Thou Shalt Play Nice When Playing Words with Friends

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I have recently begun playing Words With Friends, the online letter game that is addictive, infuriating and biblical, all at the same time.

The latter is true because success in the game seems to be driven via Matthew 7:12: "Do to others as you would have them do to you."

Words With Friends is nothing more than Scrabble played against an unseen opponent. Or opponents, which is part of its appeal. You can play as many games as you like simultaneously and there is no time limit to each one. Form a word, sail around the globe, return, do some laundry and make your next move. No problem. Better yet, no Uncle Vernon drumming his fingers on the game table and saying, "For cripes sake, I ain't getting any younger here. Play a tile!"

Words With Friends received a recent notoriety boost when Alec Baldwin was kicked off an American Airlines flight for refusing to turn off his cellphone. Reports circulated he was playing Words With Friends, even going into the plane's lavatory to make his next move. I don't blame him; I often do some of my most creative thinking in the bathroom.

On a recent Friday night. I was alone in a San Antonio hotel room playing four games at once. Suffice it to say that I'm not the world's most exciting guy when traveling on business. Sometimes I think Apple should disable all apps on weekends, thereby encouraging its millions of iPhone and iPad users to actually venture outside. Who knows? Maybe we will learn new words in the process. For example, "ennui," defined as "a feeling of utter boredom, weariness and discontent."

My first game was with Andrew, a fellow college alumnus. Four moves into the game, he played "trope," acquiring 28 points due to the triple letter/double word placement on the board.

Words With Friends does not allow players to score points with profanity. Swear words are reserved for its chat feature.

"What the (naughty word) is a trope?" I typed.

"Dunno. Heard it in some discussion section in college," came the reply.

According to Wikipedia, "trope" can mean "a literary technique, plot device, or stock character, or more generally a stereotype."

Armed with that knowledge, I immediately negated his lead with a new word of my own: "tropes."

"Take that (another naughty word)," I typed.

As Andrew pondered his next move, I navigated over to a game with business acquaintance Linda, who had just put the match out of reach with "qi" for 68 points. I assumed Linda suffered from dyslexia.

"I've heard of IQ but not in reverse," I typed exasperated.

"It's a word. Somebody played it on me once," she typed.

For the record, "qi" has two meanings. The first is "the circulating life energy that in Chinese philosophy is thought to be inherent in all things." The second is "a great word for vengeful Words With Friends players."

This is where the Book of Matthew entered my game with Andrew. I returned and saw it was my move. Since Linda was nice enough to introduce me to qi, I decided to polish my halo and do the same to my college buddy. Seeing a "q" in my bevy (good word, eh?) of letters. I quickly played "qi" and fired off a message.

"It's a Chinese philosophy word."

Andrew immediately used my "q" to form "qat." Then came the reply.

"It's some sort of drug."

He was right. "Qat," often spelled "kat," is apparently an East African shrub chewed if your goal is to get high in East Africa.

This time I didn't type a profanity. Instead, I yelled one, loud enough to be heard by tourists visiting the Alamo.

I went zero for four that evening, humiliated by combinations of two- and three-letter words that I could neither pronounce or even recognize. I'm seriously considering storming into my university's admissions office and demanding a refund for my journalism degree. Surely one of my distinguished professors should have mentioned that words such as "zu," "zax," "qis" and "waqf" do exist.

But first I had better stop at church. I need forgiveness.

The Unsolved Case of the Missing Lids

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

The other day a famous Jerry Seinfeld comedy bit popped into my head as I was cleaning my kitchen. It concerned the mysterious disappearance of socks.

"How many times have you done a big (load of) laundry?" Seinfeld asks the audience. "Go to the dryer, take out your socks, count 'em up . . . one of 'em got out."

I would like to extend an invitation to Seinfeld to come to my house, barefoot if he wants, and explain what's been happening to my food storage lids.

