think I picked it up in Mexico, as the virus swooped down on me just days after returning from a family vacation in Cabo San Lucas.

But prior to that, save for the common cold, I can’t remember the last time I was sick. I’ve remained healthy even while flying more than 1 million miles, performing in 45 states and visiting numerous foreign countries. I’ve also never had a flu shot.

But now, as I get ready to board the plane to Tucson, I see the flight attendant wearing surgical gloves while collecting tickets. A person in line behind me sneezed. Anderson Cooper just tweeted that the virus is in Indiana. Should I get out of line and find a surgical mask kiosk in O’Hare?

I’m 46 and this is the first alleged pandemic that I’ve experienced. True, I want to protect myself but it just doesn’t seem as easy as strapping on a mask and going about my daily life. For starters, wearing a mask gives me the creeps. Even in non-pandemic situations, I will occasionally see someone walking through an airport wearing one. To me, they might as well have a sign around their neck that says, “I’M THE ONE WITH THE DISEASE. STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

Michael Jackson is often photographed in public wearing a surgical mask. Okay, show of hands. How many people think Michael Jackson is a normal human being?

That’s my point. A surgical mask is today’s equivalent of a scarlet letter.

“So what?” countered my wife. “Why not take EVERY precaution to protect yourself.” She went on to announce that she would definitely wear a mask if she were traveling right now.

That’s her choice. But eventually everyone will have to decide just how seriously they want to take this threat. And with that, I’ve come up with a brief swine flu quiz. What would YOU do in these situations?


Question 1: You’re sitting on a plane and you have a mask in your carry on luggage. Midway through the flight, the passenger next to you sneezes. Do you…
A) Immediately put on your mask, regardless of how offensive it looks to your seatmate?
B) Offer the mask to the sneezer?
C) Ask to be reseated
D) Update your will


Question 2: You walk into a restaurant wearing a mask. The hostess warily leads you to a table in the back. After 10 minutes, nobody has waited on you. Do you…

A) Take off your mask and loudly say, “I was only kidding.”
B) Casually mention that you are a food critic for the New York Times.
C) Leave the restaurant and realize that, until this pandemic ends, your restaurant meals will consist solely of drive through fast food.
D) Cook at home, providing you have enough food in your pantry so you don’t have to go to a grocery store wearing your mask.

Question 3: You and your fiancée are about to board a nonstop flight from New York City to Rio de Janeiro, where you will exchange vows. Mechanical problems force cancellation of the flight. A gate agent says there is another flight leaving in one hour, albeit with a brief stop in Mexico City. Do you…

A) Decide this is a bad omen and call off the engagement but vow to always “stay in touch” via Facebook
B) Ask the airport chaplain to marry you
C) Purchase “his and hers” surgical masks from a New York City street vendor
D) Take the flight, take your chances and pledge that, if one of you contracts swine flu, the other will make every effort to get it too. After all, marriage is about sharing, isn’t it?

Question 4: You wake up in the morning with a slight headache and a temperature of 99.7 degrees. Do you…

A) Take an aspirin and go back to bed
B) Call in sick and say, “it’s probably nothing but it might be swine flu.”
C) Get out of bed and say to yourself, “now is NOT a good time for me to catch swine flu”
D) Tweet Anderson Cooper

Question 5: Tyler and Ashley, two kids at your child’s school, have flu-like symptoms. Officials decide to take “precautionary measures” and close the school. You have an important business meeting and no childcare available. Do you…

A) Decide that today would be a perfect “Take Your Child to Work” day.
B) Take a personal day and see if this home schooling thing is all it’s cracked up to be
C) Stay home, lose your job and join the ever expanding ranks of the nation’s unemployed
D) Give your kids surgical masks and quickly arrange a play date at Tyler’s house

See what I mean? Pandemics just aren’t as cut and dried as they were back in the Middle Ages. We have busier schedules and, as much as we hate to admit it, we worry about how we might be perceived by others.

I’m made my decision: No mask for me. I’m going to get on that plane, fly to Arizona, do a good show, shake hands, wash them and continue believing that, if swine flu wants to get me, it will find a way and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Except maybe avoid the bar pretzels.

Have a question? Ask the vegetables

I was watching the Masters golf tournament last weekend from my weekend perch, also known as the “Dad recliner.”

I watch golf on TV not because I enjoy it but because I’m usually in need of a mid-afternoon nap and nothing puts me to sleep faster than the soothing sounds of golf.

