Still the happiest place on earth

Like everybody I have goals in life. Retire at 55, own a piece of property on water, and put my kids through college without having to rely on student loans, just to name a few.
Then there are things I’d like to do just because they sound fun. For example, I’ve always wanted to heckle a motivational speaker. You know, those guys who make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year speaking to corporate audiences and telling them, in no uncertain terms, that YOU CAN BE BETTER THAN YOU WERE YESTERDAY IF YOU WOULD ONLY BUY MY NEW BOOK AND FIVE CD PACKAGE AFTER THE SHOW FOR THE LOW PRICE OF $89.95. VISA AND MASTERCARD ACCEPTED.”
Seriously, wouldn’t you like to sit in the front row and keep repeating, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME. WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE!”
Okay, that would be a bit sick. But it would still be fun to force the speaker off
script.
Another sick dream of mine is to get a Disney employee to break character. I’ve been to Disney World, I’ve stayed in Disney hotels and I’ve been to Disney Stores countless times. And I keep running into the happiest workers I have ever seen. If someone went into a Disney store intent on robbing it, I think the employee behind the counter would say, “may I help the next guest? You with the gun sir. Besides the cash from our register, is there anything else you would like today?”
I was determined to achieve my dream recently when I went to Disney World with my family. I figured it would be easy, given the sorry state of the economy. Disney employees should be as cranky as the rest of us, right?
First, let me say that, even in good economic times, I have never been a huge fan of Disney World. Maybe it’s the crowds, maybe it’s the expense, maybe it’s the incessant Disney music that sticks in my head for weeks after coming home. I once set a wakeup call at the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim and, six hours later, the phone rang and DISNEY MUSIC was coming through the earpiece. That was the day I learned to use the alarm clock feature on my cell phone.
When I was growing up I visited Disney World exactly zero times. Even though I had relatives who lived only two hours from Orlando, my parents never took us on that “magical Disney vacation.” Instead we spent our summers visiting places like Cheyenne, Wyoming and Mackinaw Island, Michigan. Cheyenne is famous for its rodeos and Mackinaw visitors get around by horses. I guess my Dad just liked being around the smell of horse poop on vacation.
We also visited Yellowstone Park one year, Yellowstone is famous for its geyser, Old Faithful, which erupts about every half hour or so. The reason it blows its top so frequently has little to do with nature; it’s because there is NOTHING ELSE to do at Yellowstone. Personally I think the whole thing is operated by a couple of retired park rangers who push a button once a sufficient crowd has been assembled. When the spectacle is over, everybody looks at their watches and starts talking about when it will occur again. It’s like my Dad after he finishes lunch.
No, DisneyWorld was never a vacation destination for the Schwems in the 1970s. My wife, however, went there plenty of times as a kid. Heck, she even marched in one of the parades as a high school band member. And when our first child came along, she bought lifetime Disney passes, or something to that effect. They were good for multiple visits, so we kept going back. True, some of the visits were coupled with business trips (corporate comedians such as myself perform lots of shows in Orlando since it rivals Vegas for the most popular convention destination). We piggybacked another trip onto a friend’s wedding at the Grand Floridian Hotel on Disney property. Probably the weirdest wedding I have ever attended. The bride and groom got married in a gazebo with a picturesque view of Cinderella’s castle in the background. Thankfully the wedding processional did not include Disney music although I was expecting a chorus of “Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s down the aisle we go” to erupt at any moment. I should also mention that the ceremony lasted almost as long as the marriage.
I’ve lost count of how many times my eleven year old has been to Disney World but I think it’s about seven or eight. My other daughter is catching up. So when my wife decided earlier this year that it would be wonderful to take my youngest to Disney World to celebrate her sixth birthday, I put my foot down as only the man of the household should do.
“Why don’t you three go?” I said meekly. “Make it a girl’s trip.”
“Come on,” Sue said. “Your girls are the perfect age.”
I reminded her that she’s been calling them “the perfect age” for Disney World since they were sleeping in incubators in the maternity ward.
“No,” I repeated. “I’ve had enough of Disney World.”
My wife and daughters begged and pleaded. For about 15 seconds. Then they forgot I even existed and started packing.
But as the trip got closer, I began to suffer guilt. My little girl would be turning six at Disney World and I would be home. True, my work schedule didn’t allow me to spend the four days that they had planned there. But I could probably fly down for a day or two, right?
So the decision was made. I would drop my girls at the airport, kiss them all goodbye, pull away, park the car in the airport garage and meet the plane prior to take off.
The plan went smoothly and when I showed up at the gate, my little girl beamed as only a six year old could. A six year old with a large “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY” sticker affixed to her chest.
I’m seriously thinking of having “It’s my birthday today” stitched into every article of clothing I own. The Pope didn’t get as much attention during his recent visit as my daughter got on April 29th. The flight attendant on Southwest announced her birthday over the loudspeaker and lead THE ENTIRE PLANE in singing Happy Birthday. When she got off the plane, they handed her a bag full of snacks, games and a poster signed by the entire crew.
I got six peanuts and a thimble full of Diet Coke.
When we got to the hotel, the royal treatment continued. The front desk clerk handed her a picture; a gift shop employee gave her a Rice Krispie treat shaped like mouse ears. Just walked up and GAVE it to her. I quickly checked our bill to see if a three dollar charge had been subtly added. It had not.
We ate dinner that night at something called “Mickey’s Magical Buffet” in the Contemporary Hotel. I never considered chicken nuggets magical but I don’t name the restaurants at Disney World. All I know is that the ENTIRE RESTAURANT sang “Happy Birthday” to my daughter and Donald Duck came to our table and danced with her.
It took me four trips to Disney World before I even saw Donald Duck.
The next morning we made our first visit to the Magic Kingdom. I say “first” because a Schwem trip to Disney World always involves multiple visits to the Magic Kingdom. It’s like a math problem: You’re at Disney World and you plan to spend the entire day at Epcot, which closes at 7 p.m. However, the Magic Kingdom closes at nine. Calculate how fast the monorail must travel to get you over to the Magic Kingdom in time to ride Space Mountain at least five more times.
We strolled through the gates at 9:30 a.m. I had four hours before I had to catch a taxi to the airport. Four hours to get just one Disney employee visibly annoyed.
The first group we encountered were performers on Main Street, singing “Clang Clang Went The Trolley”
“What’s a trolley?” my youngest asked as we stopped to view the show.
No, these people were having the time of their lives, dressed in wool costumes on an 80 degree day. No way could I upset them.
We journeyed over to ride “It’s a Small World.” In my book, this ride takes the top three spots on the list of most annoying Disney music. Surely the employees there would be surly, right?
Wrong! Upon getting in line, a perky 50 something woman named Barb
approached us. “Where are you from?” she asked merrily.
“Chicago,” I replied just as merrily.
“Well you’re in luck,” she said. How would you four like to be my cruise
directors for the ride?”
“Sure,” I replied even though I had no idea what she was talking about.
We were immediately whisked up a flight of stairs where another employee was
operating the ride. As cruise directors we got to stand next to the controls and wave to everybody as their boats passed under us. What fun! Certainly not the time to say something like, “Can’t we at least be guest conductors on Space Mountain? This ride sucks!”
It occurred to me that my dream was not going to happen. It just didn’t seem right to try and be a pest at the vacation destination dubbed “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Compounding matters further was the fact that Disney World was about as uncrowded as I had ever seen it. We literally walked on every attraction. I’ve been to Disney World where it took an hour just to get on the monorail.
It was nearly time for me to leave. My wife spied Snow White and Dopey taking pictures with guests. She wanted a family shot. We got in line and I thought, “now here is a challenge. Maybe I can get Snow White to break character. That would be a story to tell!
When it was our turn, Snow White, to her credit, stayed true to form. She instructed us to say “gooseberry” when the cameraman clicked his shutter, she told us the prince would be arriving shortly and she warned us not to eat any poison apples on the way out.
I wanted to grab her by her yellow dress, shake her and say, “I realize you live in a castle but DO YOU KNOW WHAT A GALLON OF GAS COSTS RIGHT NOW?”
But I kept my mouth shut. Face it, our screwed up world needs a fantasy land like Disney World where people can escape their troubles, pretend that princesses are real and believe that a boy named Peter Pan really can fly.
I’m still not a big fan of Disney World as a vacation destination but I’ll tag along if it means spending quality time with my family.
But I think they’d like the rodeo too!

I can't do anything right

These days I feel that, whatever I do, it’s just not good enough.
Chalk it up to technology, change or the fact that we, as a country, are never satisfied. The point is, I’m sick of always feeling inferior.
Take for example, my recent iPod acquisition. I resisted the urge to hop on the iPod bandwagon the minute the gadget was released back in 2001. “Let’s wait and see,” I told myself. “Maybe this thing will disappear faster than Pepsi with lemon.”
About 3 billion iPod shipments later, I finally took the plunge. I purchased a 80GB video iPod capable of holding every photo I’d ever taken, video clips of my kids doing the types of things that make their Dad smile, and up to 20,000 songs.
“I’m set,” I thought. “With 20,000 songs, I could take a trip to Venus and still never hear the same song twice.”
I hadn’t even figured out how to download iTunes when Steve Jobs announced that the iPhone was now ready to be shipped. It would include all the features of my iPod but allow users to make calls, surf the Internet, open their garage doors and probably cook a well balanced meal all at the same time.
Suddenly my 80GB iPod was about as relevant as my collection of VHS movies.
This seems to happen to me all the time. For Christmas my wife and I bought a recordable DVD player. Not only could we record stuff onto DVDs but, since we recently bought a high definition television as well, we could record and watch movies in “high-def,” as we like to call it just because we think it makes us sound cool.
At the time of the purchase, neither of us had ever heard the phrase, “Blu-ray.” Of course now we know that Blu-ray”, which sounds like a menu item at an upscale seafood restaurant, is actually a technology that competes with high-definition DVDs. I digress..it no longer competes. I had barely gotten our DVD player out of the box when I heard the news that Toshiba, the company that pioneered HD DVD technology, was going to stop making HD DVD players or discs. The reason? It ceded the market to Blu-ray. That’s would be like John McCain taking his name off the ballot the night before the general election. But that’s basically what Toshiba did. Now I’m stuck with a recordable DVD player that will only work until my high-def TV craps out.
See what I mean? No matter what I do, somebody is always doing it better. And it got even worse this past weekend.
My wife celebrated her 43rd birthday on April 17. As a professional comedian I pride myself on being able to come up with original birthday gifts and ideas. Sure, it would be easy to make her breakfast in bed, have flowers delivered to our house or give her a day off from all her mom-related responsibilities. I’ll admit, I’ve done all that but I’ve also surprised her with some pretty impressive gifts if I do say so myself. Three years ago, when she turned the big 4-0, I scored Oprah tickets. If you live in Chicago, you know that getting tickets to the Oprah Winfrey show is about as easy as picking the winning Powerball numbers two weeks in a row. Oprah’s website makes it sound like getting tickets is a walk in the park. “Just keep checking back for updates,” the site claims. The last time I checked, there were no tickets available until 2055. I got them only because a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend knew somebody who knew a guy who was related to some other guy who used to work on the show.
This year I decided to go the “Pretty Woman” birthday route. I was invited to a black-tie event in Washington DC and the invitation included Sue. Two days prior to the event, I presented her with three boxes. One contained a black cocktail dress (picked out by me, thank you very much). The other two featured a necklace and matching earrings (also picked out by me under the watchful guidance of the jewelry store employee.)
When I presented them to Sue, she squealed with delight. Let’s face it, when you’re a Mom, your wardrobe consists of sweatpants with accessible pockets to hold the mini-van keys. She put the ensemble on and she looked fantastic. We were ready to hit the party in style. What a gift! What a gentlemen I am! What a…wait, what’s this I hear about Prince William?
In case you haven’t heard, his Royal Highness did something for his girlfriend that made my shopping excursion look like a trip to Wal-Mart. Mr. “second in line to the throne” decided to pay her a visit earlier this month by landing a royal helicopter in her backyard. According to news reports, the helicopter was only on the ground for 20 seconds and nobody got on or off. So what was the point exactly?
I’ll tell you the point. It was to make myself and every other guy on this earth feel inferior. Right now there are millions of guys around the world cluelessly standing in Victoria’s Secret determined to pick out something that makes our ladies feel special. We get perfume squirted on our wrists in the mall just because we want to make sure it smells like our girls. We get talked into buying the one-hour seaweed wrap at the salon because the employee convinced us that our women would love us for it.
But we can’t commandeer an armed forces chopper and casually drop in her. Only Prince High and Mighty can do that.
I just hope Prince William never needs Oprah tickets.

