Time to fill out your presidential bracket!

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

My favorites choked, my dark horses stumbled and I watched helplessly as my NCAA bracket literally folded itself into a paper airplane and flew into my office garbage can before the Sweet 16 was even solidified.

Still, like millions of Americans, I remain excited as March Madness reaches its crescendo. I enjoy beginning conversations with "Who do you have left?" I revel in sitting in my favorite chair watching nail biters among teams from schools I could never find on a map (quick, somebody type "Xavier" into my GPS). The NCAA tournament is a yearly passion I share with, by some estimates, 30 million Americans who faithfully fill out brackets.

Yes, we Americans do love our sports, as evidenced by this year's staggering Super Bowl ratings and college basketball's increasing popularity. We also love our reality shows. More than a decade after launching, American Idol and Survivor consistently garner top 10 ratings and Dancing With the Stars, Fear Factor and The Voice show little signs of losing steam.

What we don't love is voting for future leaders. Just look at the paltry 20 percent turnout for the Illinois primary election. Other states reported similar dismal figures.

Somebody needs to figure out how to put a little excitement back into our electoral process. Seriously, why can't we just skip the glut of campaign ads? Do away with the town hall meetings and the pancake breakfasts. Instead, let's choose a president using activities that intrigue us: sports and reality television. Sure, some rules would have to be tweaked, but it could work. Picture this:

Exactly one year before the November general election, a seeding committee that comprises two ex-presidents, one unemployed autoworker, a soccer mom, Sharon Osbourne and the winner of a new show called So, You Want To Pick The President, convenes and establishes the Presidential Bracket. Preferential seeds are given to anyone crazy enough to be making a second run for office. So put Mitt Romney at the top and seed Ron Paul second. Rick Perry gets the third seed because he looks dangerous. Newt Gingrich goes fourth; anything lower and he would complain that his paltry seed was the result of a vast media conspiracy.

Now fill in the remaining slots with Bachmann, Santorum, Cain, Pawlenty, and Huntsman. In the first round, candidates don't battle the entire field but their sole bracket opponent via a series of nationally televised challenges that combine the best of politics, athletic contests and crazy reality stunts. Let the water cooler conversation begin!

"Romney versus Perry. Who do you like?"

"I was going to go with Romney after the foreign policy debate, but Perry kicked his butt in cockroach eating. Now I'm having second thoughts."

"Me, too. Better wait until tonight when they dance the rumba with celebrity partners."

"By the way, did you see Ron Paul singing Stevie Wonder on Fox last night? I was impressed."

Once all contests have been completed, everybody makes their first round picks via their home PCs, thereby eliminating that annoying problem of trudging to their local grade school or church to cast votes. CNN's Wolf Blitzer and Jon King breathlessly tally the results.

"Jon, we are seeing some real surprises tonight. Who would have thought Bachmann, a political unknown just six months ago, would be crushing Pawlenty?"

"I agree, Wolf. I'm guessing it was either her views on gay marriage or her victory in the weight-loss challenge that turned the tide."

With the field whittled in half, America takes a breather and surveys the remaining options. Huntsman is out, so do you support Santorum? He aced the Minute to Win It challenges but looked shaky when playing Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grade Liberal? Romney shined on Real Businessmen of Massachusetts but his health-care plan and his free-throw technique are suspect. Then there's this election's Cinderella story, Herman Cain. Still in the hunt and surging in popularity after touting his economic policies while winning a cross country race with his partner, Snooki from Jersey Shore. Everybody pick again!

Eventually only one candidate will be left standing. Maybe it's Romney. But he won't learn of his victory by watching election returns. Instead, he'll be standing alone on a mountain top when Republican National Committee Chairman Reince Priebus approaches him and utters a single line:

"Mitt, will you accept this rose?"

Age is nothing more than an intricate equation

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


The child sat in the grocery cart, happily eating breakfast cereal as his mother transferred items onto the belt. I stood behind them, waiting to scan my purchases: a 12-pack of Diet Coke, coffee filters and a bottle of salad dressing.

"How old is he?" I asked.

"Twenty-two months."

"Nice." I replied. "Don't believe everything you read about the 'terrible twos.' They aren't so bad."

"But he's not two. He's 22 months."

"Sure. Whatever."

Grocery mom didn't realize it but she had just risen a notch on my personal annoyance meter. She was now somewhere between idiots who press already lit elevator buttons and morons who yammer on cellphones in rest room stalls. A simple age inquiry should not require long division. Once a baby turns 1, he or she is ONE. When said baby is 22 months, the age is still one or "almost two."

The conversation ended there. She returned to the belt while I gazed at the latest Whitney Houston conspiracy theory screaming from the supermarket tabloids. The 20-whatever-month-old boy switched from Cheerios to Goldfish.

When I returned home, my wife was in the kitchen. "Did you get the lettuce?"

"The what?"

"I asked you to get a head of lettuce right before you left."

"I didn't hear 'lettuce.' I heard 'salad dressing.'"

"Well it's not surprising, "she said, half-jokingly." After all you're almost 50."

"So what?"

"So that's a half century. Turning 50 is a big deal."

Apparently so, as the subtle reminders are already trickling in. My insurance agent calls more often and sounds almost giddy as he casually tosses out phrases like "long term care insurance." Ditto for the lawyer who prepared my will. My doctor discusses uncomfortable procedures more frequently and more graphically.

I'm sorry, but I'm not in the "big deal birthday" camp. On Sept. 26, I want to awake to nothing more than a few birthday greetings from my Facebook friends. I want to avoid flying that day so a TSA official won't glance at my license, amusingly cock an eyebrow and say, "Please put your laptop in a separate bin. And by the way, happy birthday!" I don't want the entire staff at T.G.I. Friday's to break into song as they parade my fajitas to the table. Yes, I'm 50. Nothing to see here. Can't we move on?

We can, but only if I can make my age as uninteresting and complex as possible. So, as annoying as it is, I'm going to become grocery mom. When somebody asks my age, I will answer in months, not years. Want to know how long I have been on this Earth? Be prepared to have a calculator, an eraser or the latest accounting software nearby.

I've already begun testing my theory that a person's age becomes trivial when math is involved. The other day I took my 79-year-old father to breakfast at Denny's. Upon receiving the bill, I summoned the waitress.

"I think there's been a mistake," I said and then pointed to Dad. "He should get 20 percent off because he's 948 months old."

"Excuse me?"

"Happens all the time. 'Dad, just the other day didn't somebody say you didn't look a day over 828?'"

"Yep," said my father, only too happy to be part of this experiment. "And since I quit smoking, some days I feel like a 420-month-old trapped in the body of somebody who's at least 984."

"Who knows? You might be the first one in this family to reach 1260!" I said.

"I'll get the manager," the waitress replied and scurried away.

Next, I called my dentist to schedule an appointment.

"How long has it been since your last checkup?" the receptionist asked.

"I don't know. I've slacked off a little. I think it's been about 28 months."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm sorry. Twenty-nine. But I haven't had a cavity since I was about 156."

"Why don't you just call us when something hurts?"

"Sounds good to me."

Finally I called my insurance agent.

"Hey Mike, refresh my memory. Does my term life policy expire when I turn 660 or 672?

"When you're 660," he replied instantly. "That would make you 55."

Okay, so it doesn't work on everybody. But I'm still not buying long term care insurance. Even if I live to be 1800.

The Perfect Snowball Only Costs Ten Bucks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeling like a king at 30,000 feet

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!

So many friends, so little time

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.

It's story time!

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

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.”