One Against Three...And The Dog Makes Four

How To Annoy Your Parents In Any Language

2012-01-30T09:19:00.000-06:00

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

2012-01-23T07:16:00.000-06:00

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

2012-01-17T06:25:00.000-06:00

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.

A Super Dilemma only the President Can Solve

2012-01-09T09:30:00.001-06:00

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

Dear Mr. President:

I hope this letter reaches you before Feb. 5; if not, simply stick it in the official White House shredder alongside all those memos and suggestions from John Boehner.

I don't need to remind you that Feb. 5 is Super Bowl Sunday. You usually host a viewing party, right? Does Joe Biden get an automatic invitation? Does the first lady only allow healthy snacks or do Hooters wings make a yearly appearance?

It's going to be a great game, sir. Think the commercials will feature talking animals? Football-playing Clydesdales? Sens. Mitch McConnell and Harry Reid standing arm in arm, shilling for Pepsi? Hey, you never know. Remember that Leno/Letterman/Oprah ad?

OK, now let me throw a hypothetical your way. I know your daughters play soccer. Suppose that, a few weeks before kickoff, you received an email stating that one of your kids had a soccer game DURING the Super Bowl? What would you do? And "nuke the coach" is not an answer.

I'm asking because that is the dilemma I'm facing. My 14-year-old daughter plays on a club volleyball team. I'm sure you know these private clubs are big business and require an extensive commitment - from kids and their parents. Her team practices three times a week and plays tournaments nearly every weekend during the winter. Note the nearly part. Some weekends she is free. But on weekends that she does play, her mother and I load her in the SUV and drive her somewhere within a 50-mile radius of our house. Then we pay to get in the door. Now I'm discovering that, on Feb. 5, I will not only pay an admission charge to watch my daughter play volleyball, but miss the year's biggest sporting event in the process.

Mr. President, I have been watching your falling poll numbers and feel you need to do something quick. You need to put health care, the economy, Afghanistan and your reelection campaign on the back burner for one weekend. You need to come out in favor of an issue that everybody - Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians and Michele Bachmann - will stand behind. In short, you need to declare a kids sports moratorium on Super Bowl Sunday!

It would be so easy. Just send a letter to all sports club directors, on official White House stationary, sternly reminding them that the Super Bowl ALWAYS occurs on the first Sunday in February. For emphasis, write "DUH" in the next sentence. Everyone should get the message.

Think about it sir, who wouldn't approve of that? Congressional members seem like football fans, Nancy Pelosi notwithstanding. And most have kids, right? Even your worst political enemies could find themselves in a similar Super Bowl predicament. So could you if your children continue to pursue sports. That's why you need to step in. Sure, there would be some grumblings from out-of-control parents who are living in Dreamland and feel that missing a single tournament will prevent their son or daughter from getting that college scholarship or Olympic gold medal. That's why you need the moratorium. If you close all gymnasiums, private sports clubs, training facilities, aquatic centers and every other establishment that sucks money out of parents, then the playing field is level, correct? If the whole country takes a day off, nobody gets the upper hand.

This little experiment, if successful, might lead to an expansion of the law. Why not just make organized youth sports illegal on Sundays, period? Instead of mom pulling out at 7 a.m. with one kid and Dad leaving five minutes later with another, everybody just sleeps in. Maybe church becomes a bigger priority. Maybe family members could reintroduce themselves to one another while they eat dinner together. Is that so bad?

Please think about it, sir. Time is of the essence. Kickoff will be here before we know it and I just received another email from the volleyball club president.

She's looking for volunteers to set up and take down the nets. On Feb. 5.

The Rise of the Middle-Aged Protester

2012-01-09T09:21:00.000-06:00

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

'Tis the season to look back on the previous 12 months, identify regrets and vow to try something completely different in the coming year.

For me, that means protesting.

I feel I missed a huge opportunity by not once taking to the streets and voicing my frustrations at some injustice that I feel should be corrected. Protesters received all the ink in 2011; "The Protester" was even voted Time Magazine's Person of the Year. In Egypt, protesters toppled a government; at Penn State, they merely toppled a news van.

Still, these protesters caused the world to take notice. They were splashed across magazine covers, appeared on national news shows and became YouTube celebrities. Occasionally they knocked the Kardashians off the front pages, no small feat. Occupy Wall Street protester Tracy Postert even landed a job as a result of her rabble-rousing. True, it was for a financial investment firm, but sometimes protests come with a large dose of irony.

If protesting continues to be chic, I want to be part of it. I could always use the publicity and, if nothing else, it looks like protesting could toughen me up. In New York and Boston, protesters braved freezing temperatures to state their cases. I would have left briefly to purchase a space heater at a nearby Home Depot. If the price were too high, I would have camped out in the parking lot and protested the lack of sale items at this home-improvement retailer.

Here's my dilemma: What to protest? Unlike so many of this earth's inhabitants, 2011 was a fairly uneventful and angst-free year for me. I remained employed, had no major medical issues, invested a little money in the stock market and quickly realized burying it in the backyard would have netted more interest. Nothing made my blood boil enough to set up a tent in a public location and tweet incessantly.

Wait a minute, I take that back. I'm forgetting about my community pool, which closed at 7 every weeknight. 7 p.m.! It used to close at 8. Temperatures around Chicago in July often hover in the 90s at 7 p.m. It's still perfectly light at that time. Whoever made the decision to pull the pool's plug an hour earlier had better be prepared because Occupy Water Park is taking shape, beginning today.

I will contact all the disgruntled soccer moms I met last summer who bemoaned the earlier closing time. I'll also email every haggard dad who just wanted to cool off after a long day at the office, yet had to catch an earlier train to make that possible. On Memorial Day weekend 2012, when the pool officially opens, we will link arms and form an impenetrable fortress that extends the entire width of the shallow end. (The deep end is off limits because nobody wants to tread water while protesting.)

As shocked lifeguards and toddlers look on, we will chant, "WE'RE NOT JOKIN'. KEEP THE POOL OPEN!" When we tire of that, we will switch to "WE HAVE THE POWER TO EXTEND POOL HOURS!" We will tweet about our cause as soon as we find somebody who actually knows what Twitter is.

The Occupy Wall Street movement was criticized for not anointing a spokesman. We will not make that mistake. When the media converge, I will face the cameras and calmly list our demands: 9 o'clock closing and 10 on the weekends; more lounge chairs and at least one additional adult swim. Also, the senior citizen who lounges under the big umbrella every day can no longer wear a Speedo.

We will demand a full accountability of snack-bar monies. Two dollars for a snow cone? It's juice and ice for Pete's sake! We want a freeze on all snack prices until 2013.

Finally, I will announce that we are willing to stay as long as it takes until pool officials come to their senses. Even if we have to stay through Labor Day, we will prevail.

Our kids will just have to live on snow cones until then.

Feeling like a king at 30,000 feet

2011-12-26T08:18:00.000-06:00

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

The gentleman seated next to me took a sip of his drink and sighed. "Once you've had it and lost it, you definitely want it back," he said.

I quickly agreed. "It took me years to get it. Now I can't imagine living without it."

We could have been discussing love, fame, money or maybe even a decent golf swing. But in this case we were talking about something far different.

Elite airline status.

Our desire to obtain "it" resulted in our being sandwiched together on American Airlines Flight 889 between Chicago and Los Angeles. Our sole purpose was to turn around and fly back as quickly as possible. That's what "mileage chasers" do.

As the calendar year draws to a close, you see mileage chasers in most major airports. We're the ones whose luggage consists of nothing more than an iPad and a magazine. Why pack clothing? We aren't staying. We are simply doing whatever it takes to hit that magic number - usually 100,000 miles flown in a calendar year - so we can be labeled "Executive Platinum," "Premiere," "Diamond Medallion" or some other equally pretentious term coined by the airline industry. Incidentally, casual travelers have another word for us, but it's not printable in most major news publications.

Admit it, infrequent fliers: You detest us. We're the ones who board first, enter the special lines at crowded security checkpoints, and somehow manage to avoid baggage fees. If, heaven forbid, we are forced to check a bag, it appears in the claim area mere seconds after the carousel begins spinning. While other fliers wonder if they are going to get overhead bin space, we're wondering when the salted nuts will arrive. If the Occupy Wall Street movement turned its wrath on the airline industry, we would be the 1 percent.

Please don't hate us. You should feel sorry for us because we are disturbed individuals. It takes a twisted person to fly SIX legs between Chicago and Los Angeles in a 36-hour period during the Christmas season, pausing only to grab a brief nap at an airport motel before catching the first shuttle back to the terminal. Which is precisely what I did. Each segment accrued 1,745 miles in my American Airlines account. Tack on a special double mileage bonus for flying to a West Coast destination and that meant nearly 21,000 miles in my kitty, allowing me to achieve the remaining one-fifth of my goal in two days, if I added correctly. If nothing else, mileage chasers are very competent at math.

Contrary to popular belief, we are also the most nervous fliers, particularly late in the year. We will completely freak out when we hear that dreaded four-word phrase from the cockpit. No, it's not: "Please assume crash positions." Rather, it's: "Maintenance is on board." If the plane crashes, at least we would be forever free from the rigors of chasing miles. But cancel a flight? That makes us hyperventilate or reach for the air-sickness bag. We need EVERY flight to take off and land, even if one wing falls off somewhere over Denver.

Note to American Airlines executives: Your loyal customers also need you to retain the frequent-flier program, despite your recent Chapter 11 bankruptcy filing. Cancel it and we will use one of several free tickets we have earned due to our EXECUTIVE PLATINUM status to hunt down whoever pulled the plug. We will also bring Alec Baldwin with us.

The only way to keep us calm is to talk to us during the flight. We're great conversationalists since we've already seen every in-flight movie and listened to every audio channel - including the Spanish stations. We even have plenty of travel tips that we are happy to share. For example:

That purple yarn you tied to your luggage will not distinguish it from other pieces. Besides, baggage handlers take bets on who can steal the most yarn in an eight-hour shift.

Putting a privacy shield over your laptop screen is pointless. What do you expect your seatmate to do? Steal your secret solitaire strategy?

If you think those body scanners really can see everything, consider taking Greyhound.

I would offer more, but I just checked my mileage status and realized I miscalculated. I'm still 150 miles short.

Grand Rapids, here I come!

Customer Service Never Tasted So Good

2011-12-16T10:10:00.000-06:00

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

Every journalist charged with writing a weekly column yearns for two things:

1. Somebody will actually read the column

2. Somebody will feel strongly enough about the column to respond

Columnists particularly love it when No. 2 occurs, because we immediately think, "Wow, if I respond to the responder, I might just have ANOTHER column and won't have to beat my head against a wall three hours before deadline wondering what I am going to write about!"

This is precisely what happened after I wrote a piece detailing my desire to man the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line. I merely wanted to hear the anguished voices of those hapless people thrust into the role of chef on Thanksgiving Day. After years of botching my holiday bird, I needed proof that I wasn't alone.

One day after posting the column on Twitter, an email arrived from Allison McClamroch, senior vice president at Edelman Consumer Marketing, Butterball's PR agency. In part, it read:

"We would love to have you out at the Talk-Line for Turkey 101 - with the experts who take all the calls."

An invitation? A chance to see the inner workings of the Butterball operation? I felt like Santa himself had summoned me to the North Pole on Dec. 23 and said, "Bring a video camera. And your kids!" I immediately accepted and, a few days later, found myself standing in the lobby of a nondescript office building in (dare I divulge the location?) Naperville, Ill.

Allison met me at the fifth-floor reception area and soon I was inside the Turkey Talk-Line nerve center, which consisted of 10 tables , each containing three to four festively dressed women. Yes, all the participants are female, something the Talk-Line's supervisors are aware of but don't seem too concerned about. Then again, would you rather have a male or female voice answering the phone when you're calling about the finer points of stuffing?

Within two hours, I had learned how much time I had wasted over the years worrying about . . . nothing. Registered dietitian and 12-year Talk-Line veteran Sue Smith told me it was perfectly OK to put a slightly frozen turkey in the oven and not necessary to spends hours with my hand inside various body cavities cleaning out turkey innards. Talk-Line supervisor Marty Van Ness suggested various ways of preparing the bird but cringed when I mentioned how my mother used to roast our holiday turkey in a brown paper grocery sack.

"Combustible item in a hot oven with grease. Never a good combination," she said.

Mom had no idea she was putting the entire family at risk every November.

Watching these ladies in action, I wondered, "Why can't all customer support lines work this way?" At Butterball, callers ask a question and receive not only an answer, but assurance that everything will be fine. The Talk-Line definitely does not operate like the cable company for not once did I hear, "Your turkey looks pink? OK, we'll send a technician out sometime between Thursday and Saturday."

It also does not function like a computer support department. If it did, every Talk-Line rep would have been ordered to begin the conversation with, "May I please have the turkey's serial number? (PAUSE) I'm sorry but that is not a Butterball turkey and therefore does not qualify for support. Goodbye."

Or, "Our records show you called last year. Unfortunately, you are only allowed one free Talk-Line call. If you want any more advice, you must upgrade to the Butterball Silver Talk-Line Plan. Do you have your credit card ready?"

Finally, the calls to Naperville stayed in Naperville. Nobody was placed on hold while satellites bounced the caller through space until, 15 minutes later, a monotone voice from a call center in Bangalore, India, droned, "If I'm hearing you right, you're wondering why there are flames shooting from your turkey fryer? Please hold while I transfer you to a higher level of support."

So thanks, Butterball, for assuring me that, should I choose to host Thanksgiving next year, my cooking duties will be infinitely easier. I just have one more question:

Does anybody there know anything about cable TV?

Nothing says 'I'm too lazy" like a gift card

2011-12-13T08:38:00.001-06:00

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

For the umpteenth straight year, I missed "Black Friday," the one-day shopping frenzy featuring mature, intelligent adults who set their alarms for 1 a.m., venture to assorted retail outlets and return hours later with bruises, lacerations, eyes stinging from pepper spray and business cards from personal injury attorneys.

Three days later, I neglected to take part in "Cyber Monday," the virtual event featuring mature, intelligent adults who log onto PCs, click on heavily discounted items, and leave the gift-giving season in the hands of the ALWAYS RELIABLE U.S. Postal Service while praying the website they just visited was legitimate as opposed to an exact replica created by high-tech criminals.

By some estimates, this year these two events added $12.4 billion to our struggling economy. As much as I would have liked to contribute, the fact remains that I am simply too lazy to Christmas shop via the normal methods. Instead, I have created another day in which to start and finish my holiday buying.

Gift Card Tuesday.

I'm choosing Tuesday because, let's face it, it's the most boring day of the week. You don't head back to work Tuesday, it's not "Hump Day," and it's never part of an extended weekend. Tuesdays are quiet and Gift Card Tuesday will allow me to check off everybody on my Christmas list -- in about 15 minutes.

I've already got everything planned out. The local drugstore will be the site of my purchases since I have a prescription waiting to be picked up. Afterward, I will saunter over to the gift card rack, which seems to double in size each year. Even the most specialized stores like Bass Pro Shops have jumped on the lazy-shopper bandwagon by churning out those 3 1/4-by-2-inch pieces of plastic, adorned with the establishment's logo and a holiday symbol. All seem to say, "I'D MAKE A GREAT GIFT. SEE? I HAVE A WREATH ON MY CARD!"

This year, I will began with my wife, who pays the bills, car pools the kids and cooks delicious meals every night. She could use a little pampering, right?

Bath & Body Works. Done.

Next is my brother-in-law. Didn't he once say it was his dream to someday finish his basement, complete with a home theater and wet bar? Fifty dollars from The Home Depot should get him started. Next year at this time, I'll be sitting in his sparkling new rec room, drinking his beer and eating his snacks, all the while knowing that I helped make it possible.

Now that NBA players and owners have stopped bickering and agreed to an actual season, I have a reason to purchase an NBA store gift card for my nephew. I think players will get 51.15 percent of my purchase and owners the remaining 48.85. Or is it the other way around?

My cellphone-toting daughter will love the Verizon gift card that gives her extra minutes. When I was her age, I wanted a new bike; today's kids desire the ability to talk longer.

All of my relatives over 16 have driver's licenses. Therefore, any of them could use a Jiffy Lube card, courtesy of yours truly. When my sister pulls her vehicle into stall No. 1 and hears a voice from the ground below scream, "OIL AND LUBE!," she will think of me.

That leaves only my parents. What to get two people in their late 70s? Since they live nearby, the Southwest Airlines gift card is out, as it will make them think I'm trying to get rid of them. The International House of Pancakes is more their speed. Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. Have a Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity on your son!

Afterward, I will return home with all my purchases in a single bag. If I'm still feeling festive, I will design a Christmas card on my PC and blast it to everybody in my address book via one mouse click.

That should leave more than enough time for a nap.

It's time to delete the pause button

2011-12-06T11:00:00.001-06:00

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC
A time-honored tradition in the Schwem household involves gathering around the television during the closing minutes of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and waving to Santa as he enters Herald Square. Normally this joyous event occurs at approximately noon Chicago time.

This year Santa arrived at 12:38 p.m.

No, this was not due to an oversight by parade organizers. After 85 years of lining up participants, a task that, judging by the parade's length, begins somewhere in Ohio, I'm certain nobody has ever said, "Where's the red-suited guy with the beard?" Mark my words, Santa's whereabouts are ALWAYS known. The folks at Macy's would rather lose an entire high school marching band than have to explain how Santa missed his cue.

Kriss Kringle's delay was entirely the fault of my TV remote, specifically the "pause" feature. As a man living in a house with three women, I have a small request for television manufacturers, cable companies, set top box makers and whomever else is responsible for temporarily suspending the present with the click of a button:

STOP IT!

Don't you see what you are doing? The pause button simply gives women a tool to keep men waiting. This is precisely what happened on Thanksgiving Day. Our plan, agreed to by all four family members the night before, was to wave to Santa at noon, load up the car and be on the road shortly thereafter.

"Let's shoot for 12:30," my wife said.

At 11:54 a.m. I was fully dressed and perched in front of the TV, watching the last of the inflatable balloons hover over 34th Street. Also at 11:54 a.m., a half-baked pie was in the oven, one daughter was frantically looking for a shoe, the other's whereabouts were unknown and I heard a shower running in the distance.

"Santa's just about here," I called upstairs.

"PAUSE IT!" yelled three voices in unison.

Outnumbered as always, I gave in to technology and bought my wife and daughters as much time as they darn well pleased. Much like a turkey, I was left to stew, alone, in my own juices. Eventually all three sauntered downstairs in Thanksgiving attire, oblivious to the fact that our departure time had come and gone.

"Ready," one daughter said.

"Santa's probably back at the North Pole by now," I replied testily.

My younger daughter, 9 years old and still a "believer," picked up the remote and hit the hated pause button.

"He's right there, Dad," she gestured at the TV. "Hi, Santa!"

"Hope he brings you everything you want this year," my wife chimed in.

"How about a clock for starters," I mumbled.

"Hush, Scrooge," came the reply.

My greatest fear is that pausing live television is only the beginning. In a few years, it's entirely possible that a cinema full of men will be staring at frozen images of actors on screen while a lone woman remains at home, changing outfits. What about theater? Ladies, just contact a female usher during that Broadway production and ask her to aim her remote at Nathan Lane and hit "pause." That will give you time to adjust your makeup.

Girls, when you attend a live sporting event, ever notice that men only visit restrooms during halftime and timeouts? That's because we know there is no pause button. We have been trained to live in the present, as opposed to altering the present to suit our needs. Please, please, can't you see our ways and at least TRY to be ready on time?

Alas, I'm afraid my request will fall on deaf ears. The pause feature is as commonplace on televisions these days as the on/off button. Television manufacturers have moved on to even cooler features including surround sound and 3-D capability. I'll take odds that, in a few years, one press of a button will cause the entire cast of "Modern Family" to leap from the TV and finish the episode live in my living room.

Of course, I will be the only family member watching. The rest will be upstairs, looking for shoes and yelling, "Pause it, pause it!"

The Sexiest Man Alive is out there somewhere

2011-11-28T05:35:00.001-06:00

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

The People magazine lay on the kitchen island along with a stack of bills and Christmas catalogues. I glanced quickly at the cover before pushing it into my wife's pile.

"Well, it's official. Bradley Cooper is the 2011 Sexiest Man Alive," I said with a yawn.

"Go ahead," my wife responded. "Start trashing him the same way you do every man who wins the title. I only hope poor Ryan Reynolds (2010), Johnny Depp (2009) and Hugh Jackman (2008) have recovered from your vicious verbal barbs."

"I'm not trashing them. It's the 'alive' reference that bugs me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that word doesn't pop up in other rankings. When the Cardinals won the World Series, nobody said they were the 'Best Baseball Team Alive.' Forbes magazine annually ranks the world's wealthiest individuals but the editors stopped short of calling Mexican telecom mogul Carlos Slim Helu the 'Richest Guy Alive.' When Dan Shechtman received the Nobel Prize for Chemistry this year, nobody referred to him as the 'Smartest Man Alive.' "

"Maybe he isn't."

"He discovered quasicrystals. Sounds pretty smart to me."

"So what's your point?"

"My point is that there may be somebody out there who is sexier than Bradley Cooper."

"You obviously didn't see The A-Team. Woof woof." She added, "Look, it's just a figure of speech."

"But People magazine is a national news publication. They owe it to the readers to back up their claims, especially when they're splashed all over the cover. I mean, there are over 3 billion living men on the planet. Did this Cooper specimen really beat out 3 BILLION other guys?"

"Some of those 'guys' are wearing diapers and riding around in car seats."

"Yes but how do we know that there isn't some strapping 28-year-old hunk living in the frozen tundra of Alaska who outranks Bradley Boy? I'll bet there is. His name is Branson."

"There is no hunk named Branson living in the Alaskan tundra."

"You don't know that. Neither does People magazine. Until its crack investigative journalism team can prove otherwise, we have to assume he exists. "

"Whatever. I'm sure he's not as sexy as Bradley Cooper."

"Oh, really? The People article says Cooper is a good cook. Big deal. Branson can kill a caribou with a bow and arrow, roast the meat over an open flame, and stitch a ridiculously warm and stylish floor-length coat with the leftover pelt."

"He can't do that," said my wife, whose breathing was rapidly increasing.

"Oh, yes he can. According to People, Cooper rides a motorcycle. What would you rather do? Put your arms around Cooper as he squires you through smoggy LA on his noisy, gas-spewing Harley or snuggle up with Branson while he navigates a dog sled through unspoiled outdoor terrain?"

My wife's eyes had glazed over. I moved in for the kill.

"Then you'll return to one of the several log cabins that Branson owns, thanks to his phenomenal success in the Alaskan real estate market. He will light a scented candle, illuminating the room in a romantic amber glow as he whispers sweet Italian nothings in your ear."

"He speaks Italian?" my wife said dreamily. "Why?"

"You can ask him while he's rubbing your feet with his thickly callused hands. The same hands, I might add, that swing the ax and chop the firewood for those long, cold Alaskan nights. Of course, you won't even feel the cold. You'll be too busy focusing on the caribou coat that he is slowly unbuttoning, revealing an eight-pack of abs..."

"STOP IT. STOP IT ALREADY! You win, OK?"

"I'm not trying to win," I said. "I'm just saying that Cooper should be careful before he accepts the World's Sexiest Man Alive trophy, if such a thing exists. Better yet, maybe People magazine should have an actual contest, instead of just anointing some celebrity who clearly doesn't need any more publicity."

"Fine. Go ahead and suggest that," she said before leaving the room.

It may have been my imagination but, from the corner of my eye, I think I saw her pull The A-Team DVD from the cabinet and throw it in the trash.

My daughters WILL become actuaries

2011-11-22T05:49:00.001-06:00

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

I crept up behind my daughter as she sat at the kitchen table, slumped over her MacBook.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Facebooking."

I had no idea "Facebook" could be used as a verb. "Why are you on Facebook?"

"Because my homework's finished. That's the rule, right? I can Facebook after homework."

Suddenly "Facebook" had become an action verb. "Well, as long as you're on Facebook, why don't you join the actuarial science newsgroup? And check out the Actuarial Bookstore in Greenland, New Hampshire. It has a Facebook page, too."

"Dad, what are you talking about? What is actuarial science?"

I pulled up The Wall Street Journal on my iPad and thrust it in her face. "Read this article, 'From College Major to Career.'"

"How come?"

"So you won't be sitting around the house Facebooking in seven years."

Using 2010 census data, the world's leading business newspaper explored how various college majors fared in today's frightening job market. Actuarial science, commonly referred to as risk management in insurance and financial circles, received an unemployment rating of zero percent. Still, it was the 150th most popular major. Business management and administration topped the popularity list, in spite of the 6 percent unemployment rate.

The low ranking for the actuarial profession didn't surprise me. I've met, for lack of a better phrase, actual actuaries and there is truth to the joke: How do you tell an introverted actuary from an extroverted actuary? Answer? The extroverted actuary looks at YOUR shoes when he talks to you.

Other majors that assured instant employment included geophysical engineering and astrophysics, according to the article.

"Pick one," I said.

"Dad, I'm 14. Haven't you said that if I work hard enough, I can be whatever I want to be?"

"Yes, as long as it doesn't involve library science or clinical psychology," I said, pointing to the respective 15 and 19.5 percent unemployment rates for those majors. The clinical psychology statistics make no sense. Surely our nation has a demand for experts to counsel recent college grads who spent four years and thousands of dollars preparing for a career in military technologies, only to realize the profession has a 10.9 percent unemployment rating and their first job application may come from Starbucks instead of the State Department.

My daughter grabbed the iPad and began scrolling. "I guess Miscellaneous Fine Arts (16.2 percent) is out?"

"Absolutely. Who is going to hire somebody that walks into an interview and says, 'I'm really good at doing miscellaneous stuff, particularly if it's art-related.'"

"Didn't you want to be an astronomer when you grew up?"

"Yes and I should have gone with my gut. Look here. Zero percent of astronomers are unemployed."

"Where does stand-up comedian fall on this list?" she said, referring to the vocation I have held for the past 22 years.

"Comedians are self-employed. If you choose a career on this list, you'll be working for somebody."

"So maybe I should start my own business. Then we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Great idea! You could be a self-employed actuary. The best of both worlds!"

"Dad, isn't it a little early for you to be steering me towards a particular career? I mean, mom just had 'The Talk' with me two years ago."

"How did that go?"

"She got most of it right."

"Honey, I just don't want you to major in something that isn't going to bear fruit once you're out of college. You don't want to be like that kid down the street who graduated last year and still can't find a job. What was his major?"

"Medieval history."

"Right. Who's going to hire him? Harry Potter?"

"Here's one with a zero percent unemployment rate. School student counseling."