Confessions of a married man

Almost every married comedian I’ve seen eventually comes to the portion of his act where he tells the audience he’s married.

Then he does a series of jokes about how different marriage is from his single days - jokes that give him an excuse to complain about his wife in front of total strangers.

It might go something like this: So I’ve been married four years. (PAUSE JUST IN CASE AN AUDIENCE MEMBER DECIDES TO CLAP FOR REASONS UNBEKNOWNST TO ME) Yeah, four long, happy years. (PAUSE FOR SNICKER FROM AUDIENCE, WHICH ISN’T SURE WHERE THIS BIT IS GOING) Know what’s different about marriage? The bathroom. Guys, you ever notice just how much stuff your wife has in the bathroom?

What the heck is exfoliating cream anyway? I don’t remember her foliating anything in the first place. And now she has to EX-foliate it? But don’t get me wrong, I love her. Even when she goes in there and says she’ll just be a sec and I’ve watched the whole Super Bowl game from 2006 on Tivo and she’s STILL in there! Guys, has that ever happened to you? What’s she doing in there? Exfoliating the entire bathtub? Finally, she comes out and I’m like, ‘honey, what took you so long? She’s like, “I wasn’t in there that long.” And I’m like, “you were in there longer than OJ was in prison.” But she’s a sweetheart, really. Just don’t get me started on her driving.

Okay dude, we get it. You’ll be divorced in two years.

I’ve always shied away from the “what’s different about marriage” jokes just because I think there are more interesting things to laugh about than my relationship with my wife. Plus, I’ve been married 14 years and I’m perfectly happy. I’ve never noticed a difference that might make good comedic material.

Until last weekend.

Something happened last weekend that had nothing to do with my wife yet made me realize that one of my favorite hobbies was gone forever.

It involved beer.

My wife and kids left Friday morning, bound for the Wisconsin Dells and a cheerleading/tumbling tournament featuring my five-year-old daughter.
Hey guys. Know what’s different about marriage? You gotta go to cheerleading/tumbling tournaments!
Okay, that’s not what I’m writing about. But the cheer/tumbling environment is definitely the subject of a future blog.

I stayed behind because I had to catch a flight early the following morning for a corporate show in Mexico. I spent the better part of the day at the computer, writing material, cleaning out my inbox, editing some MP3 clips and doing it all in silence.

Around 4:30 p.m., the phone rang. It was Sue, calling to say she had safely arrived at the Wilderness Resort, one of approximately 574 indoor water parks in the Wisconsin Dells. I’ve never been a huge fan of water parks just because I think there should be federally-imposed limits on the number of people who can congregate publicly in bathing suits. I think the limit should be three.

So while I wasn’t too disappointed that I missed the water park trip, I mentioned to Sue that I was bored. Maybe a little lonely too but I didn’t tell her that. Bored sounds more manly.

“Why don’t you call one of the guys from the neighborhood and go out for a beer?” she replied. “Call Mark. Or Tom. Maybe Ray’s around.”

“I dunno.”

“You should. How often do you get to just hang out with the guys?”
She had a point. My time away from the family is basically spent in airports and hotel rooms.

“You’re right,” I finally said. Maybe I will. How’s the water park?”

“It’s great! There’s hardly anybody here.”
I attributed that to mean there were less than 1,000 people crammed inside.

“Okay, I’ll call you later tonight. Love you,” I said before hanging up.

I stared at the phone. Who should I call? I live in a great neighborhood – actually a vanishing breed of neighborhoods. There are no fences or eight-foot hedges separating the lots; the adults socialize while the kids engage in weekend sleepovers and, so far, nobody’s in the process of divorcing. I know that will change but I’m enjoying the sanctity for now.

Who should I call? More importantly, what should I say?

And here is when I started to realize what’s so different about being married. To wit: the possible repercussions of asking another married guy to go out for a spontaneous beer.

When you’re single and you call another single guy for such a beer, the conversation goes like this:
Hey Ed. It’s Greg. Want to head out in about an hour and have a beer?“I’m getting my coat.”
But if a married guy calls another married guy, the conversation most likely goes like this:
Hey Ed. It’s Greg. Want to head out in about an hour and have a beer? Is everything okay?
Married guys just can’t do anything with other married guys spontaneously. It implies trouble. Worse, because the married guy must first ask permission from his wife, it means she is now part of the story. Ed would have to push the ‘mute’ button on his phone and discuss my strange request with his wife.

ED’S WIFE: Who is it?
ED: It’s Greg Schwem.
ED’S WIFE: What does he want?
ED: He wants to go out for a beer.
ED’S WIFE: Right now?
ED: I guess so.
ED’S WIFE: Where’s Sue?
ED: She’s gone for the weekend with the kids. At least that’s what he said.
ED’S WIFE: Why does he want to go out with you? Is it just you and him? Why did he ask just you? That seems kind of weird, doesn’t it?
ED: Maybe. A little, I guess. You’re friends with Sue. They’re not having any problems, are they? I mean, has she said anything to you?
ED’S WIFE: No, nothing. They seemed perfectly normal at the Christmas party. And the block party. And the progressive dinner.
ED: So what should I say?
ED’S WIFE: Why does he want to go to a bar? Why does alcohol have to be involved? If he’s calling around, it sounds like he’s pretty desperate to have a drink. He doesn’t have a problem, does he?
ED: Not that I know of. So what SHOULD I say?
ED’S WIFE: Tell him you’ll take a rain check.
ED: But we’re not doing anything tonight. What if he REALLY needs somebody to talk to? Should I just leave him at his house alone? What if there IS something going on between him and Sue?
ED’S WIFE: If there is, I’d like to know about it.
ED: Then I probably shouldn’t go. Because if I tell you, you’ll tell everybody.
ED’S WIFE: I will not. Why can’t you give me a little credit for once?
ED: (PUSHING MUTE BUTTON AGAIN) Greg, I’m gonna take a rain check. Maybe next time.

I put the phone down, the imaginary conversation ringing in my head. I punched the OnDemand button on the remote. The Bourne Ultimatum had just been added. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, settled into my recliner and hit “buy.” The movie would be over about 9:30. That would mean I’d have time to watch the evening news. In my pajamas. In bed.
Guys, has that ever happened to you? Maybe we should all go out after the show and have a beer. Just get it out of our systems. You’ve been a great crowd. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses!

The Best of 2007...if you ask me

I try not to open a newspaper, read a magazine or surf the Internet this time of year because I’m always left feeling unfulfilled.

The reason? Everywhere I turn, I come across those “Best of” lists containing movies I didn’t see, TV shows I didn’t watch and CDs by musical artists I’ve never heard of. Then I read obituaries of people I didn’t even know expired in 2007. When the heck did Brooke Astor die? For that matter, who was Brooke Astor?

So, as the ball gets sets to drop in Times Square and usher in another year, I figure I had better prepare my own “best of” list so others can I see what I DID accomplish in 2007. Here goes:

Best movie I saw in a theatre: None. I have children and, by the time my wife and I secure a babysitter, pay full price for two adult tickets and a “small” tanker drum of popcorn, the movie costs close to $100. Get the point?

Best movie I saw on DVD: American Gangster. Okay, it’s not available on DVD yet. Let’s just say I know a guy. We will leave it at that.

Best stupid comment from an airline employee: Upon landing, a United Airlines pilot took the intercom and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived early. Please remember that the next time you fly United and we’re a few minutes late.” Can you imagine a doctor using that logic? “Mr. Schwem, you survived the operation. Remember that the next time we operate on you and things don’t go as smoothly.”

Runner up: An American Airlines gate agent who announced that, because my flight was cancelled, personnel were trying to “locate another plane.” I didn’t realize jets got lost that easily.

Best “proud to be a parent” moment: My 10-year-old daughter who, suffering from incurable stage fright, played flawlessly at a piano recital.

Best “being a parent is tough” moment: Two minutes after the recital concluded when she announced she would “NEVER DO THAT AGAIN!”

Best “I’m doing this because I love my kids” moment: Driving my daughters 90 miles to Milwaukee during a Chicago Bears playoff game to see “High School Musical Live,” driving them back home, catching a flight to Los Angeles, sitting at the airport surrounded by thousands of delirious, beer-soaked Bears fans, waiting on the tarmac for two hours, arriving in LA at 1 a.m., renting a car and driving to Palm Springs for a 10 a.m. show. I recite that story verbatim every time either of my children complains about unloading the dishwasher.

Best moment without kids: A weekend in Cape Cod with my wife.

Best hotel stay: The Paradisus, San Juan Puerto Rico. The client put my family and I up in an oceanfront bungalow complete with 24-hour butler service. Everybody should be pampered like that once in their lives.

Worst hotel stay: I used to like staying in hotels until a friend made me watch www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3OWE2Lx0dk. After seeing it, all hotel stays sucked. Except for the Paradisus. I’m pretty sure the butler washed the glasses.