When I’m watching golf, nothing fazes me. It’s hard to get overly excited watching a guy in bad pants spend four minutes pondering whether to hit a 63 degree lob wedge or a 64 degree lob wedge.

Golf announcers are so calm that I think they should switch jobs with CNBC commentators, if only until our financial markets right themselves. Face it, one of the reasons this country is panicking is that we are constantly being bombarded with the likes of Jim Cramer on CNBC screaming, “SELL. NOW BUY. HOLD. HOLD THEN BUY BEFORE YOU SELL. WAIT! FORGET EVERYTHING I SAID”

I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be holding, buying or selling but I feel like I should be doing something before Jim Cramer’s arteries explode on live television.

If golf announcers ran CNBC, nobody would have needlessly panicked last September. Companies wouldn’t have laid off thousands of workers and General Motors might still be a viable organization. Golf announcers can make even the most dire news sound about as troubling as a smudge on eyeglasses.

GOLF ANNOUNCER 1: Let’s go down to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Steve, you have some sort of announcement?

GOLF ANNOUNCER 2: That’s right Jack. It appears Bank of America only has $2,500 left in its vault. And an elderly lady from Scranton just walked in with a withdrawal slip in her hand. Back to you.

If I heard that information, delivered on CNBC by the honey sweet voices of the CBS golf crew, I’d probably react by adjusting the headrest on my Dad chair and repositioning the remote.

On the other hand, I also would be thoroughly entertained watching Jim Cramer stand behind Tiger Woods on the 18th tee of the Masters and say, “HE’S GONNA HIT THE THREE WOOD. WHAT IS THIS GUY THINKING? YOU GOTTA BE AGGRESSIVE. HIT THE DRIVER!”

However, since Cramer is probably not allowed on the Masters grounds simply because of his reputation, I stared at the TV and slowly drifted into dreamland. I jolted awake only during commercial breaks.

IBM dominated the commercials. During every break, I was forced to listen to actual IBMers, or actors who said they were actual IBMers, talk about systems. Apparently everybody at IBM is working on a system of some sort. They spent the rest of the commercial vaguely explaining what these systems do.

Except for one female IBMer. Her definition was very clear. At least four times during the Masters telecast, she looked directly into the camera and told me that she was working on a system that “allows carrots to tell truck drivers how fresh they are.”

I’m not kidding.

IBM is close to perfecting talking carrots.

Now I was wide awake.

Okay, I’m sure the carrots don’t actually say, “hey buddy, I’m getting a little moldy back here. Might want to pull over at the nearest compost heap and do something about it.”

More likely, the containers are tagged with some IBM-created bar code that’s chock full of information like when the carrots were planted, harvested, packed and when they should wind up on the plate of a four year old, where they will be aimlessly moved around with a fork before being tossed, uneaten into the trash.

But that’s not what she said. She actually said the carrots could tell something.

The only thing this commercial told me was that I never want to drive a truck. Not if it means taking orders from vegetables.

Personally I don’t think the world needs talking food. Don’t enough inanimate objects already talk to us?

My BMW X5 has an on-board navigation system. It’s powered by something called iDrive. These days, anything with a small “i” in front of it can only mean one thing: it’s too complicated for anyone to understand other than the person who invented it.

The iDrive is no exception. Basically I now have a computer mouse in my car. By scrolling up and down, side to side and clicking various links on the iDrive screen, I can change radio stations, control the air conditioning, change the time zone or wrap my vehicle around a light pole because my eyes were on the iDrive screen as opposed to the road.

The iDrive also controls the on-board navigation system. When I click “navigation,” a flashing icon on a map shows me precisely where my car is and can even program directions to a nearby destination. When I do this, the vehicle begins speaking to me.

I mean it actually speaks to me. A perky female voice enters the car and verbally gives me step-by-step directions, often saying things that give new meaning to the word “obvious.”

“Continue driving on the road.”

As opposed to driving through a building.

“Make a legal U-turn.”

She says that when I decide to take a shortcut that only I know about. I’m a guy after all.

“In two and a quarter miles, bear right.”

Two and a quarter miles? Thanks for the early warning. I just spent the last two miles trying to figure out how to get the iDrive to wash my windows.

I thought the woman inside my iDrive was pretty cool until recently, when I realized BMW sold me the laziest talking iDrive system in the world. I live in a neighborhood near a major interstate that was recently extended with federal funds. These are the same kind of funds that President Obama says will be readily available to put Americans back to work “building roads and repairing bridges.”