"Now that's perfect! You'd be good at that. Think how rewarding it would be to give advice to students. What's the first thing you would tell them?"

"When your Dad approaches you with an iPad, run."

I desperately need to talk turkey

2011-11-12T08:01:00.001-06:00

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

Now that the Halloween decorations are back in storage and my Kit Kat hangover has subsided, I can turn my attention to a fantasy that has been swirling in my brain and won't go away.

I want to man the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line.

Why, you ask, would I want to spend Thanksgiving Day fielding phone calls from perplexed chefs thrust into the role of preparing this . . . thing that sits, half frozen, in a lukewarm, reddening pool of sink water? The answer is simple: I'm not cooking the turkey this year.

Yes, after years of struggling with obstinate birds (Question for Butterball: How can something dead be so uncooperative?), other relatives are taking on the challenge. This Thanksgiving, my wife and I will show up with the obligatory green bean/crunchy onion concoction. While our kids eat too much dip, we will sip chardonnay and listen to screams, tears and threats emanating from the kitchen. Glass in hand, I will wander in and say, "Can I help?" about 30 minutes after that question should have been asked.

Just thinking about this makes me happy. But I want to be REALLY happy. That's why I want to become a turkey hotline temp. According to the Butterball website, the line is staffed by "more than 50 professionally-trained, college-educated home economists and nutritionists." I don't have a background in nutrition or home economics, but I am college educated. And I have plenty of advice to give, gleaned from years of relatives such as Aunt Trudy (not her real name since she's still alive) hovering over me and offering "tips" such as "it looks a tad pink to me," "next year, tie the legs tighter" and "you're out of vodka." Mind you, all of these conversations occurred while I was holding a monstrous carving knife. Such is the beauty of Thanksgiving.

I just need to answer one phone call. When I hang up, I'm confident I will be laughing hysterically and eternally filled with joy, even if it's at the expense of some poor, first-time caller. Butterball, please consider the following dialogue my audition:

"Butterball Turkey Talk-Line. This is Greg. May I help you?"

"Hi, this is Emily from Seattle...

"Is it raining right now in Seattle?"

"Yes, but that's not why I'm calling. My turkey. . ."

"So it's raining and you botched up your turkey? Wow, I thought I was depressed."

"I didn't botch it up. At least I don't think I did. But it's been roasting for eight hours and it still doesn't look done."

"Eight hours? Hmm, let me check the manual. (LOUD RUSTLING OF PAGES) Oh, my God, Emily, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW! AND GET YOUR AFFAIRS IN ORDER!!!

"Excuse me?"

"Just kidding. That makes everybody laugh around here. Marge in the next cubicle almost did a spit-take. Hey, can you check the football score for me? Butterball doesn't have TVs in this room."

"Um, it's 17-14, Cowboys."

"Excellent. Romo's on my fantasy team."

"Who cares? I need help. My relatives are starving and I don't know what to do."

"That's why you have side dishes, Emily. Want me to transfer you to the Green Bean/Crunchy Onion Hotline? Or the closest Domino's?"

"No, no, no! Look, the thermometer says 165. Is that sufficient?"

"Depends. Are we talking Fahrenheit or Celsius?"

"Fahrenheit! Why would I use a Celsius thermometer?"

"Maybe you have European relatives. The turkey's done, Emily. Take it out."

"OK, but now I need help carving. What kind of knife should I use?"

"Knife? Who uses knives? A simple karate chop should do. I once saw a guy on 'America's Got Talent' break three bricks with his head."

"Karate chop the turkey? You can't be serious."

"Of course I'm serious, Emily. I have a degree."

"All right. Hold on." (LOUD THUMP FOLLOWED BY SHRIEK OF PAIN) "That didn't work."

"You must have hit the stuffing."

"Can I speak to your supervisor?"

"Hold on. (PAUSE) Trudy, pick up on line two."

More towels sir? We already knew that!

2011-11-03T14:09:00.000-05:00

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

The headline caught my eye as I sat in my Orlando hotel room, futilely struggling to open the complimentary coffee packet: "HOTEL STAFF 'READS' GUESTS' NEEDS."

The article was from a major national newspaper. Curiosity piqued, I elected to forgo morning java. Instead, I began reading and discovered that Affinia, an upscale hotel chain with properties in New York, Chicago and Washington, D.C., recently hired a "body-language expert." This announcement only strengthened my theory that if you are unemployed, simply invent a title for yourself and corporate America will hire you. At a recent company cocktail party, I met a "Director of Continuous Improvement," "Specialty Organics Manager" and "Social Network Evangelist." Not having the slightest clue what any of these people did, I greeted each with my standard opening line: "How 'bout them Bears?"

The Affinia body-language guru is responsible for training employees to spot guests' needs or wants simply by looking at them. A guest who constantly touches his face at the reception desk, the article states, could be anxious after a long day of meetings and require extra pampering.

Or a skin doctor. Or a psychiatrist.

I regularly travel more than 100,000 business miles per year. In the process, I have stayed everywhere from five star oceanfront resorts to fleabag motels that offer hourly rates and free high-speed Internet. Somebody needs to tell the fleabag motel desk clerks that any guest paying by the hour is not interested in surfing the Web, despite the 100 percent discount.

I have pulled back bedspreads to find cockroaches, checked into rooms with unflushed toilets, and discovered black, muddy substances seeping from my room's bathtub drain. The last incident occurred in a swank New York City hotel with a French name. When I contacted the front desk, the manager apologized and said he would send up a fruit plate for my inconvenience.

I told him that unless the dining staff could produce a banana shaped like a drain snake, he could keep the fruit.

According to Smith Travel Research, hotel-occupancy rates are on the rise and, in some destinations, even approaching pre-recession levels. The American public is traveling again, in spite of hotels' determination to mimic the airline industry with those extra, sometimes-exorbitant fees. Seriously, $5 for a can of minibar Diet Coke? I paid less for a case of the same stuff at Costco. Then again, how can I watch a $13.99 in-room movie without some liquid libation?

So, bravo to any hotel chain that offsets this price gouging by anticipating its guests' thoughts and desires. But there's no need to hire experts to scrutinize us. Just look for the following characteristics and know the meanings behind them:

Slurred speech and slight odor of Scotch - Guest prefers a room near the ice machine.

Carrying no suitcases - Guest just had lengthy argument with airline's lost-luggage personnel.

Carrying more than three suitcases - Guest just had lengthy argument with wife.

Accompanied by multiple children - Guest could be Brad Pitt. You never know.

Wearing bell-bottoms or other 1970s attire - Guest was recently released from prison.

Trouble keeping balance while walking - Guest is hiding at least three hotel towels in carry-on garment bag.

Angry tone and finger pointing - Guest insists he did not rent Debbie Does Dallas at 2:30 a.m.

Profuse sweating coupled with guilt-ridden expression - Guest eventually admits he did rent aforementioned movie and needs assurance that the charge will not appear on his company expense report. (That won't sit well with the Director of Continuous Improvement.)

Clad only in underwear - Guest stepped into hallway to retrieve complimentary newspaper without room key.

Gnarled fingers and bloody knuckles - Guest still can't open the #@$%* coffee packet.

Little League Rules for Big League Debates

2011-10-31T15:10:00.000-05:00

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

I have two daughters, both of whom play organized softball. Every year about this time, I volunteer to manage one of their teams. I sign my name in the box, pay the registration fees and hear not a peep from the PONY Baseball/Softball higher-ups until the following spring when my roster arrives. I also receive a hefty PONY rulebook, containing a litany of regulations and a code of conduct, which I promise to abide by during the season.

While I don't necessarily agree with all the rules, and find some of the conduct specifications to be ludicrous (What? I can't gamble on my Blueberry Muffins team?), the PONY laws succeed at speeding up games, encouraging teamwork and avoiding conflict.

That's why, after watching the 2,407th Republican presidential candidate debate, this one LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS, I feel it's time to incorporate youth softball rules into the contests. Something needs to be done before Mitt Romney places his hand on Rick Perry's shoulder and balls it into a fist. Perry should also be penalized for calling any candidate "brother," a remark that had Vegas odds makers scurrying to establish a line on whether he would refer to Michele Bachmann as "sister."

Does anybody really think these contests will determine the outcome of the 2012 presidential election? Most studies show the American public uses other means to make their choices. They weigh each candidate's position on the most important issues facing this country, carefully read profiles from several well respected national publications, and then choose whomever has the best hair and nicest smile. Google "Jimmy Carter" for proof.

Still, there are at least 12 more debates tentatively scheduled. The next one takes place Nov. 9 in Rochester, Mich. That is more than enough time for PONY officials to restore sanity to the debate process by scouring their rulebook and rewriting the format. Here are a few suggestions:

A continuous batting order will be used -- Specifically, each candidate gets 60 seconds to state his or her position on a topic, starting at the far left podium and moving down the line. This will eliminate candidates interrupting each other, as well. It also means Anderson Cooper can stay home.

No player will be omitted from the starting lineup in consecutive games -- Breathe easier Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich and Jon Huntsman.

Players must rotate positions -- Midway through the debate, all candidates will move to different podiums. This ensures that Romney and Perry will have only a limited time to touch each other. Once separated, contact will be limited to both candidates hurling ballpoint pens at one another.

The dropped third strike rule does not apply -- Simply put, no candidate gets the chance to "clarify" a position, even after a horrendous foot-in-mouth gaffe. This rule should help Bachmann and Ron Paul choose their words more carefully.

The game is over after one hour and 45 minutes -- Anybody have a problem with that?

A player who has been removed from the game may re-enter the game -- Just in case Tim Pawlenty happens to be in Michigan on Nov. 9.

Pitchers are required to wear a defensive facemask -- Whichever candidate is speaking is deemed "the pitcher" and will wear the mask. The exception is Herman Cain. After the verbal bashing he took in the Vegas debate, he will wear one from the moment he walks on stage.

No warm up swings are permitted during the game -- This rule keeps candidates from flip-flopping on topics during the debate.

Finally, two rules that are not specifically written in the official PONY handbook but which are used by most managers, myself included.

Each candidate must have a "team mom" -- Sarah Palin is available.

At the conclusion of every game, all players go out for ice cream -- Candidates will use this time to argue over who will pay and where the money will come from.

One more thing: Everyone gets a trophy.

My Daughter's Brain: A Work in Progress

2011-10-27T11:12:00.000-05:00

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

As the orthodontist put braces on my 14-year-old daughter, I sat in the waiting room, casually flipping through National Geographic.

Halfway through October's cover story, I realized I could never let her see this issue. Even if it means hunting down all of the magazine's 8.5 million subscribers and stealing their copies, it's worth it. I may have to hack into the National Geographic website and furiously hit "delete," as well. The penalties will be severe but, as I linger in my jail cell awaiting a bond hearing, I will breathe easier knowing I kept her from reading an article entitled, "Beautiful Teenage Brains." If she finds it, I will never win an argument with her again.

Until I read David Dobbs' piece, I was of the firm belief that teenagers don't have brains, period. Sure, there is a mass in their heads that allows them to pepper every sentence with "huh," "what" and "like." It's the same organ that creates the ability to simultaneously text, update one's social network status and download Pitbull's latest musical masterpiece while studying for final exams. But it doesn't actually produce intelligent thoughts.

The article's accompanying photos certainly supported my theory. There was the girl who showed off her newly pierced tongue and said she tried to hide it from her parents by "not talking." Or maybe it was the image of a teen appearing to launch himself, face first, into a brick wall. Turns out he was simply practicing a sport called parkour, which involves leaping from walls and in between buildings to get where you're going. I thought only Spider-Man could do this.

Or it could have been the picture of the "Fight Club," where one teenage youth gripped another boy in what looked to be a rather painful headlock. Two other lads stood by and, instead of helping their struggling friend, recorded the action with their cellphones and prepared to upload the footage to Facebook.

Dobbs says questionable decision-making, coupled with a desire to seek new thrills, is perfectly normal because teenagers' brains are not fully developed. The corpus callosum, which connects the brain's left and right hemispheres, is thickening. The hippocampus is strengthening. And let's not forget that the teen's synapses are learning to work with their axons and dendrites.

Parents, are you up to speed now?

I'm not sure my daughter's corpus callosum could process the complexities of Dobbs' article. But I can't take that chance. Even if she just skims it (much like she skims her homework assignments), it will provide her with verbal ammunition beyond her wildest dreams.

"Chill, Dad. I know I missed curfew by two hours but that's because my dendrites weren't functioning properly."

"Don't blame me for the unloaded dishwasher, Dad. Blame my still-developing cortex."

"Dad, I can't find my volleyball bag. Or my math book. Or my cellphone. But what did you expect? It's because my axons are not yet insulated with myelin. Like, duh!"

See what I mean?

Dobbs concludes that I'm just going to have to ride out the storm with my daughter. With a few exceptions, she is going to choose her friends, instead of her parents, as her source for learning new things. Her occasional tendency to do something that I would scientifically call "stupid" is just a means of learning to adapt to new situations, a trait that will help her later in life. She's going to be in her mid-20s before those frontal brain areas mature but the results will be wonderful. She will, according to Dobbs, have an easier time moving out of the house. She will learn when risks outweigh rewards and vice versa. I just want to give her a hug and congratulate her on the progress she is making.

I will do that right after I scream at her for chewing ice with her new braces.

A Good Putting Stroke Is All In The Wallet

2011-10-17T14:53:00.000-05:00

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

As a Chicago resident and die-hard Cubs fan, I'm used to living through springs that begin with so much promise, only to turn into summers full of zero improvement and wasted opportunities, followed by September cries of "wait till next year."

My golf game plays out in identical fashion.

But I have a new reason to be hopeful. Peer inside my bag and feast your eyes on that gleaming putter. DON'T TOUCH IT! You see, that putter was designed EXCLUSIVELY for me.

Now I've never been a huge believer in the theory that technology improves one's golf game. I've shunned pricey balls that supposedly fly higher, truer and farther thanks to their "unconventional dimple design" and "dual core" centers. They all sink equally well in water. Give me a ball that bobs to the surface, floats quickly to the bank and waits for my cart to arrive and I'll purchase six dozen.

Ditto for drivers with adjustable screws that allow the owner to fade or draw the ball. I've been playing golf for more than 40 years and nobody has ever stood on the tee and said, "Whatever you do, don't hit it STRAIGHT."

Putting, however, is a different story. Like most weekend players, I spend precious little time practicing putting. It's more fun to pound driver after driver, wallowing in my own testosterone as I try to reach the 275-yard flag on the range. Putting just seems so . . . wimpy by nature.

Nevertheless, the soft spongy putting surface is where my game goes to die. That's why I was so intrigued with the concept of a custom-designed putter. I interpreted that to mean I would now own a putter that would be more than a club; it would be my best friend. I would take it into bars after rounds and sit it on an adjoining stool, while recounting to other golfers how I made three 40-footers simply because "my putter knows what to do." In short, it would be the sword of Excalibur.

I happily met Mike, my custom putter fitter, in an unremarkable office park where remarkable putters are allegedly born. While I attempted to sink several 8-foot putts, Mike videotaped my stroke. I watched in horror and immediately updated a mental list entitled, "Things I NEVER Want to See on a Big Screen." My golf swing became No. 1. "Me Having Sex" dropped to No. 2.

Mike went into another room, most likely to convulse in laughter. He returned with several putters and twice as much putting terminology. I nodded silently as he described my "toe drag," and "forward press."

The only term I understood was "wristy," as in, "You're way too wristy."

Over the next hour, Mike tried everything to reduce my wrist, short of breaking it. I putted with my head against a wall, with a ball wedged between the shaft and my right forearm, with my left hand only, my right hand only and with my eyes closed. Remarkably that one went in; at least it sounded like it did.

He then took the putter from my hands, placed it in some contraption that may very well have come from a CIA interrogation room, made some noisy adjustments and returned it to me.

"You're good to go," he said.

I handed him a large amount of money and he handed me the putter and his card. "If you make any changes to your stroke, bring it back." I interpreted that to mean he would make more adjustments, courtesy of the mystery machine.

I headed out convinced that the machine and the putter will cure me of my putting woes because I now have technology on my side. It's like having a GPS in your vehicle. Voila! Suddenly you are good at directions.

I don't plan to miss any more putts inside 10 feet. But in case I do, I have one question.

What do custom-designed wrists cost?

It Takes Very Little Effort to be a Man

2011-10-11T08:37:00.000-05:00

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

I avoid reading medical studies since they are contradictory by nature. Stay away from red wine because the alcohol could raise my blood pressure or inhale two glasses a day and combat prostate cancer? Control my cholesterol by shunning beef or strengthen my immune system by waltzing into Ruth's Chris once a week and nodding when the waitress says, "The usual, Mr. Schwem?"

But something lead me to read, beginning to end, a recent study by Northwestern University anthropologists. Apparently, testosterone, the primary male sex hormone, drops when men become dads. Even more alarming? The study suggests levels plummet further when guys take active roles in child rearing. In short: The more involved a man is with his kids, the less "manly energy" he has.

I recently turned 49 and, while I don't feel the need to star in a Cialis commercial, I occasionally struggle to remain awake through the late-night news. Now I know why. It was because I spent this past spring managing my 9-year-old daughter's softball team. I specifically remember one game when I stood near third base, frantically waving my arm in a circular motion and extolling our runner to sprint home. How was I to know that testosterone was oozing out of my body? Those dads in the bleachers who spent the whole game tapping away on their BlackBerrys no doubt left feeling more like men.

Then there was that snowy Sunday a few years ago when I went bowling with her Brownie troop. While other dads were home on the couch eating Doritos and watching the playoffs, I was tying little bowling shoes and searching the lanes for pink balls. When the facility closed for the evening, the staff likely squeegeed my testosterone off alley No. 7.

Or maybe I lost that all important maleness when I transported a bunch of girls to a weekend cheerleading tournament 75 miles from my house. Actually, that's not true; any man forced to sit through a cheerleading tournament ceases being a man on the spot. That includes you, Tom Brady. I knew it was over when my wife sent me to the drugstore because my daughter didn't have the correct shade of eyeliner that apparently is VITAL when competing in cheerleading competitions.

Luckily, there is a solution to every problem. Starting today, I plan to replenish that lost testosterone -- by becoming as uninvolved as possible.

From now on, when my daughter requests help with her science report, I will quickly wave my hand in the direction of the home PC and say, "Just Google it." When it comes time to sort her Girl Scout cookie order, I will give her a look that says, "You sold 'em, you bag 'em." So what if the kindly old lady down the street gets three boxes of Peanut Butter Patties instead of the Thin Mints she requested? As long as she doesn't have a serious peanut allergy, who cares?

Citing my plunging testosterone levels, I will contact my daughter's principal and renege on my promise to volunteer in the school's computer lab. (That should be an interesting phone call.) As an alternative, I will offer to teach fourth-graders the intricacies of Skype by conducting a video chat from my couch while doing something manly like updating my Fantasy Football stats. My hormone levels will soar.

I will cede all car pool duties to my wife. Oh sure, she will blow a gasket upon realizing that she has to be in four places at once, but I will firmly remind her that my lack of mobility is doing wonders for my virility. End of conversation.

Just when she threatens divorce, I will whisk her off to a secluded Caribbean island and spend three days proving what laziness can do for a man, if you catch my drift. When we return, our children will warmly greet us at the door and beg for attention.

I hope I can remember their names.

Congress Needs a Three-Martini Lunch

2011-10-03T12:16:00.000-05:00

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

As Congress continues to bumble its way through existence, I feel it's finally time to step in and offer a solution that will solve our nation's ills.

The Three Martini Lunch.

Whatever happened to that sacred ritual of negotiation, so popular in the 1960s and '70s? The guys on Mad Men close multimillion-dollar deals every week over martinis. My dad, a retired salesman, paid for my college tuition with the help of a few vodka soaked olives and a veal shank with soup, salad and baked potato. Liquid libation, he argued, could loosen up the tightest customer. And right now, Congress is tighter than the faces on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Blame stricter drunk-driving laws for the drinking lunch's demise. Blame company wellness programs. Blame image-conscious individuals, wary of ordering alcohol before 5 p.m. Those three reasons are precisely why Washington has nothing to lose by airing its beefs with a little Beefeater. One, our nation's Capitol teems with chauffeurs and private car services. Two, House Speaker John Boehner, R-Camel Light, isn't exactly on a health kick. Furthermore, former Rep. Anthony Weiner proved that the congressional gym is not necessarily used for fitness. Three, Congress' image ranks just below navel lint.

So, before our nation runs out of money, defaults on its national debt and slides deeper into recession, somebody please make a noon reservation at a Washington power eatery where Boehner, House Majority Leader Eric Cantor, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner can loosen their ties and their viewpoints. A waitress is at the ready.

"Hello, Gentlemen. Can I start you off with some drinks? Mr. Reid?"

"I'll get the first round. Four vodka martinis. Straight up."

"Make mine an appletini."

"Cantor, this is a negotiation, not a frat party."

"OK, straight up. With a cherry."

"Whatever. Tim, where are we at?

"It's pretty obvious. We're down to a couple billion and some change in the coffers. The clock is ticking."

"That's because Harry here won't budge on disaster relief spending."

"Excuse me, John, for wanting to help the residents of Joplin."

"Harry, you're getting on my nerves."

"Pardon me, gentlemen. Another round?"

"Don't mind if we do. And an order of calamari."

"Right away, Mr. Geithner. But we can't take a check from the Treasury. Remember what happened last time?"

"I'll pay cash."

"Guys, we have to cut more social service programs. Isn't that obvious?"

"Not as obvious as the Redskins' play-calling. Eric, did you see that game yesterday?"

"Here's some food for thought. If we cut $2 billion from the budget, we could buy the team. How cool would that be?"

"Your drinks, gentlemen. And the special today is prime rib. Are you ready to order?"

"Can you give us a few minutes? We're trying to keep the government running."

"C'mon Tim! I'm starving.

"Agree on spending cuts and I'll get her back here."

"Fine. Cut the alternative energy loan program."

"And tell the victims of Irene they don't have to worry. FEMA will be there."

"Great. That went pretty smoothly, didn't it?"

"Not as smooth as this Grey Goose. Yowza!"

"So, John, how's your golf game?"

"Thanks for asking Harry. It's decent. We should get out some time. I'll call the president. He's always up for 18."

"Need a fourth?"

"We've got your cell, Eric."

"Boys, we probably have time for one more before the food arrives. Can we agree that we're not going to put the American people through another debt ceiling debacle?"

"Yeah, we did look pretty stupid on that one. (HICCUP) I'd be willing to forego my pension for a few years."

"I'll go you one better. (BURP) I'll give up my Social Security. Tim, figure out my monthly benefits for the next 10 years and just give the money to a laid off worker with a family. "

"I love you guys. Waitress, four more."

"Coming right up, gentlemen. Will you be needing cabs after lunch?"

"Don't worry. We've got a designated driver."

"Yeah, Mrs. Pelosi is waiting outside."

Mark Zuckerberg Needs Some Kids!

2011-09-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

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

The last time I Googled Mark Zuckerberg, he was a 27-year-old billionaire who invented Facebook.

Prior to that he was a 26-year-old billionaire who invented Facebook.

The only thing changing in Zuckerberg's life these days is the amount of money he accumulates with his creation. Oh, sure, he pops up in the occasional news story such as the one involving a Northern Ireland dad who is suing Facebook because his 12-year-old daughter posted sexually explicit photos of herself on the site. Facebook, the dad contends, doesn't enforce its policy of forbidding users to establish accounts until they reach the ripe old age of . . . 13. That policy was actually the result of the Children's Online Privacy Protection Act. Zuckerberg has hinted that he might try to challenge the rule. Younger children, he argued, should be allowed to use Facebook for "educational purposes."

It's easy to see why Zuckerberg made that statement: He doesn't have children of his own. At least, I don't think he does. Hard to believe, but he hasn't updated his Facebook page since January. I'm pretty certain that siring an offspring would at least merit a post. And a photo.

I think I speak for all parents when I say Zuckerberg needs to experience firsthand why we agonize over when to let our own children explore Facebook. Which is exactly why I'm going to launch a campaign: MARK ZUCKERBERG NEEDS SOME KIDS. And I'm going to use Facebook.

I will create a simple Facebook page and ask my 357 friends to "like" it. Then I will invite them all to an event, created via Facebook, entitled, "Drop Your Kids Off at Mark Zuckerberg's House For a Week." Most billionaires have at least a couple spare bedrooms, don't they?

I will get the ball rolling by letting my daughters stay with Zuckerberg. One is 14 and a legal Facebook member. Before letting her join, her mother and I warned her that we would be closely monitoring her activity. We friended her, memorized her password, turned off her instant personalization feature and disabled apps such as AreYouInterested? -- which, according to Facebook, "makes it virtually effortless to meet potential dates instantly." So far, she has behaved responsibly. Still, we can't always control the posts from her 600-plus friends, some of whom freely drop f-bombs, question their classmates' sexual orientation online and wonder if anyone will be bringing alcohol to the party. Maybe Zuckerberg has some suggestions.

He will have a bigger problem dealing with my 9 year old. She's too young for Facebook, but somehow, a few of her 9-year-old friends have established accounts. One even tried to friend me. Isn't that cute? A 9-year-old girl wants to be friends with a 49-year-old man! It's only a matter of time before my daughter begins pestering me for an account. I'll let Zuckerberg deal with that when he tucks her in at night and brushes her pigtails the next morning.

Once a few kids get dropped off at Mr. Z's home, others will certainly follow. I know this because the Facebook Places app helps users broadcast exactly where they are. Word travels fast via social networks; just ask shopkeepers in England.

My wife and I weren't worried about British looters when we agreed to host a graduation party for our daughter. However, we did tell her that, under no circumstances, could she promote the event via Facebook. As a result, we had a nice quiet gathering of about 40 kids, all of whom we recognized. Other parents weren't so lucky; one party we attended contained over 100 eighth-grade grads, thanks primarily to Facebook. At one point, the homeowner gazed out at his backyard, sighed and said, "Who ARE these kids?"

Eventually my Facebook friends and I will descend on Zuckerberg's home, collect our children and restore sanity to his life. Maybe he will use the subsequent quiet time to rethink Facebook's age policy. If he needs additional input, there's a dad in Northern Ireland who may have some ideas.

Zuckerberg should send him a friend request first.

(Greg Schwem is a stand-up comedian and author of "Text Me If You're Breathing: Observations, Frustrations and Life Lessons From a Low-Tech Dad," available at http://amzn.to/schwem.)

Thankfully, Nevin Shapiro Never had Children

2011-09-14T05:54:00.002-05:00

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

There is football on my TV, the greens of my backyard leaves are slowly giving way to fiery reds and my kids have resumed both school and youth sports programs.

As long as Nevin Shapiro stays in jail, it's going to be a great fall.