Best story to share with my buddies: Being propositioned by a hooker in the lobby of Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas at 6 a.m. I reminded her that the National Rodeo Finals convention was in town and I’m sure she could do better than a middle-aged guy dressed in shorts and flip flops who was not searching for gratification. I just wanted coffee.

Best audience: The Self Storage Association at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Who would have thought that a bunch of people who manage large sheds where people store their crap could be such a riot? Plus it was at Caesar’s Palace. That’s cool in itself.

Toughest audience: A dozen Wells Fargo engineers, sitting around a conference table littered with laptops, cables and half eaten lunches. I stood at the head of the table and tried to make them laugh for 45 veeerrrrry looooooong minutes. Nice people but I felt like I was interrupting a meeting.

Best road meal: Peter Luger’s steakhouse in Brooklyn. The steak was too rare but the ambiance was priceless.

Best “puff out my stomach” moment: Driving the green on the 336 yard 14th hole at The Falls in Las Vegas. Okay, the tee is on a cliff and you shoot down into a valley but I still hit the crap out of the ball.

Best invention: I’m sorry but it’s still the iPod.

Best invention this year: Probably the iPhone. I don’t own one only because I would probably leave it in a cab or a hotel room, thereby losing my phone, music collection, address book, photo album and internet connection all in one moment of stupidity.

Best celebrity encounter: Chatting backstage with CNN’s Soledad O’Brien in New Orleans. Hard to believe this sweet, funny woman was the same person who relentlessly grilled former FEMA director Mike Brown following Hurricane Katrina.

Best reasons to look forward to 2008: Coaching softball, my first show for Microsoft and the fact that I still have all my hair.

Reasons to dread 2008: Iraq, the presidential election, inflation and the fear that I might slip up and say “Google” during my first show for Microsoft.

Happy New Year!

Be careful what you keep

I was hauling the Christmas decorations up from the basement the other day when I came across a large plastic crate. In my Mom’s handwriting one word was printed on the front: KEEPSAKES. Basically, it was a large box of awards, photos, papers and accolades accumulated during my youth that my mother saved. My mother could have easily discarded the entire box when I went off to college and I would have never known – or cared, for that matter. But mothers can’t do that. I can almost hear my mother now…
“Greg will probably never need his 5th grade safety patrol pin but you never know.”
So my mother saved the contents and then gave the trunk to me when my parents moved out of THEIR house. And, for some reason, I couldn’t throw the box out either. So it’s remained in the basement, next to the approximately 57 boxes of holiday decorations that my wife has collected and is determined to display for six weeks out of the year. We now have enough Santas, snowmen, candy canes, holly, icicles and lights to decorate not only our house but Bill Gates’ as well. Unpacking Christmas decorations is not a job I relish so it was a no-brainer to take a break and peek inside the keepsakes box. Even though I had peeked before, it was still refreshing to journey down memory lane. Here was my high school varsity letter, earned while playing tennis. Under that was a yellowed newspaper photo of an “invention” I’d created in first grade, consisting of a garden hose sprayer and a single sunglass lens. Still further down, a printing exercise in which I drew the letter “t” over and over on the elementary age writing paper – the kind with three horizontal green lines drawn across the entire page. Not one of my t’s strayed outside the lines, earning a gold star and a “super job” from my kindergarten teacher.
I closed the box and put it back on the shelf, vowing to revisit it in January when I bring the Christmas decorations back to the basement.
And then I heard about the latest hijinx coming from the Hillary Clinton camp.
Somebody from Senator Clinton’s team apparently got hold of a paper that Barack Obama had written in, (are you ready?) kindergarten! A paper titled, “Why I would like to be president.” Because Obama has maintained all along that running for President wasn’t a lifelong ambition, Clinton’s people thought they had caught him in a lie. The paper was PROOF that he’d been angling for the job ever since he was writing on green lined paper!
Clinton’s team of mouthpieces immediately went on the talk shows to claim the comments were made in jest. But it still caused me to look at the contents of my keepsakes box in a different light. What conclusions could people draw from me based on what was inside?
What’s this? An eighth-grade photo of Greg in Oklahoma. Wasn’t that a musical about settlers staking their claims in uncharted territory? Didn’t those settlers push Indians off the land? Greg Schwem must hate Indians!
And what have we here? A photo from Greg’s first Little League team. Look closely. Are there any African Americans on the team? How about Hispanics? Asians? Nope, just white kids. How could Greg associate himself with ANYTHING that lacks racial diversity?
Here’s a crude cutout of a bird that Greg made in third grade art class. Interesting color choice on the feathers. They are all red – the color of BLOOD! The Audubon Society will have a field day with that one.
Where did this swimming ribbon come from? Some quick digging reveals that Greg earned it while swimming for a country club team. Hmmmm, don’t country clubs have exclusionary policies?
And if that wasn’t enough, here is a photo of Greg with some fraternity brothers at Northwestern University. A photo taken during a yearly event known as “wheelchair races,” in which two-man teams race across campus in wheelchairs dressed only in their underwear. Is that Greg in the wheelchair? Greg’s not handicapped, is he? Merely by sitting in it, he is belittling handicapped Americans everywhere. And because Greg is not afflicted in any way, that wheelchair could not have been obtained legally. Greg must have stolen it.
It is a good thing that, unlike Barack Obama, I have never had any aspirations to run for President. Who would want to vote for a racist, animal hating, elitist thief who may have homosexual tendencies?
My daughter is currently in kindergarten. I may have to start home schooling her

Schmoopsy for President

So last night I watched the latest of the roughly 1,291 presidential debates that will take place before we actually elect somebody to run against somebody else, thereby subjecting the American people to approximately 3,598 more debates. And that’s providing Al Gore doesn’t change his mind.
This debate, featuring eight Republican contenders, including two guys who I didn’t even know were running, was co-sponsored by CNN and YouTube. That marriage makes about as much sense as the Pope co-sponsoring a mass with Britney Spears. CNN calls itself “the most trusted name in news.” YouTube’s slogan is “Broadcast Yourself” but it might as well be “broadcasting unemployed people who own video cameras.” Most of the video submissions from YouTube are from people who don’t get CNN. Oh sure, they receive it on their cable dial but they still don’t get it.
The debate was hosted by Andersen Cooper, who seems to have replaced all the other CNN anchors by himself. Personally, I think there are three Andersen Coopers because how else could he be in so many places at one time? Look, there’s Andersen interviewing front line troops in Iraq! Five minutes later Andersen Cooper is LIVE in New Orleans. The next minute he’s yukking it up with Jerry Seinfeld in Las Vegas. Get the point?
Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy. I think I like him because he’s the son of Gloria Vanderbilt yet he still goes to work every day and earns a paycheck like the rest of us. I’m sure Andersen Cooper could have retired when he was about six months old if he chose to.
However, Andersen Cooper Vanderbilt whatever really needs to decide whether he wants to be a comedian or a news anchor. And, as NBC’s Brian Williams proved during his hosting stint on Saturday Night Live last month, you can’t do both.
Yet there was Cooper, onstage in St. Petersburg, Florida, facing the following presidential hopefuls: Rudolph “9-11 is my middle name” Guliani, Mitt “Brylcreem Poster Boy” Romney, “ Fred “I’m a better actor than Ronald Reagan” Thompson, “ John “Full Metal Jacket” McCain,” Mike, “delicious shake for breakfast, one for lunch and a sensible dinner” Huckabee, Ron “I’d be honored to be your next on-line President,” Tom Tancredo and Duncan Hunter. I don’t have nicknames for the last two guys because, as I previously mentioned, I didn’t know they were running.
The eight stood there, smiling nervously, while Andersen Cooper proudly mentioned that over 5,000 questions had been submitted via YouTube. Cooper made reference to some of the weird submissions that did not make the cut…and then promptly showed them. The candidates continued to smile as they watched questions from an animated snowman, a UFO, the “ghost” of Richard Nixon and a cartoon dog named “Schmoopsy.” Fred Thompson probably co-starred in pilots with all of them.
Finally, Cooper called the debate to order. Actually, a guy named Chris Nandor or “Pudgenet” as he calls himself on YouTube, called the debate to order by playing an original song that supposedly introduced all the candidates. Included were brilliant lyrics like, Rudy’s leading all the polls but can he win the base? Mitt changed on abortion; history he can’t erase.” As each candidate heard his name mentioned, the fake smile grew even more fake.
Once Nandor’s 15 minutes of fame ended, the first YouTube question was asked. It came from “ejxit,” a 59-year-old New Yorker whose video looked as if it were shot in a basement around 4:30 am. The question was for Guliani and accused him of providing illegal immigrants with a “sanctuary city” in New York while he was mayor. Guliani denied it, Romney refuted the denial and finally the debate started to take on the appearance of an actual debate.
As the questions continued, I started wondering whether the stars of this “debate” were the candidates themselves or the YouTube interrogators. One guy asked a question about gun control while cocking a weapon that looked like it could wipe out a small country. He was promptly scolded by Congressman Hunter for handling the gun the wrong way. Hunter, by the way, is a gun owner and believes strongly in the Second Amendment.
A rather scary looking gentleman held up the Bible and asked, “do you believe EVERY word of this book? And I mean specifically every word of this book I am holding in my hand? Do you believe this book?”
The question was so repetitive that it prompted Cooper to switch to comedian mode and quip, “I think we got his question.”
My favorite part of the debate was when the questioners magically appeared in the audience. The singer Nandor was present as was openly gay retired Brigadier General Keith Kerr, who asked, not surprisingly, about gays in the military. After two candidates had answered the question, Cooper invited Kerr into the debate by asking him if he felt his question was answered. Suddenly there were nine candidates vying for airtime. I thought the whole thing was weird; it reminded me of the Jerry Springer episodes where the betrayed spouse is backstage and appears after her ex admits to about six affairs. Heck, Guliani didn’t have that many!
I finally turned off the TV, no closer to making a decision when I go to the polls in February. But the ghost of Richard Nixon is looking pretty good.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa:

I saw you yesterday at the mall. November 15th and you're already here? Seems like you show up earlier every year. Heck, I'm still trying to eat the kids' leftover Halloween candy. It's not going well. Instead of cookies this Christmas Eve, you may just get a plate of M&Ms, Starburst and Dum Dum lollipops. Please don't hold it against me.

I've been pretty good this year. Okay, there was that one day when I told my wife I had "appointments" in the city and played golf instead. But she's guilty too. You probably know that she goes to "the gym" sometimes and comes back with a carload of shopping bags!

So if you will forgive me that one minor indiscretion, I have a fairly extensive list this year. Please note the specificity of each item. Here goes:

One chartered jet to take Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears to Mogadishu where they will help children orphaned by the war

A tuition freeze among all educations of higher learning. It must remain in effect until 2024, when my youngest graduates from college

Non-fat cheese popcorn

A presidential nominee whose platform includes eliminating all youth activities - including travel teams, practices, competitions and pep rallies - on Sundays. I feel so strongly on this that I will even vote for Dennis Kuchinich if he makes that promise.