I question his plan only because I don’t know anybody who knows how to build a road or a bridge. Most of my unemployed friends are salesmen and, like me, are useless when it comes to building anything.

The extension is now open to traffic. Problem is, I purchased my BMW with iDrive and talking female companion before the work was completed. Therefore, the software doesn’t feature the new section of road.

As a result, whenever I enter this new piece of roadway, the screen in my iDrive shows my car driving over a cliff. I have driven over this cliff at least a dozen times.

Not once did Miss Know it All say ANYTHING.

That’s right. Nada. Not, “the road ends in one mile,” or “make a U-turn, even if it’s illegal,” or “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” or “you are about to die.”

The least she could do is notify a local police department and let the dispatcher know that I’m about to cause myself great bodily harm. But noooo! She remains silent. Should I survive the impact, however, this gal is more than happy to locate a restaurant for me.

My point is that talking computers don’t have feelings. They don’t show passion or concern or respect. They provide limited instructions or information but have no idea how to improvise. Only humans can do that.

Has a voice prompt or voice-activated software ever solved a problem for you? Think about it. I can book a plane ticket simply by screaming my frequent flier number into the phone and letting America Airlines’ automated system do the rest. But what happens if I have a question about luggage? Or meal service? Or a lower fare? Suddenly the computer isn’t so smart and admits it by saying, “I’ll pass your information on to an agent.”

So if you’re an IBMer and you are reading this, stop working on the talking carrot system. We don’t want it. I’ve been eating carrots for 46 years counting the strained variety. They are always fresh, delicious and silent.

Instead, work on a system that lets us talk to each other. Using real words and not voice prompts. While you are at it, please convince my daughter that text messaging is the only form of communication. Verbal sounds work even better.

Let me know what you come up with. In the meantime, Phil Mickelson is about to putt.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

A crack crackdown

I am tired of looking at butt cracks.

Sorry to shock you with that opening sentence but Richard Haney, my first Northwestern journalism instructor, was adamant about the “strong lead.” Haney, rest his cantankerous soul, would have been proud of that one. I can almost hear him now.

Nice job Greg. (COUGH, WHEEZE, GASP) Short and to the point. Makes me want to read on.

Fact is, the exposed butt crack is everywhere. And I’m sick of it.

My breaking point occurred recently at a neighborhood ski outing. Four families sharing a cabin in Northwest Illinois. Kids of various ages running through the house dressed in their fashion of the day, which means plaid sweatpants and t-shirts for the girls. I didn’t really notice what the boys were wearing because I don’t have boys. But boy’s fashions haven’t really changed since the days of the Roman Empire, have they? If photos existed back then, you would have seen boys wearing Tom Brady jerseys and jeans under their armor.

Girls, on the other hand, change their styles as often as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie change their family makeup. The hair gets more colorful, the shirts get tighter and the pants get lower. I try not to notice, except when it’s my own daughter, but I couldn’t take it any longer when I observed one of my daughter’s friends, also 12, eating a bowl of cereal one morning while standing in the kitchen. Her back was to me and the aforementioned plaid sweatpants were creeping down lower and lower until I saw it. Her butt crack.

I tried to avert my eyes, as there is definitely something wrong with a 46-year-old man staring at a 12-year-old’s butt. I wanted this nightmare to be over. “Please, please cover that up,” I thought. “Pull up your pants. I mean it.”

As if my thoughts had been relayed to her by psychic powers, she put her cereal bowl down and nonchalantly reached around to the back of her waist.

“Thank God,” I thought. “She must have felt the breeze.”

With both hands now firmly in place, she gave a yank and pulled her sweatpants…DOWN! That’s right, she went in the OPPOSITE direction, pulling south instead of north. Apparently she realized that her crack was about to be COVERED UP. Oh, the horror!

She resumed eating her breakfast while I went into the bathroom to regurgitate mine.

Why is this happening? Why is the butt crack suddenly a fashion statement? I thought exposing your butt crack meant you had to have a plumbing license. Now butt cracks are as visible as the crack of dawn. My most recent encounter came only yesterday when a 40-something woman was re-tying her shoes after retrieving them from the airport security scanner. As numerous passengers reached over her to get their belongings, she casually bent down and …HELLOOOO!