Shapiro is the Miami "businessman" currently serving a 20-year prison sentence for orchestrating a $930 million Ponzi scheme. But it was his dealings with University of Miami football players that really put him on the map. Shapiro admitted to a Yahoo sports reporter that he lavished cash and gifts on Miami players and recruits, threw outrageous parties featuring strippers and hookers, paid players for vicious hits and did it all over an eight-year period while nobody thought to question him, including Miami coaches who allegedly also benefitted from Shapiro's largesse.

Unless O.J. Simpson gets transferred to the same correctional facility, Shapiro is now far away from sports figures. This is a good thing because, had Shapiro's misdeeds continued to go unnoticed, he may have tired of his hard-partying bachelor ways, gotten married, had children and settled into a life of suburbia. Like me, maybe he would have a daughter. Like me, maybe his daughter would play soccer. What if our kids ended up on the same team? Any adult who has ever experienced youth soccer knows that some parents can be overly vocal at best and downright nuts at worst. The last thing my daughter's team needs is a guy rolling up to the field in a tricked out minivan.

"Hey, Ned, who's the guy wearing the extra large Strawberry Shortcake team jersey?"

"Greg, that's Nevin Shapiro. His daughter's the starting midfielder. Of course, what did you expect? He threw that all-night party at Chuck E. Cheese last weekend."

"Is that the guy the other kids call, 'The dad with the tokens?'"

"That's him. And he's got more than tokens. Have you seen his house?"

"Is it the one with the 100-foot inflatable jumper in the backyard? My daughter was there for eight hours yesterday. OOOOH, did you see that? One of our kids just kneed another player in the stomach. Poor kid. She's crying. They're going to have to take her out of the game. Looks like our player is going to get a red card."

"And a Dairy Queen coupon."

"A what?"

"Haven't you heard? Shapiro gives free ice cream to any kid who incapacitates an opposing player. Sure, our player's done for the day, but in an hour she's going to be eating a Peanut Buster Parfait."

"No wonder my daughter wants to take kick boxing lessons. By the way, Ned, are we home or away next weekend?"

"We're home. Eleven a.m. at Shapiro Field."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't you get the email? They named our field after this guy. In return he's buying new warm-up jackets for all the girls. The coaches made the decision last night at Buffalo Wild Wings."

"Let me guess. Shapiro paid."

"You got it."

"Hey, Ned, do you recognize the three 7-year-olds on the sideline? Are they from around here?"

"No, Greg. They're from Mexico. Potential recruits."

"Recruits? From Mexico?"

"Shapiro flew them up here. Thinks they'll be great additions to the team."

"Don't you have to live in our town to play youth soccer for this team?"

"Hey, I don't ask questions. Apparently these kids have some serious moves."

So, let me get this straight: We're using illegal recruits, encouraging our kids to hurt opposing players, bribing them with pizza parties and fancy clothes and nobody thinks this is wrong?"

"Greg, we're 7-0. Zip it."

"How much time is left in this game, anyway?"

"That was the whistle. Looks like we're 8-0 now."

"Here comes my daughter. Nice game honey!"

"Thanks, Dad."

"Hey, since your grandparents drove all the way here to watch you, how about we all go to McDonald's and celebrate?"

"Maybe another time. Mr. Shapiro is taking the whole team to the Apple Store."

"Oh. Uh, do you need any money?"

"Very funny, Daddy."

Back to $chool

2011-09-10T06:47:00.000-05:00

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

Last week, millions of Americans stood helplessly by as significant portions of their net worth were wiped out. And no, I'm not talking about the stock market.

I'm talking about something far more horrifying: The moment they saw their child's back-to-school supply list.

When it comes to my children's education, I feel I've been a very responsible parent. Shortly after both daughters were born, I established 529 college savings plans and faithfully contribute to them each month. Oh, sure, the wild market fluctuations mean that those plans contain enough money for an Ivy League degree on Tuesday and not enough for a single online course on Wednesday, but that may be a moot point. Based on the increasingly puzzling list of necessary school supplies, not to mention the quantity, I'm starting to wonder if I should establish another 529 plan to cover primary school.

My soon-to-be fourth-grader proudly displayed her list this week. When I attended fourth grade, my school supplies fit quite easily into a shoebox, thank you very much. Eventually, we even used the shoebox in art class to make a "diorama," loosely defined as "something built inside a shoebox." On the first day of class, that box contained a couple of No. 2 pencils, an eraser, a bottle of glue, a pair of scissors, a ruler and a compass. The latter could either be used to draw respectable looking circles or as a weapon. With the shoebox tucked under one arm and a spiral notebook under the other, I was locked and loaded until June.

From my perspective as a volunteer parent, the primary school curriculum has changed little in the past 40 years. My 9-year-old is still learning the basic subjects along with cursive writing, a skill that will disappear once she gets her first cellphone and begins texting.

What has changed considerably are school budgets. In short, they are a mess and my daughter's school is no exception. That's why it's obvious that school officials drastically slash school supply budgets simply by transferring the expenses to the parents. How else to explain the need for every fourth-grader to lumber off the bus on Day One with SIX glue sticks, TWO dispensers of invisible tape, THREE packs of Post-it notes and TWO boxes of Kleenex?

At least she's not in eighth grade. Those kids need 64 No. 2 pencils! Parents have already been warned that class sizes will increase this year to an average of 33 students. Now we're finding out that each class will also contain 2,112 pencils.

How is anybody supposed to move, much less learn?

The glue stick quantity riled me. Six sticks? For each student? When I attended school, a lone bottle of Elmer's lasted the entire year, usually because any art projects required a mere dollop for every item that became part of the diorama. The dollop flowed easily the first time the bottle was opened; afterward, the leftover residue on the tip became a glue dam, stopping any fresh glue from passing by unless the owner pierced it with a sharp object. Hence the need for the compass.

Now, with more than 180 glue sticks readily available, the fourth grade should be able to tackle more serious projects, such as replacing any bricks that come loose from the school's foundation.

Finally, the most puzzling (and most expensive) item of all: A pair of digital stereo headphones, "with ear bud and cushion." Upon seeing this, I quickly scanned the remainder of the list, wondering if I had to spring for an iPod and a $100 iTunes card. Thankfully those items were absent, so I'm left to wonder how my daughter is supposed to hear her teacher when she is wearing ear buds? I'm also wondering if I should get the $14.99 pair I found at Sears or whether she will get a better education if I spring for the $240 model from Amazon.com.

Headphones aside, fulfilling this list is going to set the Schwem budget back at least $200. It's enough to make you want to stick a compass in your eye.

The best-kept secrets are left in bars

2011-09-08T09:34:00.000-05:00

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

I'm currently writing a one-man show. I haven't finished it, but I know it's going to be awesome. Critics will rave, theaters will sell out and tickets will go for three times face value on StubHub.

How do I know all of this? Because I'm going to leave the unfinished script in a bar. Hey, if it worked for Apple, it should work for me.

Much has been made recently of an incident involving an Apple employee, an unreleased Apple product and a San Francisco drinking establishment. According to technology website CNET, the employee left some cool Apple gadget (and aren't they ALL cool?) on the bar, where somebody else scooped it up, sold it and, in the process, let Apple's secrets out of the bag. Police are reportedly involved even though nobody is saying exactly what is being sought.

Speculation is that the gadget in question is the iPhone 5, scheduled to be released just as soon as everybody waiting in line for an iPhone 4 has purchased one. (At a Chicago Apple store, the line ended somewhere around Peoria).

If this incident of absent-mindedness sounds familiar, it is. Last year, another Apple employee left the iPhone 4 prototype in a Redwood City, Calif., bar. That device ended up at the offices of Gizmodo, another technology website, which reviewed it before it hit the market.

Once the iPhone 4 actually DID hit the market, it promptly became the best selling single mobile device since somebody started keeping records of mobile device sales. Which begs the question: Did the second Apple employee conveniently forget his device on purpose in hopes of duplicating the iPhone 4's success?

I'd bet my house that former Apple CEO Steve Jobs encouraged this sort of thing. Before stepping down last month, he probably emailed his workers with helpful advice nuggets as, "think out of the box," "look at an old product in a new way" and "never be afraid to leave a tip and an unreleased product on the bar at the same time." Apple employees, who would no doubt swallow an entire hard drive if Jobs suggested it, seem to be complying.

Perhaps this is why the support section in an Apple store is called the Genius Bar. It also makes you wonder if some of the biggest flops in history would have met different fates if they had been left in between the pretzels and the cocktail napkins. For example:

A half-eaten McDonald's Arch Deluxe

A can of New Coke

The "Sex and the City 2" draft

Terrell Owens' career

I refuse to let my script end up in some theatrical trash heap. I just need to find the right bar and the right person to discover it. I live in Chicago, a city that certainly has no shortage of watering holes. Website Yelp found 68 bars within a four-block radius of Wrigley Field alone. I've frequented several and, while the bars vary in personality, all seem to contain at least one autographed photo of a Chicago Cubs player who stopped in at some point. (Based on the Cubs' record, these visits most likely occurred before the game.)

My bar will contain an abundance of foreign brews. Who knows? Maybe a deep-pocketed European investor will find the script. It will also have one of those trivia machines perched in the corner. Anybody who feels the need to exercise his mind while drinking could do wonders with my show.

If you frequent karaoke bars, do not look for it. I refuse to let it fall into the hands of anybody who might read it and think that Act Two would improve if a bunch of college-age women started singing Summer Nights from Grease.

Finally, the bar will allow dogs. Anybody who brings a dog into a bar is cool. And the dogs I've met in bars are supercool.

So if you are in Wrigleyville one evening and happen to see a stack of pages containing a mild chicken wing stain sitting unattended, do not toss them out. Make copies and send them to every theatrical agent you know. Google "theatrical agents" if you must.

See you at the Tonys.

Your good health...for 50 percent off

2011-09-04T08:22:00.000-05:00

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

Certain things in life should be kept separate. Cheese fries and cholesterol screenings. Fourth-graders and Bachelor Pad episodes. Coupons and medical procedures.

I started thinking about the latter recently when an offer for two one-hour acupuncture sessions graced my inbox. "Try a new tack for beating pain with today's deal: $39 (regularly $145)," the email stated. "Grab this 73-percent-off deal, and stop waiting on pins and needles for your aches to disappear."

I've been getting these "deal-of-the-day" offers since I began subscribing to Groupon, the crazy popular website whose motto apparently is, "You don't need this but hey, it's cheap!"

Since joining Groupon I've purchased a large pizza from a nearby restaurant ($10 off $20) and Sunday brunch from a not so nearby pancake house ($15 off $30). Feeling guilty, I then bought a 30-day Fit Body Boot Camp membership ($187 off $227). I went to exactly three boot camp sessions before realizing that I would eventually need a Groupon for two artificial knees if I kept attending. I called the facility, told the receptionist to keep the 40 bucks and apologized for leaving large amounts of drool on the gym floor. Incidentally, there is now a Fit Body boot camp spot open for anyone who wants to work out to the sounds of an over-caffeinated Bulgarian trainer shouting, "Zat ees not a poooosh up!"

The acupuncture offer did not come from Groupon, but rather from AmazonLocal, an offshoot of Amazon.com whose motto is, "We want a piece of the action!" Seriously, is there any business Amazon does NOT compete with? It's only a matter of time before the site begins selling ballistic missiles to the Defense Department. Twenty percent off plus free shipping! Gift cards accepted!

Even my wife, the consummate queen of bargaining, seemed disturbed that a medical procedure would be marked down. Once on a cruise vacation, I watched her haggle with a 90-year-old Bahamian woman over the price of a straw hat. Out of sheer exhaustion the woman relented, parting with the hat for $8 instead of $10. Triumphantly, my wife returned to the ship and bought a $12 strawberry daiquiri without batting an eye.

But even she pays the asking price for prescriptions, doctor's visits and anything else that involves improved health. Sure, offering occasional blowout sales for surgeries, drugs and the like might curb this nation's health-care crisis but it would also lead to patients defiantly sitting in emergency rooms saying, "They told me it's going to cost $1,000 to close this head wound but I'm sure I can talk them down to $500. Can I get some more paper towels please?"

Lowering the price of anything medical also arouses suspicion that somebody is cutting corners. Fifteen years ago, I heard a radio spot featuring Tiger Woods touting an eye-care center that performed his Lasik surgery and gave him 20/20 vision. I called the center and was told Lasik cost $5,000. I swallowed hard but made the appointment anyway. While I don't have Tiger Woods' bank account, I wanted his eyesight. Unfortunately, years later Woods would realize that even 20/20 vision wouldn't allow him to see everything. A tree, for instance.

Several months after the surgery I saw an ad (much more clearly, thank you) from a competing center touting Lasik for the LOW LOW PRICE OF $99 PER EYE! And another one that screamed, "BUY ONE EYE. GET THE SECOND EYE FREE!" How, I wondered, could a technical procedure such as Lasik come with such a low price tag?

Good question Mr. Schwem. We don't numb your eyes with medically-approved eye drops. Hot sauce works just as well!

Get the point? That's why I just deleted the acupuncture deal. Even though my back is hurting as I hunch over my PC finishing this column, I'm not willing to cure it with somebody who is willing to knock 73 percent off his asking price. I'll find another way to control the pain.

Come to think of it, Sunday brunch always makes me feel better.

Imagining the first Papal tweet

2011-09-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

Originally posted by Tribune Media Services

COPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Pope Benedict XVI recently sent his first tweet. Using an iPad.

Before this monumental event, the leader of the Catholic Church had been interacting with his followers via speeches, written by hand and sometimes composed entirely in Latin. But apparently the Information Superhighway now goes directly through the Vatican, as evidenced by a video that showed Benedict seated at a table and tapping out his message while a few other religious higher-ups stood by and nodded in approval.

I couldn't help but note that all appeared to be about the same age as the pope. Certainly these men had not taught Benedict the nuances of tweeting and downloading. No, that task fell to 24-year-old Father Kyle, the youngest, hippest priest in Rome and the only one with a tattoo. The following is an excerpt from Benedict's introductory lesson:

"This is an iPad, Your Holiness. It's password protected, so you need to create a password. Something that's easy for you to remember."

"God."

"Unfortunately, Holy Father, it has to be at least six characters."

"Lord Almighty."

"And it also needs a number."

"One."

"OK: LordAlmighty1. Can you remember that? I suggest you write it down somewhere. Now you're on your home screen."

"What is Netflix?"

"That's not important, Your Holiness. Well, actually, it is kind of cool. Let's say you want to watch 'The Ten Commandments.' Ever seen it? Awesome flick! With Netflix, you can watch it whenever. Isn't that chill? No more late fees! No more disappointment when you pull up to the Redbox and it's not there!"

"What is 'Angry Birds'?"

"Don't touch that. You have a blessing in two hours and trust me, if you start playing 'Angry Birds,' you will never make it. Cardinal Luke, am I right?"

"Absolutely, Father Kyle!"

"Your Holiness, let me explain Twitter. In simple terms, Twitter is a social network and microblogging service that lets you follow public streams of information."

"I am confused, Father Kyle."

"I can't make it any simpler than that, PB."

"Can I spread the Word of the Lord?"

"You can. In 140 characters or less."

"That does not seem like a lot. Did you attend my last Mass? It lasted at least 45 minutes."

"Well, God created the world in seven days, so really it's all relative. Go ahead and launch the virtual keyboard. Turn the iPad sideways. That's good. Now you see your Twitter feed. Just type what you want to say in the box."

"'Dear Brothers and Sisters. . .'"

"OK, can I stop you there? You're already at 25 characters. Let's shorten it. First, remove the 'Dear.' Now make it 'Brths' and 'Strs.'"

"Don't forget hashtags."

"I was getting to that, Cardinal Matthew. Your Holiness, if you include hashtags, your tweet may become a trending topic. And it will make it easier for people to find you."

"Find me? I'm at the Vatican. I've always been at the Vatican. I'm the only one clothed entirely in white. I carry a cross. Who in the world is having trouble locating me?"

"All I'm saying is that we typed 'Pope' into the Twitter search engine and you weren't even in the top five. But once you start tweeting, you'll be above New York Times reporter Tara Parker-Pope. And The Pope Family."

"I don't think I like this Twitter stuff."

"Give it a chance, Your Holiness. Imagine tweeting your Easter message. Go ahead. Try it."

"OK. 'He is risen, he is not here. Life and death were locked in combat and Life was victorious forever. All is again orientated to Eternal Life!'"

"That's good...but it won't fit if you include 'Brths and Strs.' Let's make that your second tweet. If we put hashtags before 'Eternal' and 'Life' and the 'at' sign prior to 'death,' you've still got characters left. Anything else you would like to add?

"I do not know. Any suggestions?"

"How about 'OMG'?"

Five Questions for the Tiger Mom

2011-05-20T08:42:00.000-05:00

Originally posted in the parenting blog AimingLow

Dear Amy Chua:

I recently purchased your book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother on my Kindle, or as my father-in-law calls it, “my electric book.” At the 32 percent mark, (Kindles don’t use page numbers; instead of saying the book gets good about page 150, Kindle users say, “Hang in there until 41 percent because then it really takes off!) I was blown away to discover that I too was born in the Year of the Tiger, 1962. Furthermore, you said comedian, writer and actor are suitable careers for Tigers. I have in fact been a professional stand-up comedian for over 20 years, dabbled in acting and written a book. Guess that makes me a SUPER TIGER, correct?

Which is why I feel I should at least try this Tiger parenting depicted in your book. The kind that includes no sleepovers, play dates, TV-watching, computer game playing, school play participation and absolutely no grade less than an ‘A.’ The kind that includes making your children practice unpronounceable violin and piano pieces until they have mastered both the music and the pronunciations.

Sure bloggers have called you dysfunctional, and psycho. But I don’t care. We Tigers have to stick together, right?

Like you, I have two daughters. Natalie is fourteen and Amy is eight. Just last night I told them that, starting next week, I was going to become a Tiger father. My wife Sue was born in 1965, the year of the Snake, so God only knows what she’s planning. Amy eyed me suspiciously, wondering if I was going to actually become a Tiger before her innocent eyes. I assured her I was not. If anything, years of bad airport food and idle time in hotels have given me a more “ox-like” appearance.

Natalie was equally clueless as to what exactly a “Tiger parent” was but she was old enough to know it was going to mean something unpleasant. Her fingernails went to her mouth and she began drumming her foot on the floor, two habits borne out of nervousness. I immediately put a stop to the drumming. You would have been so proud of me because, at Kindle location five percent, you said playing drums leads to drugs. Ridiculous, I thought when I first read that. Just ask — uh, wait a minute — uh, just ask Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham. Okay, bad example. How about Keith Moon from The Who? Equally bad. What about all the drummers from Spinal Tap? Guess you are on to something, ma’am.

I just have a few questions. Please indulge me:

1) Is it okay to Tiger parent without a nanny? You had Grace, who once calmed your child’s colic fits with “a silken tofu braised in a light abalone and shitake sauce with a cilantro garnish.” My wife Sue and I have neither a nanny nor a Trader Joe’s at our disposal.

2) Your kids played stuff on the piano like "Viotti’s Concerto no. 23 in G Major” and “a toccata by Khachaturian,” whatever that means. We don’t own a piano but we do have an electric keyboard that not only plays musical notes but also make sounds that simulate glass crashing, fireworks, thunder claps and chirping birds. Is it okay if my kids’ concertos include these sounds? Personally, I think a thunder clap in the middle of a Mozart piece would keep the audience awake.

3) What would be a good day to shame our children? I was just 23 percent into your book before discovering “the solution to substandard performance is always to excoriate, punish and shame the child.” Their schedules are pretty light on Thursdays. Is that okay?

4) Are my wife and I ever going to get any time alone? Since sleepovers are now verboten, we’re not sure what to do with the kids. Would it be okay if we dropped them off at a symphony or something and checked into a motel for a few hours?

5) Finally, you mentioned that your children had to be number one. You recounted how you rejected birthday cards from your kids because they were lacking in effort. You even talked about how your father said, “Never, never disgrace me like that again,” when you invited him to a ceremony and received a second place award.

So tell me, aren’t you absolutely mortified that your book peaked at number two on the New York Times bestseller list?

I look forward to your answers. Right now I have to drive my daughters to a sleepover. But first we have to find their iTouches.

Watson, come quick! I need you!

2011-02-17T08:43:00.001-06:00

I have just witnessed what is either an enormous advance in medicine, a colossal waste of electricity or the greatest free publicity campaign ever.

And it all took place in under an hour.

I'm referring to the recent Jeopardy match that pitted "Watson," a computer consisting of ten IBM Power 750 servers and cooled by two large refrigerator units, against two past human champions, who sweated profusely under television lights and looked like they would have trouble answering the first question on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire.

After four years of research by a crack team of IBM geeks, the "very special event," as Jeopardy host Alex Trebek called it, took place at The Watson Research Center in Yorktown Heights, New York. The phrase, "very special event" should have been my first warning that this was going to be a disappointment. Anybody who has ever heard a sitcom episode promoted with that phrase knows that it involves the show's goofiest character catching a deadly disease but miraculously recovering in 22 minutes.

I tuned in out of curiosity, and because I had recently performed stand-up comedy for the IBM Power Server division. I found the employees to be typical IBMers —hard working and very passionate about what they do. IBMers are extremely dedicated even if they are perfecting, according to a recent ad I saw during a football game, a system that allows carrots to tell truck drivers how fresh they are. In a country where the unemployment rate hovers close to double digits, I'm not sure talking carrots is what we need right now.

Nor was I sure that proving a computer was smarter than Jeopardy champions Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter was a big deal either. A few years ago IBM proved that a computer named Big Blue could whup chess Grand Master Gary Kasparov but nobody, save maybe Kasparov, seemed effected by that. Would Watson's knowledge of anagrams, Italian Renaissance Architecture, or Famous 18th-century Poets alter history? I was about to find out.

Prior to the match, Trebek re-introduced us to the show's most famous contestants. Jennings, a mild-mannered Seattle family guy won 74 straight games and $2.5 million in the process. Rutter racked up $3.2 million, winning not nearly as many games as Jennings but triumphing in three Jeopardy tournaments. Rutter has since moved to Los Angeles and is trying to make it as actor, something that is much easier when you have $3 million in the bank. That will buy a lot of headshots.

Then we met Watson or, as Trebek pointed out, an avatar of Watson since it was impossible to squeeze ten IBM servers behind a lectern. Together, those servers formed a "deep analytic system that is the equivalent of 2,800 powerful computers tied together in a super high speed network" with a memory capacity of over 15 trillion bytes.

Huh?

Flashing lights and colored lines danced around the circular-shaped Avatar, giving Watson the appearance of either a ball of twine or air traffic patterns at Los Angeles International Airport. Then Watson actually spoke and explained he was a "deep question answering system." A sunny-voiced female narrator interrupted, saying that the circle was an IBM smarter planet icon and the lines were actually "thought rays" that change color and speed depending on what is happening during a game. When Watson felt confident about an answer, the rays turned green. They turned orange should Watson get an answer wrong, something Jennings and Rutter could only hope for.

The rays moved faster when Watson was working hard to answer a clue. It was, the narrator said with great drama, "the equivalent of watching a computer sweat."

Finally, she explained the answer panel. While Jennings and Rutter would struggle to come up with one answer, know-it-all Watson could search every piece of information fed into it since the Paleozoic era, and narrow it down to a possible three. The choices would be displayed on the panel, along with a percentage representing a "buzz threshold." Where in the world IBM came up with phrases such as "buzz threshold," I will never know. I'll ask Watson should I ever meet it.

Watson, by the way, is neither male or female. Its creators always refer to it as "it."

The narrator ended her explanation by stating the buzz threshold meant Watson "knows what it knows and it knows what it doesn't know."

HUH?

Now it was time to play Jeopardy. Rutter chose the first answer, Alternate Meanings for $200.

"Four letter word for a vantage point or a belief," said Trebek.

"What is a view?" replied Rutter correctly.

The next answer came from the same category: A four-letter word for the iron fitting on the hoof of a horse or a card-dealing box in a casino."

"What is a shoe?" I yelled from the couch.

"What is a shoe? " said Watson, although its computer animated voice said "shoe" very softly, leading me to believe it was extremely nervous.

I glanced at the rays for signs of sweat but they seemed to be moving normally.

Now Watson controlled the board. What do you know? Watson, on its very first choice, uncovered the Daily Double! Watson wagered $1,000, the maximum allowed. The thought rays danced while Trebek read the answer from Literary Characters APB: "Wanted for killing Sir Danier' Carew: Appearance - pale and dwarfish, seems to have a split personality."

"Who is Sybil?" I yelled.

Watson was not stumped. "What is Hyde?"

"Correct," replied Trebek. The camera cut to a studio audience shot of smug looking suits, smiling and nodding in agreement. I assumed they were IBMers who had something to do with Watson's abilities. Jennings meanwhile looked like he would rather be back in Seattle, undergoing a root canal.

just a few minutes into the game, Watson had $3,200; Rutter and Jennings languished behind with $200 each.

A normal game — consisting of Jeopardy, Double Jeopardy and Final Jeopardy—takes 30 minutes counting commercials. However, the Watson game took two days so IBMers could interrupt and explain their creation more thoroughly. These employees have a few things in common: all are referred to as "doctor" and all have job titles that would probably never appear on a monster.com board. Just ask Dr. David Gondek, head of Watson Game Strategy for IBM Research.

Dr. David Ferrucci, Watson Principal Investigator, got the most screen time. "What we've done has the potential to advance science in ways you've never imagined," he proudly stated.

Perhaps but right now it looked like Watson's main intent was to humiliate humans. I found myself rooting for it to make a mistake or, even better, crash! That would prompt a phone call to technical support and force Trebek to ad-lib for three hours as IBM executives waited on hold while the call was re-routed to India.

Watson's first hiccup came mid-way through the first round after choosing Final Frontiers for $400.

"From the Latin for 'end,' this is where trains can also originate," said Trebek.

"What is finis?" said Watson.

"Nooooo," replied Trebek in the condescending tone that he has mastered over 30 years. The camera did not pan to the IBMers in the audience, who were no doubt arguing over who would receive a pink slip the next morning.

"What is a terminus?" corrected Jennings.

We also learned that Watson is not a great listener. After Jennings incorrectly answered, "The 1920s" to a question, Watson rang in and gave the same answer.

"Nooooo. Ken said that," replied Trebek.

By the end of the first round, Rutter was actually tied with Watson, which is like the Washington Generals leading the Harlem Globetrotters by double digits. Jennings was huffing and puffing in third place with $2,000.