Anything that doesn't come with an AC adapter. I recently rounded up all the mystery adapters we have laying around our house. I have no idea what any of them power so I've decided to use them as tinsel on the tree.

All of our troops home for Christmas. If they have to return, so be it. But send them back on Air Force One - with President Bush riding jumpseat.

Mysterious fires that wipe out every ticket scalper office and computer. If you tried to get Hannah Montana tickets this year, you know what I mean.

A golf ball with a GPS device.

Ten fewer pounds

One year without the following television shows: The Biggest Loser, The Bachelor, Kid Nation and To Catch a Predator. Regarding the last one, we get it! There are perverts on line.

On that note, please try and eliminate on line perverts.

Finally, a dog. Because dogs don't care about the war in Iraq, the broken healthcare system, the mortgage crisis, cyber bullying or Brad and Angelina.

Merry Christmas.

Get Bangalore on speed dial

I haven't blogged in months. No excuses really. Just a lack of time. However, I have found time to begin reading Thomas Friedman's, "The World is Flat" the phenomenal best-seller in which he defines events that have allowed the rest of the world to catch up, and often pass, the United States in terms of productivity.
Friedman's first chapter deals with outsourcing. In vivid and often humorous detail, he describes how major U.S. companies like Microsoft and Dell have outsourced sales, technical support and customer service, to Bangalore, India, the Silicon Valley of that Asian nation. Young, highly-educated Indians clamor for a chance to sit in a call center in the middle of the night and sell Americans credit cards or answer questions like, "I accidentally deleted my hard drive. What button do I push to get it back?"
While Americans look at call center employment as about as desirable as dental surgery, Friedman points out that Indians view outsourced jobs as steppingstones to bigger and better things.
Hmmm, maybe I can help them achieve their dreams
It's Saturday morning and I'm going over my checklist of activities on what is supposed to be a day of relaxation: my ten-year old daughter Natalie has gymnastics from 10 a.m. to 11:30. During that time, I'll run to the dry cleaner, the grocery store and return home briefly to make sure my my five year old Amy takes a shower. Once she's clean, we'll pick up Natalie, drive to a bowling alley and participate in a fundraiser for Amy's cheer tumbling team. That lasts until 4, at which time we'll dash to Natalie's 6 p.m. piano recital. Did I mention lunch? Oh yes, we'll eat if there is time.
Sunday is no different. Up at 7 a.m. No church because we have to attend a cheer tumbling tournament that will last into the afternoon. Then somebody needs to get Natalie to her volleyball lesson at 4 p.m.
The pace is exhausting, to say the least. And I'm sure other parents look at my schedule and consider it to be a walk in the park. My next door neighbors moved in last month. They have four kids and I'm not sure if they have even lived in their home yet. Rather than spend the money on a 5,000 square foot, four-bedrooom home, they might have been wise to invest in a Winnebago.
My wife and I often refer to ourselves as human busses, chauffeuring our kids from one event to the next. It's tiresome, it's drudgery and it seems like a perfect outsourcing opportunity! Rather than sit in a cubicle all evening wearing a headset, I'm sure a bright Bangalore native would be happy to come live with our family and take over the driving duties. In fact, I'm thinking of putting an ad in the Bangalore papers:

OUTSTANDING OVERSEAS OPPORTUNITY!
Do you want to get ahead and experience daily American culture? Then the Schwem family wants you!

Hours: Change daily. On call 24x7

Requirements: Must hold valid driver's license and own cell phone. Must be capable of talking on cell phone while operating car seat buckles and straps

Must own car with GPS System and enough trunk space to carry sports equipment, musical instruments, art supplies and numerous overpriced uniforms which will most likely be worn once.

Must be willing to wait in parking lots with car idling, needlessly wasting gas while children dawdle inside

Must be able to consume fast food while driving

Benefits: The thrill of seeing a child score a goal, do a cartwheel, play Beethoven (badly) or succeed in some other skill that requires countless hours of coaching, teaching and specialized instructions.

Pay: None

If interested, respond to this blog. All messages will be returned sometime between 10 p.m. and midnight as this is the only time the employer is home.

Never mix baseball and technology

Each year during baseball season I play hooky for an afternoon and attend a major league game. There are two professional teams in my backyard – the Cubs and the White Sox – and it doesn’t matter which team I watch. The point is, the weather is warm, I’m watching baseball and I get a chance to reflect on childhood memories.
Flash back to 1973, my first ball game. I attended it with the other members of Den Five, my Cub Scout troop. Thankfully we did not have to wear our Cub Scout uniforms to the game, as there really is no reason to attend a ball game wearing a knotted yellow scarf. Instead, we dressed like the normal, wide-eyed kids we were, as we descended on Wrigley Field to watch the Chicago Cubs do battle with the Pittsburgh Pirates.
I brought two items from home: my baseball mitt and a ballpoint pen. Like every boy, I dreamed of snaring a foul ball from the likes of Ron Santo or Ernie Banks as if it were as routine as catching a pop fly during a Little League game. The cameras would zero in on me as the fans applauded. I’d take the ball home, put it on a bookshelf in my room and go to sleep every night staring at it.
I could dream, couldn’t I?
The ballpoint pen represented a more realistic goal. I was determined to get an
autograph, any autograph, of a major league ballplayer. I knew from watching pre-game shows on TV that players liberally signed before beginning their jobs. This was my chance to not only meet one of my idols, but also come home with proof.
As Den Five made its way into Wrigley, I immediately stopped in front of the man yelling, “SCORECARD!” I purchased one for a dime; this was now my official autograph book as there was plenty of blank space surrounding the lineup box for signatures. Once we got to our seats, I immediately began scanning the field, in hopes a Cubs player would make his way to the stands and sign.
Suddenly I spied a real live Cub. Not just any Cub but my favorite player at the time, left fielder Billy Williams. I darted down the steps with my card, where more than 50 kids had already assembled near the dugout, all with the same intention – get Billy’s autograph.
For a ten-year-old boy, the scene was intimidating to say the least. Dozens of outstretched hands held programs in Williams’ face. He would randomly pick one, sign and thrust it back into the mob, where the card’s owner took it. Stretching my arm as far as I could, I did the same with my card, thinking that it was hopeless.
Moments later, I felt a tug on my scorecard, as if a fish had just nibbled my hook. I had a bite! Not just a bite but it appeared I was about to hook the mother of all fish as I saw Williams’ light-brown hand on MY card! I let go. As Williams signed, I wondered if I would actually get the card back. “He’s just going to stick it back in the pile,” I thought. “There are older kids here. Surely one will grab the card.”
But nobody did. Williams completed his signature, placed the card back into the mass and waited for a tug. That tug came from me. I had the card. With a whoop of delight, I retreated to my seat. It was like a simple movie premise: boy sees player, boy gets scorecard, player signs scorecard, boy get scorecard back, boy lives happily ever after.
Now flash forward to 2007. Picture a ten-year-old Cub Scout trying to do the same thing and lets see how the scenario would play out.
Having successfully raised $800 during the winter, Den Five finally has enough money to afford baseball tickets. Or so they think. The den mother’s plan to purchase tickets on line goes awry when she pulls up the seat map for the game and sees the only tickets left are behind a support beam. A hasty bake sale/car wash/canning drive is organized and the troop raises another $200 that’s needed to purchase seats through a ticket broker.
The boys arrive at the ballpark and endure the formalities of getting inside. Their bags are searched and they are wanded for explosives. One boy wanders over to purchase a scorecard even though he is breaking the den mother’s first rule. On the bus ride she clearly stated, “under no circumstances will you go anywhere without adult supervision.”
Thankfully, one of the chaperones walks over and the boy completes his transaction for the simple white cardboard square that looks exactly the same as it did 34 years ago, albeit with more advertising. The other scouts decline to purchase scorecards, as they don’t want to part with $3.50.
The youngsters take their seats and eagerly await the arrival of the hot dog vendor. But the scout with the card has his eyes on the field, desperately looking for a player, any player, who is signing autographs. There are none. Yes, there are dozens of players on the field but none are talking with fans. Instead they are talking with men wearing expensive suits and carrying two cell phones.
Speaking of cell phones the boys get a lesson in swearing when they are forced to listen to a spectator sitting directly behind them in company-purchased seats. He is having a loud, profanity-filled conversation with somebody with the following names: “son of a bitch,” “dickhead” and “asswipe.” A disapproving glance from the den mother proves pointless.
Suddenly a lone player wanders over to the stands. The scout has no idea who it is. Truth be known, it’s a minor leaguer who was called up yesterday for a ten-day assignment. But all the kid knows is that a professional baseball player is actually going to SIGN AUTOGRAPHS. He charges down the steps, pursued by the assistant den mother who is trying to heed the den mother’s aforementioned rule. She will have her hands full as an aggressive-looking mob, consisting primarily of middle-aged men holding multiple balls, baseball cards and jerseys, has already assembled.
The boy thrusts his scorecard into the pack. Tears form in his eyes as his feet are stepped on and his ribs elbowed. He is ready to give up when suddenly he feels the tug. Yes, the player has grabbed his scorecard! He lets go, the player signs and places it back into the pack.
The boy reaches for the card Suddenly another hand appears from nowhere and grabs it. The hand belongs to a grown man with a shaved head and tattoos adorning both shoulders. One is a Confederate flag logo; the other simply says “BITCH.”
Clutching the autograph in one hand, the man races up the steps and returns to his seat. Using his digital camera equipped Blackberry, he snaps a photo of the autograph and prepares to upload the image to eBay for a “Buy It Now” price of $30.
Meanwhile a security guard consoles the sobbing scout. The kid relays his story and points to the thief, who is now drinking beer with his friends, showing them the autograph and freely admitting that he stole it from “some dorky looking kid who probably came with his gay scout troop.”
Three guards ascend the stairs and confront the thief, who replies with his middle finger. One guard reaches for the program and the thief pushes him. The guard pushes back. A scuffle breaks out, another guard tasers the perpetrator and he is hauled away in handcuffs, freely screaming profanities at anyone within earshot. Another spectator, sitting two rows below, records the whole scene using the video camera contained in his cell phone. Within moments he uploads the images to CNN where a graphics editor slaps on the phrase, “EXCLUSIVE: BASEBRAWL!” and forwards it to a news producer, who makes it the leading story on the Noon News Round Up. Half an hour later, the video has been viewed over one million times on YouTube.
Celebrity blogger Perez Hilton reports, incorrectly, that the beating victim is a distant cousin of Lindsay Lohan. Website TMZ.com, citing “sources close to the brutal attack,” reports that the victim is 1/82 African American.
By the third inning, Jesse Jackson is leading a protest march outside Wrigley Field. The Rev. Al Sharpton has already appeared on every major network and cable outlet, demanding the firing of the security guards, the ballplayer, the entire Cubs front office, Bud Selig and Abner Doubleday. He also says “serious discussions” are needed in the Cub Scouts organization.
Meanwhile the scout has returned to his seat, sans autograph. Cameras hone in on him and plaster his face on the television. An alert tipster calls the network with the boy’s name and soon he is being identified on screen. At home, his mother wonders why the phone is ringing so much? Furthermore, she can’t understand why the first call is a death threat, the second is from Anderson Cooper and the third is from a producer for The Late Show with David Letterman.
A Cubs public relations official finds the boy in his seat. He apologizes profusely and tells the den mother that, if the child agrees not to sue, he will get a tour of the lockerroom and an autographed jersey signed by every Cubs player.
The scout says he has to think about it.
I still have my Billy Williams autograph. I took it out the other day and wept on it.