These days there is no such thing as a properly packaged leftover in the Schwem household and that's not because our family licks our plates clean, demands seconds, devours those and gives the crumbs to the dog lurking underfoot. We clear the table every night, scrape what wasn't eaten into plastic containers of various shapes and prepare to neatly stack them in the fridge, smug in our belief that we will have a full, easily microwaveable dinner on one of those upcoming evenings when the kids have to be in five places at once.

Unfortunately, that's where this "Leave it to Beaver" scene ends. Whoever is on cleanup duty spends the next 30 minutes loudly rummaging through every drawer in the kitchen, trying to assemble a food storage jigsaw puzzle. Why won't Lid A fit on Container B and what the heck happened to Lid B in the first place? Eventually we give up and cover each container with sorry substitutes such as plastic wrap or tin foil.

Lids are sort of like computers: You have to get new ones every few years. The difference is, my computers don't randomly disappear. Is it due to carelessness, or am I a victim of lid piracy? Should I begin frisking my houseguests before they leave or simply ask them to empty their pockets to prove they are not about to abscond with the round lid that fits a 16-ounce container, the rectangular lid that seals the 8-ounce container or worse, the square interchangeable lid that fits multiple sizes! That one vanished mere days after we purchased it and my father in law has been acting extremely guilty as of late.

Unexplainable lid departure is apparently not a problem that is exclusive to me. Just for the heck of it, I searched "food storage containers" on Amazon and quickly found a 104-piece set from the Imperial Co. Amazon even offered gift wrapping, in case I decide to surprise my wife on our anniversary.

I wasn't concerned with decorative packaging; instead, my eye went immediately to the words on the box: "Storage containers. 104 piece set. Including lids."

The "including lids" phrase was all the evidence I needed. Imperial chose to make lids an actual selling point, proving that food covers are hot commodities. A set of lids should be a given, not an upgrade. You don't purchase a "2012 Honda Accord. Including tires." Know why? Because nobody ever goes into their garage and says, "What happened to my tire? I'm sure it was here last night."

I remember those wonderful days when we, too, had a complete set comprising 15 containers and lids. Now we have 13 containers and two lids.

"Just buy a new set," my wife said.

"No way," I replied. "That wouldn't be fair to the existing containers. Their feelings will be hurt."

And with that, I logged onto eBay and searched "lids for food storage."

I was in luck! Somebody in Russellville, Tenn., was selling single lids for six and eight quart containers. Furthermore, the seller had five available. This person was a lid celebrity.

The price for one lid? $11.66 plus shipping.

The 104-piece set cost $14.99.

Chagrined, I logged off eBay, returned to Amazon and donated $14.99 to the Imperial Co. I should be receiving 104 lids in two to four days. Leftovers will be fresh again, at least for the near future.

Coincidentally, Jerry Seinfeld will be performing in my town next month. Jerry, if you're reading this, come on by and I'll help you write a new bit about this missing lid phenomenon. You can even have dinner with us.

Just don't expect to leave with any leftovers. For your troubles, I'll give you a sock.

A Password for the Ages - and the Aging

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am staring at my computer screen reading and re-reading the four words that confound me the most whenever I surf the Internet:

"Please enter your password."

I had become a member of this online shopping site just three days ago, creating the obligatory password in the process. I took the advice of cyber experts who warn us not to duplicate our passwords and fashioned something entirely new. However, I failed to take the advice of cyber experts who also suggest we write the password down somewhere.

"I'll remember it," I thought. "It's my first Little League team followed by the year I began playing baseball. Badgers1973."

Now, as I continue to type the password into the box and hit "enter," only to be stymied by "Incorrect Password," I am second-guessing myself. Is this the right password for the right site? It's a question I'm asking myself more frequently these days. Does "funnydad49" allow me to book tickets via American Airlines' website, or is that what I use to check my Google mail? Does "3472" unlock my phone or raise and lower my garage door by means of the electronic keypad outside my house? Is "cyberdork871" my Apple ID that lets me shop in the iTunes store through my iPad or is it the code I created for my home wireless network that lets the iPad talk to the iTunes store?