Whenever something puzzles me, I turn to the two most accurate sources of information in today’s society: Wikipedia and Google.

I typed “butt crack” into Google, unsure whether or not to insert a space between “butt” and “crack.” I believe two words are correct because “butt crack” resulted in 2,450,000 hits while “buttcrack” netted only 661,000. Also, the Microsoft spell checker feels a space is necessary so now I’m convinced.

The first hit led me to Flickr, the photo sharing service, which actually contains a folder called “buttcrack clusters.” Have a picture of a crack? Send it to Flickr and share it with the world! Note: You can also put it in the “butt,” “booty,” “arse” and “crack” groups if you are so inclined.

Other hits lead me to photos of what were purported to be various celebrity butt cracks including Britney Spears’ and Kim Kardashian’s. Sandwiched in the middle was a hit for a 1998 film called simply, “Buttcrack.” A comedy horror story, according to the Internet Movie Database, it tells the tale of a “gun-totin', Bible-thumpin' Preacher Man Bob (who) must right the universal karma accidentally set wrong when Brian inadvertently kills his obnoxious butt-cleavaged roommate, Wade.”

Must have missed that one at the multiplex.

Speaking of cinema, I did click on a semi-funny YouTube video that spoofed Google Earth by showing the technology honing in on a man’s butt crack as he worked in his backyard garden. While humorous, it still forced me to look at a butt crack.

Wikipedia takes a more clinical approach. Type “butt crack” into its search engine and an entry for gluteal cleft appears along with the following definition: “the groove or crack between the buttocks that runs from just below the sacrum to the perineum, so named because it forms the visible between the external rounded protrusions of the gluteus maximus muscles.”

But you probably knew that, didn’t you?

The gluteal cleft entry also contained a photo of an anonymous butt crack. Just think, right now somebody is walking around completely unaware that his or her (from the photo, it looks to be “his”) crack is on display in the world’s largest free encyclopedia.

Many of you probably feel I am overreacting. After all, everyone is born with a cr- er gluteal cleft. Television commercials for diapers and baby powder routinely show naked toddlers romping before the camera, cracks fully exposed.

I’m okay with that but only because baby’s cracks look the same. Face it, when you’re born, the playing field is level.

But like everything else in this world, cracks eventually turn into the “haves” and the “have nots.” My brother-in-law’s home contains a black and white poster of a woman stepping out of a shower, back to the camera. Her butt, if I may be so bold, is PERFECT. And when I say perfect, I mean everything, including the crack. Small, shallow and indiscrete, almost as if God had said, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot to add this. Here you go.”

But even if I encountered this woman’s crack at airport security, I would still want her to cover it simply because it encourages others who think they have good looking cracks to expose them. Some women have great breasts. But you don’t see fully exposed breasts in airports, do you?

It appears I am not alone in my skittishness with the crack. I expanded my Google inquiry by typing “but crack fashion statement” and was greeted with the following discussion thread from Yahoo Answers:

Question: If I’m gonna show butt crack via low rise jeans, how much should I show?

Answer: I really hope this is a joke. You shouldn't get pants that are low enough to show your crack. I don't know of anyone that considers it sexy, so please try to avoid it!

Answer: None.

Answer: You are a stupid slut.

You know who else shares my anti-crack sentiment? Tennessee state Representative Joe Towns, D-Memphis, who recently introduced a bill outlawing pants that fall below the waist.

“I call it the anti-crack bill,” Towns told the Knoxville News.

Specifically, the bill states it is “an offense for any person to knowingly wear pants below the person's waistline, in a public place, in a manner that exposes the person's underwear or bare buttocks.”

Still want to show your crack in Tennessee? If Towns’ bill becomes law, it could cost you $200 and 40 hours of community service. Hopefully that community service will be something other than picking up trash, as that would require bending over, thereby defeating the entire purpose.

I applaud Rep. Towns for taking the crack issue to the state level. I doubt it will get any higher as it appears President Obama has enough on his plate right now. But at least it’s a start. I’d be happy to spend some time in Tennessee if it meant I didn’t have to look at cracks during the entire visit. Heck, I might even purchase some fireworks and bootleg whiskey, both of which are readily available in that state.