The next day it was time for Double Jeopardy and it was here that Watson exerted its superiority. Perhaps the IBM team snuck into the studio in the middle of the night and fed it another trillion bytes of information. Something definitely happened because Watson was unstoppable. It rattled off six straight answers; it uncovered and correctly answered BOTH Daily Doubles. It got the crowd laughing by wagering the strange amount of $6,435. It even began one response by saying, "I'll take a guess."

Who at IBM programmed Watson to say, "I'll take a guess?"

The IBM team eventually explained what Watson was really capable of, particularly in the healthcare field. Watson could help medical professionals extract information to support a hypothesis. In seconds, it would tell doctors the best treatments and outcomes for a patient.

But first Watson had to get past Final Jeopardy. The category was U.S. Cities. However, by this time Watson's lead was insurmountable: $36,681 compared to $5,400 for Rutter and $2,400 for Jennings. As long as Watson was not greedy or incredibly stupid at math, victory would be it's.

"It's largest airport is named for a World War II hero; it's second largest for a World War II battle," read Trebek.

Even I knew this one, perhaps because I live less than an hour from both. "What is Chicago?" I yelled.

Jennings and Rutter knew it too and both doubled their meager scores. Then it was Watson's turn.

"What is Toronto???"

Not only did Watson fail to realize that Toronto is not a U.S. city, but it even wrote numerous question marks after its response, suggesting that it had many doubts. The crowd groaned.

Thankfully Watson only wagered $947, assuring itself of victory. IBM employees and stockholders rejoiced simultaneously.

The three contestants played a second game the following day, this one void of IBM infomercials and explanations of Watson's inner workings. While Jennings and Rutter performed admirably, Watson still came out on top, even answering the Final Jeopardy question correctly.

Now it's time for Watson's victory tour to begin. It is off to Columbia University Medical Center and the University of Maryland School of Medicine to determine whether it can in fact, correctly diagnose a patient. I'm 48, in reasonably good health and hopefully won't need Watson's skills for quite awhile. When I am wheeled into the ER, I'm confident that Watson will improve my chances of survival.

As long as it doesn't say "I'll take a guess."

Who are your REAL friends?

2010-12-10T11:51:00.005-06:00

The latest argument I'm having with my 13-year-old daughter concerns her friends. Not her real friends, per se, as I'm fine with all of them. I'm confident they will grow up to be perfectly functioning adults in spite of their passion for the word "like."

No, I'm talking about the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of friends she will acquire the moment she logs onto Facebook, something her mother and I have still forbidden her to do.

"Why can't I be on Facebook," she asked one evening? "I'm like the only kid in school without a Facebook account."

If you're keeping score, throughout her short life she has also been like the only kid who at one point was without:

- a cell phone
- a Macbook
- pierced ears
- a later curfew

Keep in mind that she texts her friends so often, I fear her thumbs will be worn down to nubs by the time she graduates high school. Her mother and I will be forced to type her college applications while she taps out texts to her friends using her elbows.

"You're on Facebook. Why can't I be?" was one of her desperate questions when she saw she was losing the battle.

I quietly explained that I also pay property taxes and I would be more than happy to charge her for the square footage in her room if she wants to be an adult. I then explained why I enjoy Facebook: namely because it gives me the opportunity to reestablish connections with long lost acquaintances.

You're 13," I said. "Who have you lost touch with?"

She retreated to her room to ponder her next move - and no doubt calculate the square footage just in case.

The day is coming when I relent and let her open a Facebook account. But I think she will be amazed when she realizes how difficult it will be to manage all her newfound "friends." I recently “friended” my 300th person in cyberspace. “Friended” incidentally, is another word that technology created, sort of like “Googling.” “Friend” used to be a noun; now it’s a verb.

I can remember when I only had 100 friends, then 200, and now 300 and climbing. I “friended” four more people today so the official count stands at 304.

Problem is, I don’t know who half of these people are.

Where did I meet the “professional makeup artist from Florida?” Who exactly is the guy who keeps sending me “Get Out of Jail Free” cakes via Facebook? And why exactly did I choose to be friends with the “president of a management company that represents eco-friendly professionals?” There must have been SOME reason because this guy has 4,724 other friends. I’m guessing I won’t be getting a Christmas card from him any time soon.

Speaking of Christmas cards, on the same day that I friended my 300th Facebook user, I sat at my desk addressing holiday greeting cards, complete with personal notes. I recognized every name on the list. In many cases I could instantly recall the names of kids, pets and job titles.

Therein lies the difference between Facebook friends and actual friends: friendship. Your actual friends are there for life. Your Facebook friends are there to clutter your life
.
When I was 12, I had two friends. John, Gerry and myself were inseparable as we navigated the tricky world of middle school. We hung out together, studied together and learned about girls together.

When I entered high school I expanded my social network by adding about four more friends. At 17, I graduated high school with what I considered to be more than enough friends: nine.

Now I’m 48. If I added nine friends for every 17 years of my life, I should have about 41.7 friends.

Instead I have 300.

Luckily Facebook allows you to “group” your friends by category. I’ve heard a lot of social networking experts say this is the only way to deal with all the information that we are bombarded with every day, be it email messages, blog posts, newsletters or contacts. Sort them into groups and look at those groups at your convenience rather than all at once.

So here are the Facebook groups I have developed. Go ahead and use them if you think your Facebook friends list is getting out of control. Also, feel free to rename each group to suit your personal needs. I have already shared this list with my daughter, just so she is prepared.

1) Friends I actually care about
2) Friends who I can vaguely recall after something in their profile jogged my memory
3) Friends who I friended just to be polite
4) Friends who I plan to “defriend” because they keep sending me links to political sites
5) Friends who really don’t value my friendship because they have more than 5,000 other friends
6) Friends who are fans of the TV show Friends
7) Friends whose names I don’t recognize and aren’t helping matters because their profile pictures are animals
8) Friends who I didn’t need to friend because they are family members. (Shouldn’t that be enough?)
9) Friends who I accidentally friended by clicking on the wrong icon
10) My dog. After all he is man’s best friend

Life in 3Disappointment

2010-08-25T08:40:00.000-05:00

When my wife and I decided to have children, the plan was to produce one, undergo a two year “cooling off” period, have another and call it a career in the baby-making department. But nature had other ideas so our girls are five years apart.

At first this seemed like a better result than our original intent. At five years old my oldest had become “self sufficient,” a term many parents use if they don’t feel like actually playing with their kids if there is something good on ESPN.

Just put Disney Channel on in the other room and plop him down on the couch. He’s self sufficient.

In our case, “self sufficient” meant that the oldest could dress herself, use silverware, drink from a cup and generally get through the day without a 911 call, leaving us free to tend to the younger daughter’s every need.

But, as kids grow, you realize that siblings five years apart aren’t that much easier to please than children 55 years apart when it comes to providing activities that appeal to everybody. Nowhere is this more evident than when choosing a movie.

A few Fridays ago, my wife Sue was in the midst of her annual Vegas girlfriend trip. She has been going to Sin City at least once a year, sans me, since we’ve been married and I function quite well without her. But somehow word gets out that I’m home alone with the kids, causing relatives and neighbors I never knew existed to offer me dinner invitations, school pickups and activity drop offs. Sue is both amazed and exceedingly jealous when I casually mention that others have stepped up to assist me during her absence, as well she should be. I spend at least 50 nights a year away from home yet she is still awaiting the offer of a simple casserole.

So there we were one Friday, scanning the movie start times and trying to figure out what flick would appeal to a 13-year old soon-to-be eighth grader, her eight-year-old sister and their 47-year-old father. After rejecting Toy Story 3 (“we’ve already seen it”), Step Up 3 (“the first one was good but the second one was dumb”), and Cats and Dogs (“Dad, we don’t like cats”), we settled on Despicable Me. A quick check of the listings revealed that it was showing on two screens at the nearby multiplex.

Why two? Because one theatre was showing the movie in 3D. Not just 3D, mind you, but “EYE POPPING 3D,” the term being bantered around for seemingly every movie these days.

Naturally the start times for the “non eye popping 3D” version did not agree with the Schwem’s busy schedule. In other words, Dad couldn’t get dinner on the table fast enough. So we showed up at the multiplex a mere 10 minutes before the 3D version began. Immediately I noticed one thing about the movie that truly was eye popping: the price. Tickets for Despicable Me in 3D were $15 each as opposed to $9 for the regular and apparently boring version. Now I was out $45 and we hadn’t even reached the concession stand. An additional $20 later, we entered the theatre, dipped our now buttery hands into the barrel of used 3D glasses, and settled in.

First we had to endure the mandatory 25 minutes of “coming attractions.” Not surprisingly, five soon-to-be-released movies were promised in “eye popping 3D.” Most also starred “the voice of Tina Fey.” I made a mental note to start conserving funds in case my daughters wanted to attend any more movies in the next six months.

Eventually the attractions were over and Despicable Me began. With my glasses firmly, and uncomfortably, perched on my nose, I waited for the “eye popping” 3D effects that cost an extra six bucks per ticket.

I am still waiting.

Oh sure, at one point a Despicable Me character looked as if it was suspended right in front of me and I could reach out and squish its little animated head if the mood struck me. But that effect came and went in about ten seconds. For the remaining 89 minutes and 50 seconds of the movie, I saw absolutely nothing that merited cheap glasses and 15 bucks.

What exactly has changed about 3D movies since the 1950s? I pulled the accompanying photo off Google Images and it appears this audience had the same technology, except that the glasses were cardboard as opposed to plastic. The audience also had shorter hair and fewer tattoos than the moviegoers watching Despicable Me. But the technology itself? Heck, my mother, now in her mid-70s, told me stories of going to see 3D movies and literally jumping out of her seat at the effects.

I jumped from my seat exactly once during Despicable Me. It was just after I said to my kids, “Time to go.”

In 1974 I went to see Earthquake with some junior high school buddies. What lured us to the theatre was not the chance to see buildings falling over. It was the tagline that accompanied the ads: “In Sensurround.”

Nobody explained what Sensurround was. It was just supposed to make the earthquake experience more real to the moviegoer. In 2010, as our country continues to slog through a recession, I’m not sure I want movies to be more real. I’m looking forward to seeing Wall Street 2 this Fall but not if I’m going to come home and find my IRA has been mysteriously liquidated.

But in 1974 I sat in my seat and awaited the Sensurround effects. Less than 30 minutes into the movie, a “rat a tat tat” sound shook the theater at ear splitting decibels. It was if a machine gun battle was taking place in the theatre’s rear.

I DID jump from my seat and so did my buddies. Meanwhile, Charlton Heston barely escaped being buried under a toppling bridge.

Sensurround never really took off but isn’t it strange that, nearly 40 years later, I remembered that word and the effects it produced without having to consult either Wikipedia or Google?

Now I’m raising my kids in a world containing text messaging, mobile apps, on line everything and new technologies that truly are eye popping.

Yet it’s been a week since I saw Despicable Me and I’ve already forgotten what the movie was about. I certainly don’t remember any 3D effects.

Maybe “jaw dropping 4D” will be different.

Like, what are you saying?

2010-08-01T08:40:00.001-05:00

like
transitive verb
1 – to be suitable or agreeable to
2 – to feel attraction toward or take pleasure in
3 – every other word out of my daughter’s mouth

I love my kids. I truly do. I encourage communication with them. But despite the fact that they are my world and I heap affection on them at every moment, I hesitate to say that I “like” them. For, if I hear that word one more time, I’m like going to scream.

I am a stand-up comedian by trade. My profession relies on audience approval. Every time I walk on stage, I hope the audience will like me. But I don’t want them to “like, like me.”

Seriously, when did the word “like,” which has multiple meanings as evidenced by the above definitions taken directly from Merriam-Webster’s on-line dictionary, become the most overused and grating word in the English language?

Does anybody know? Perhaps I should ask country music superstar Carrie Underwood who, during a recent Today Show appearance, talked about like her marriage and like her upcoming tour and like her charity work and like the changes on American Idol. I have always liked Carrie Underwood, believing her music and her personality suitable for my kids. My oldest, now thirteen, even met her backstage before a concert and Carrie was exceptionally gracious and accommodating. But she also seemed in a bit of a hurry. Note to Carrie: If you eliminate “like” from your vocabulary, think of the extra time you’ll have!

At some point in history, “like” burst onto the scene and refused to leave, much like karaoke. The difference is that karaoke eventually ENDS. A rendition of "Summer Nights" from Grease, sung by two fully-intoxicated women at a bar, is mercifully over after three minutes. Stories peppered with “like” seem to go on forever. If you don’t believe me, come to one of my daughter’s sleepovers, where you will be treated to dialogue like this:

“So I’m like sitting there and then she comes over and she’s like, ‘Emily, like are you going to ask him?’ And I’m like, ‘No way.’ So she’s like, ‘Oh, just do it. Like, maybe he’ll say yes.’ And I’m like, ‘You are so weird. Why would I like do that?’ And she’s like, ‘Because you’re like so that person.’ And I’m like, ‘I am not.’ And she’s like, ‘Okay, maybe you’re not like that person. But you’re definitely like THAT person.’”

The story resulted in gales of laughter and squeals from the girls. Moments after typing it on my PC, my spelling and punctuation tool exploded in frustration.

Being a history buff, I looked at some famous quotes and speeches over the years, hoping to see when "like" began popping up. I immediately eliminated the Revolutionary War era because nowhere did I ever read Patrick Henry boldly stating, “Like give me liberty or give me like death.”

Even during the Civil War, when our country split in two and couldn’t agree on ANYTHING, both sides were apparently united in their belief that “like” was not “liked” when it came to speech. Abraham Lincoln used the word exactly ZERO times in his Gettysburg Address, a fact quickly verified by the “find and replace” tool on my web browser. Frankly, I was surprised. After all, wasn’t the message of that speech about creating a unified nation? In other words, get along and LIKE each other! But Lincoln chose to use more eloquent prose and that’s probably a good thing. Somehow, the phrase, “Like four score and seven years ago, like our fathers brought forth on this continent, like a new nation, conceived in like Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are like created equal” doesn’t move me.

Fast forward nearly 100 years and still no sign of the word in our culture. When the Japanese rained bombs down on Pearl Harbor, President Franklin Roosevelt did not deliver the news by stating, “December 7, 1941. A day that will, like, live in infamy.”

I would have thought that "like" would have made its appearance in the late 1960s. After all, most of the country was high and unaware of what was coming out of their mouths, never mind what was going into same mouths. Yet I listened over and over to the audio feed of Neil Armstrong’s historic moon landing. Not once did I hear him say, “That’s like one small step for man, one like giant leap for mankind.”

Eventually I gave up, unable to find any historical quotes of significance peppered with “like.” Now I can’t even open a magazine without seeing the hated word in print numerous times. Journalists, in their attempts to quote subjects accurately and avoid being sued for libel, have apparently decided it’s best to include the word. A recent Rolling Stone interview with Leonardo DiCaprio netted the following quote:

“My mom always says I’m exaggerating and I’m like, ‘Mom, you are sorely mistaken.”

During a recent movie outing with my girls, we were treated to a trailer from Disney’s upcoming Tangled. Suddenly the following text flashed across the screen:

She’s been grounded like…forever.”

When I log onto Facebook, I'm immediately asked if I want to "like" everything from Chipotle’s restaurant to a sketch comedy revue called Pop Vulture. I LIKED it better when Facebook wanted to know if I was a “fan” of a particular page. Of course my daugher’s friends would have announced that they were “like fans of Justin Bieber.”

Is it possible to get away from "like?" Do the deaf use it in sign language? If so, I hope the sign is very simple – and painful. If there is indeed no sign for "like," might I suggest sticking an index finger into one’s eyeball? Perhaps that would keep deaf teenagers from using the word ad nauseum.

How can we stop the "like" epidemic? Whom do we ask? Certainly not our children, who would most likely reply, “Like huh?”

Desperate times call for desperate measures. In college I used to watch old Bob Newhart episodes with fraternity brothers and play a drinking game called “Hi Bob.” The rules were simple: Watch the show with a full beer in hand. Every time a character said, “Hi Bob,” or some form thereof, take a drink. It’s amazing how looped one can get during a 30-minute sitcom.

Maybe utterances of the word “like” should have similar consequences. Note I said similar since the prime offenders of “like overload” are not of legal drinking age, Carrie Underwood notwithstanding. But they could still face penalties. For every utterance of "like" that did not pertain to agreement or attraction, no iPod or iTunes for a week.

Somebody like alert Steve Jobs.

So many friends, so little time

2010-03-23T14:36:00.007-05:00

The boxes stood side by side on my computer screen as I sipped my morning coffee. My mouse hovered between them.

Confirm Ignore

Clicking the first box would mean my Facebook friend count would rise to 240, a paltry number by Facebook standards considering that others in my Facebook network had thousands of “friends” in their accounts. Still, it was far more than I had acquired in my real life.

I had seven friends in common with Linda, the requestee. All were comedians like myself. Linda was a part time comedian, according to her profile. Still, I had no idea who she was.

I continued staring at the boxes, pondering Linda’s fate. I asked myself, what would be the harm in friending her? I still don’t know what happens when a friend request gets denied on Facebook. For all I know, the lonely jilted person gets an email or text message stating, “Greg doesn’t want to be your friend. Here’s his cell phone number and home address in case you want to discuss it further. Oh, and here’s the name of an attorney in case you want to sue Greg for pain, suffering and mental anguish.”

I was willing to take that chance. I clicked “ignore.” Linda would not become part of my Facebook contingent and my friend count thus remains at 239.

I hope her feelings aren’t hurt. Maybe Linda was somebody I actually knew yet just couldn’t place. Her profile photo didn’t exactly help matters as it featured a very grainy image of a woman kissing a man. At least I think it was a man. The photo was really grainy.

Yet I am sensing a mood shift in the Facebook community. I keep reading that, if Facebook were a country, it would be the world’s fourth largest. I’m not sure how residents of Indonesia, currently the world’s fourth largest country, feel about this but chances are they are discussing it on their Facebook walls.

But the Facebook population explosion appears to have slowed. Like me, people are no longer randomly clicking “confirm” to every Facebook friend request that appears onscreen. Those that do are starting to regret it, as evidenced by some of the recent wall posts I’ve read:

Is it just me or does everyone get too many event invites? Time to delete some names.

To all my FB friends: I friended you because I care about you and your thoughts, NOT Farmville or Mafia or other third party apps

The previous post was written by a friend who is a member of the following Facebook “groups”:

50,000 Against Healthcare Bill in the next 72 Hours

I Bet We Can Find 1,000,000+ people who Disapprove of the Health Care Bill

304,059,724 Against Obama’s Healthcare Takeover

Repeal Obamacare

My friend is nothing if not optimistic.

When I entered Northwestern University in 1980, I attended fraterntity Rush Week, a five day drinking binge where seemingly EVERYBODY in EVERY HOUSE I entered wanted to be my friend. Thirty seconds after opening a door adorned with Greek letters, members wearing shirts with those same letters approached me from all sides and offered me red plastic cups filled to the rim with keg beer or a sweet-tasting punch, made with a combination of grain alcohol and moonshine whiskey, and bearing the name of the frat somewhere in the title.

Here Greg, try some Fiji Fire.
Careful. This is Delta Devil
Want a Sigma Slam?

With drink in hand, they let me steer the conversation any direction I pleased. Even if I chose to talk about the chemical composition of cement, they appeared interested.

Eventually I chose Phi Kappa Sigma, known around campus as “The Skull House” and creators of “Skull Juice,” a drink so toxic, it could have passed as paint thinner. Becoming a Phi Kap was a decision I never regretted even though I soon realized that not all the Phi Kap upperclassmen found me as interesting as they did during Rush Week. Factions formed, members occasionally allied over pertinent fraternity issues, (like whether the women of Delta Gamma would be more impressed if we served Strawberry Daiquiris or Pina Coladas at the mixer. Turns out the answer was, “neither”) and every member, myself included, had at least one “what did I see in these guys and what did they see in me?” moment.

Facebook, I’m realizing, is nothing more than the world’s largest fraternity. The only difference is that you can remove people at any time, something we couldn’t do at Phi Kappa Sigma unless their dues checks continually bounced.

I have yet to defriend any Facebook friends although I am starting to profile them, much the same way that federal agencies profile suspected terrorists. So far I have identified several:

The Meteorologist: This person apparently joined Facebook solely so he could provide weather updates to the entire Facebook community. My meteorological friend has posted the following in the last week alone:

The sun is out and the snow is melting
Yesterday temps in the 60s. Today, 2 inches of snow on the ground
Loving this brief warm spell we are having
Loving the warm weather. Melt snow…MELT

The Godfather - Someone who spends waaaaay too much time playing the aforementioned Mafia Wars, an exceptionally popular Facebook game that I refuse to become part of because I don’t want the following posts to clutter up other friends’ walls:

___ is working hard to finish the Loot the Police Impound Lot job and is in need of a whole lot of Armored Trucks from their Mafia!

_____ needs help to take on local motorcycle thugs in Mafia Wars.

The Crop Duster – The same person except that their life revolves around Farmville, another third party app that has something to do with cute little animals and, unlike Mafia Wars is void of violence. I have yet to receive a post stating that 500 cows were slaughtered in Farmville.

The Joiner - That friend who encourages you to hug your son (even if you are childless or, like me, produced only daughters), applaud the accomplishments of someone with Down Syndrome, forward a political message about global warming or change your profile picture to your favorite Mad Men character - just for a day. These people apparently never heard the “If-your-friend-jumped-off-a-bridge-would-you-do-it too?” speech.

Top Chef – The friend who shares about-to-be-consumed meals with everybody – usually with photos. Two of my friends have, in the past week, prepared and/or eaten buttermilk marinated chicken, salmon ber blanc with capers and blackened fish over coastal salsa and Belgian endive. While these recipes all sound delicious, reading about and viewing the finished product simply wants to make me get up and head to the refrigerator.

The Exercise Freak – This friend wouldn’t be caught dead eating buttermilk marinated chicken because he or she is too busy posting exercise updates. To all those people who tell me about their recently completed 20-mile run through the hills of some town with an Indian name, remember that running enthusiast Jim Fixx bragged about his hobby in a best selling book - and died after jogging.

If you’re reading this and find yourself in one of these categories, don’t worry. I don’t plan to defriend anybody as I truly enjoy Facebook’s ability to help me reconnect with old friends and meet new ones. Heck, I’ve probably been guilty of many “who cares” posts myself. So, Farmville and Mafia Wars participants aside, keep sending me weather updates, menu schedules, exercise regimens and political rants.

Just not every hour.

Fighting Figure Skaters...and other Olympic moments I'd like to see

2010-02-18T13:23:00.008-06:00

Like most Americans, my TV viewing habits this week have shifted away from the glut of reality shows and CSI spinoffs to the spectacle that is the Winter Olympics. In spite of the criticism heaped on the organizers, I think Canada is doing a superb job. My only complaint is that the Olympic torches carried into the stadium during the opening ceremonies looked like huge joints. But perhaps this was the intent; it is Vancouver after all.

I have been hooked on the cold weather games since 1972, when they were held in Sapporo, Japan. I vaguely remember the game’s marquee star, a cute-as-a-button US skater named Janet Lynn, who earned a bronze medal even though she (GASP) fell during the free skate.

Of course now, falling during a skating performance seems to be a required element, right up there with the Triple Salchow. If nobody fell, we wouldn’t have to endure Scott Hamilton saying, “It’s over,” a mere millisecond after the skater has picked him or herself off the ice.

Insipid expert commentary aside, I’ve always preferred the Winter Olympics to the Summer games because there always seems to be something new to watch. The Summer Olympics’ idea of stirring the pot is to add an old sport, played by the same athletes we watch every week.

NEWS FLASH! Serena Williams will play tennis at the Summer Games!

Wow!! Remind me to set my DVR.

The Winter games conversely resemble a sporting laboratory of sorts. New events like the Halfpipe, moguls skiing and Short Track Speed Skating have popped up just so we don’t have to spend two weeks watching foreigners in body suits skate around a block of ice for 10,000 meters. Given our country’s insatiable desire to experience something new and different 24 hours a day, inventing new sports seems like a good decision.

Last night I watched red-haired snowboard dude Shawn White shred the Halfpipe field, performing tricks with names like “Double Cork,” “1260” and some weird invention called the “Double Mac,” which may as well been called the “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,” so insane was its look.

The next day White’s heroics were the talk of my Facebook friends. Now that’s a success!

The night before I indulged in Snowboard Cross, which features four riders maneuvering down an icy, steep-banked course while jostling, bumping and surely trash-talking each other in their native languages. Bizarre? Yes. Cool? Most definitely.

In short, I’m all for new sports. It boosts ratings and prompts the average viewer to stay tuned in for curiosity's sake. That's why I think NBC could really score a ratings bonanza if they encourage the Olympic committee to revamp the tried and true winter sports that have been around since ancient Greeks slalomed down the Acropolis. Here are a few I propose to be initiated before the 2014 games:

Pairs figure skating: All the contestants must be married, wear microphones and be allowed to fight during their routines. Even Scott Hamilton would shut up, lest he talked over a few candid exchanges:

HUSBAND: Ready to do the Double Axel?
WIFE: If that’s what YOU want to do.

How about this one?

WIFE: The least you could do is help me up off the ice
HUSBAND: I’m sorry. Did you say something?

Or this one, picked up by a live microphone as the pair sat on the bench awaiting their scores:

WIFE: Every time you threw me, I didn’t complain. I was perfect for the entire routine. All you had to do was land one lousy Triple Lutz and you couldn’t even do that!
HUSBAND: Oh excuse me. Let’s not forget who has to lift who over his head. Incidentally, I’m lifting a little more weight than I did at the last Olympics, if you catch my drift.
WIFE: That does it! I’m calling my mother.

Cross Country skiing: Seriously, how gripping is it to watch competitors jog on skis for 45 minutes over an open field? Let’s add a danger element. Beginning in 2014, all cross country courses will veer off into woods from time to time – woods populated with unfriendly wild animals. I would be on the edge of my seat hearing the announcer breathlessly yell, “The American will win the gold if he can just outlast the Finn, the Russian and the grizzly bear.”

Ice Dancing: In my opinion, it's the most boring sport in the Olympics. Nobody ever falls so that eliminates the element of suspense. All they do is…dance. So let’s shake it up. All contestants must dance to at least one song from either Eminem, Lil Wayne or Jay Z. Oh, and NBC is not allowed to use the seven second audio delay.

Product endorsements: All athletes must be required to use any products they endose while competing. If a downhill skier stumps for Verizon, he or she must talk on the cell phone while hurtling down the course. Get paid six figures to hawk a sports drink? Great. Take a big swig in the middle of your bobsled run. How about a lip balm? Be prepared to reapply while taking the final turn on the speed skating oval.

I’m sure I’ll have more ideas but I need to end this blog. Curling is about to start.