As I approach the half-century mark of life, my eyesight and my memory skills are deteriorating at alarming rates. Bifocals help the former, but there is no medical remedy for password absent-mindedness. My phone contains an app called Password Keeper that promises to store all the passwords I have created, but I'm not using it for one simple reason:

The app is password protected. I'd need a password to retrieve my passwords.

If you are among those people mentally exhausted due to the jumble of word and number combinations swirling around your brain like lottery balls, take heart. I'm creating a new social network and I'm inviting you to join. I won't reveal all the details, but here's an elevator pitch in case any venture capitalists are reading.

The network will be called OurPassword and sign up is free. Once you have established an account (you won't need a password to do so) I will send you the single password that all members use. Let's say that password is "FAILEDGEEK100." That becomes your password for EVERYTHING you do on line. If you forget the OurPassword password, just seek out another member. OurPassword may never rival Facebook in terms of participants, but I'm confident somebody will be nearby. Imagine sitting at your desk and being unable to make an online dinner reservation because your OpenTable.com password escapes you. Just shout, "Is anybody here a member of OurPassword?" I guarantee that, within moments, somebody will glide over and whisper in your ear, "FAILEDGEEK100."

There is one qualification before joining the network. You must first prove that you have been locked out of at least three different websites because you couldn't remember your password. Just snap three photos of your computer screen containing the message, "PASSWORD FAILED" and send them to me as evidence. I'm doing this for security purposes; I don't want this singular password to get into the hands of hackers. By showing me that you are consistently forgetting your passwords, you are also proving you do not have the intelligence to hack. Besides, hackers aren't usually middle aged and suffering memory lapses. From what I've read, hackers are twentysomethings who still live in their parents' basements and whose only friends growing up were a laptop and a poster of Steve Jobs.

I promise I will never change the password, for that would defeat the purpose. Still interested? Stay tuned because I will reveal more details later. Right now, my deadline is approaching and it's time to upload this column to my editors. I just need to log in to the server and then enter my pa . . .

On second thought, maybe I'll just fax it.

The Robot Is In The Driveway

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


My hometown of Chicago is extremely quiet and boring in February with the exception of two events.

The first is a massive surprise snowstorm that will begin precisely at 7 a.m., just as thousands of commuters are headed to work. The blizzard will taper off around noon, but, like the eye of a hurricane, return with a vengeance several hours later. By this time everybody has reached their offices, only to discover they are closed for the day and there is nothing else to do except turn around and head home.

The second is the Chicago Auto Show, a spectacle that brings masses of car enthusiasts to McCormick Place, where they gawk at the latest and greatest automobiles, most of which are identical to last year's models except with higher sticker prices due to one upgraded feature, typically a sturdier cup holder.

I attend the Auto Show whenever I'm in the market for a new car. This is in sharp contrast to most Auto Show attendees, who go merely to get out of the cold. Once inside, they can also feast on $8 dollar hot dogs and have their pictures taken with bikini-clad women who make their living saying, "Things get hot and heavy, when I'm inside my Chevy" forty-eight times per day. This year, however, I will be attending for a different reason. Our society is getting ever so close to a new form of transportation and I want to make sure it's designed correctly.

I'm talking about the driverless car.

No, that's not a misprint. General Motors, Audi, Volkswagen and BMW are among the manufacturers that envision the day when cars will drive themselves, leaving occupants free to do what's really important in a vehicle: composing text messages and applying makeup. Also hoping to catch a piece of the autonomous car market is none other than Google, whose top geeks have apparently finished compiling information on everything in existence and are now seeking new challenges. Search "driverless car" on YouTube and marvel as Google fellow and former Stanford University professor Sebastian Thrun explains how a prototype car sans driver recently drove 140,000 miles while stopping at toll booths, parallel parking, avoiding deer and even navigating the crooked streets of San Francisco. I've already shown the video to my 14-year-old daughter and said she will face similar tests when she takes driver's education. (Might as well scare her now, right?)