We're All In This Together

I don’t have any sons. Therefore, watching Sunday afternoon football will never be considered a “bonding experience” in my house.
Which is why, last Sunday, as my beloved Chicago Bears put the hurt on the New Orleans Saints and earned a long overdue trip to the Super Bowl, my favorite football recliner was empty. The high definition flat screen was dark. The chips and salsa remained in the cupboard.
For I was 100 miles away, in a Milwaukee basketball arena with my daughters, watching the modern day equivalent of The Beatles.
Yes, HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL was in town!
If you don’t have children under 13, chances are you have never heard of High School Musical. If your cable package doesn’t include The Disney Channel, you’re also, most likely, in the dark. But my girls are nine and four, which means the Disney Channel would remain on even if nuclear missiles were headed towards my subdivision.
Girls, turn on CNN so we can see if we need to take shelter.
No way Dad. Hannah Montana just started.
High School Musical – The Movie debuted on the Disney Channel in January 2006. It’s a simple story: high school jock meets brainy girl and both discover they have a passion for singing. They audition for a high school musical in spite of pressure from their friends – athletes and academics – who try and prevent it from happening. Both groups are convinced that singing is for losers, which is puzzling because everybody in this high school sings and dances at various points during the movie.
Eventually they all learn lessons about being oneself, not bowing to peer pressure and pursuing dreams. It’s kind of like Grease except nobody dresses up like a slut at the end in order to get the guy. Are you listening, Olivia Newton-John?
Once Disney Channel executives realized they had a big hit on their hands, High School Musical began running, as far as I can tell, on a continuous loop. Every once in awhile, the producers would throw some tricks into the movie so audiences thought they were watching something different. Monday was High School Musical with dance instructions, Tuesday we were treated to “pop up” High School Musical, on Wednesday, gather around for High School Musical with Spanish subtitles and so on and so on. I’m waiting for High School Musical with the alternate ending, where the jock misses the big shot at the buzzer, breaks his ankle while auditioning for the musical and then announces he is gay.
A few months later, Disney executives realized they had a HUGE hit on their hands. And, because they work at Disney, it became necessary to exploit the movie even further. I can’t understand why Disney seems so intent on running everything into the ground. The other day I saw a billboard announcing the pending release of…Cinderella III. That’s right, Disney has made not one, but two Cinderella sequels. The last time I saw Cinderella, she was dancing happily ever after with the prince. What’s in the other two movies? An affair? A bitter custody battle? I guess I’ll have to rent the DVDs.
So after releasing the High School Musical board game, the High School Musical clothing line and announcing that a script for High School Musical 2 was in the works, Disney executives decided they all needed winter homes in Aspen. Lo and behold, they created HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL” THE CONCERT! COMING TO YOUR HOMETOWN!!!
That would have been okay except Milwaukee is not my hometown. The tickets in my hometown, Chicago, sold out in – are your ready? – THREE MINUTES! I spent three minutes getting dressed this morning. In that time, Disney sold 15,000 tickets.
Luckily my wife’s Internet fingers were fast enough to get three tickets in Milwaukee. Unfortunately, they were for the same day that she would be on a plane, returning from a Vegas trip with her girlfriends. Hence, the chaperoning duties fell upon me.
“But the Bears are playing,” I pleaded.
“That’s why we have Tivo,” was the response.
Damn Tivo.
So on a snowy afternoon, I arrived with my daughters in tow, an hour before showtime. As we sloshed our way to the Bradley Center, I noticed that I was the only male in the surrounding area. Carloads of little girls, usually with one or two moms in tow, descended on the arena. “At least the traffic leaving the arena won’t be bad,” I thought. I made this prediction based on the fact that more than three quarters of the audience could not legally drive.
Once inside we saw a crowd at least eight deep clustered around a table. Screaming girls were buying T-shirts adorned with the High School Musical logo or plastered with images of the show’s stars. They were Disney priced at $35. I opted to treat my girls to a show program. For $20 I now know that Ashley Tisdale DOESN’T LIKE MAYONNAISE and Vanessa Hudgens is a SELF PROCLAIMED SHOPAHOLIC and Lucas Grabeel LIKES SMILES AND DISLIKES FROWNS.
As the magic hour of 4 p.m. inched closer, the mood resembled Times Square five minutes before New Year’s Eve. The kids and I passed the time by playing a game that I invented called “Count the Dad.” In a sports arena that held 20,000 people, we eventually reached double digits. But it took a lot of looking. Binoculars helped.
I stole a glance at my Blackberry. Bears up nine zip after one quarter.
“What’s the score,” a male voice behind me said. I turned to see a Dad that I neglected to count. I began relaying the information but my voice was drowned out as the lights went out and the loudest, most ear-splitting scream I had heard in my 44 years on earth shook the rafters. The stage lights went up, canned music began and out walked…JORDAN PRUETT.
“Who.?” I asked my nine year old.
“She’s from The Disney Channel,” my daughter replied.
Miss Pruett, the opening act for High School Musical, began her set with the question, “Do we have any teenagers out there?” Half of the arena stood up and screamed.
“Do we have anybody who wants to be a teenager?” was her follow up question. The other half stood and screamed. I started to stand up and scream but felt a twinge in my back and, wisely, sat back down.
Jordan Pruett sang five songs, reminding audience members in between each song that she could be seen regularly on, you guessed it, The Disney Channel. A 20-minute intermission followed, which was more than enough time for the audience to buy Jordan Pruett T-shirts.
Thirty minutes later, the main event began. If possible, the audience screamed louder as a massive video screen was unfurled and began showing scenes from the movie. I marveled at the screen’s clarity and couldn’t help wondering how awesome the Bears game would look on it. Instead, the images switched to the event at hand and focused on the movie’s six stars, who ascended from a trap door in a cloud of smoke.
The opening number was something about “sticking with the stuff you know.” I holstered my Blackberry and prayed that Tivo was working. But Disney, in spite of its expertise at sucking your wallet dry, has a way of making you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I looked at my daughters. My youngest was singing along and even my normally reserved oldest daughter clapped her hands to the beat. Their energy never waned, even when three of the performers sang material from their “upcoming solo albums” and reminded listeners that their videos could also be seen on THE DISNEY CHANNEL. Miss Pruett was all but forgotten.
Thirty minutes into the performance my four year old had to take a potty break. I hustled her to the bathroom…right in front of a bank of televisions showing the Bears game.
“Daddy will be right here,” I instructed her. “No messing around in there.”
When she returned, I heard the opening notes of “Get Your Head in the Game” coming from the stage. Meanwhile, the Bears were driving. What’s a Dad to do?
“Come on, we have to get back to our seats. Let’s hurry,” I told her. And we hustled back, determined not to miss the entire song. The Bears could wait. This moment could not.
I spent the rest of the concert grinning. I grinned when the cameras panned the audience and showed hundreds of little girls screaming their little heads off. I grinned, and then gently scolded myself, when Vanessa Hudgens shook her hips, a motion that was beautifully magnified on the humongous video screen. By the time the cast began singing the hopelessly addictive final song, “We’re All In This Together,” I was singing along. Then again, it’s IMPOSSIBLE not to like that song. The cast of High School Musical could walk onstage at the Met in New York, interrupt a performance of La Boehme and begin singing that song. By the end, eighty-year-old billionaire society types would be singing along.
As we exited the arena, my nine year old hugged me and said, “thank you for taking us.”
No, thank you for letting me be a part of it.
Now GO BEARS!

Santa, what happened?

Dear Santa:
Well, it’s been three weeks since Christmas and I’m still waiting. Did you not get the letter I sent? The one containing my wish list? My kids got everything they wanted for Christmas. However, I seem to have been overlooked. Therefore, I assume it got lost in the mail. I have re-typed it below. Feel free to drop by anytime with your bag. We can hang out in my family room, have a beer and have a nice long chat, since you have more time on your hands now. I will be waiting.
I wish I could send my kids to school without fear that a classmate will be packing a weapon and may decide to use it that morning.
I wish I could turn on the radio and not hear a song containing the words “bitch” “muthafucka” or any derivative thereof.
I wish I could email replies to everybody who sends me spam without worrying that doing so would cause me to get infinitely more spam. I’d begin by emailing ??? and saying, “No, I do not ejaculate prematurely and therefore, do not need your pills. But thank you for your concern.”
I wish I could play golf without once hearing a cell phone.
I wish somebody would enter a National Rifle Association meeting with an AK-47 and begin shooting. Oh, the irony!
I wish a respected doctor could find some health benefits in Hooters wings.
I wish Little League baseball season lasted eight weeks, games were played twice a week and the only place a team “traveled” to was 7-11 for slurpees.
I wish I had a Sunday with absolutely nothing to do.
I wish multiplexes would offer refunds.
I wish Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie would spend a week working at the following jobs on The Simple Life: coal miner, inner city school teacher, long term caregiver, pediatric hospital nurse and soup kitchen volunteer.
I wish I could be there when Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie commit suicide following their work weeks.
I wish Vegas was still run by the Mob and not major corporations
I wish my four year old would stay four forever
I wish I could take my family to a baseball game, buy everybody a hot dog, a Coke and a souvenir and not spend more than 50 bucks.
If I spend more, I wish Alex Rodriguez would make up the difference.
I wish dogs could talk, especially Labradors. They just seem cool.
I wish I could have dinner with Paul McCartney and he would tell me Beatles stories that nobody has ever heard.
I wish promos for slasher movies would not appear during football games.
I wish somebody in Congress had the balls to stand on the chamber floor and say, “as long as there are people willing to strap explosives to their bodies and press a button, we will never win the war in Iraq.”
I wish it would snow everywhere for two weeks after Christmas, just so kids could try out their new snowboards. Then it can melt.
I wish Alex Trebek could be a contestant on Jeopardy.
I wish everybody had one really rich relative and one really poor relative. Then, every weekend we could all wake up and say, “Should I help or mooch today?”
Thanks Santa. I will probably be adding more wishes throughout the year. Please don’t forget me next Christmas.