Until we hear if Towns’ law is even constitutional, I suggest everybody conduct a “self crack” test, much like women do self breast exams and men feel their private areas for any sign of testicular cancer. It’s very simple and takes only a few seconds:

1) Put on your favorite pair of pants
2) Bend at the knees while reaching a finger around to your gluteal cleft area
3) Now bend at the waist and do the same thing
4) If you felt anything other than skin while performing steps two and three, get some new pants

Thank you. In the meantime, my daughter is having a sleepover this weekend with 15 of her friends.

I won’t be there.

My advice for the president at G20

President Obama heads to the G20 summit today, a move that is being looked upon with great anticipation by everybody, particularly the staff of Air Force One. After all, the guy has never been on the plane for this long. I know I get cranky when I fly internationally.

This marks the president’s first chance to hobnob with other world leaders, most of whom he has never met. So far his only “foreign” trip has been to Canada and that doesn’t really count. Most Americans who go to Canada these days are just trying to get out of Detroit any way they can.

Some critics fear that, because of the president’s popularity, any serious financial discussions will turn into “The Barack Obama show.” I disagree only because I think the world economy has gotten past the point of “serious financial discussion.” That ended the moment CEOs from the Big Three automakers admitted they flew to Washington on corporate jets. Now discussing the world’s economic situation usually begins and ends with giggles.

That aside, I think the G20 will be a chance for Obama to score some serious points on the world stage. For one thing, he’s a tall guy which will make him look powerful in group photo ops. Any time I see photos of world leaders standing together, I always think the tall ones command the most respect. President Bush was tall and he looked extremely powerful standing next to his shorter European counterparts. Of course that perception ended the instant he opened his mouth.

German Chancellor Angela Merkel doesn’t stand a chance at the G20. From what I’ve seen, she looks to be about 4’9” in heels. She’s liable to be mistaken as a member of the catering staff.

Besides Merkel, leaders from the following countries will be attending: Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Canada, China, France, India, Indonesia, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Russia, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, South Korea, Turkey, the United Kingdom and the Czech Republic. The last time these leaders were in the same room was the day Michael Phelps swam for his eighth gold medal and they all managed to score tickets.

The “who’s who” of world leaders gives Obama a great chance to get to know everybody in a very short time. Obama, we all know, is a skilled communicator and conversationalist. We know that from watching his recent appearances on 60 Minutes, The Tonight Show, ESPN, The Bachelor, Survivor, Extreme White House Makeover and “I’m the President! Get Me Out of Here!” But in case he gets tongue tied, I have compiled a list of “ice breaker” questions and opening lines when he approaches each head of state during a meeting, in line at the bar, the bathroom or wherever. Here you go, Mr. President. Don’t forget, jokes work too!

Gordon Brown, UK - “If all the Beatles were still alive, do you think they would have played at my inauguration?”

Dr. Manmohan Singh, India - “Do you see the day when residents of your country will call residents of my country to get their computers fixed?”

Angela Merkel, Germany - “Germans really seem to enjoy beer. Are you currently drunk?”

Kevin Rudd , Australia - “I don’t have to ask. I KNOW you’re drunk.”

Taro Aso, Japan - “Please let me know when the new Wii comes out. Sasha and Malia have been asking.”

Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, Brazil - “If it comes down to Chicago vs. Rio de Janiero for the 2016 Olympics, let’s settle it with a game of H-O-R-S-E.”

Hu Jiutao, China - “If the United States borrows one billion dollars from your country, will we feel broke again in 20 minutes?”

Kgalema Motlanthe, South Africa – “I’m half black and half white. I’ll bet that freaks out people in your country.”

King Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud, Saudi Arabia - “We’re at about $2.13 a gallon. What are you paying?”

Roh Moo Hyun, South Korea – “Is there a television show in your country called Seoul Train?”

Romano Prodi, Italy – “Any idea when the Pope might be visiting the White House? I’ll need to make sure the Rev. Jeremiah Wright doesn’t pick the same weekend.”

Nicolas Sarkozy, France – “Think Lance Armstrong stands a chance this year?”

Felipe Calderon, Mexico – “We will send federal troops to help eradicate your country of drugs. If that doesn’t work, we’ll send college students.”

Dimitry Medvedev, Russia - “Seriously, what did you do with Gorbachev?”

Abdullah Gul, Turkey – “Tell me again why you’re here?”

Mirek Topolanek, Czech Republic - “What do you call it when two Czechoslovakian families get together? Czechs Mix!”

Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Indonesia – “Did you notice that Topolanek guy has no sense of humor?”

Stephen Harper, Canada – “We’ve already met. Catch you later.”