I can't get no...satisfaction

2010-02-13T10:00:00.006-06:00

Several months ago, I blogged about the Kindle, the digital book reader and brainchild of Amazon.com. At the time I was melancholy that yet another electronic gadget was replacing an age-old institution, in this case “the book.”

Suddenly, however, I am feeling sorry for this device because, with the recent announcement of the Apple iPad, the Kindle is being derided by bloggers and technology experts alike because of its singular function – it only holds books.

My wife bought me a Kindle for Christmas and, I have to admit, I flip-flopped over its benefits. The idea that a book had to be recharged bothered me. Leave it to Amazon to give teenagers one more excuse for failing to complete their homework.

My book died. What was I SUPPOSED to do?

The Kindle came with a 30-day money back guarantee and, as the 29th day approached, I was still wavering. Meanwhile I had already downloaded and completed two books and four Sunday New York Times, while taking advantage of countless free sample chapters. The “sample chapter” feature is kind of cool as it eliminates the need to stand in bookstores for hours, reading portions of every title on the shelves while staff members wonder if you are ever going to actually buy something. Blockbuster needs to do the same with movies.

I decided to keep the Kindle. I’m a voracious reader by nature, preferring books over movies and music while traveling so it seemed like a viable purchase. I was satisfied with my decision for exactly 72 hours. That’s when Apple CEO Steve Jobs strode onto a San Francisco stage in his trademark black turtleneck and jeans (seriously, why do these tech billionaires feel compelled to wear a single ensemble each time they appear in public? I have yet to see Bill Gates in anything other than a blue button down shirt and navy sweater. He must own close to 1,000 of each), and unveiled the iPad. As far as I could tell, it was perfect for users who wanted either a bigger iPhone or a smaller Macbook but couldn’t decide.

The iPad, Jobs giddily explained, could read books and newspapers but could do so much more! It could play music, surf the Web, send email, schedule appointments and store contacts. The invited guests (how does one get an iPad invitation incidentally?) oohed and aahed as Jobs himself played with the device onstage while silently praying that nothing malfunctioned. (Anyone remember Gates’ Windows 98 demonstration?) Suddenly Kindle users like me were being viewed alongside the segment of our society that still adjusts television reception with rabbit ears.

The iPad’s accolades continued until the launch ended, at which time those lucky enough to get their hands on a working iPad really had a chance to digest the device’s features. Naturally, the criticisms started seconds later, most notably that the iPad did not contain a camera.

Horrors!

When did it become a requirement for everybody to have photographic capability at all times? Americans spend an average of nine hours a day working and seven hours a day sleeping. We’re not exactly walking photo opps.

The iPad also was unable to play Flash video. How could Apple have neglected such an obvious feature, the critics wondered? Suddenly Jobs’ innovation was headed to the scrap heap before it was even available for purchase.

I always thought it would be cool to invent something. Now, I feel all fledgling Ben Franklins who are spending countless hours in basements, labs or garages creating the next great whatever, are simply setting themselves up for criticism from our never satisfied society. If Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb today, a blogger would write, “What? No dimmer? How does TE expect to set the proper mood without this obvious feature?”

I’m going to keep my Kindle and marvel at the face that it can download War and Peace in under a minute. I’m going to read it on the plane and not bemoan the fact that it can’t take a photo of another passenger mid-flight. In short I’m going to be satisfied.

Of course, I don’t own a Toyota, which we are now finding out, was most likely manufactured without brakes. That would be something to complain about.

Busted at a Door Buster Sale

2009-12-01T06:53:00.009-06:00

I recently read the late David Foster Wallace’s essay A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. In it Wallace hilariously skewers anything and everything he encountered while sailing aboard a cruise ship.

I wish Wallace had lived long enough to pen his opinions of a post-Thanksgiving Door Buster sale.

The difference between a cruise ship and a Door Buster sale is that cruise ships are at least perceived as enjoyable, even if Wallace discovered otherwise. I don’t believe anybody in Western civilization has ever returned from a Door Buster sale and announced, “That was fun.”

Door Busters, also known as Black Friday sales because they take place the day (I’m sorry, the ungodly early morning) following Thanksgiving, were invented solely because every retail establishment, including those which sell nothing but live bait, decided that sales figures for the entire year should hinge on the single day that follows gluttony, football and tense relations with relatives.

Door Buster sales also exist so television news crews have something to show on a slow news day. Invariably these “packages” (a term from my old TV reporting days) contain only images of fully-grown adults acting like a combination of toddlers and gang bangers as they violently fight over whatever item the offending retailer chose to put on sale for 50 percent off just hours after the Thanksgiving dishes had been cleared away.

Occasionally this YouTube display of news turns into actual news; witness 2008 when security guard Jdimytai Damour was trampled TO DEATH at a Long Island Wal-Mart as customers surged forward to purchase, among other things, a $28 Bissel Compact Upright Vacuum. On that morning, Damour’s first Black Friday job responsibility - and ultimately his last – was to simply open the door.

In spite of Damour’s fate, and similar occurrences with slightly less horrific results (some shoppers merely suffer broken bones in exchange for a DVD player), retailers continue this macabre practice. In the event of mayhem, their savvy marketing departments already have prepared statements that read with all the sincerity of those recited by professional athletes after being caught with steroids, handguns, stolen stereo equipment or all three.

We truly regret this tragic and unfortunate incident. We are cooperating with authorities and are confident that, in time, all the facts will come out. Until then, COME TO OUR EARLY BIRD 4 A.M. SALE! SIXTY-INCH FLAT SCREEN PLASMA TELEVISIONS ONLY $29.99. ONLY THREE IN STOCK!

On the day before Thanksgiving my wife scours the ads – both print and on line – to see if any Door Buster sale items match anything on our daughters’ Christmas lists. Thankfully that has never been the case.

Until this year.

This year my 12-year-old’s Christmas wishes included something known as Wii Fit. I’m still not sure what it is although the Wii homepage promises Wii Fit will improve balance, body mass index and “body control.”

If Door Buster shoppers had an ounce of body control, Mr. Damour might still be alive.

Normally $90, a store called Meijer had priced Wii Fit at $44.99 on Thanksgiving morning. That’s right, Meijer, one of those stores with an identity crisis (groceries to the right, snow tires to the left, thermal underwear and Venetian blinds straight ahead) was having a Black Thursday sale beginning at 6 a.m. Would I wait in line and get one, my wife asked?

Until now the only time I had ever stood in line longer than 30 minutes for anything was 1981 when Bruce Springsteen’s River Tour came through Chicago. I remember cueing up outside a record store four hours before tickets went on sale. Others ahead of me had obviously been there all night, judging by the sleeping bags and body odor. I spent the time chatting with fellow Springsteen fans, listening to his tunes, soaking in stories from Springsteen concert veterans and even sharing cheap wine from a hip flask.

I did score tickets that morning. Not great tickets mind you but tickets nonetheless. And the Boss did not disappoint. Twenty-eight years later, standing in line for something that improved body mass did not seem as appealing, even if I brought my own wine.

Yet I succumbed to my wife’s request with minimal complaining. Truth be known, I was looking forward to it. I’m an early riser by nature so the idea of setting a Thanksgiving alarm didn’t seem that ludicrous. Besides, the store was only ten minutes away from my health club. What better way to begin Turkey Day than by making my daughter happy, saving 50 bucks, and squeezing in a five mile run on the treadmill, thereby burning the calories in one scoop of mashed potatoes?

I awoke at 4:40 a.m. to the sound of rain pelting my bedroom windows. This was no surprise; Murphy’s Law specifically states that if one is going to wait outside a locked store for an inordinate amount of time, it MUST be raining, snowing, hailing or trembling due to an ill-timed earthquake. As I would soon find out, none of these calamities deter a Door Buster shopper.

I grabbed a sweatshirt, my Lands End winter coat, a ski hat and gloves and pulled out of my driveway at 4:50, armed with nothing more than a cup of coffee and my Door Buster game face. As I journeyed toward Meijer, I saw other cars on the road. Suffice it to say that, if you are in your car at 5 a.m. on Thanksgiving, it can be for one of two reasons:

· You are heading to a Door Buster Sale
· You need to dispose of a body…QUICKLY!

I live in a fairly safe neighborhood so I naturally assumed everybody who I passed or passed me fell into Category One. I also decided everybody was headed to Meijer in search of a Wii Fit, which made me press down a little more sharply on the gas pedal. I even cut off a few motorists, just to be safe.

At 5:05 a.m. I pulled into the Meijer parking lot, now three-quarters full with cars and one TV news truck. But where was the line? You know, the line of damp, sleepy customers preparing to trample the security guard? It did not exist. Instead, I saw people entering the store.

Did my wife misread the ad? Did Black Thursday actually start earlier than 6 a.m.? Had I failed before I even started?

Turns out, Meijer is open 24 hours so customers are free to come and go any time. But, as the ad promised, Black Thursday sales would not begin before 6 a.m. Customers could wait in line until then.

But which line? I sauntered to the electronics section at the rear of the store to find about 75 people standing in a surprisingly orderly fashion.

“Is this the Wii Fit line?” I asked the woman at the line’s rear.

“No, this is the iPod Nano line,” she replied.

“The Wii Fit line is two aisles over,” said a Meijer employee, gesturing randomly with one hand while pushing a shopping cart full of merchandise with his other.

Immediately I saw one thing about this Meijer place that I liked, namely foresight to split up the lines as opposed to lumping everybody in a single mass. Plus, we were inside! This was going to be a good day!

I took a hard right, counted two aisles, took a left and almost tripped over a patron seated on the floor. I discovered this gentleman was “Wii Fit Door Buster customer number one” and, for all I know, had been there since last Thanksgiving.

I followed the line down the aisle, where it made a gradual turn to the left and spilled over into the next aisle, containing school supplies. Half-heartedly counting in my head, I estimated there to be about 40 shoppers ahead of me. Judging from their body sizes all looked to be buying the Wii Fit for somebody other than themselves. Either that, or Wii Snack was also on sale.

I took a spot behind a woman who appeared to be about 60. A 50-something gentleman got in line behind me and the phalanx of Wii Fit hopefuls continued to grow. Within moments the line had increased by at least 30. As it multiplied, a rough-looking couple trudged to the end. I heard the woman exclaim loudly to her partner, “Baby there’s no way we’re gonna get one of these f*#@%g things.”

I was thinking the same thing but chose not to express it publicly.

At 5:15 a.m. a Meijer manager appeared halfway through the line and announced, to no one in particular, that the store only had 20 Wii Fits.

“You’re welcome to wait but I’m just telling you what we have,” he said, before disappearing.

At this point, my predicament read like a second grade math story problem: You are the 41st person in line for a toy. A grown up says there are only 20 toys available. Will you get a toy? Please show all work.

Common sense dictated that I should get out of line. But, upon hearing the employee’s grim news, exactly ZERO people moved from their places, including Mrs. Potty Mouth well behind me.

“These people must know something I don’t,” I thought. “If they’re not moving, I’m not moving.”

Door Buster shoppers are, if nothing else, eternally optimistic. I could almost hear them rationalizing how a Wii Fit could still be theirs.

“Maybe at least 10 people in front of me will all have fatal heart attacks in the next 45 minutes,” their faces appeared to say.

Or maybe 10 would get trampled once the clock struck six. I decided to wait.

A few minutes later the same Meijer employee appeared and announced that the store actually had 29 Wii Fits available “and some Wii Fit Plusses.” The Wii Fit Plus, by the way, is a slightly more expensive BUT STILL 50 PERCENT OFF ON DOOR BUSTER THURSDAY AT MEIJER model.

This was the first time I had ever heard of a store suddenly discovering MORE merchandise. Whenever I go clothes shopping at the mall and ask if the store contains a particular item in my size, the response invariably is, “That’s all we have.” Nobody has ever said, “You need that in a large? Hang on; I think a truckload of larges just came in. I will go get one for you because I am a dedicated store employee.”

By now I realized that there was no rhyme or reason to a Door Buster sale. Twenty Wii Fits had just become 29. The ever-optimistic shoppers were now even more jovial, assuming that 29 would soon turn into 60, maybe more. Even the guy behind me, who had put on and removed his coat at least three times in 45 minutes, took it off again as if to say, “I’m in it for the long haul as well.” We began to bond as only males who have been sent to Door Buster sales by their wives can do.

“If I get the last one, I promise you can come over and play with it any time,” I said.

He chuckled and said he’d take me up on it.

At 5:59 a.m. the line was filled with the same kind of anticipation that one sees on New Year’s Eve in Times Square as the ball begins its descent. The waiting is nearly over; soon we will all realize why we’ve been standing here for 12 hours in sub-zero temperatures without a bathroom!

At 6:03 a.m. the line began moving. I moved out of the school supplies aisle, around the corner and entered the camping aisle. I noticed a store end cap containing a display of hunting knives. Bad idea, I thought, to let aggressive, over caffeinated Black Thursday shoppers anywhere near weapons.

From down the aisle, out of my line of vision but within earshot, came the first Black Thursday argument. I’m not sure what it was about but a clearly agitated woman kept saying, “I want my receipt and I want it NOW!”

Upon hearing her screams, the TV news crew scrambled into position.

At 6:13 the Meijer employee delivered the worst news I’ve heard since the Cubs signed Milton Bradley: only two Wii Fits remained.

This time I did an exact count of customers in front of me rather than an estimate. There were 11 patrons, none of whom moved in spite of the simple math equation: 11 desperate shoppers – 2 Wii Fits = 9 losers.

It was time to get out of line. My compatriot behind me put on his coat for the umpteenth time and did not take it off. Instead, he followed me down the aisle toward the exit, muttering something about “a perfectly good day wasted.” This was not entirely true, as the sun had not yet risen over the horizon. Technically it was still nighttime.

I exited the store and strode to my car, where my gym bag awaited. On this Thanksgiving morning I was thankful that, in spite of the horrific economy, paying regular price for a Wii Fit wouldn’t break the Schwem bank account.

I turned on the radio. Bruce Springsteen was singing, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Oh, the irony.

Huntin' for some tasty customer service

2009-11-20T11:29:00.007-06:00

It’s no secret that we, as a nation, enjoy complaining.

We whine about the slow moving line at Starbucks, moan over the fact that a date at the movies now costs upwards of 50 dollars and bitch because our child was passed over for an athletic scholarship even though we are convinced he or she is EXCEPTIONALLY talented.

Most of the time, however, we complain because we don’t think anybody is listening to us.

For example, we continue to call tech support because our cable keeps going out even though we have done EXACTLY what the CSR ordered us to do (turn off the modem, turn it on and wait for the flashing green light). We hang up and then complain that we’ve already tried that; the entire cable industry is a scam; and why can’t we just go back to the days where television consisted of three channels that only appeared clearly if you held the rabbit ears on your television just so while standing on one foot?

We send our restaurant steak back to the kitchen because we ordered it medium and it arrived on our plate looking as if the cow were blushing with embarrassment. When it returns the second time, the meat is only slightly less bloody because, the waiter informs us, “That is the chef’s definition of ‘medium.’”

Actually, I once went to a “steak house” in Phoenix that averted this problem by requiring the patrons to cook their own steaks, as if this were a privilege and part of the restaurant’s ambience. It worked like this: You ordered a particular cut of meat, a member of the most under utilized wait staff in history served it raw on a plate and you walked over to a flaming hot grill where you actually cooked it yourself. Then you received a bill.

After looking at the bill and realizing I was paying to prepare my own dinner, it became clear that I had already eaten at this restaurant. It was called “My House.”

Suffice it to say that I am always on the lookout for an organization that not only caters to its customers but also makes a noble attempt to avert problems before they arise, thus eliminating complaints. I recently found such a business in Pierre, South Dakota – specifically the Best Western Ramkota Hotel.

On October 27, 2009 the South Dakota Housing and Development Authority invited me to speak to its members. The event, according to my contact, would take place at the Ramkota and a nice room had been reserved for me.

Of course, first I had to actually get to Pierre, South Dakota. For a city that serves as the state capitol, flying to Pierre is about as easy as booking a flight on the space shuttle. I chose to fly American Airlines from Chicago to Denver and then board Great Lakes Airlines for a 90-minute flight to Pierre aboard a plane that did not include a bathroom.

Note that I did not say “non stop” flight to Pierre. Yes, the plane eventually would up there but first we had to land in Alliance, Nebraska, a town that even Google Earth cannot locate. The “layover” time in Alliance is however long it takes to open the plane’s door, remove all the Nebraska passengers, and close the door. Unless of course somebody like me has to use the bathroom in the Alliance terminal. When I requested a pit stop, the pilot looked at me as if I were going to screw up the entire Great Lakes Aviation on time record. But he begrudgingly obliged.

Upon arrival in Pierre, I wondered how this town had earned the distinction of state capitol? During the 20-minute drive to the Ramkota, I noticed nary a government-looking building. Instead we passed gas stations, feed stores, and gas stations that sold feed.

As a professional corporate speaker who logs over 100,000 airline miles a year, I can spot the good hotels from the dregs. When we pulled in, I realized The Best Western Ramkota was clearly the class of Pierre and probably hosted any out of town government dignitaries that needed to appear before the state legislature to discuss important business (like whether to extend feed store hours). I heard Dick Cheney was fond of spending taxpayer money by chartering Air Force Two to Pierre so he could go pheasant hunting. Of course Cheney probably did not have to stop in Alliance, Nebraska to relieve himself.

Once inside, I quickly learned that hunting was a popular pastime in Pierre, as evidenced by the stuffed deer, bear, and aforementioned pheasant that peered down on me as I received my room key. There’s something about stuffed animal heads that freaks me out. Maybe it’s because their eyes are always open, as if they are searching for whomever put them in this predicament. Yet I never relay my fears to hunters, who would probably dismiss me as some lightweight city pansy and continue to make snide comments after I had left the room.

The front desk attendant was cordial, professional and everything one would expect from an employee at a name hotel. He provided good, but not exceptional customer service.

No, the basis for this article occurred upon entering my room – actually a suite according to the attendant. As a frequent hotel guest, I have come to realize that “suite” is a broadly used term. A suite at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas means a marble Jacuzzi tub, a bed featuring four Roman columns and possibly an on-call hooker named “Cleopatra.”

A suite at the Best Western Ramkota Pierre means a bigger closet and a few extra coffee packets. Still, it’s always nice to be treated like a big shot.
So, upon entering my suite, my eyes immediately fell to a coffee table near the bed, specifically the contents on the coffee table. Two small plastic bags held what appeared to be individually wrapped washcloths identical to those hanging in the bathroom. A sign between the bags read: “WELCOME HUNTERS. This year all reports indicate you should have a wonderful hunting season.”

(In other words, Dick Cheney would not be visiting)

The sign continued: “For your convenience we have rags available for your use. We ask that you please do NOT use our good towels, hand towels or washcloths to clean your guns, boots or dogs. For additional rags, please dial 0 and we will deliver them.”

I read the sign at least three times before realizing they were serious. My amazement was soon replaced by fear upon deducing that I could be shot, kicked or mauled if I dared to complain about a noisy guest.

But then it slowly occurred to me that this was customer service at its finest. The Best Western Ramkota knew hunters needed accommodations and did everything it could to appease them, including allowing dogs into the hotel, providing their masters with cleaning supplies and offering to bring more. Who could complain about that?

Plus, the staff has solved its own problem – namely guests using good towels for disgusting purposes – by offering an alternative. Too often, customer service means “our way or the highway.” Cable television not working? Sorry, you still have to pay for the service while you wait all day for a technician to possibly show up. Internet connection down? Get on line and we’ll try and help you. (That’s always been my favorite. How can I get on line without an Internet connection?)

It would be very easy for the Ramkota to hang a sign stating, “Please do not use our good towels for hunting purposes” and leave it at that. (Read: We don’t feel like spending extra money on laundry.) But what would that solve? A dirty hunter would most likely reach for the towels anyway because he has no choice.

I decided right then and there the Best Western Ramkota was true class in terms of customer service. If the “towels for hunters” solution wasn’t proof enough, the point was further driven home when I ordered room service and noticed this message at the menu’s end:

“Our chef will be happy to prepare your kill for you.”

And I thought I was going to have to cook it myself.

Your iPhone or your life! Really, what's the difference?

2009-10-28T10:21:00.004-05:00

I recently returned from New York City with my 12-year-old daughter. The highlight of the trip, for her anyway, was a visit to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue.

Actually, calling it a “store” is like calling Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner a “bank teller.” Visitors to this store walk through a massive glass cube bearing the ubiquitous Apple logo and descend an escalator into a single room containing iPhones, iPods, iTouches and thousands of iGeeks. The store is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. That’s correct, it’s even open Christmas Eve and Christmas morning just in case Santa’s elves miscounted and their boss is one MacBook short.

After spending two hours in the store touching every iButton on every iShelf, my daughter has already added an iTouch and a Macbook to her Christmas list, even though it is October as I write this. While those may wind up under the tree, I am forbidding her to get an iPhone. Why? Because my daughter has already lost her phone. Losing an iPhone today is worse than losing the keys to your rich and newly deceased Aunt Gladys’ safety deposit box, after years of listening to her at holiday meals tell the entire family that, when she expired, “there’d be a little something for everybody.” But more about that later.

Saying that my daughter lost her phone doesn’t do the story justice. Nine months after receiving a Sprint Rant for Christmas, and using it daily to send approximately 1.3 billion text messages and 400,000 self portraits of her teeth and nostrils to her friends, (thankfully her plan includes unlimited text, otherwise her parents would be living in a cardboard box under a viaduct) the phone failed to appear one morning as she was getting ready for school. This in itself was no cause for alarm as the Schwem household begins each morning with a frantic search for shoes, backpacks, hairbrushes or homework. The phantom item is always located approximately three seconds after the bus pulls away.

The phone, however, had never obtained “milk carton status” until now.

Sue and I began our detective work by asking the question burned into every parent’s vernacular: “Where was the last place you left it?”

The answer was just as common: “I dunno.”

Every time I hear that response, I wonder, “What’s the fuss over waterboarding?”

Eventually we gleaned a little more information from her. She couldn’t remember bringing it in last night. No wait, she remembered having it when she got out of the car. Okay, it’s getting clearer. She remembered putting it down while she retrieved her backup from our SUV’s hatch.

And here’s where she had a “CSI moment;” the case suddenly becoming crystal clear. She remembered placing it on the bumper of the SUV while she retrieved her backpack.

This would have been perfectly okay if the car had remained in the garage between 4 p.m. and 7 the next morning. But our family car is never idle for that long unless the battery is dead. No, our car had made at least three trips since 4 p.m., meaning the purple Sprint Rant had made at least one of them, without a seat belt if you catch my drift.

Natalie ran to the bus, minus her phone. Sue and I began walking the streets, searching for the phone the same way a heartbroken boy searches for a lost dog. It had all the makings of a scene from Marley and Me except we weren’t combing the neighborhood calling, “Here Rant. Come home Rant!”

Two days later, Sue found the phone. Check that, she found pieces of the phone along West 123rd Street. There were just enough parts and accompanying tire tracks to ensure the phone wouldn’t be covered under the “drop” section of the warranty.

Natalie took the news hard, knowing that a new phone would come from her bank account. But, as she began to save, she began looking at newer phones and cooler phones. Cell phone manufacturers have a season for introducing cooler phones; it begins mere seconds after a 12 year old has purchased a phone.

Truth be known, Natalie always wanted an iPhone. But the price tag stymied her. Besides Sprint, her parent’s provider, was not compatible with iPhone. Since her phone was being added to our plan, she opted for the Rant.

The iPhone wouldn’t be so cool if its owners used it as simply a phone. My Blackberry contains my address book, calendar and that’s about it. Oh sure, I occasionally use the camera to snap grainy photos of objects that I will delete within 24 hours and yes, occasionally I find myself playing Brickbreaker while waiting for planes. Otherwise, I use it as a phone, meaning I talk on it.

I rarely see iPhone users speaking into their phones. That’s because they are too busy diddling with iPhone applications. At last count the number of “apps” was approaching 100,000, including several that seem to do nothing more than make – ahem – gaseous noises on the iPhone. The user pays for that, by the way.

If I lose my Blackberry, I know that everything is backed up on my PC. Somehow I doubt that the fart app, or any other cool iPhone app, exists anywhere except within the iPhone. So let’s see what would happen if it got lost.

I’ll start with a blank iPhone and download ten random applications from the Apple Store. (Hint: It’s much easier to search the iPhone app store if you actually OWN an iPhone. I don’t so I have to resort to more primitive methods, such as Google searches and recommendations from the on line Apple staff or “Genuises,” as they prefer to be called).

First I'll download iOwn, a $4.99 app that allows the inventorying of everything one has acquired over the years. Think one of those metal self storage sheds on your phone.

Okay, now that I have EVERYTHING I OWN on my iPhone, there is still room for nine more apps. So I’ll add Pennies, a finance app that lets me keep track of my expenses; Grocery iQ for control of my shopping list, and Barista, so I can make my favorite espresso beverages with the skill of a tenured Starbucks employee.

I may be tempted to sweeten that frothy drink so my iPhone better contain BloodSugar, an app that allows me to test my sugar intake. I’ll add FlightTrack to get real time flight updates and Gas Cubby to record my gas mileage in the event that I miss my flight altogether. RedLaser lets me scan UPC codes while DIRECTV allows me to program my DVR from faraway places.

Finally, I’ll add Things which, according to the Apple website, allows one to “manage tasks and get things done.” I assume nobody in Congress has ever downloaded it.

Now I will drive around the neighborhood with my newly loaded iPhone on my car bumper until it falls off and becomes pothole filler. In one instant, I have suffered amnesia of every sort. I no longer have any idea what to buy at the grocery store and without a UPC scanner, wouldn’t know how to buy it anyway. Of course, lacking Pennies, I’m not sure I can afford groceries period. Or gas for that matter.

Since purchasing coffee from a store is out of the question, I’ll just go home and make some. Wait, no I won’t because I lost all the recipes. And I probably couldn’t find the coffee maker anyway since I downloaded its location on iOwn. My next flight came and went (I think) and my DVR is suddenly useless. So I will sit in my house, unsure what to do since Things is not around to guide me.

Wait, I’m feeling light-headed! Could my blood sugar be plunging? How should I know? Quick, dial 911!

Damn, I can’t do that either. Cause of death? Missing iPhone. Bag him and tag him.

Now you see why my daughter will never get an iPhone. There is, however, a nice rotary model on Craigslist.

Put your virtual hands where I can see 'em!

2009-09-28T08:42:00.020-05:00

I am virtually getting sick of all things virtual.

Sure, 2009 was the year we cut back on doing “real” stuff and explored the benefits of using our computers to do everything. Virtual meetings became hot in the corporate world; my kids began feeding virtual pets via Webkinz; an agent I deal with even hired a virtual assistant who is not only less helpful than a real assistant but twice as annoying.