My two cents on Michael Richards

The questions started at six this morning. I was at my health club, getting ready to tackle a set of 20-pound curls when a tennis buddy interrupted.
"Hey Greg, what did you think of Michael Richards?" he asked.
The topic arose again a few hours later. A neighbor pulled up to my curb and yelled from his open window.
"Greg, how aboout Kramer? What was that all about?"
I guess when a comedian goes completely ballistic, spewing racial venom as if it were still 1850, it's only natural to ask the opinion of another comedian.
So here's mine.
By now everybody not hooked up to life support equipment knows what happened to Michael Richards, better known as Kramer from Seinfeld. He was attempting stand-up comedy at the Laugh Factory, a showcase comedy club on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. (I say attempting because Richards has never been known as a stand-up comedian. His background is in improv, not stand-up. The two are radically different) During his act, a few African-Americans started heckling him, yelling that he wasn't funny. Richards responded with a crack about a pitchfork and an ass. That generated a few gasps from the audience but some laughs as well.
Then Richards did the unthinkable in today's society. He, a white man, used the dreaded 'n' word. He called the heckler a "nigger."
In a matter of moments, Michael Richards' career had ended.
Three months ago, in a drunken stupor, Mel Gibson went off on Jewish people. The jury remains out on Gibson and whether he can revive his career. My guess is that Mel will rebound but only because his time these days is mostly spent behind the camera, as a director. In other words, people no longer have to look at him.
Richards knows no such luxury. He is a performer and obviously misses being in front of people. How else to explain his sudden urge to do stand-up comedy at a small club where open mic hopefuls share the stage with established Hollywood celebrities and the pay for a 20-minute set is probably around 10 bucks. Richards went in there to revive his career. He left with a reputation that will stay with him the rest of his life, just as Pee-Wee Hermann entered an adult movie theatre to get off with himself and left branded a pervert. When I see an old Pee-Wee Herman movie on cable, I still can't get over the image of Pee-Wee playing with himself in a dark theatre, while porn played onscreen. That was over 15 years ago.
Richards went on the David Letterman show three nights later and attemped to apologize. But it had the air of Clinton apologizing for doinking Monica Lewinsky in the Oval Office. You don't call somebody a nigger and then, days later, claim that you're not a racist and not the kind of person you are made out to be. When Richards said "nigger," he became a racist. When he attempted an apology, he became a liar and a racist. It's been rumored that Richards may donate a bunch of his Seinfeld syndication money to Katrina victims. That makes him a hypocrite, a liar and a racist.
I've tried to get inside Richards' mind in an attempt to figure out why he said what he did. Obviously I'm not condoning his behavior but every controversy has two sides. Did Richards use the word because he was desperate or because he is an old school comedian who still thinks racial insults are okay, if delivered in a comedy club.
Thirty years ago, guys like Don Rickles, Lenny Bruce and Foster Brooks packed nightclubs with routines that roasted minorities and, in Brooks' case, drunks Rickles and Brooks were regulars on the Dean Martin celebrity roasts. Numerous clips can be found on YouTube. Their routines were hilarious; audiences roared and applauded. And no group demanded an apology the next day.
Would those guys even have careers today? It's doubtful. Today our society is accused of being too thin skinned and I agree. Elementary schools are outlawing "tag" because, some say, it encourages bullying. A college mascot runs onto the field dressed as an Indian chief and some Native Americans deem it offensive. The scope of things that Americans find funny is narrowing and, like it or not, comedians have to recognize it. Richards clearly did not.
Now lets talk about the hecklers. Has anybody asked them to justify their actions? All we hear about is the party of African Americans who went to a comedy club to be entertained, sat in the balcony and left humiliated. That may be true. But one also has to realize that none of this would have happened had the group members just kept their mouths shut. Again, I'm not defending Richards in the least. But why heckle? Why not just wait around for the next act? The Laugh Factory is a showcase comedy club, meaning there are LOTS of comedians on the bill. You would be hard pressed to find an audience member who finds EVERYBODY funny. If I'm an audience member and one comedian doesn't suit my tastes, I go to the bathroom or step outside to the bar. If I were a smoker, I'd consider a bad act the perfect excuse to light up. The group could have done any of those things. Instead, they chose to place themselves into Richards' show and then started crying when he didn't take kindly to their participation.
Any comic will tell you that it's no fun being heckled. I've come out on the winning and the losing end of hecklers. When a heckler decides to interrupt the show, the comedian is immediately on the defensive. The audience wonders how he will respond. And they expect the response to be hilarious. Plus, now it appears the comeback line has to be hilarious AND politically correct. That's a tough mountain for any comedian to climb.
Richards, unfortunately, chose not to even set foot at the mountain's base. Instead, he went right for the jugular and it cost him dearly.
Unlike the days of Rickles and Bruce, it's no longer considered entertaining to do material about minorities unless you are a minority. Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle say "nigger" in their acts 50 times and the audience, both black and white, doubles over in hysterics. If an African-American heckled Dave Chappelle and Chappelle responded by calling the heckler a nigger, laughter would rain down from the rafters. But Richards should have known better. Nigger is an ugly word and he is living in a fantasy world if he thought uttering it would not have consequences.
I do stand-up comedy for business groups. The rules are simple: no profanity, no jokes with any hint of ethnic undertones and no sexual innuendos. I get reminded of these rules before every show. The client always includes the phrase, "we got burned by a comedian once."
What amazes me is, most of the time, the comedian who did the "burning." was a celebrity. An insurance company I worked for hired Dennis Miller for a private event a few years ago. He was specifically warned not to say "fuck" during the show. Five minutes into his performance, Miller violated the rule. Then he violated it again. And again. And again and again and again until a high-ranking company executive walked onstage and made the "cut" sign across this throat.
My point is, celebrity entertainers, like professional athletes. often have a twisted view of reality. Athletes beat up women, shoplift, commit assault and drive their Maseratis 125 miles per hour while drunk. Then they can't understand why there is talk of (gasp) a suspension! For one game! Celebrity comedians, who have made millions of people laugh, need to be careful and remember that notoriety doesn't make everything funny. The rules apply to everybody. So if you are going to venture into unfamiliar territory, there could be consequences.
A few weeks ago I caught Roseanne's new HBO special. She was going on and on about global warming. The audience was not laughing. There were two reasons for this. One, the material wasn't funny and two, nobody wants to hear Roseanne talk about global warming. Roseanne made her millions portraying a fat housewife who talked about her family. I remember watching her Tonight Show debut where she charmed the audience with a story about how fat moms dealt with their daughters' depression.
"Lets eat pudding, marshmallows and Oreos, " she said. "By the time you come out of that sugar coma, it will be a brand new day."
The audience roared. Within months Roseanne had a series of Pizza Hut commercials. Two years later she had the number one show on television.
Now Roseanne has returned to stand-up comedy. The audience expects to hear that type of material. Instead, she makes them suffer through her views on world events rather than giving the audience the material that made her famous in the first place. I may get an argument from other comedians but I feel that's the way it should be. The audience made you famous so give them what they want!
Which brings us back to Michael Richards. He may be trying to break the Kramer mold but it made him a very rich man. And no doubt when he walked on stage that night at the Laugh Factory, the audience expected to see a Kramer type version of stand-up comedy. I don't remember Kramer ever crucifying African-Americans on a Seinfeld episode. To the contrary, he always seemed to be hanging out with them.
So shame on Michael Richards for not thinking before he spoke and for not realizing that, in today's society, certain words denote hatred. Shame on the Laugh Factory management for letting the hecklers have their way with Richards. Shame on the hecklers themselves for dogging a comedian from the safety of a comedy club balcony. And shame on their attorney who feels the hecklers deserve money for their role in the incident. An apology from Richards? Absolutely. But financial compensation? Not in the least.
I can only think of one person who, at this moment, is thankful for Michael Richard's tirade. That would be former Congressman Mark Foley, who, like Richards, was a public fiigure who was convinced he could do whatever he wanted and nobody would care.
When will they ever learn?

Smile and mean it this time!