I was disappointed that the video did not show the vehicle in a car-pool situation. My wife and I spend half our waking hours idling in driveways waiting for some kid to emerge from a house carrying a sports bag large enough to hold an acre of AstroTurf. The computer that operates the driverless car needs to know what awaits it. At this year's Auto Show, I plan to seek out the engineers behind this technology and insist that autonomous cars are equipped with appropriate car-pooling features. Among my requests:

The car must be able to "sense" when one of the kids is darting through the house looking for cleats and notify everyone else, via text message, that the car pool is now running eight to ten minutes late. Might as well notify the opposing team, too.

The car must immediately emit a warning light when somebody in the rear seat drops a sandwich, thereby ensuring a cheese slice won't be discovered six months later.

The car must be immune to odors emitted when one occupant decides to remove a piece of equipment, a kneepad for instance, after practice. Until my kids started playing sports, I never realized knees could smell so bad.

The car must receive only one radio station: National Public Radio. With no driver in the front seat, who's going to keep the occupants from reaching forward and blasting the latest single from a foul-mouthed rapper?

Finally, the car must trust its on-board navigational system and not succumb to suggestions from the occupants such as, "Turn left, I mean right, NO LEFT," "I think that's my house" and "You just passed it."

Please notify me when these features are in place. I'll be at the Chevrolet booth, posing for a photo.

How To Annoy Your Parents In Any Language

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

We are driving. In a rental car. In San Juan. Without a GPS. We have exactly one hour to make it to some place called Campo Rico, whose website promises "a variety of adventure and tour options to fulfill everyone's desire, from an impressive zip-lining experience crossing a canyon with waterfalls to a nice and easy hike through a natural coastal dry forest."

We are hoping to experience zip lining for the first time. At this moment, however, there is nothing nice and easy about our excursion. At this moment, I fear our adventure will consist of merely trying to survive at least one night in a snake-infested Puerto Rican jungle after we make a wrong turn. We will be spotted only when some tourist who knew where he was going casually zip lines over a waterfall and says, "Is that a rental car down there?"

My wife has the steering wheel in a death grip while I desperately try to read the directions from our hotel concierge. I would feel more confident if those directions didn't include sentences such as "go through the Minillas Tunnel to Plaza Las Americas Mall" and "you're looking for an unmarked exit." Compounding our troubles is that all the road signs are in Spanish.

I turn to my daughters in the back seat, both of whom are tormented by the idea that, if we do find our destination, they will be forced to relinquish their iPods for a few hours. For that reason, they have their earbuds firmly affixed to their temples, oblivious to our predicament.

"Natalie, you speak Spanish. Help us out here."

"What?"

"TURN OFF THAT STUPID IPOD!!"

"What's your prob, Dad?"

My "prob" was incorrectly assuming my high school freshman daughter could help guide us to Campo Wherever thanks to the recent 'A' she received in her introductory Spanish class. I didn't expect her to carry on lengthy conversations with locals, but she should have at least mastered directional words by now, right?

"The sign says 'oeste.' Is that east or west?"

"I have no idea."

That answers that question.

"What have you learned?" I asked incredulously.

"Cuidar el pez."

"And that means..."

"To take care of your fish."

I feel much better.