But I am officially ready to snap now that I have received my first virtual traffic ticket.

I returned home from a business trip last Friday, weary yet anxious about the upcoming weekend. There would be kids’ soccer and volleyball games as well as my 47th birthday celebration. On my desk lay a stack of mail, many items bearing the shape of birthday cards. In the midst of the pile was a legal-sized envelope with a return address that caught my eye: Village of Willowbrook Red Light Photo Enforcement, Norcross, Georgia.

I tore open the envelope and the words leaped off the paper: CITATION. TRAFFIC SIGNAL VIOLATION.

A series of grainy photos accompanied the text. The first showed a line of cars approaching a traffic light in darkness; the second was an even more blurred image of my license plate and the final image seemed to assemble both photos, showing my BMW x5 allegedly entering the intersection and making a left turn. A red blob that could have either been a traffic signal or a UFO hovered just slightly above and to the right of my vehicle.

The Willowbrook Police Department, which incidentally is located in Willowbrook, Illinois, nearly 1000 miles from Norcross, Georgia, clearly believed I ran a red light. This was stated emphatically next to the photos:

Please take notice that the vehicle described and pictured herein did not stop for the red traffic signal at the place, date and time specified. Therefore, under Title 8-11-13 of the Village of Willowbrook Code of Ordinances, as the registered owner of the vehicle, you are liable for the violation. Unless you elect to request an Administrative Hearing, a civil penalty in the amount of $100.00 must be paid by the due date shown on this notice.

I stared at the photos again with the concentration of a paparazzi who has just spied Jennifer Anniston sunbathing. Yes, I recognized the intersection in the first photo – Route 83 and 63rd Avenue, a quarter mile from my health club. Yes, that was my license plate in the second photo. And yes it appeared my car was in the midst of the intersection in the third photo.

Or was it?

Was the light REALLY red? Or was it yellow when I made my move? Did it turn red only when I had nearly finished the turning maneuver? There appeared to be another car ahead of me in the left turn lane. Was this vehicle in violation as well?

What did Norcross Georgia have to do with this incident?

Was there indeed another gunman on the grassy knoll?

Unfortunately I received answers to exactly ZERO of these questions because I was dealing in the virtual world. A camera had snapped the photos and determined that I was in the wrong. As further proof there were numbers and indecipherable codes at the top of each picture that read something like this:

SPc Time Date Code Amb Red Photo Limit Ln
29.0 05:55:29:57 09/17/2009 300 2:90 0:29 818A 45:00 1

In case I needed MORE proof, the citation was actually signed by an actual, or in this case a virtual, police officer:

I am a duly authorized officer by the Village of Willowbrook Police Department. Based on inspection of the recorded images shown above, the motor vehicle was operated in violation of Title 8-11-13 of the Willowbrook Code of the Ordinances, as evidenced by the above images. Sworn to and affirmed by:

I couldn’t read the hen scratching that passed for an electronic signature at the bottom. All I knew was that “Mark” was the officer’s first name.

It appeared Office Mark had busted me. Using all the skills learned at the police academy, he had examined three grainy photos and determined that the Willowbrook Police Department desperately needed $100.

I had two choices according to the citation. I could pay the one hundred bucks or request a hearing date. Anybody who has ever opted for the “request a hearing” choice knows that really isn’t a choice. Ever tried to contest a ticket? You will have better luck arranging a date between Taylor Swift and Kanye West.

I learned this the hard way several years ago when I opted to challenge a citation (a real once, not a virtual one) for (are you ready?) tailgating a police officer.

The charge was ludicrous. Why would I want to do anything to a police officer? But this particular officer was convinced I was riding his bumper so he pulled into a gas station, allowed me to pass, then immediately put on his lights and tailgated me until I pulled over.

I was determined to go to court and tell anybody who listened that my only crime was being near an officer desperate to make traffic ticket quota.

I showed up at the courthouse armed with nothing other than my story, which I rehearsed over and over in my head, ready to counter attack any argument from whatever legal authority was in charge, even if it was Judge Judy.

Instead I was introduced to a sassy African American female judge who called my name and demanded that I approach the bench.

“What do you want to do?” she glared at me.

“Your honor, I would like to contest the charge,” I replied.

“Allllllll riiiiiiiight,” she sighed as if my legal decision were about as stupid as Rod Blagojevich electing to plead innocent.

“What’s the charge?” she asked the prosecution. Before the assistant district attorney could even answer, she glanced at some paperwork.

“Tailgating!” she said, answering her own question. “I HATE when people tailgate me. Here I am driving and all of a sudden I see their nose right behind my bumper.” To demonstrate she put her own hand approximately a quarter inch from her own nose and moved it even closer.

“Still want to contest the charge?” she asked.

At this point, OJ Simpson’s Dream Team could not have help me. I elected to plead guilty and paid the fine. I would have washed her car for a year if she had requested it.

While arguing in court may not be effective, sometimes it works when the ticket is actually issued, something that is impossible when getting a virtual ticket. My wife has talked her way out of four speeding tickets. I’ve never been with her when this happens so I don’t know exactly what she says to the officer, although she assures me she doesn’t bare any skin. The point is, she whips the car pool around at 85 miles per hour yet still has an impeccable driving record thanks to her gift of gab.

My persuasive skills are not nearly as impressive when it comes to moving violations. But admit it, at least when you get pulled over without the aid of cameras, there is always a chance that you will drive away with a warning.

Such is not the case with a ticket garnered through the use of red-light cameras mounted on traffic signals. I could only imagine what that argument would be like.

Willowbrook Police Department. Do you have an emergency?

Uh, no but I would like to speak to Officer Mark.

He can’t come to the phone now. He’s busy Photoshopping. (CLICK)

The manner in which you receive a virtual ticket is equally humiliating. It comes in the mail, for crying out loud. There is no sense of impending doom, no lights and siren in your rearview mirror, no frantic search for insurance papers as you hear the click of boots on pavement and know the officer is about to stick his head, his flashlight and possibly a loaded .38-caliber revolver inside your open window.

There also is no chance to think, “Maybe, just maybe, I can outrun this guy.”

Admit it, when a police officer is on your tail in full police officer mode, a really stupid thought flashes through your mind. It begins and ends in about a nanosecond but it existed nonetheless. You actually contemplate a high-speed pursuit, with your car in the lead.

I attribute this thought to the fact that we watch so many movies where the lead character manages to outrun not just one police officer but an entire force. This is made infinitely easier due to the fact that there is always a dirt road up ahead on the left.

We’ve witnessed the scene thousands of times. “TURN LEFT AT THAT DIRT ROAD.”

Amidst a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust, our hero does just that while the unwitting officers continue heading straight. Crisis averted, the driver is now free to unwind by making out with the female in the passenger seat.

Had I been pursued by an actual officer at Route 83 and 63rd Street in Willowbrook, Illinois, I would have immediately pulled over since there was no dirt road on the left. My only choice of escape was a Whole Foods parking lot, which offered limited cover.

I’d still be out 100 bucks but at least I would have driven away knowing that I was in the wrong and determined to be a better driver in the future.

Being flagged by technology only gets my blood boiling. Like everything else these days, it’s just so darn impersonal.

Yet judging from the growing number of municipalities who see red-light cameras as revenue producers, I know that this technology is here to stay. So I will send Norcross, Georgia a check.

Along with a few other items.

As long as photos are being used to determine guilt, I have dug up a few more snapshots from my life that clearly show legal infractions. Might as well come clean, right?

There’s the photo of me playing Little League baseball and rounding the bases during a home run. To this day, I believe I may not have touched second base. With today’s technology, the photo should prove it.

Here are several photos of me drinking at a college frat party. Drinking while underage, I admit.

Here I am in seventh grade. Note that I am wearing a leisure suit. That has to be illegal.

Tell me what I owe. May God have mercy on my soul.

A simple lesson in geometry

2009-08-28T13:49:00.007-05:00

I recently returned from an eight-day business trip where I did the tourist thing in between comedy gigs. I investigated architectural landmarks, poked around museums, and sought out the trendiest cafes that I had read about on blogs.

Often I had to wait in line. Others were doing the same thing. Nobody complained, tried to "cut" in front of another patron or formed their own line just outside the actual line.

In case you hadn't figured it out, I was NOT in the United States.

In this cyber age, where we have grown accustomed to booking airline tickets, making restaurant reservations and shopping for everything from ink cartridges to automobiles on line, the idea of forming a line - a single straight line - has eluded everyone in this country.

I thought we had solved this problem after 9/11. Remember the scenes of people from all walks of life waiting patiently to donate blood? They stood in lines that snaked around city blocks, chatting with complete strangers about where they were on that horrible day and what brought them to this line.

Sadly, that behavior has been quickly forgotten, as I noticed this week while waiting to pick up a pre-ordered fruit tray at my local grocery store. I strode to the deli at 8 a.m., happy to find a single patron in front of me. "This won't take long," I thought.

As the worker sliced meat for the other customer, an elderly woman appeared from nowhere and walked straight to the carousel of paper numbers that one is supposed to grab during crowded deli moments, thereby ensuring a rightful place in line.

The key word here is "crowded." Because I didn't feel one other customer constituted a crowd, I neglected to take a number. A simple math equation would read:

First customer's turn
- my turn
= eldery lady 's turn

Not so. The worker, whose back was turned to all three of us, finished filling the order and then, for some inexplicable reason, glanced at the LCD screen displaying "46."

"Forty-seven?" he said

Grandma Haggard immediately stepped forward. "Right here," she said.

"Can I help you?" said the worker, having not a clue that I had been waiting.

Too stunned to say anything, and not having the energy to argue with a senior citizen, I opted to let her demand a quarter pound of pastrami and pepper jack cheese while I waited. However, it was the first time I ever looked at a kielbasa and considered using it as a weapon.

Scenes like this play out endlessly as Americans search for a way - any way - to avoid the simple task of waiting. I stay in a ton of hotels and still marvel at the jockeying for position that occurs at check-in desks. Las Vegas is the only city where the hotel employees appear to have gotten together and found a solution. Velvet ropes are usually found in the lobbies, FORCING guests to form a single file line and wait for the next available receptionist.

Hotels in other cities either can't spring for velvet or relish the idea of a fight breaking out in front of them. Often I approach a desk to see three employees helping guests. My strategy is to wait in front of the center clerk; not DIRECTLY in front but leaving myself about 10 feet of space. It's my way of saying, "I'm in line for whomever is available next."

But invariably another guest saunters up, assumes I have a special affection for the center attendant and parks him or herself directly in front of another clerk. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that clerk is available within seconds, while I wait as the guest in front of me reviews his bill with the concentration of a brain surgeon.

Finally, there is the airport, truly the Mecca of unorganized lines. Despite repeated warnings by airline personnel of "board only when your row is called," "do not congregate in the boarding area," and "I WILL PERSONALLY RAM A SHOE DOWN THE THROAT OF ANYONE WHO SEEMS TO THINK THE PLANE WILL LEAVE WITHOUT THEM IF THEY DON'T GET ON THIS INSTANT," the mess continues.

And that's if the plane is on time!

Ever waited in a line full of people who are being rebooked(the airline industry's word for "we screwed up big time"? You start in a "line." Four minutes later that line has become a "clump" as irate passengers scream into their cell phones trying to get a faster response from the airline's help desk. Upon hanging up they resume their place in what has now turned from a "clump" into an "angry mob."

Is there a solution to this madness? Personally I think everyone in this country should be forced to watch images of starving Third World residents, waiting patiently in broiling sun for hours just to receive food, something far more relevant than an airline seat. Let's hope those scenes never play out here.

I'm off to San Antonio this week. I'll be flying American Airlines and staying at a Hyatt hotel.

Thankfully there will be no deli runs on this trip.

Hey, I'm Tiger Woods! Wiiiiii

2009-08-21T11:35:00.007-05:00

When I was 11 my parents relented and purchased the hottest game in America at the time. This was a huge step for them as they had never been big believers in following the masses, so to speak. While other kids sported the coolest jeans, I was wearing Sears Tuff Skins. When it came time to buy me a bike, the 10-speed models were off limits, for reasons never explained to me. Instead I pedaled furiously on a turquoise-colored Schwinn with a seat shaped like an enormous banana. My new mode of transportation had a single speed, one that Schwinn engineers deemed suitable for going up AND down hills. If Lance Armstrong ever rode that bike, he would probably dismount after five minutes and say, “I’ve had chemotherapy and I’ve ridden Greg’s bike. Chemo is slightly worse.”

Which is why it was a great surprise when, under our Christmas tree in 1973, was a box labeled “Pong.”

Pong represented America’s foray into the world of video gaming once it was determined that kids would go absolutely bonkers watching two white dots on a TV screen with a smaller white dot bouncing between them. The sticks were supposed to be rackets and the smaller dot was, if you used every inch of your imagination, a ball. Using knobs on a control panel, the players moved the large dots up and down, hoping they would collide with the smaller dot and send it ricocheting to the other side. When the “ball” got past one of the “rackets,” the player scored a point. An annoying “pong” sound accompanied each collision of dot on dot.

My sister and I played pong until our vision was so blurred that everything resembled a white dot. I once spent three hours playing and then walked away from the game, only to feel as if an army of snowballs was headed my way even though it was August. Yes, Pong was truly a hit.

Realizing that American kids were very content to sit inside staring at television screens all day, game developers got to work creating numerous and more addictive games. Pong was followed by Space Invaders, which gave way to Pac Man and Donkey Kong. These games were cute and served their purpose of giving kids carpal tunnel syndrome by the time they hit puberty.

But the gaming industry wanted more. Yes, it was time to actually experience the game rather than simply play it.

Enter the Nintendo Wii.

Launched in 2006, the Wii is to the current generation of kids what Pong was to ‘70s children. The only real difference is that Pong was played for hours while today’s kids play Wii for weeks, sometimes without stopping to use the bathroom or eat.

Because Wii was the hottest, most popular, most HAVE TO HAVE IT OR I’LL DIE game, it naturally was item number one on both kids’ Christmas lists. Santa delivered it the morning of December 25, 2007 and I didn’t see my kids again until New Year’s Eve. Privately I wanted them to continue playing until the ball actually dropped in Times Square just so I could say, “Hey you two, I haven’t seen you in a YEAR!”

Ha ha, that dad guy. He is hilarious!

Video game experts (there’s a job I would love to have) feel Wii promotes hand eye coordination and even passes for exercise among today’s young couch potato set, simply because you can stand up to play it. Hey, getting kids to stand today is a major accomplishment!

Not only did my kids stand but they quickly improved their elbow muscles by swinging the Wii remotes around like maniacs. In no time they were experts at every game on the “Wii Play” disc that Santa also dropped off. I watched in amazement, silently vowing to never pick up a remote and join them in the Wii versions of pool, skeet shooting and ping-pong although Wii ping-pong looked a lot cooler than ‘70s pong.

Of course they never asked me to join them.

Eventually the kids began stockpiling Wii games with the same speed they collect hair scrunchees. I can’t walk five feet in my house without seeing a colored, twisted, discarded ponytail holder on the floor, the steps, or in unexplained places like the front porch. I interpret that to mean they were so disgusted with their hairstyles that they abandoned them before even entering the house.

Wii Play gave way to games with more outrageous instructions and goals. Their current favorite is MarioKart which, as far as I can tell, is something that every parent should destroy once their child begins Driver’s Ed. Players race through different tracks, employing tactics such as “Mega Mushroom,” which allows them to flatten opponents; and POW BLOCK, causing opponents to spin wildly out of control.

Compared to MarioKart, NASCAR is like idling in neutral.

A year went by and I stuck to my goal of avoiding Wii. It’s not that I thought the game was stupid; I shunned Wii for the same reason I passed on cocaine in college.

I was afraid I might actually like it.

When Pac-man and its daughter, Ms. Pac-Man, hit the arcades in the early ‘80s, I pumped a year’s worth of tuition into the coin slot. I just couldn’t get enough of a large yellow-mouthed dot racing through a maze eating smaller yellow dots and, occasionally, moving fruit. Pac-man was my addiction and I only stopped upon graduating and going to work at a newspaper, which fortunately did not have Pac-Man anywhere on premises. That would have made for some interesting conversations with my editor.

Hey Schwem, the cops just found a body in a forest preserve. Get moving.
Hang on, I’m on level nine!

Now I work from home, my office being exactly one level above the Wii console. Often as I attempt to mine humor from a blank PC screen, I hear the Wii from beneath the floor, making mind-numbing “Wii sounds.” Yet my annoyance usually gives way to a smile as I hear my daughters shrieking with delight and playing happily together, without the arguments that invariably accompany sibling activities.

I decided to investigate the Wii phenomenon further, productivity and potential addiction be damned!

One evening, while accompanying my daughters to rent a movie at a local video store – an event that ALWAYS results in an argument – I passed a lengthy row of Wii games that could be rented for the steep price of $8.99. On the lower shelf, smiling up at me with a club in his hands, was none other than Tiger Woods.

I bent down to examine Tiger Woods PGA Tour 09 All Play, a game that promised the feeling of playing golf like Tiger Woods. After glancing around the store to make sure none of my neighbors had entered, I snatched the game and made my way to the checkout counter, determined to improve my game with the help of Tiger.

Now I have never been a huge fan of Tiger Woods. Maybe it’s because he makes a frustrating game look so easy; maybe it’s because he has a hot wife or maybe it’s just because he’s named “Tiger.” Woods’ dad Earl definitely knew what he was doing when he nicknamed his son. No other ferocious jungle animal sounds as cool when applied to a human. “Lion” Mickelson and “Jaguar” Els just don’t have the same ring as “Tiger” Woods.

On a muggy summer morning, while alone in my basement I entered the Wii revolution, hoping to play 18 holes at Pebble Beach, courtesy of the Wii.

I was fortunate to play the real Pebble Beach in 2005, presenting a round to my dad as a Father’s Day gift. Getting a tee time meant making numerous phone calls and finally securing a slot four months in advance. It also meant forking over $850 for five hours of enjoyment (and pain, considering I decided to play some of my worst golf that day).

Five seconds after launching Tiger Woods PGA Tour 09 All Play, I realized this was going to be more difficult, more time consuming and quite possibly more expensive than playing the actual course. I say more expensive because I figured I would have to rent the game at least 80 times before mastering its intricacies.

First I was required to stare at the screen and learn WHAT’S NEW in this game. In other words, what did the ‘09 version have that the ‘08 version didn’t have other than probably a higher price. Of the many features, the most intriguing to me was the addition of Hank Haney, Tiger’s real life coach. The on-screen graphics promised that Haney “will help improve your skills with the new Club Tuner features which will allow you to fine tune your swing with each type of club.”

Keep in mind that this is Wii golf I was about to play as opposed to actual golf.

Nevertheless, a free lesson from Haney seemed like a bargain for $8.99. I had just played an actual round of golf the day before. Although I hit the ball decently, my putting was horrible and my short irons weren’t that accurate. Perhaps Haney could correct these flaws.

Upon entering “tutorial mode,” Haney told me I needed to “master the control.” By that, he meant I needed to learn how to take a full swing. This seemed impossible considering I was “swinging” the Wii remote, a skinny piece of white plastic slightly larger than a candy bar.

I was told I would only complete the lesson if I hit the ball 280 yards into the fairway – with a three wood.

I have never done this in my life, even when playing high-altitude courses and landing tee shots on cart paths heading downhill.

My first shot traveled 215 yards into a ravine, proving that Wii was nothing if not realistic. The Wii said, “Good try but you can do better.” Undaunted, I split the fairway with my next shot, which traveled exactly 280 yards. I was done with lesson one.

Lesson two from Haney covered (are you ready?) actually aiming the ball. I would have thought this might have been covered in lesson one but obviously Haney gets paid by the hour. The pop-up text on the screen instructed me to “zoom, press the A button. Tap the A button twice to jump directly to the target circle. Move the target circle by holding the B button and dragging it to the desired location. You may also aim by pressing the Control pad up, down, left or right.”

Up until now, my only golf instruction had been, “head down, knees bent.”

As I were reading the on-screen tome, a silhouetted figure of Woods himself hovered behind the text. I saw Wood address the ball and then step away as if he were about to scream profanities at a photographer or overzealous fan. Again, Nintendo succeeded at making Wii Tiger as life-like as real Tiger, who has been known to emit “F” bombs after poor shots and berate fans that dare to photograph the world’s most famous athlete as he works.

The text continued: “Press the A button to zoom to the target circle. Move the target circle to the green and aim for the flag.”

I swung and hit the ball straight but over the flag, over the green and probably over the parking lot behind the green. “Try again,” the Wii said.

My next dozen shots were carbon copies. And here is where I realized how annoying this Haney guy was. I was not going to be allowed to move on until I had mastered a straight, accurate lob wedge shot to the green. In vain I looked for the “skip this section,” “move on” “advance” or “forward” buttons but to no avail. I pushed A. I pushed B. I pushed A and B together. Nothing. My only options were to keep trying or rip the Wii wires out of the wall.

I concentrated with intensity that would have made Woods and Haney proud. I also pressed the B button and somehow dragged the target circle. This proved to be excellent strategy as my 13th shot hit the green.

“Great shot,” said Haney

Lesson three involved hitting a manual draw/fade. In golfer’s terms, a draw makes the ball go slightly left while a fade sends it slightly right. Notice the term slightly. Unfortunately, your average golfer doesn’t do anything slightly; he hits the ball far left – a hook – or sends it careening wildly right, also known as a slice. But Haney seemed to think I could make my ball dance with the grace of a Michael Jackson moonwalk if I just followed the simple instructions:

“Press the A button to zoom to the target circle. Point to a colored Draw or Fade handle and hold the B button. Move the target circle left or right for desired draw or fade.”

My target to complete the lesson was the fairway beyond the trees. In other words, I was supposed to draw (hook) the ball around the trees and land it in the fairway.

I swung the Wii candy bar and watched in horror as my ball passed through one, then two, then three patches of trees. An all-too-familiar rustling sound accompanied each collision.

“Try again,” Wii stated.

I dunked two balls in the Wii creek before landing in the elusive fairway. Only then was I told that I could avoid the entire “press A, hold B, drag circle” approach and draw and fade the ball simply by twisting the Wii remote to the right or left after I swung.

I glanced at my watch. I had been under Haney’s expert tutelage for slightly more than an hour. The lesson was far from over.

In the next few minutes I learned to put spin on the ball for more distance. I learned how to hit a shot with partial power, which meant not swinging the Wii with all my might.

Finally I moved to the final lesson…putting. I knew this was going to be the most complex Wii movement because there were six tutorial screens. My TV showed a putting green. A grid draped the green and green, blue, yellow and red dots danced across it, moving at different speeds and rolling in different directions. It felt like I was about to launch a missile onto enemy soil in Afghanistan.

Alas, I was just learning to putt.

Haney translated the grid: Green meant the putting surface was flat. Blue meant a downhill slope. Yellow an uphill slope and red an EXTREMELY uphill slope.

I could “preview” the putt by pressing the “minus” button on the remote or simply clicking the on-screen “Putt Preview” button but was sternly informed that I’d get only one preview per putt. If I requested another preview, I assumed Tiger would appear and swear at me.

Haney’s instruction continued: “Point the Wii remote down and follow the natural putting motion. (Haney has obviously never seen me putt). Using the recommended percentage on the HUD, try to match that to the percentage on the Putt Power Meter.”

I searched the screen in vain for the meaning of “HUD” but never found it. I assumed it was the thermometer-shaped thing that hovered on the left side of the screen. A bar rose and fell depending on how far back I drew the remote. Haney instructed me to “make the putt and begin your golfing career.” I was overjoyed knowing that my lesson with this golf tyrant was about to come to an end.

And it did end, but not before I hit a five-foot put 3.2, 2.9, 1.4 and 4.7 feet before holing it on the next try. At long last I was ready to play Pebble Beach.

I selected “one golfer” mode seeing that there was nobody else in the basement. I also chose “stroke play” since I had no idea what “Rings” or “Stableford” meant. I just know I have never turned to my golf buddies on the first tee and said, “Guys, let’s shake it up and play Stableford today.”

I also could choose from a litany of pro golfers with names I recognized: DiMarco, Furyk, Goosen, Parnevik or the great Woods himself.

I opted for the world’s most entertaining golfer, John Daly, he of the massive drives, numerous divorces, multiple addictions and skyrocketing weight. I couldn’t wait to see how life-like Nintendo made him.

Nintendo, it turned out, was very kind. A slimmer-than-I-have-ever-seen Daly strolled to the first tee. As he did, the Wii announcers made their audio debuts.

“Good afternoon. Kelly Tilman here for EA Sports,” came the voice of a woman I assumed was Kelly Tilman. Moments later she was joined by a British chap named Sam Torrance.

I would soon grow to despise these two more than Haney.

My loathing of them did not start immediately as I (or should I say Daly?) addressed my first tee shot and swung mightily. Even Torrance was impressed.

“This should work out good. Down the right side of the fairway.”

The Wii crowd roared. Actually roared! Haney’s lessons were paying off.

I had 110 yards to the pin. While I pondered my options, a “caddy tip” popped onscreen:

Use your spin to help the ball towards the target on the green. While your ball is in flight, choose a direction on the control panel and shake the Wii Remote to generate spin.

I swung. I shook. I hit the ball 120 yards; just on the green’s back edge. Daly looked dejected but chose not to show it by chugging a beer or firing up a cigarette.

Now it was time to chip. The bizarre looking series of balls slithered across the green, moving at alternate speeds and direction. I studied them intently, for reasons I could not explain.

“Please just swing,” said Sam.

No kidding. Apparently I was irritating Mr. Torrance. Flustered, I swung, rolling to about six feet. Time to putt.

I gauged the putt, checked the still unknown HUD thingy and stroked.

“That’s going nowhere,” said Tilman. “This is for bogey.”

I putted again, moving the ball approximately eight inches.

“I’ve seen many poor putts in my day and this ranks right up there.” Tilman droned.

I vowed then and there to someday track down Kelly Tilman and ask why, if she was such an expert, wasn’t she on tour as opposed to whoring herself by doing stupid Wii commentary?

Torrance will also become a stalking target, a decision I made once he said, “He’s just trying to get out of here with a double.”

I putted three more times, never moving the ball more than one foot. Even Tilman appeared to turn sympathetic.

“This to finally end a terrible hole,” she whispered as I stood over my eighth putt. That one failed as well and I was told my shot limit had been exceeded. The Wii scorecard showed 11 as Daly trudged to the second hole although I expected him to make a detour to the nearest Hooters.

I decided to end my round there. I’m not sure if it was because of the 11, the barrage of insults from Tilman and Torrance or the fact that I had spent just under two hours playing one hole.