The air is getting cooler, the leaves are turning color and shorts have been packed away in favor of sweaters, sweatshirts and wool socks. All these signs point to one thing:
We need to get our asses in gear and take a Christmas photo.
Ah yes, the holiday photo. An event the Schwem household looks forward to about as much as a roaring case of hemorrhoids or our property tax bill. Each year we vow to get it done early and every year, we blow it off until it’s Christmas Eve and we are stuffing photos of our girls into Federal Express envelopes, thereby ensuring that the pictures actually get there by Christmas.
First, let me point out that the Christmas card photo does not include my wife or me. I’ve never understood families who feel compelled to put EVERYONE in the picture. Christmas photos are supposed to be a chance for people to see how things are GROWING i.e. your kids. They are not meant to showcase things that are RECEDING i.e. your hairline, your abs or your breasts. The only place for parents in a Christmas photo is safely behind the camera.
I have mixed feelings about receiving Christmas photos from our friends. Sure, I love seeing how the kids have grown over the year. And I love the creativity some parents show in selecting the proper environment. Last year one neighbor put all four children in matching Christmas pajamas and posed them leaning on an oversized holiday gift box. Another friend donned Wild West outfits for their children. As cute as these photos are, I look upon them with a sense of envy basically because my kids never seem to photograph that well. If our kids looked that cute in a photo, I’d sell them on eBay.
Personally, I think the worst Christmas photos are from people, usually childless, who send pictures of their pet. I can barely remember my kids’ names. Please don’t ask me to remember a pet and then ooh and aaah over how different the pet looks. How much does a pet change in a year? Growing up, I had a cat who looked exactly the same at age two that he did at 22. Sure, he’d lost all his teeth but cats rarely smile, nobody knew.
During our first year of marriage, before we had kids, Sue and I sent out a Christmas photo of ourselves. We climbed into one of those “ball pits” at a place called “The Discovery Zone.” Basically, it was an indoor playground that charged money so kids could run around and blow off steam. My kids do that every day at home for free, thank you very much. But the founder of the Discovery Zone apparently thought the play experience was enhanced if it came with a 10 dollar price tag.
So off we went one cold November day to the Discovery Zone. We told the manager what we wanted to do, he complied and then we shooed all the other kids out of the ball pit so we could snap some pictures. Since Sue and I were 28 and 31 respectively, and the average age of a Discovery Zone customer is six, we didn’t get a lot of resistance from the other ball pit visitors. They stood outside, sucking their thumbs while we threw some balls in the air and giggled like the two carefree newlyweds we were. The manager himself took the photos. We thanked him, left and went out for cocktails. How many people go directly from the Discovery Zone to a bar?
I think we meant for the pictures to show what a cute and fun couple we were. Many people wrote that in notes following the holidays but I’m sure they were lying. Most of our friends probably received the photo and thought, “these two desperately need some kids. Or at least a pet!”
Growing up, my parents were never much for Christmas photos. They sent them out until my older sister Julie and I were about eight and 10. Then the practice subsided until my mother inexplicably revived it one year without telling us. When we were 15 and 17, we both had dates to the high school Homecoming dance. At 15 my looks resembled a cross between a computer nerd and “Jaws,” the character from the James Bond movie. So pronounced were my braces that they more closely appeared as one large “brace” over my teeth. My wire rim glasses with Coke bottle lenses always seemed to attract the full effect of a camera flashbulb. The tie I chose to wear that night was not a clip-on but it may as well have been.
Julie fared only a little better. Sure, she had ditched her glasses and braces two years earlier and had finally developed some semblance of a breast. Yet she chose to wear a salmon colored, sleeveless dress that unfortunately showed every tan line she had earned the previous summer. My mom snapped some photos and we went to the dance, convinced that only one, if any, would actually be developed.
We were so wrong. I came home from school two weeks later to find 250 copies of said photo on the dining room table, accompanied with a Santa logo and the text, “Merry Christmas from the Schwems” nestled underneath. A more appropriate caption would have been, “Merry Christmas from the Dork Family!” The envelopes were already addressed and sealed. A stamp was the only thing separating Julie and I from embarrassment beyond our wildest dreams.
Oh, how I longed for a match and a can of gasoline.
Unfortunately, I never found either and my mother mailed them out the next day despite our threats to run away and become (choose one) a hooker, a drug dealer, a Hare Krishna or a Democrat.
Since my mother believes in having all her Christmas tasks completed by Halloween (including shopping and gift wrapping) we were blessed with reading notes from friends whose subsequent holiday cards to us included comments about our photo.
“Love Julie’s tennis tan,” read one of the nicer ones.
“Greg’s braces are soooooo shiny,” was one of the not so nice ones.
“We hate you,” was another one. Wait, that was the card Julie and I sent to them.
Now fast forward 25 years. I have kids of my own. I am determined to make the Christmas photo experience as simple as possible. All Sue and I want is one lousy, stinking photo of our kids; a task that would be made all the easier if the kids would cooperate in the least. Yet it never seems to happen.
It wasn’t always this difficult. Our kids are five years apart so Natalie, our oldest, had the entire Christmas card to herself for four years. And because parents take approximately 10,000 photos of their firstborn, we always had plenty to choose from. We always chose a “beach” theme. I used to perform my stand-up act on cruise ships so we usually snapped a good one somewhere in the Caribbean. Our best one, in my opinion, was a shot of two-year-old Natalie, in pigtails and a bathing suit, sitting at a swim up bar, holding a virgin Strawberry Daiquiri. Even though the drink was non-alcoholic, our friends weren’t buying it, as evidenced by the notes they wrote after receiving the photo.
“Raising a drunk, are you?”
“I see she’s taking after her Dad.”
“Did you take this right before she fell off the stool?”
When another child enters the picture, the difficulty of getting a cute shot multiplies exponentially. How do parents with four or five kids do it? If I had that many kids, I’d wait until the youngest was at least 16 before ATTEMTPING a photo.
Plus, I don’t work cruise ships anymore so the Caribbean theme has disappeared. Even worse, Sue has become a fan of an actual “Christmas” shot, meaning one where the girls are dressed in holiday outfits and the background reeks of the holidays. For the past three years, we found the perfect Christmas background at (are you ready?) THE LOCAL MALL! We dress the kids up, hop in the SUV and drive over there, hoping to take the perfect shot in front of the gigantic, fake Christmas tree next to Santa’s chair. We should have plenty of time to do this since most malls begin putting up Christmas decorations around the Fourth of July, Santa appears shortly thereafter and doesn’t leave until 11:45 on Christmas Eve. How do you keep a kid believing in Kris Kringle when a department store Santa is becoming a six-month job? With benefits and a retirement package!
Two years ago we bought outfits from the American Girl doll store. We also bought identical outfits for the dolls, which both girls held for the shot. At least the dolls cooperated. We took approximately 192 shots without getting a single one suitable for a Christmas card. If one child smiled, the other scowled. If one laughed, the other stared at her shoes. If one summoned an adorable grin, the other looked as if she were about to get vaccinated.
The picture process is always a two man operation. While Sue holds the camera, I stand behind her, urging the kids to “look this way” and say “poopy pickles” or some other asinine phrase that I hope will get them laughing. Instead, it merely draws gasps from shoppers and, eventually, a stern look from store security. Santa himself even paused from his duties to turn his snow white beard our way and cross me off the “good” list for the year.
Eventually, we got what we wanted. As we left the mall, I thought, “next year they will be older and this won’t be as difficult.”
That proved to be about as correct as President Bush telling the nation that “we are winning the war in Iraq.”
The next year we returned to a different mall with a different Christmas scene. Sue had noticed a sled, stuffed full of presents, sitting between the men’s department and women’s fragrances. A perfect spot for a Christmas photo, she thought.
Our kids, now three and eight, were again dressed in cute Christmas outfits but without dolls. I was determined to get the photo fast this year and didn’t want the dolls to interfere.
What I failed to realize is that Natalie now seems to enjoy having her picture taken about as much as Sean Penn. Point a camera at her and she instinctively juts out her lower lip or clenches her teeth, revealing a smile about as forced as the one on Hillary Clinton’s face when she stands alongside Bill.
Nevertheless, we sat the kids on the sled and began to snap like we always do. The kids, in turn, did what they always do. They poked at each other, snarled at the camera and, in most “un-ladylike” fashion, spread their legs just wide enough so their underwear was visible in every shot. Finally, we called a brief “time out.”
While we regrouped and, in a matter of weakness, promised the girls ice cream if they could smile, a startling scene unfolded. A woman strode up with five children, all decked out in Christmas attire. The oldest was, perhaps, 10. The youngest looked as if it had just left the delivery room incubator two hours ago.
“Do you mind if we use the sled?” asked the mom. “I just want to take our Christmas card shot.”
“Be my guest,” I replied. Then I turned to Sue and whispered, “this ought to be good.”
No sooner had those words escaped my lips than the woman had completed her task. In the space of approximately eight seconds, the kids knelt down, smiled on command and waited for the flash. Even the newborn smiled!
“Thank you,” Supermom said before collecting her brood and herding them away.
Sue and I stood there with our jaws on the floor. Had we actually just witnessed that? The woman snapped ONE picture. We were recharging the digital camera.
“Did you see that?” I said to Natalie and Amy. “Did you see how easy that is? Why can’t you do that? Now get back on that sled, listen to Mom, smile and LOOK LIKE YOU’RE HAVING FUN!”
Miraculously, the kids complied and we achieved Christmas card 2005.
This year we are considering a “Fall” background, meaning no snow, no fake Christmas packages with colorful bows and no holiday lights. Instead, we want bright colored foliage and the sights of October.
That gives us two months to take the photos, look at the proofs and, if all else fails, Photoshop somebody else’s kids into the picture.

My second chance

How many times have you heard the phrase, “there are no second chances in life?”
It sounds like something your parents say to you when you bring home your first ‘F.’ Or when you are grounded after failing to heed curfew. Or when you are handed a pinkslip after being unable to meet a deadline, never mind your reasons for it.
All I know is that today I was given a second chance and it’s already resulting in memories that will last a lifetime.
I am sitting in room 431 at the Vail Marriott Mountain resort, looking out at some of the most breathtaking scenery I have ever witnessed. My nine-year-old daughter Natalie is sleeping in the next room. She fell asleep at 11 p.m., exhausted after an early morning plane ride, a two-hour car trip from Denver, a spectacular mountain ascent in a gondola, swimming, dinner, another gondola ride, microwave popcorn and the movie "RV – all with her Dad.
That was day one
On tap for today? Horseback riding, more swimming and who knows what else? There is still whitewater rafting to experience tomorrow before returning to Chicago and the start of fourth grade.
We weren’t supposed to be here now. This trip was supposed to be a distant memory. True, I have memories but of the nightmarish kind that all parents wish never existed. For this is our second “daddy daughter” trip to Vail. We were here 13 months ago and hoped to do all the activities I mentioned above.
We never saw the outside of the room.
Unlike her father, Natalie is a bit on the reserved side. She doesn’t always wear her emotions on her sleeve, preferring to keep things inside of her. Hurt feelings are released in veils of tears only after constant cajoling from her parents. She has a ton of friends, makes good grades and, like most kids her age, doesn’t have a care in the world.
Except for her stomach.
Last year she started having stomach pains. They’d last anywhere from 15 minutes to one hour, often disappearing after some “couch time.” They weren’t pains from a hypochondriac kid who was simply trying to skip school. They were real and they hurt. But we didn’t know what to do about them.
Like most parents, we figured they would go away.
They didn’t. Instead, they flared up in Branson, Missouri forcing us to cut short a family trip and return to Chicago, where our daughter spent a horrible night in the hospital, enduring countless needles, a tube in her nose, and numerous procedures from doctors trying to get to the root of her problem. Was it an ulcer? Her appendix? Nerves? Something more serious?
The diagnosis? Constipation. “Okay,” we thought, silently rolling our eyes. This didn’t seem like something that could be cured in the bathroom. But we went along with the doctor’s game plan, mixing laxatives in her juice and milk in hopes nature would take away her pains. For awhile, it seemed to work.
Then came our trip to Vail. I had been invited to perform for a bunch of hardware store owners. We decided Natalie was old enough to accompany me. Oh sure, the whole family had tagged along with Daddy when he performed in Orlando, Phoenix and aboard cruise ships. This was different – a part of the country Natalie had never experienced and some one-on-one time with her Dad. Some fathers go through their kids' entire childhood without doing that. In spite of my hectic travel schedule over the years, I’ve always been determined to never look back and yearn that I had spent more time with my children. I have enough friends who are headed down that road.
The morning of the trip, Natalie awoke doubled over. Her tears only seemed to make the pains worse. But we had no choice. “Just get her to the airport,” I thought. “She’ll be better then.”
Throughout the day, my thought process never wavered, except for the location.
“Just get her on the plane.”
“Just get her to the rental car.”
"Just get her to the hotel.”
Unfortunately, the pains persisted all day. We spent our first night in the Marriott without ever leaving the room. Outside, the mountains and the streams beckoned but Natalie lay in bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. She nibbled at two French fries for dinner.
“Tomorrow things will be better,” I hoped. My performance time was 10 a.m. and I was hoping to bring Natalie with me to the show. She would sit in back, wearing a dress we had picked out. It was to be one of her first chances to see, up close and personal, what Daddy did for a living.
It didn’t happen. The next day arrived and she was no better. I was forced to leave her in the room for an hour while I put on a happy face and performed stand-up comedy for hardware store managers. When I returned, she was still in pain but unwilling to tell me where it hurt or whether she was feeling any better. I noticed that she seemed well enough to watch two pay-per-view movies in my absence. Now I was starting to wonder. Is she really sick? Is she nervous about spending time with Daddy and a bunch of adults? Was she nervous about riding a horse? Again, these are the kinds of things parents have to figure out for themselves when their daughter keeps things bottled up inside.
Alas, the pains seemed so real that we packed up, called American Airlines and came home two days early. The entire ride down the mountain, my thought process returned.
“Just get her in the car.”
“Just get her to the airport”
“Just get her on the plane.”
By the time we landed the pain seemed to have subsided (naturally). But we spent the next day in a specialist’s office, who ran more tests and ended up prescribing more “laxative type” medication. Slowly her pains went away but, to this day, we aren’t sure why. Unlike the physicians we saw, Sue and I think Natalie is simply a nervous child who turns little problems into big problems. One year later we see a ton of improvement in her mental state and hope things continue to get better.
When we boarded the airplane last year for our return to Chicago, I promised Natalie we would come back to Vail. But could I make that happen? Any parent knows that a summer with kids flies by faster than a Jennifer Lopez marriage. Look at the calendar the day they get out of school and, it seems, the days are already committed. Soccer tournaments, Fourth of July reunions, All Star games and before you know, it, it’s time to catch the bus for the next year.
I found one weekend where we could squeeze it in. True, there was no comedy performance to offset the cost of Vail (arguably one of the most expensive vacation destinations in the United States, even when it isn’t snowing). And true, our finances were a little tight since my summer is typically the slowest time of the year. But that seemed trivial for a kid who missed out on horseback riding and whitewater rafting and for a dad who missed out on quality time with his daughter. I thought about postponing the trip another year since it seemed I was slamming this one together in an effort to beat the school deadline. But who knows what next year could bring? Natalie could end up on a (dreaded) traveling All Star softball team. Her Dad could be offered a tour opening for a musical act. Worse yet, Dad might be considered a dork by his daughter and not someone to spend FOUR WHOLE DAYS WITH. WITH NO IPOD!
So I am relishing my second chance. As I finish this essay, Natalie is awake, sitting next to me in bed, and polishing off room service pancakes.
Damn, that kid can eat.