When my daughter chose Spanish as one of her school subjects, we were overjoyed. My wife took several years of Spanish in high school, yet, like most Americans, promptly forgot most of it before the ink on her diploma was dry. I opted for German, a language that is useful only if one gets transferred to Munich following college. We vowed not to let our daughter succumb to laziness. We would make sure she retained that second language and spoke it at will, just as seemingly every Latin American citizen can do with English

Now I realize that learning a second language is simply too taxing on an American teenager's brain. What we should have done is re-enrolled her in English, a dialect that is disappearing in U.S. public high schools, replaced by something unknown to me. I do know that high school English is much shorter. Just as my daughter abbreviates nearly every word in every sentence she taps out on her cell phone, so does she compress words when speaking to anyone within earshot. "Problem" becomes "prob," pizza is "peez" and, well, you get the idea. Occasionally I will give her a sentence and ask her to translate it.

"Natalie, say 'The President will be elected in November' in whatever language you speak."

"The prez will be elec in Nove."

Makes a big diff, doesn't it?

I'm hoping this is a phase and that eventually she will retreat to using words that can be found in a standard dictionary. Then she can direct her attention to learning Spanish phrases that don't involve the nurturing of marine life. Until then, I'm resigned to wearing the navigator hat on family excursions.

Suddenly I hear a voice from the back seat, a voice screaming to be heard over her own iPod.

"Te acabas de perder su salida!"

"What does that mean?"

"You just missed your exit."

Now I know why she got an 'A.'

Running the country from the three-point arc

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


Like most of the country, I spent the past week reading Jodi Kantor's revealing portrayal of our nation's first couple. By "reading," I mean I skimmed "The Obamas: A Mission, A Marriage" in my local bookstore, searching for any sentence that contained "Kardashian" or some form thereof.

Isn't that how most of the country reads today?

While I wasn't interested in the first lady's spats with former chief of staff Rahm Emanuel or press secretary Robert Gibbs, I was looking for tidbits that made the president seem. well, human as opposed to presidential.

I found it when Kantor detailed how Obama often helped coach daughter Sasha's basketball team. While I don't always agree with the president's politics, I thought it amazingly cool that he could free himself from the rigors of running our country long enough to instruct a bunch of grade schoolers in the finer points of hoop x's and o's.

Unfortunately, nobody knows whether Obama is still coaching. With the kind of year he had, my guess is that he was forced to give it up. As a veteran volunteer coach myself, I know the rigors of trying to balance work with youth sports. During the season, I pride myself on constant communication with parents, mostly via email. I can only imagine some of the emails the president sent to parents as he juggled coaching duties with his other job. . .

Subject: Practice canceled

Practice on May 2, 2011, is canceled, as I will be dealing with the capture of the world's No. 1 terrorist. Please keep that quiet.

Subject: Equipment suggestion

Please put your child's name on ALL water bottles, jerseys, knee pads, etc. Somebody left a light blue backpack at practice tonight. We didn't know who it belonged to so security blew it up. Sorry.

Subject: Injuries during season

If your daughter suffers an injury during practice or games, please seek medical attention immediately. Also, please remember that the recently passed health-care bill makes it easier for middle-income families to afford insurance. You're welcome.

Subject: Scouting report on next opponent

Girls, you are going to have to bring your "A" game this weekend. I just found out that the opposing team has a 5-foot-10 center! I will have more information once I finish analyzing images from the drone aircraft that flew over her house last night.

Subject: Snack schedule

Effective immediately, Twinkies, chips, juice boxes and candy bars will no longer be part of the official team snack list. Only water, fresh fruit and nuts high in unsaturated fatty acids are allowed. Please email the coach's wife if you need suggestions.

Subject: Car pools

Parents, please consider car-pooling your children to practice at the White House. The Russian ambassador got stuck behind a line of minivans at the front gate last Thursday.

Subject: Playing time

It has come to my attention that some parents are complaining about what they perceive to be favoritism toward the coach's children when it comes to playing time. Please direct all questions and complaints to my Secret Service detail. Approach with caution.

Subject: Team name

Thanks to all the girls who submitted suggestions for our team name. I'm happy to announce that from here on out, we will be called "The Commander in Chiefs." "Chiefs" for short.