I did know that I now possessed the knowledge to submit my own game idea to Nintendo. Once it’s approved and available at the video store, I will invite my kids to join me but I doubt they will have any interest in playing…WEEKEND HACKER GOLF 2009.

Instead, I will invite three friends over to give them the experience of playing real golf. We will meet in my basement some time in February, when actual courses in my town are buried under mountains of snow and changing a furnace filter counts as a recreational activity.

From the moment I fire up Weekend Hacker, players will see obvious differences. For starters, there is no tutorial from Haney or any golf professional for that matter. The reason? Weekend hackers don’t take lessons, have never taken lessons and will never take a lesson until the day they die. Lessons cost money and that means less bucks to spend on beer.

Instead, we will move right to choosing a course. In fact, we can choose from a litany of public golf courses. We scroll through the list, eventually agreeing on “Broken Eagle.” The on-screen graphics gives us a tour of the first hole, a 380-yard par four featuring burned out fairways the color of straw, a creek with no water and a green littered with ball marks and several randomly placed cigarette butts.

We choose our players: I opt for “Sal”, a 20-year plumbing veteran whose golf wardrobe consists of a yellow tank top, frayed jean shorts and golf spikes worn without socks. My next-door neighbor chooses “Frank”, a retired police officer who has played every day since leaving the force yet still can’t break 100. Perhaps it’s the cigarette dangling from his mouth that is interfering with his swing.

My golfing buddy from across town selects “Shanks.” His bag consists of two drivers, 13 irons, four putters and a hybrid 6 wood that he recently purchased from eBay. Shanks also plays exclusively with outrageously expensive balls designed to “fly longer, truer and straighter” than other balls. Unfortunately they still sink in water.

Finally, my neighbor down the block prefers “Wes the Press.” His pockets contain tees, coins, ball marks and a roll of hundred dollar bills. Game on!

Our foursome ambles to the first tee. Before anybody takes a swing, the “gambling assistant” window pops onscreen. “Do you want to play a five dollar Nassau with a press? Click A for yes.”

Wes clicks A. Another screen appears.

“Do you want to play sandies, barkies, greenies and Arnies?”

Shanks clicks A. Game officially on!

Sal steps to the first tee, addressing the ball with utmost concentration. As he takes the club back, Frank’s cell phone erupts. Sal’s shot is a towering slice that hits three trees and comes to rest near the refinery that borders Broken Eagle’s first fairway.

Frank is next. Cigarette firmly in mouth he stares at the ball on the tee for what seems like an eternity.

“Today,” Wes yells.

Frank swings. The Weekend Hacker distance meter measures his shot at 45 yards with a tailwind.

Shanks chooses his new Taylor Made R9 driver and unleashes a blast that appears straight yet takes a hard left 90 yards in flight and ends up in a church parking lot where Mass is just letting out.

Luckily one new feature of Weekend Hacker 2009 is the MOT, short for “Mulligan Off Tee.” Each player can use it once. Shanks chooses a mulligan and uncorks precisely the same shot.

Finally it is Wes’ turn. His drive is pure and straight yet bounces off an exposed sprinkler head and caroms into the trees. We don’t hear Tilman or Torrance providing commentary. Instead, we hear a lone word coming from the television.

“FUCK!”

As our foursome scatters to play our second (or in Shanks’ case, his third) shot, another new feature appears. It’s JESSICA THE CART BABE! Appearing out of nowhere in a golf cart, and wearing short shorts and a white halter top sans bra, she dispenses Budweisers, Bloody Marys, sunflower seeds and cigars for our group and promises to return by the third hole.

Eventually we make our way to the green. As Frank stands over a 12-foot putt, the gambling assistant appears again. “Would anybody like to press?”

Wes clicks A.

Frank puts down his cigarette, and slightly rearranges his line, aiming for the spike mark six inches outside the hole. He strokes the putt and nails it! His triple bogey seven wins the hole. Sal and Wes had snowmans and Shanks “picked up” on the advice of the “slow play wizard,” another new feature.

The second hole is the number one handicap hole, due in part to the construction crane from the soon-to-be-completed condominium development that runs along the fairway on the right. The crane comes into play on a slice.

The foursome has plenty of time to ponder their options. For the slow play wizard pops onscreen again:

“There is a 45-minute backup on the second tee. Please be patient.”

Where the heck is Jessica?

We are all sick

2009-07-25T22:21:00.005-05:00

It’s been just over two weeks since we last heard about Alexa Longuiera and, unless you had fallen down a manhole during that time, you probably know about her.

Actually, if you had fallen down a manhole, chances are you are Alexa Longuiera.

The 15 year old from Staten Island was behaving like a typical teenager on July 11, meaning she was walking down the sidewalk and preparing to send a text message because that's all teenagers do these days. The text was not coming from her phone but from a phone that a friend had just handed her.

That’s right, she was with a friend, making the ensuing incident even more unbelievable (and hilarious if you are a comedian who has devoted the last 15 years to writing jokes about technology)

As Ms. Longuiera continued to tap away at her phone, and her friend exhibited all the awareness of a hibernating bear, neither noticed an open manhole on the sidewalk. Suddenly Ms. Longuiera was gone, albeit temporarily. After plunging into the hole, she climbed out via a ladder that, up until July 11, had only been used by sewer workers.

Thankfully she suffered only minor injuries yet that didn’t stop her parents from announcing to all media outlets that they planned to sue the city for not properly marking the manhole with a sign that, in all likelihood, should have said, "STOP TEXTING AND LOOK DOWN!" I have been unable to find any information on whether a lawsuit has actually been filed but it sounds like a dispute that could easily be handled by Judge Judy.

We all know that text messaging is a distraction. Texting while someone is speaking with you is downright rude. Texting while driving can lead to accidents. Too much texting can lead to carpal tunnel syndrome. In short, texting is a disease.

But as far as I’m concerned, texting is just one of the litany of afflictions that has been created as a result of our infatuation with technology. Behold, let me introduce many other illnesses that are sweeping the world, much like swine flu. The only difference is that wearing a mask can prevent swine flu. These “cyber-diseases” can only be avoided by eliminating technology in your life. In other words, they are here to stay.

Friend overloadus – Sudden memory loss that comes from having too many Facebook friends and being unable to remember who they are, what connection they have to you and why you even befriended them in the first place.

Twitosterone – A chemical that oozes through your body, causing you to actually feel as if you are tweeting something of interest, even though your last three Twitter posts were, “Just ordered large latte” immediately followed by “latte arrived” and “drinking latte now. Mmmm good.”

Skype-i-sode – The horrible feeling that occurs when the Internet connection you are using to make a free international call using Skype goes down. Symptoms include loudly repeating profanities, smashing of keyboard with fist and the horrible realization that your “free” call is about to get VERY expensive.

Over-endorse – Similar to a drug overdose except the “user” has succumbed to the temptations of asking too many LinkedIn contacts to endorse his or her work. Treatable via an intervention program in which all the contacts confront the user in a locked room and confess they cannot remember him.

Accountus Interruptus – Being notified that an email account has been cancelled due to lack of use. Primarily occurs when the victim has set up accounts via Yahoo, Google, AOL, MSN and Hotmail yet has suddenly neglected all of them in favor of Facebook.

EBay Dysfunction – When an item the victim posted on eBay expires with no bids, no questions and no “watchers.” Also known as “shooting blanks.”

Match.con – Posting an on line dating service photo that bears absolutely no resemblance to your real life appearance.

ISomnia – Suffered by anyone who stays up late downloading needless applications for their iPhone

YouTubeaphobia – The fear that the boss will enter while you and your fellow employees are watching YouTube videos

World Wide Webisode – A hallucinatory incident where the victim is convinced he is being watched by the team that created Google Earth.

And finally…

Longuiera-itis – Running, crashing or falling into anything while text messaging.

Twitter, I have a reque

2009-06-25T00:04:00.002-05:00

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

2009-05-26T14:39:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-16T09:21:00.003-05:00

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!

2009-04-29T15:04:00.004-05:00

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

2009-04-17T11:50:00.003-05:00

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

2009-04-06T09:50:00.005-05:00

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

2009-04-01T09:52:00.008-05:00

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.”

It's story time!

2009-03-10T07:30:00.004-05:00

President Obama’s main theme these days seems to be action. We must become a nation of “doers,” of people who seize the day. We must volunteer, get involved, be self-starters and chart our own destinies.

President Obama obviously knows nothing about the Kindle.

The Kindle is threatening to do to books what the iPod did to music. It’s currently the “must have” gadget of people with disposable income. (Note: At last count, there were approximately 347 people living in America with disposable income. And that’s before the market opened today).

Amazon.com developed the Kindle. I was shocked when I read that because I never realized Amazon.com developed anything. I thought Amazon.com just sold stuff that other companies developed and took a commission. But apparently deep within the warehouses of Amazon lies a team of developers who recently looked at the millions of books piling up on the shelves and said, “there’s gotta be a better way.”

Behold, the Kindle!

The Kindle is a gadget about the size of a paperback book that lets users download books electronically – approximately 1,500 books in case you are wondering.

Now I consider myself a voracious reader but I’m not sure I’ve read 1,500 books in my life, and that’s counting See Spot Run and the entire Dr. Seuss library. If I read a book a month - no small feat considering the January issue of Sports Illustrated is still sitting on my nightstand untouched - it would still take me 125 years to complete the Kindle library. Which makes me wonder why, just 14 months after introducing the Kindle, Amazon.com has launched the Kindle 2. Surely nobody wore out their Kindle by now, did they?

But like every electronics manufacturer, Amazon wanted the Kindle to be bigger, better and pricier. And apparently it is. According to the Amazon website, the Kindle 2 boasts 25 PERCENT LONGER BATTERY LIFE and 20 PERCENT FASTER PAGE TURNS, WHATEVER THAT MEANS!

Okay, I know what it means because I sat next to a passenger on a recent flight who was “reading” the Kindle. About every 20 seconds he pushed a button on the side of the screen. Numerous shades of gray words dissolved and were replaced by other numerous gray words. In Kindle terms, that signifies a “page turn.”

In spite of the sarcasm I’m heaping upon the Kindle, I actually can see the benefits of owning one, particularly since I’m a road warrior. My briefcase always contains my laptop, some business cards, a few contracts and my set list for whatever stand-up comedy gig I happen to be traveling to. But when I sling my bag over my shoulder, I literally hear bones crunching, cartilage shifting and joints creaking. The extra weight comes from all the magazines that I subscribe to yet never have time to read at home. Therefore, I shove them into the bag and try and read all of them before the plane touches down in Los Angeles, Columbus, Orlando or wherever. As I write this, there are still back issues of Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly and Rolling Stone in my briefcase. Suffice it to say that I prefer “light” reading on airplanes. If I see somebody on a plane reading The New Republic or the New England Journal of Medicine, I know it’s best to leave that person alone.

So I thought the Kindle would be a cool purchase. I could download all those magazines into one 10 ounce, quarter of an inch wide gadget. I’d stuff the latest Harry Potter novel in there as well. If the plane was delayed and I was sitting on the runway for hours, I could sample other books on my short list including A Thousand Splendid Suns, The Lovely Bones, Tuesdays with Morrie and Born Standing Up. These books would live inside Kindle the same way 15 unwatched episodes of Friday Night Lights live inside my Tivo. I’d never be bored again!

I went to Amazon’s website and pulled up the Kindle. Actually, there’s no need to pull up the Kindle. It is such a popular item that it literally leaps off the screen as soon as you enter the site. My mouse hovered over the “add to shopping cart” icon as I read the features. Okay, the battery life issue was a bit disconcerting. Although the Kindle 2 boasts “25 percent more battery life,” I’d still hate to see the Kindle shut down right in the middle of a Voldemort vs. Harry Potter duel. Also, TEACHERS BEWARE: YOUR STUDENTS NO LONGER WILL REPORT THAT THE DOG ATE THEIR HOMEWORK. INSTEAD, THEY WILL SAY, “MY KINDLE DIED.”

Still, I figured I could live with the battery issue. Hey, what’s one more adapter in my briefcase? I read on. The site featured UR, a Stephen King novel “written exclusively for Kindle.” How a novel can be written exclusively for anything is beyond me. It’s the same words, right? General Motors never developed a car “exclusively for middle-aged men with large bank accounts and low self-esteem.” Wait a minute. Porsche did.

I continued reading, still ready to whip out my credit card and start filling in the fields. Then I saw it. The feature that throws Obama’s “seize the day, be a self starter, yes we can” theme out the window.

The Kindle actually reads to you.

I’m not kidding.

The minds at Amazon have added some weird feature called, simply, “read-to-me.” According to the website, Kindle can read every newspaper, magazine, blog, and book out loud to you, unless the feature is “disabled by the rights holder,” which is another phrase for “unless you drop it.”

The Kindle video on the Amazon website says the read-to-me feature is great for when the user wants to “take a break” from reading. The video showed a woman on the beach who was enjoying reading the Kindle and then, for reasons unknown, decided to pop in her headphones and be read to. A computer-driven voice took over the task, spewing out words in a voice that sounded like one emanating from that reel-to-reel film projector that was wheeled into my eighth-grade science class. You know the one? It always broke down before the film ended and had to be repaired by one of three kids in the school AV club.

Sure the concept of being read to is nothing new. Books on tape have been around for years. But I never bought into the idea of buying a book and listening to it while driving. Maybe it’s because I don’t drive that far and it would take forever for James Earl Jones to tell me which diabolical lawyer was behind the latest John Grisham crime.

The Kindle 2 just seems different. Maybe the “2” in Kindle 2 stands for two years old because that’s what I would probably feel like if a computer gadget started to read to me and even turned the pages. I’d feel like I should be sitting Indian style on a rug somewhere, poking somebody while waiting for snack time.

I truly had high hopes for us as a nation of readers. J.K. Rowling’s books had kids putting down the remote and reading. Oprah’s Book Club shot unknown authors to the top of the bestseller lists and thrust their books into the hands of millions. The books were actually read by- as opposed to read to - Oprah’s followers.

Now what’s going to happen?

If we all get used to being read to, what will happen to book clubs? Instead of meeting monthly at a member’s house to actually discuss the book, why not just gather ‘round the Kindle while it tells the story? Bring some booze since your hands are now free!

What about libraries? I’ve always loved the idea of entering a library and hoping that a book I really wanted was not checked out. If it truly is on the shelf, I feel victorious, as if I had found a piece of buried treasure before anybody else discovered it. Hey, you wanna read this book? Get in line buddy ‘cause it’s MINE!

Plus libraries allow you to check out books for free. As far as I can tell, ain’t nothing free on the Kindle. You pay for everything you download. Books, magazines, even newspapers such as USA Today. I always thought USA Today was a free newspaper that showed up outside my hotel room door. Not according to Amazon.

I wish technology would make up its mind. Do we want to do things ourselves or do we want everything done for us? We pump our own gas, bag our groceries, and check ourselves in at airports. We’ve learned to bank on line, book our own plane tickets and program our DVD players without help.

But has that truly made us a better society? Or a smarter one? Sure we all know how to use Microsoft Word but the spell checker has turned us into a nation of lousy spellers. Can’t balance your checkbook? No need to if you’ve got Quicken. Can’t play an instrument? Buy GarageBand from Apple.

I have two girls that inherited their dad’s love for reading. My sixth grader would rather get a Barnes & Noble gift card than an iTunes card for her birthday. I’m told my first grader reads at a sixth grade level. But both also are growing up in a world of burgeoning technology and that bothers me. In six years, when my eldest heads off to college, it’s quite possible the Kindle will be in her luggage, ready to download every textbook on her course list.

God, I hope she actually reads them.

The Obama-berry

2009-03-08T07:46:00.001-05:00

I voted for President Obama even though I’m convinced he can’t solve all the crises currently facing this country. The current wrangling over the stimulus package is proof even though Obama has done a fine job of selling it, appearing everywhere but The View to bolster support.

Still, Obama has already proved he is a tough negotiator. For just hours after he took his hand off the Bible (twice), word came down that our new president had indeed triumphed in a very controversial debate.

He gets to keep his Blackberry.

Just in case the nation’s comedians are still searching for ways to poke fun at the nation’s first African-American president, look no more. The idea of Obama texting Michelle during boring Cabinet meetings, or consulting his calendar to see that, yes, today he is scheduled to meet with the Iranian president, is hilarious simply from a visual standpoint. Wait until things settle down in Washington and comedians actually start writing about the guy.

I was excited when I heard Obama was hooked on this device because it proved I had something in common with the leader of the free world. I had nothing in common with his predecessor. I never owned a baseball team, never lived on a ranch, never wore cowboy boots, never bombed a foreign country and never doubled the size of our national debt. Okay, there have been a few times that I didn’t pay my credit card balance in full. Does that count?

Obama admits to being a “crackberry,” meaning he is addicted to the annoying little device. I share this trait with him. I can’t do without my Blackberry for the following reasons:

1) I’m self employed

2) I travel extensively

3) I have no staff or secretary to handle my schedule for me

4) I feel comfortable knowing that I can get in touch with anybody at any time and vice versa. Yes, that means I might get a call at a restaurant or while coaching a Little League game but at least I know that a potential customer can always contact me.

Wait a minute. Now that I look at this list, it seems the only thing that Obama and I have in common is number two. As I write this, the news has broken that Obama has scheduled the first of what will be many overseas trips. Granted, it’s to Canada but that seems like a safe place to start. The last time I checked, we hadn’t deployed any troops to Vancouver or taken over a ski resort.

Seriously, why does Obama need a Blackberry? Unlike me, he’s not self-employed. He works for the U.S. Government, which currently is laying off employees at a slower pace than Boeing. Right now it seems like an okay place to work.

Furthermore, his job comes with a staff that is fairly efficient, even if they occasionally fail to conduct background checks on cabinet appointees for minor indiscretions such as FAILURE TO PAY INCOME TAX. But every time I see Obama, he’s got about five people attached to his hip. Six, if you count Vice President Biden. That staff makes sure our president is always in touch.

I looked at my Blackberry’s home screen and wondered which applications Obama might use. Text messaging? Doubtful. As I said, Obama’s whereabouts are known ALL THE TIME. Secretary of State Clinton will never have to frantically text “Where R U?” to the president.

Likewise, that makes his calendar function useless. When you’re the president, you don’t need to be reminded, via a vibration on your hip, that the president of Afghanistan is landing in two hours, the gun control bill is scheduled for debate and you have a parent-teacher conference. In fact, during the middle of a recent Obama speech in Fort Myers, he was handed a note saying the stimulus bill cleared the Senate. A note! Real Blackberry uses don’t use notes. They get IM’s and interrupt whatever they are doing to read them.

What about contacts? Somehow, I think the home, work and cell number for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi should be SOMEWHERE in the White House. Contacting her should not require Obama whipping out his Blackberry hours before a crucial vote and scrolling to the “P’s.”

Email? The White House has made a big deal out of proclaiming that Obama’s Blackberry will be, in the words of his advisors, “super duper secure” and will be limited to his “inner circle.” In today’s hack happy environment, we know that “inner circle” means Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, Defense Secretary Robert Gates and Jimmy, an eight year old from Poughkeepsie, NY, who will soon penetrate Obama’s Blackberry simply to get extra credit in school. That’s going to happen and when it does, Obama’s email app will disappear faster than Osama bin Laden.

So what does that leave him with? Video? Voice recording? This is a man who is trailed by cameras and microphones 24 hours a day. If he wants a video clip, all he has to do is ask CNN for a dub. I believe the network’s policy is 50 bucks and a two-week wait.

Then I came to the final icon: GAMES. Now it made sense. The president of the United States must have some kick ass games on his Blackberry for it’s the only reason he truly needs it. My Blackberry came with something called Brickbreaker in which you try to bounce a little ball off a brick wall and destroy it. Rumor has it President Bush referred to Brickbreaker as a “weapon of mass destruction.”

I’m not a serious game player so I have resisted the urge to download other games for the Blackberry such as bowling, blackjack, hockey and god knows what else. But I suspect Obama has a few games on his device. In fact I suspect Obama, in addition to being the first African-American president, is also the first “gamer president.” I base this theory on three words:

Sasha and Malia.

Obama’s daughters are 10 and 7. My daughters are 11 and 6. It’s safe to assume the First Children play the same games that are so popular in the Schwem house. It’s also safe to assume that when the Obamas moved into their new White House digs, those games came with them. I highly doubt the girls left Guitar Hero in Chicago. It’s probably hooked up to a flat screen in the Lincoln Bedroom, much to the dismay of the White House curator.

Uh, Mr. President, our sixteenth president slept here. Might I suggest another room for the Wii?

My kids received Guitar Hero for Christmas and, although I’m not a gamer, I have used it as a stress reliever during working hours. It’s one of the advantages of working from home. Obama works from home as well which means all of Sasha and Malia’s high tech toys are at his disposal. Who knows? Guitar Hero may be just out the door and down the hall from the Oval Office. Obama played basketball on election day so I can easily see him strapping on a plastic guitar and pounding out licks to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” just before discussing the auto bailout. Hopefully his children aren’t standing behind him saying, “Daddy, can I have a turn?”

Obama has made no secret of portraying himself as a hip president. The Blackberry is just one example although, if Obama were really hip, he’d have the iPhone. Still, a president who embraces technology like Obama is both cool and disconcerting. I’m fine with Obama keeping his Blackberry as long as it’s not a distraction. Right now we need a president who is focused at all times. George Bush was portrayed as aloof and he never carried a Blackberry. Obama’s passion for the device means he will have to resist the temptation to play games during Cabinet debates, subtly check football scores or worst of all, answer emails with the following subject line:

“Kim Jong II wants to be your friend on Facebook.”

Help! I've been furloughed!!

2009-01-26T12:51:00.007-06:00

Last week I had dinner in Washington DC with some old cronies from my days as a South Florida journalist. Of the six who attended, two were still in the struggling newspaper business. One worked for Gannett, the world’s largest newspaper publisher, which recently announced that all employees would have to take a weeklong furlough.

In other words, a week of unemployment.

As our country grapples with the worst economic mess since (choose one):

A) The Great Depression
B) The Boston Tea Party
C) The New York Yankees

it’s amazing how the words used to describe unemployment have multiplied exponentially. While companies like Gannett “furlough,” others “tighten their belts” while others “realign” and still others engage in “selective reduction.”

I find the last one to be the most humiliating. Imagine coming into your boss’s office one morning and being told you have been selectively reduced. I’d leave with all the dignity of a chicken embryo.

According to Gannett chairman Craig Debow, the furlough was Gannett’s way of avoiding more layoffs for an industry that is losing customers and advertising dollars faster than Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich is losing his sanity.

Note that Debow didn’t say the furlough would avoid layoffs. He said it would help avoid more layoffs. Yet my former co-worker seemed resigned to the probability that his furlough would eventually become permanent.

I tried to make light of an awkward moment.

“Maybe the furlough is just a chance for you to see whether you like being unemployed,” I said. “If not, just go to your bosses and say, ‘this unemployment thing isn’t for me. I’d really like to keep my job.’”

My friend laughed although I don’t think he found it funny. When you’re the one on the chopping block, it’s hard to laugh. More than eight percent of the current workforce can attest to that.

I don’t know what it’s like to be unemployed for I have never been fired. But I also can only vaguely remember what it’s like to have a normal job. In other words, a line of work that begins at 8, ends at 5, and usually involves sitting in traffic, a lame Christmas party and gossip.

For the past 20 years I have been self-employed. When you work for yourself, you constantly hover between having a job and being unemployed. If I perform my stand-up comedy routine for a corporation on a given day then yes, I’m employed. If I go seven days between gigs, then I guess you could say I’m unemployed. If I choose to spend those seven days combing the Internet looking for a company that could use a comedian at its next event, then I guess I’m in the job market.

I am also faced with, for the first time in several years, a work “slowdown.” The calendar is a bit leaner in 2009 than I would like. This puts me in a precarious position: Should I be thankful that at least I have SOME dates on my calendar and operate in a “business as usual” mode? Or should I assume that a work slowdown eventually will lead to a work “stoppage” and start stocking up on canned tuna fish, Hamburger Helper and Ramen Noodles?

I realized I am not even close to answering this question when I compiled a “to do” list of things to occupy my time until the economy gathers steam. I highly recommend everybody make a “to do” list. Heck, President Obama made one. Of course his includes things like “fix the financial crisis,” “end the war” and “keep Kanye West on a short leash” but at least it shows he is motivated.

If you are unemployed, your “to do” list is fairly concrete:

1) Find another job

A furloughed employee’s list is only slightly longer:

1) Realize you will soon be unemployed
2) Start looking NOW for another job

If you were selectively reduced, your list contains an element of revenge:

1) Vow never to be selectively reduced again
2) Start your own business even if that business is raking leaves by hand in a forest preserve
3) Take all the leaves you have raked and dump them on your former boss’ lawn.
4) Ring his doorbell and tell him you will selectively reduce the leaves for a fee – plus health insurance

Here’s my list. Like I said, I’m having trouble defining a theme. Optimism or panic? When in doubt, include both:

1) Start novel that has been kicking around in my head for years
2) Realize that novel will probably remain in head forever
3) Clean out following inboxes: Outlook, Yahoo mail, alternate Yahoo mail account, Google, Facebook, LinkedIn, MySpace
4) Marvel that one dedicated spammer managed to infiltrate all seven inboxes
5) Google myself repeatedly just to make sure there are plenty of available avenues to locate me.
6) Wonder why I have 23,000 hits at 4:50 p.m. and only 22,000 hits at 4:55 p.m.
7) Become temporarily depressed
8) Cheer up after reading that Google just laid off about 5,000 workers.
9) Send out eblast to every client who ever hired me in the past ten years, letting them know that I have plenty of new material and am therefore ready for a return engagement
10) Wait five minutes
11) Delete 75 percent of eblasts that bounced back because the recipients are now unemployed
12) Wonder if I should have taken that emcee job for the food company where the client wanted me to walk out dressed as a slice of cheese
13) Briefly contemplate that a guy dressed as a cheese slice might be a great central character for a novel
14) Wonder if Jerry Seinfeld is cutting HIS fee for corporate dates.
15) Convince myself that making a list really is a productive use of time
16) Log onto Facebook at 1 p.m. and see that I have five new friend requests.
17) Check out their profiles. Discover that all are unemployed, which explains why they are trolling Facebook at 1 p.m when they could be making to do lists.
18) Make new list of home projects I have been putting off because of my previously hectic schedule
19) Actually go to Home Depot to get supplies. Greet recently laid off neighbor who found another job…at Home Depot
20) Return to office, check email and get tremendously excited that a prospective clients wants to hire me for a show in late October
21) Become less excited when client wants to know if contract can include a 30-day ‘out’ clause
22) Discuss with family whether we can afford to get a dog right now
23) Take family to see “Marley and Me.” Realize that, even though the movie cost 40 bucks, I may have saved thousands of dollars because I will NEVER get a dog unless it is guaranteed not to get sick and die
24) Start writing material for an upcoming date in Vegas
25) Say a prayer and be thankful that I still get to make people laugh for a living. You can’t put a price on that.