Is lunch ready? Hot dog!

I don’t consider myself a jock by any means but I’m a firm believer in sports participation. I work out actively at my health club, play tennis, golf and am willing to try just about anything that doesn’t involve heights, the possibility of drowning or getting large objects thrown at me (read: Dodgeball). More important, I encourage my kids to actively participate in athletic pursuits, also known as “sports.”
However, after flipping on ESPN this past weekend, I may point them towards learning a musical instrument, drama, the chess team or some non-athletic pursuit.
The reason for my sudden repulsion with “sports” is that ESPN, the 24-hour SPORTS network, was televising the World Hot Dog Eating Championships from Coney Island, New York. The rules are simple: eat the most number of hot dogs in 12 minutes and you win. There are cash prizes awarded which, I’m sure, are used to pay medical premiums.
By the way, I was watching a rebroadcast of the event. Apparently this was such a riveting spectacle that ESPN was showing it again. The Super Bowl, the world’s most watched event period, is only shown once. But throwing hot dogs into the mix and is worth multiple viewings in the eyes of cable executives.
I had heard of these people who dub themselves “professional eaters” and even saw the reigning hot dog champion, a meek looking, Japanese punk rocker type named Takeru Kobayashi, appear in an ESPN commercial. Wearing a headband and looking remarkably similar to that kid who stood in front of a tank during the Beijing uprisings o a few years back, Kobayashi eats three hot dogs in the network cafeteria while one of ESPN’s plastic, perfectly-coiffed anchors looks on bewildered. The commercial was funny but I still find the whole idea of competitive eating repulsive, particularly in light of the horrible famine problem that persists in our world. Millions of people in Ethiopia and the Sudan desperately need food; what they DO NOT need is cable for they should never be forced to watch this sordid excess of gluttony.
Nevertheless, I was transfixed when the show came on. It was 11 p.m., my kids were asleep and I had eaten dinner about six hours previous. I was not hungry – merely curious.
The World Hot Dog Eating Championship occurs on July 4 because, according to Nathans’s Famous COO Waynbe Norbitz, “it epitomizes the spirit associated with summer each year.” Of course it does Waynbe, if that’s your real name (my spell checker disagrees). After all, what better way to celebrate our nation’s independence and freedom from tyranny than with a massive waste of food? The only thing missing from the event was the “Trump” logo.
Unfortunately, Trump didn’t move fast enough on this contest. Nathan’s Famous, which also owns Miami Subs and Kenny Rogers Roasters, won the bidding rights. No word yet on whether the company is planning a “world subs eating contest” or a “world roasters eating contest” but I’m sure the suits in charge are eyeing Christmas morning as a possible date because “stuffing your face with chickens epitomizes the spirit of giving and celebrates the birth of our Lord.”
What kept me from pressing the TV remote in search of better cable fare, like watching Titanic for the 84th time, was the excitement surrounding this alleged “sporting event.” Nathan’s and ESPN had pulled out all the stops to put hot dogs right up there alongside March Madness in terms of spectacle. Numerous cameras were positioned, not only to capture the contestant’s every chew, but also to pan the crowd, consisting of THOUSANDS of people who weren’t invited to any Fourth of July festivities in their neighborhoods. And no ESPN event is complete without an ANNOUNCER. For this event, ESPN rolls out some guy named Paul Page who, according to Wikipedia, has “called” the event for two years. Page’s background is in motorsports announcing and he has called several Indianapolis 500s for ABC, ESPN’s parent company. I can only assume Page’s reassignment is due to the fact that he’s losing his edge or he has some serious dish on a high-ranking ESPN executive and therefore must be kept on the payroll.
Nevertheless, professional that he is, Page brings a veteran announcer’s enthusiasm to the event, which has not been without controversy. Through the years disputes have erupted over whether contestants started too early or had actually finished entire hot dogs. That’s why the event employs “judges” who must peer into the mouths of contestants and pray nothing comes out.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention that an ANALYST assists Page in the broadcast booth. “Perfect,” I thought as I sat in my La-z-boy. “I need a color man to explain the intricacies of jamming hot dogs down a gullet. Besides, what if Page can’t see all the ACTION? Another set of eyes will no doubt help.”
One by one, the roughly 20 contestants were introduced to thunderous ovations from the crowd. Two things struck me as I watched them take their positions. First, all were of average build, including the ladies (Yes, women take part in this event too and I’m sure there are men out there who find them attractive. This may have something to do with the fact these women are eating hot dogs). I expected at least one contestant to look like that guy from the Guinness Book of World Records who tipped the scales at over 1,000 pounds, wore overalls the size of a military tent, and was buried in a piano case. No, these contestants looked like they could easily say, “I’m full” after two dogs.
Second, many of the contestants had impressive resumes. Apparently hot dogs aren’t the only food worthy of a championship. Joey Chestnut, a 22-year-old engineering student at San Jose State, holds records for pork ribs (5.5 pounds in 12 minutes), waffles (18.5 in 10 minutes) and jalapeño poppers (118 in 10 minutes). The latter probably earned Chestnut the “bathroom” record (15 trips in 10 minutes) but I couldn’t find any documentation of this.
Suddenly, onto the stage strode the aforementioned Kobayashi, who is something of a God in the eating world. Nicknamed “Tsunami,” Kobayashi had won the event five years running, eating a total of 246 dogs and change. His best year was 2004 when he consumed 53 and a half. The previous year was his lowest total. Only 44 and a half. Perhaps he had eaten too big a breakfast that morning.
Unlike most sporting events held in America, there is no intimidation factor in competitive eating. No stare downs or trash talking. Kobayashi speaks no English but I was hoping Chestnut would at least add a little flair by hurling a few “yo mamma so fat” insults at his Japanese rival. Then again, what would he say? “Hey Kobayashi, yo mamma so fat she eat hot dogs as a sorbet.” If Kobayashi understood English, he would probably have smiled politely, bowed and thanked Chestnut for honoring his family.
Finally, the contest began and announcer Page was forced to begin his 12-minute workday. Under his watchful eye, I learned Kobayashi was on “world record pace” but Chestnut was closing fast. The “analyst” educated me on “chewing technique,” something that competitive eaters experiment with much the same way that Tiger Woods experiments with his swing. Supposedly doing chewing exercises increases jaw muscle strength. After all, who wants to go to the beach in summer with a flabby jaw?
In spite of Chestnut’s best efforts, Kobayashi soon jumped to a “two dog lead,” armed with only a glass of water. Kobayashi’s champion technique involves folding the bun slightly and dunking the dog before consuming it. This had to repulse the folks at Nathan’s. “Ah, there’s nothing like a hot dog from Nathan’s Famous. Lathered with mustard, sprinkled with celery salt and immersed in water. Mmmmm good!”
By the way, condiments were nowhere in sight during the competition. Neither was beer for that matter. Why have a hot dog eating contest if you’re not going to eat them the right way? Personally I think the contestants should have to grill the dogs over a scorching pile of charcoal before consuming them. Nathan’s does not agree.
In a THRILLING finish, Kobayashi retained his title and bested his world record by a quarter of a dog. Chestnut was a close second with 52 dogs consumed. I was repulsed that I was still watching but I had to watch the end, namely an interview with the champion. That’s right, Page actually had to stand next to Kobayashi and ask him questions through a translator. As far as I’m concerned there are only two questions one should ask somebody who has just eaten 53 hot dogs.
1) Are you going to throw up?
2) Are you going to throw up on me?

Page, professional that he is, asked neither. Instead he peppered Kobayashi with questions about “the wall,” an apparent reference to a moment in the contest which every eater experiences. Eaters hit “the wall” when they feel they just can’t eat another hot dog but have to fight through this absurd feeling in order to continue. I would have hit the hot dog wall just watching the employees at Nathan’s Famous bring the hot dogs to the table. I have hit the wall with other foods simply while preparing them. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese comes to mind. My kids love this stuff and we serve it to them at least once a week. But I don’t eat it because that would mean consuming a packet of bright orange powder that the engineers at Kraft call “the cheese mix.” It looks like something astronauts eat.
Kobayashi, a little short of breath but looking none the worse for the wear, patiently answered Page’s questions and then left the stage, presumably to stick his finger down his throat. Chestnut seemed dejected but vowed to return next year and wrest the title from his Japanese foe. I turned off the TV, went downstairs and ate a cracker. It was satisfying.