Subject: Orlando tournament

We will be competing in a two-day tournament at Disney World in March. I realize that the economy has put a strain on family finances, even with the payroll tax cut extension. Therefore, I have secured a block of very affordable rooms at the Super 8 Kissimmee Suites. The hotel contains a pool, laundry facilities and ample limousine parking. Complimentary transportation will be provided via Air Force One.

Subject: Alternative practice facility?

Does anybody know of a court somewhere near Pennsylvania Avenue that we could use for practice? I have recently been notified that our dribbling exercises on the White House court are annoying nearby office workers. We will continue practicing at the White House until Vice President Biden returns from vacation.

The Perfect Snowball Only Costs Ten Bucks

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Sometimes I wonder how I reached nearly the half-century mark of life, particularly when my kids seem just inches from serious bodily injury or worse on a daily basis.

How, for example, did I survive, unbuckled, in our car's back seat when my children are strapped in tighter than shuttle astronauts? How did I endure daily mile walks to school when the bus pulls up just feet from my house to transport my kids half that distance?

And how in the world did I manage to make a snowball with my bare hands?

I asked this question while Christmas shopping at Bed Bath & Beyond, a store where few items have anything to do with sleeping or bathing. In between the bins containing holiday butter cookies and LED digital alcohol breath checkers, lay the Arctic Gear Snowball Maker. At first glance, it looked like a pair of scissors, until I noticed the plastic half-spheres where the blades should have been. Then I began thinking it was something the CIA might use to help "interrogate" terrorism suspects now that waterboarding is frowned upon.

Finally, I saw the title and read the description: "Makes perfect snowballs every time." Accompanying the verbiage was a photo of a smiling young boy, about to throw a perfectly round snowball that he had formed by scooping snow into the spheres and squeezing them together.

I nearly threw up into the bin holding scented pine cones.

Apparently I have been living under a giant snow boulder because snowball makers have been around in one form or another since 1989. The original was invented by David Sage, a South Carolina homebuilder now retired and living in Missouri. His creation, dubbed the Sno-Baller, retails for between seven and 10 dollars. Sage has sold more than 1 million units.

"Kids will stay outside all day long if their hands don't get cold," Sage said.

Still not convinced this product could actually do the job I thought it was designed to do - make snowballs while promoting laziness - I searched "Sno-Baller" on YouTube and discovered not one, but two videos demonstrating its capabilities. The first starred a small boy with a British accent so thick his narration was unintelligible. However, he did succeed at making a single snowball, which he then launched at the camera. How cute!

The second featured an older boy scooping snow from the top of a barbecue grill and forming snowballs, which appeared to quickly fall apart once removed from the Sno-Baller. He also reminded the YouTube community that "you have to be living in some kind of city that's very, very snowy."

All you Floridians who purchased Sno-Ballers, I hope you saved your gift receipts.

Sage assured me his invention "will work in any snow you can compress with your hands." Then the conversation got technical.

"The compaction is all around the perimeter. The center is soft. When you make it with your hands, it goes 'thud' when it hits."

That was Sage's way of saying his snowballs are safer than ordinary snowballs. And easier to form. "There are a lot of kids who just can't make a snowball," he said.

Like who? The same kids who need a ride to their friend's house down the block and can't play a non-contact sport without a facemask?

"Kids with withered hands," said Sage, only slightly annoyed with my sarcasm. "And we sell them year round as motor therapy for stroke victims."

OK, so snowball makers serve a purpose. But that doesn't mean I'm buying one. All this technology, I fear, is making my kids soft. I want them to be self-sufficient. That means being one with the snow, just as I was when my parents sent me out to play in the dead of winter. I want them to form snowballs using only their hands and their brains; I want them to dive headfirst into snowdrifts and make angels, never mind that ice-cold, wet snow is creeping into every orifice. Then I want them to come inside, toss their wet gloves on the radiator and sip steaming mugs of hot cocoa.

Gosh, I hope they don't burn their sensitive hands.