About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous speaker. He is president of Comedy With a Byte. View clips of Greg by visiting www.comedywithabyte.com/demo.htm or viewing Greg's YouTube playlist by clicking here

Calling my daughter...Where R U?

2009-01-26T12:38:00.010-06:00

I have compiled a mental list of what I consider to be “life changing” moments. So far I have three. I would have had four had the Cubs won the World Series in 2008. But since they choked, as only the Cubs know how, the list stands at three:

1) I got married

2) My first child was born

3) Aforementioned child got her first cell phone

If, for a moment, you care to debate whether number three truly changed my life, I invite you to spend a day at my house and watch my 11-year-old daughter Natalie in action. You will no doubt leave my home only after giving me a supportive pat on the back and perhaps a bottle of vodka to help me get through the rest of my life.

I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Natalie is a sixth-grader, which means we are lengthening her leash and allowing her extra freedom. Her friends’ parents are doing the same, which explains why cell phones had become so prevalent among her peers in the past year. The car pool backseats have grown much quieter because most of her friends spend the entire ride to volleyball practice and sleepovers tapping out text messages, often to each other. Such is the case when your cell phone plan comes with UNLIMITED TEXT!!!

One by one, the girls all got phones until Natalie was convinced the only people in the world without this communication necessity was herself and a remote tribe in the Congo. She was left to peer over her friends’ shoulders or worse, use my phone to send text messages. One day I looked at my address book and names like “Lauren,” “Cheyenne,” “Ali” and “Haley” had been added.

At the beginning of the school year, we struck a deal after a lengthy discussion: keep your grades up and wait until Christmas and you will have a phone. Seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, Natalie, already an excellent student, began requesting trips to every Best Buy and Sprint store within a 50-mile radius of our home. Once inside, she pored over the phone selection the same way a gourmet chef looks at onions. Numerous phones were discarded for various reasons including “no slide out keyboard,” “not enough buttons” and “it only comes in red.” The phones all looked the same to me but I’m not eleven and therefore, have no idea what I’m talking about.

Eventually she settled on something called a “Rant” from Sprint. Oh, and she also informed us that it had to be purple. I’m not sure if purple phones get better reception but I could only imagine Alexander Graham Bell doing flip flops in his grave as he realized his history making invention was being judged based on color.

At this point, it was time for lengthy discussion number two: paying for it. We were determined to discuss this subject in detail as we have already heard horror stories from neighbors who didn’t properly explain what is and what is not included on a cell phone plan. As a result, they were greeted with thousand dollar bills for services such as “Hannah Montana’s ringtone of the day.”

We struck another deal: We buy the phone, add it to our family plan and she contributes 15 bucks a month. If she doesn’t have the money, we keep the phone for the entire month and decide whether we want to return text messages such as “WHAT R U DOIN?” HALEY. With just a slight eye roll, she agreed and then retreated to her room to ponder a future career as a baby sitter.

The Fall whizzed by. Her grades kicked butt. She made the Honor Roll. Knowing the phone would soon be hers, she went into cell phone training. By that I meant she began talking about cell phones with her friends the way an engineer talks about widgets. She boldly asked to see her friends’ phones and compare them with the Rant that she still did not have. She even sent my wife text messages from other phones, just to prove she had mastered the technology that will eventually replace verbal communication.

Finally the blessed day arrived. December 25, the birthday of our Lord and the day my daughter became cool again. Sue had decided to prolong the moment by wrapping the fully functioning Rant in eight boxes and calling the number as Natalie began unwrapping them. However, due to our cluelessness, we failed to maximize the volume level on the phone so nobody heard the ringing phone as Natalie tore through box after box. Eventually the phone made its debut, with the same amount of enthusiasm as a newborn passing through a birth canal. Within minutes Natalie was texting her friends and I was growing aware that face-to-face conversation with my daughter would no longer be a given, but a treat.

Unless her battery dies or she can’t scrape up 15 bucks.

About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous speaker. He is president of Comedy With a Byte. View clips of Greg by visiting http://www.comedywithabyte.com/demo.htm or visiting his YouTube playlist by clicking here

I'm off to college...be back in a hour

2008-12-13T07:56:00.002-06:00

The ad popped up right in the middle of my PC while I was pleasure surfing: An attractive woman, wearing short shorts and a halter top, was stretched out comfortably on a chaise lounge with a laptop balanced on her mid section.
The accompanying caption read, “Earn your degree from anywhere.”
This woman was attending college?
While tanning?
In a lounge chair?
What in the name of Dale Carnegie is going on?
Since the PC entered our lives, we have learned to do just about everything without leaving our desks. We are shopping on line, paying our bills, finding the perfect Eggs Benedict recipe and quickly finding answers to questions like, “what was the monetary unit of New Guinea in 1842?” if we so desire.
But “distance learning”? Earning a college degree without actually attending college? What gives?.
I graduated from Northwestern University in 1984. I recently drove through the campus. Not much had changed. The library looked exactly the same as did the student union, the fraternities and the residential quads. I have great memories of the school but none were of the academic variety. I wasn’t the greatest student, often employing cliff notes and relying on teaching assistants to help me struggle to maintain a B average.
But one thing I knew I had to do in order to stay in school: I had to SHOW UP to class.
Oh sure, some professors taped their lectures and offered the tapes to students who missed class. But listening to a professor on tape back in 1984 was about as easy as trying to understand a McDonald’s employee through a drive-in speaker. “Distance learning” back in 1984 meant you sat in the back row.
I don’t want to make it sound like I was writing term papers with an inkwell and a fountain pen by glow of kerosene lamp. I’m not that old. There were computers back then but they existed primarily in a strange looking building simply called “Vogelback.” Since Northwestern is a private university, most of its buildings were named after whoever could fork over multi-million dollar donations. If a “Mr. Vogelback” did indeed exist, I’m sure his biography included a stint at Hitler Youth camp.
Vogelback was a non-descript low-rise building that looked like it could easily have housed the entire university’s plumbing system. It was a diabolical place to say the least. I had friends who would walk through Vogelback’s doors on Wednesday and often not come out until the following Monday. They exited carrying lengthy rolled up papers containing the results of whatever “program” they had been trying to run. The key word here is “trying.” Programs NEVER ran on the first try. Running a successful program was a never-ending session of finding “errors,” fixing them, running the program again and discovering new errors. .
One night I encountered a frat buddy sitting in our dining room and poring over his program. He announced that his starting program contained 678 errors but he’d “gotten that down to about 315.” He sounded almost giddy, an amazing feat considering he had not slept in nine days.
Three-hundred fifteen errors? President Bush hasn’t made that many mistakes.
In four years of college, I never once set foot in Vogelback. Instead, I majored in journalism, which required me to bang out papers on an electric Smith-Corona typewriter with the uncanny ability to run out of ribbon ink only between midnight and 7 a.m., while every office supply store in the country was closed.
Furthermore, when exam week rolled around, I slogged across campus regardless of weather to the lecture hall where I was handed a small, multi-page booklet containing approximately 20 sheets of lined paper. It was called simply a “blue book” and it was where I wrote (or often bs’d) answers to the finals. Never once did I do this while sitting in a chaise lounge.
This is precisely why I wanted to reach through my PC the other day and strangle this college “student” who was making the process of earning a degree look easier than making instant coffee.
The ad was sponsored by Monster Learning Network, a division of the popular job site monster.com. I clicked on the ad and was taken here where I learned that on-line degrees were offered by the University of Phoenix, the Art Institutes and DeVry University. I even saw a list of the most popular on-line degrees:
• M.B.A in e-Business
• RN to Bachelor of Science in Nursing
• Master of Education in Adult Education and Distance Learning
• Masters in Computer Information Systems
• Master of Education in Curriculum and Technology

I had to admit, all of these degrees sounded far more impressive than “Bachelor of Science in Journalism, Northwestern University.”
For years, I have received almost weekly emails from the University of Phoenix, encouraging me to EARN MY DEGREE. At first I scoffed at the idea and assumed the University of Phoenix would go the way of toys.com and other web sites that flamed out during the dot com bust. But the University of Phoenix is going strong and today is the largest private university of North America, according to numerous sources (read: Wikipedia!) I also learned the average student’s age is between 33 and 36 and most have outside work commitments. This leads me to believe that the on line program is booming.
Yet I still can’t fathom the idea of going to college while sitting in Starbucks. Or McDonald’s. Or on a chaise lounge like the Monster Network beauty queen. What do these students do for fun? Join a virtual fraternity? Attend on line football games? Get drunk at cyber bars?
Even more, I wonder how one takes a test on line? As I sit and write this blog, I can see the Google search bar in the upper right corner of the screen. If I have a question about ANYTHING, it’s there to help me find the answer. All I have to do is type the question in the box.
Which begs the question…what prevents an on line student from seeking help via Google while taking an on line test?
Hmmm, that’s a tough question. I don’t know the answer. But perhaps somebody at Nobelprizewinners.com might have an idea.
Get my point? I know I’m old school but I question how much “learning” is happening on line. At the very least, students should take tests in a classroom, under the watchful eyes of professors and teaching assistants who are making sure they know the material and aren’t resorting to cheating using tools such as…THE ENTIRE INTERNET!
Obviously the folks at University of Phoenix don’t agree with me. They might read this blog and decide they’ve been defamed or libeled. Maybe they will sue me.
No problem. I’ll represent myself.
Right after I get my law degree.
But first I need a chaise lounge.

The world's greatest salesman

2008-10-24T11:53:00.004-05:00

Every year I perform my stand-up comedy routine at dozens of sales awards banquets. They’re usually held in nice resorts, include open bar at some point and are attended by the company’s top producers – the “best of the best” if you will.

The attendees carry themselves well. From the moment they stride into the resort, golf bags slung over their shoulder, they walk with an air of accomplishment. They know they are excellent salespeople. Some may even go so far as to think they are the best salespeople.

They are not. For I know the best salesperson. While we have never met, I know where to find him or her. It’s somewhere in Pennsylvania. But more on that later. First, any talk of the best sales person in the world has to include this joke:

A salesman walks into a sporting goods store to apply for a job. During the interview he tells the manager that he is the world’s best salesman.
“I can sell anything to anybody,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Unconvinced, the manager puts him on the floor immediately and then drifts over to the salesman’s area, hoping to watch the first customer exchange.
A man approaches and chats briefly with the salesman. Together they head to fishing tackle where, within minutes, the customer has purchased $500 worth of fishing poles and tackle.
The awestruck manager creeps closer, anxious to get a whiff of the conversation.
“Now that you got the fishing tackle, aren’t you going to need a boat?” the salesman asks.
The customer agrees and buys a boat on the spot.
“How about a trailer to haul that boat?” asks the salesman. Another sale right there, this time for a top of the line trailer and hitch.
“A trailer like that can only be towed by a large Winnebago,” says the salesman. Let me show you what we’ve got.
The manager is completely blown away as he sees the customer sign the paperwork for a new Winnebago.
But the salesman isn’t done. Not until he has sold the customer a piece of lakefront property where he can fish to his heart’s content.
When the customer had left, the manager came out from behind his hiding place. “I gotta tell you buddy, I was skeptical but I just watched you in action and you truly are the world’s greatest salesman. I mean, that guy just came in to buy fishing tackle and he walks out with a boat, a Winnebago and a piece of property. Unbelievable!
“You don’t know the half of it,” the salesman replies. “That guy came in looking for tampons for his wife and I said, ‘hey, as long as you aren’t doing anything this weekend, why not go fishing?’”

BA-DOOM CHING!

Okay it’s not a laugh out loud joke but it’s funny if you pound the pavement every day, hoping for the next big score that will send you on that trip to Hawaii. And maybe someday you will be as talented as the salesperson in Pennsylvania. Again, I don’t know this person’s name or whether this person is male or female. I only know that he or she sells cell phone service.

Several weeks ago I was performing for PennMed Healthcare, which manages 17 long-term care facilities in Pennsylvania. Each year the company organized a corporate “retreat,” in which the top brass go to a remote location and spend two days discussing how to make PennMed a better operation.

For reasons never quite explained to me, the group chose the St. Francis Center for Renewal, a convent located in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It was the first show I had ever performed in a convent. Statues and paintings of Jesus were on every wall of the showroom. The Lord truly was watching me from all angles.

But that’s not all. According to Wikipedia, Bethlehem is also home to the largest concentration of Amish people in the world. Indeed, when driving around the area, it’s hard not to see billboards for Amish furniture and other wares.
So there I was at 8:30 a.m. driving a rental car and attempting to find a convent in the middle of Amish country. Upon arrival, I turned on my Blackberry to check email.

My phone worked perfectly. I had all the bars. I had full strength. I had cell phone service. Put more succinctly, I had cell phone service in an area populated by a bunch of women who had given their lives to God and a collection of people who still think we’re living in the early 1800s.

Whoever convinced the population of this area that they needed cell phones is the world’s greatest salesman. END OF DISCUSSION. Prepare the plaque, engrave the company pen and book the trip to Cabo. We have a winner.

I still wonder what these people are doing with their cell phones. Are the Mother Superior and Ezekiel texting each other late at night? Are the nuns listening to choir music on their new 3G iPhones? Are the Amish buying and selling oxen on eBay?

Actually, I don’t care and I doubt the world’s greatest sales person does. For right now, that person has probably just convinced the executives at PennMed that the nursing home residents need motorcycles.

What are YOU doing right now?

2008-10-02T11:18:00.003-05:00

I am typing on my laptop in the Lehigh, Pennsylvania Airport

I am taking a sip from the Diet Coke that I purchased at the airport Subway. It is cold and refreshing.

I am checking my Blackberry to see if I have any emails.

I am typing again.

If you don’t care that I’m doing any of this, then you obviously are not a member of Facebook, the wildly popular social networking site that invites its members to announce to the cyberspace community exactly what it is they are doing RIGHT NOW!

Right now I am wondering why I ever joined Facebook. I’m wondering that now as well. And now. Now too!

At last count, Facebook had approximately 75 million members, not counting the five million who are desperately trying to join but are having trouble with their Internet connections. What started as a quirky idea in a college dorm room has snowballed into a phenomenon that, in my opinion, threatens to overtake Fantasy Football as the biggest time waster in modern history. (Read Greg's Facebook profile by clicking here)

Mind you, Facebook is not the first social networking site to hit the Internet. I joined the social networking phenomenon two years ago when a business acquaintance suggested I become part of LinkedIn, a “business-oriented” social networking site. By “business-oriented” it means that the members actually have jobs and, furthermore, actual lives. (Read Greg's LinkedIn profile by clicking here)

Such does not appear to be the case with Facebook.

I took the Facebook plunge only after a marketing executive told me it would increase my on line profile and allow people trolling cyberspace one more way to reach me directly. What did I have to lose?

I went to the site and set up my profile. This took just over 92 hours because Facebook wanted to know EVERYTHING about me. Was I married? Single? Engaged? In an open relationship? Or my favorite choice: “it’s complicated.” Excuse me o Facebook gods but what relationship IS NOT complicated?

Was I interested in men or women? Actually I find both men and women interesting, particularly if they’ve had a few drinks and are in the midst of a lengthy airport delay. But I assumed Facebook wanted to know my sexual preference. I left it blank.

What were my political and religious views? I thought there might be drop down boxes to choose from. Had the choices included “Democrat but Sarah Palin makes me laugh” or “church on Sundays unless my daughter has a gymnastics meet,” I would have made a choice. But I left those blank too, simply because I don’t want to be contacted by any Facebook members with conversion on their minds.

The interrogation continued. What were my favorite movies? TV shows? Musical groups? Quotes?

The quotes box stumped me, as I have never gone through life quoting anybody other than my father who lived by the mantra, “So help me God, I am turning this car around right now!” Somehow that didn’t seem appropriate considering some of my Facebook “friends” were quoting Plato, Sun Tzu and Lee Iacocca.

Ah yes, the “friends” you will meet upon joining Facebook. Once my profile was completed and I had announced every known fact about myself except what I ate for breakfast on June 29, 1981, (Note: Facebook support personnel are working to answer that question right now) it was time to sit back and hear from others in the Facebook community who wanted me to be their friends.

It didn’t take long.

Facebook, you see, crawls into your inner being and just keeps digging deeper, much like a tapeworm. Facebook can scan your email address book and determine which contacts also have Facebook profiles. It can contact them directly if you like. It’s a good thing I don’t know anybody named Bob Smith for Facebook would instantly send a message to approximately 549,000 Bob Smiths, letting all of them know that Greg Schwem wants to be their friend.

Instead, people I had long forgotten about wanted to be MY friend. There was a fraternity brother who graduated shortly after I initiated; a Canadian woman who last hired me 10 years ago; a fellow Chicago comedian whose name and face I could barely place.

And my accountant.

I have no idea why my accountant wants to be my friend. Is he not satisfied with the monthly check I send him? I wanted to email all these people back and say, “Where were you when I was seven, huh?” Nobody wanted me to be friends with me then. There was no “Greg’s a pretty cool kid, so let’s ask him to play baseball with us” message board that I could join. But with Facebook, suddenly I was more popular than I had ever been in my life. So I emailed them all back, acted like they were all still fresh in my memory and asked them to stay in touch by writing on my Facebook “wall”.

That was a HUGE mistake.

Opening up your Facebook wall to your friends is another way of saying, “annoy me whenever you like.” It allows them to, indeed, tell me what they are doing right now. Suddenly I was being bombarded with email alerts letting me know that one “friend” “was thrilled that the Sox pulled it out.” Another “is working on a plan.” Another “got sunburned during the kickball tournament” and still another is “counting the minutes until she sees her boys on Wednesday.”

I don’t know if that’s what these friends were doing “right now” or if it was just something they thought everybody should know about. In any event, it caused me to stop what I was doing and read what they were doing.

Before Facebook launched its new look, it gave users a drop down menu containing “what are you doing right now” choices. So, if a user wasn’t actually sure what he or she was doing right now, Facebook could help. One of the choices was “going to bed.” That’s right, I could let my entire collection of on line friends know that I was “going to bed” with a simple mouseclick. Trust me, if anybody interrupted my life with an email stating they were going to bed, I would tell Facebook to WAKE THEM UP. NOW!

The bottom line? I don’t want to know what people are doing right now. I don’t need social networking sites that will distract me from my primary goal, namely getting something done. Which is why today I am launching the first ever “anti-social networking” site. Simply put, this is a site for people who don’t care to be in the loop anymore.

Interested? Then join me. My site will purge your email address book, ultimately leaving you “friendless.” Your name and personal information will be eliminated from message boards, chat rooms, groups, and lists. Nobody will know your favorite color and you won’t know how anybody is celebrating his or her birthday. In short, you will have nothing left to do with your time other than be productive.

That’s what I’m going to do right now.

Pomp and Circumstance redux

2008-09-17T10:26:00.004-05:00

Every now and then we read about somebody who hatches a scheme so outlandish, so bizarre, so “I can’t believe anybody would actually go through with this,” that we admire the person for his or her tenacity.

I have found that person in Wendy Brown.

Ms. Brown is a 33-year-old Green Bay mom, with an alleged history of identity theft crimes. But her latest attempt to pass herself off as somebody else was, shall we say, “really bitchin.” You see, Brown was recently arrested and charged with posing as her own 15-year-old daughter – a plot she allegedly hatched so she could go back to high school, get a degree and here’s the best part – become a cheerleader.

Brown was actually getting away with this when she was nabbed. She was attending classes and going to cheerleading practice in the morning. Apparently she made the team. I’m not sure if she made it because of her physical dexterity or because she could always drive the other cheerleaders to and from practice.

If the criminal complaint is true, then obviously Brown needs a psychiatrist more than a prom date. But I have to take issue with Wisconsin law enforcement authorities. Why arrest her so early? Why not let her finish out the year and achieve her dream? After all, who was she really hurting? Brown doesn’t sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer so it’s unlikely she was setting the curve on the calculus exams, forcing her fellow classmates to study harder. Also, her daughter was living in Nevada with Brown’s mother and was apparently unaware that Wendy Brown had assumed her identity.

Okay, so the complaint did allege that she bounced a check for her cheerleading uniform but I’m sure she’s not the first cheerleader who has done that. Last Spring I dropped over $150 on a dance costume for my six year old. The outfit was worn exactly once. After the recital it was tossed in the “dress up bin” in our basement.

Personally, I’m rooting for Ms. Brown, whose mugshot is on the right. I want to see her acquitted. And if she is, I may just follow in her footsteps. For there are a few things I’d still like to accomplish at my alma mater.

I think I could pull it off. Sure I’m almost 46 but I still have all my hair. I don’t need to shave every day but even if I came in unshaven for chemistry class, I’d look no less scruffy than the majority of high school kids today. Of course, to blend in, I would also need a few other things. I’d need pants that fell below my waist, revealing my underwear, the latest cell phone and iPod, an energy drink tucked into my backpack and a newfound ability to speak in sentences punctuated repeatedly with “like” and containing at least one profanity. But I refuse to get any body piercings on tattoos. Those look painful.

With my new identity, I would be ready to return to Prospect High School, home of the Knights, in Mt. Prospect, Illinois. The first thing I would do? Take the bus. I never took a bus in high school. I lived about 10 blocks from school and walked every day. No, it wasn’t uphill both ways but the district decided the distance was short enough that there was no need to waste education dollars on my transportation. So I walked. This was okay except in winter when I trudged into school with ice crystals adorning my eyelashes about the same time the bus pulled up and my fellow students took three steps before entering the building.

Once at school, I’d get my class schedule. I’d be certain to take Spanish since I never took that in high school and it’s a decision I regret. I took four years of German but even then I knew it was a language I would never use once I graduated. Several years later I visited Germany with a college buddy and discovered I had forgotten every lick of German I learned except “zwei bier bitte.” Two beers please. Surprisingly, I was able to stumble through the country quite ably using just that phrase.

I’d sign up for a math class, particularly one that requires a graphing calculator. I’m curious as to why a graphing calculator is so necessary today. I’d never heard of such a device when I went to high school. Yet my SIXTH GRADER needs one today. I took one look at it and guessed it was made in China because all the buttons appeared to contain Chinese characters. A graphing calculator allows its owner to brush up on things like “quadratics” and “hyperbolic trig.” Are these worthwhile skills to have today? I don’t know but I want to find out.

I’d also want to take a bunch of science classes just so I could consistently say, “what’s the point?” every time the teacher gave me an assignment. Mix chemicals together and wait for an explosion? What’s the point? Cut open a frog? What’s the point? If I contacted every member of the Prospect High School class of 1980 and asked if anyone had put their frog-dissecting skills to use following high school, I guarantee the answer would be a unanimous NO!

After a morning of education, it would be time for lunch. The cafeteria always intimidated me in high school. It just seemed to be a mass of people, none of whom knew me and vice versa. I wasn’t the most popular guy in high school by any means, a point that got exacerbated in the cafeteria. But I have a supply of confidence today that I never had in high school and it would show. I’d walk up to any table, containing any high school faction, sit down, introduce myself, eat my bologna and cheese and jump into the conversation.

Hi, I’m Greg. What music do you guys listen to? Lil Wayne? Death Cab for Cutie? Yeah, they’re okay. Anybody here like Styx or REO Speedwagon? Hey, where’s everybody going?

Of course I’d want to attend the Homecoming dance, providing one still existed. According to my high school-aged nieces, kids today don’t necessarily go to dances with dates. Instead, they go in groups, hang out and possibly “hook up” later. Actually that sounds okay by me. I went to two out of four homecomings in high school. Both times I made nervous calls to girls who accepted only after long, uncomfortable pauses on the phone. I dressed in a suit, tied a tie with a massive knot and picked up a girl that I knew would probably avoid me in the halls the following Monday.

This time would be different. I wouldn’t need to pick up my date in my parent’s Ford Torino. No, my lady would be escorted in my black BMW X5 with navigational system and an iPod port. With wheels like that, she might even talk to me until the following Tuesday, especially if I agreed to drive the entire group around after Homecoming.

Like Ms. Brown, I’d need an extracurricular activity or two. Hers was cheerleading. I’d want a few more. I would play for the tennis team, just as I did in high school. I’d only play because I had a horrible loss my senior year that kept me from getting to the Illinois state tennis tournament. I’d work hard, make it to the state tournament and then be forced to default because my 45-year-old body couldn’t handle playing three matches in one day.

I would also join some clubs that didn’t exist when I went to high school. The Computer Animated Design club. The science fiction club. Maybe even the Gay and Lesbian club, which seems to be popping up at every high school. I’m not gay but I’ve always wondered what gay high school students talk about after school? Do they study together? Do you study a different way if you’re gay?

According to authorities, Brown was planning to attend school until she graduated because she never received a high school diploma. I did graduate but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it again, right? And I’d want to give the commencement speech. I’d walk proudly to the podium, mortarboard balanced on my head, gaze out at my fellow students and the parents fanning themselves with programs. And then, I would reveal my ruse:

“Mr Superintendent, faculty members, parents and fellow students, my name is Greg Schwem. You may know me as ‘that new kid who claimed he had a disease which caused some of his hair to turn prematurely gray.’ You may know me as ‘that kid who seemed a bit too knowledgeable when we covered the 1980s in history class.’ You may know me as ‘that kid who occasionally used an American Express card in the cafeteria.’

I am all those people. I also am a 45-year-old father of two girls who aren’t even in high school yet. Thank you for allowing me into your school to see what high school is like today. I have met so many people this past year. And I can honestly say there is hope for all of you providing you stop text messaging and quit spending so much time trying to make your MySpace pages as ugly as possible.

Speaking of which, please try to remember that success does not equate to how many “friends” you have on Facebook. You are not successful just because you can kick butt in an on line poker room. And getting the highest score on Guitar Hero will get you nowhere in the real world. So put down the gadgets, stop interacting with virtual people and start talking with real people. Volunteer at a nursing home, work in a homeless shelter or become a big brother or big sister. Stop relying on your helicopter parents for money and get a job. Think baby-sitting is beneath you? I pay our baby sitter seven bucks an hour – sometimes to watch TV!

Open a savings account, eschew credit cards, keep a journal. Learn how to spell without the aid of a spell checker. Learn to add without Quicken. Do your research in a library and not through Wikipedia. Be nice to everyone and don’t judge people who are different. They may be your boss one day.

That’s all I have to say. Now lets sing the school fight song. Please welcome our head cheerleader…WENDY BROWN!

About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and president of Comedy With a Byte. Please visit his website by clicking here